Downfall (23 page)

WHEN JOANNA CALLED, ARLEE JONES WAS NOT THE LEAST BIT
happy to hear from her. “I suppose this is all about the Sun Sites case,” he grumbled. “Detective Howell has been in touch asking me to hold off on offering any kind of plea deal, but I don't see why I should. Supposedly, Detective Howell found some kind of rat poison in the Hopkinses' home, but that's hardly a crime. I happen to have rat poison in my home, too. The damned rats keep getting into the garage and eating everything in sight, including the wiring on my Porsche. It's evidently wrapped in some kind of vegetable-based plastic. Were you aware that's how they make some plastics these days? I'm sure it's all part of this newfangled all-things-green kind of thing. As far as I'm concerned, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.”

Joanna wasn't in the mood to be sidetracked into a discussion of vegetable-based plastics. “Getting back to Katherine Hopkins—”she began.

“Look,” Arlee interrupted impatiently. “I know all about Detective Howell's pet rat-poison thing. The problem is, with that we don't have a smoking gun. Yes, the ME found traces of arsenic in Hal's system during the autopsy—enough to suggest that it might have caused the flulike symptoms that put him in the hospital a couple of time in the recent past, but there's nothing that gives us a clear indication that Kay Hopkins is the one who administered it. As far as arsenic poisoning is concerned, we're dealing with a purely circumstantial case. With the blow to the head, we've got a smoking gun, which turns out to be a pitching wedge, for Pete's sake, and not a gun at all. In other words, manslaughter works for me.”

“So you're willing to let her plead to manslaughter and walk on a charge of attempted murder, just to get her out of your hair?”

“She'll still be in jail.”

“Not for nearly as long as she deserves,” Joanna argued.

“Look,” Arlee said, “this is not open to discussion.”

“But it might be,” Joanna said. “Suppose someone gave my mother's old pal Marliss Shackleford a call and mentioned—just hinted around—at the idea that perhaps you might be too old to cut the mustard and that making plea deals accounted for less wear and tear on a doddering old guy than actually taking criminal cases to court? How do you suppose that would go over with voters in an election year?”

“Young woman,” Jones demanded, “are you threatening me?”

“Not threatening, exactly,” Joanna replied. “Just putting it out there for your possible consideration.”

“It sounds like slander to me!” Arlee declared before slamming down the receiver. Hanging up like that on a landline
phone still worked. The resulting racket made far more of a statement than simply pressing end on a cell phone's keypad. One was high drama; the other wasn't.

Joanna was left sitting and staring at the phone in her hand in frustration. She understood that as far as Kay Hopkins was concerned, there was little she could do. Unfortunately, plea bargains amounted to business as usual in the world of criminal justice. Cops did the hard investigative work that, more often than not, ended up being undermined by the judicial system. Law enforcement caught the bad guys; prosecutors and courts gave them a slap on the wrist or let them walk.

Just then, the door to Frank's office opened, and Frank himself ushered Karenna Thomas into the room. Once she was inside, he backed out of the room and shut the door, leaving the two women alone. Colonel Thomas was in full uniform and high dudgeon.

“I still don't understand what's so important that I needed to be dragged away from work in the middle of the day!” she exclaimed. “If this isn't about the homicide investigation, why are you so determined to speak to me instead of Kevin?”

“This isn't exactly about the two homicides,” Joanna said quietly, “although we have discovered evidence that supports what your son told us about Travis Stock.”

“Does that mean he's the one who murdered Mrs. Nelson?”

“That's still under investigation. We have yet to determine if Travis was or wasn't involved in the homicides. Beyond what I've already said, I'm unable to disclose any details about our investigation. This meeting is about something else, Colonel Thomas, about what Kevin told us concerning Travis Stock's having been victimized by Mrs. Nelson prior to her death.”

“Oh, that,” Colonel Thomas said offhandedly. “The whole statutory rape thing. What about it?”

“We've come across evidence that suggests Travis Stock wasn't Mrs. Nelson's only victim,” Joanna said quietly. With that, she turned on her phone, opened the text message app, and then adjusted the on-screen scanned image Casey had sent her until it was large enough to be legible. “Take a look at this,” she suggested. “Does the handwriting appear to be familiar to you?”

Colonel Thomas picked up the phone and then donned a pair of reading glasses before studying it more closely. As she scrolled through the document, her eyes widened in dismay.

“Is this real?”

“I'm afraid so,” Joanna answered.

“So that awful woman did the same thing to Kevin that she did to Travis! But how is that possible? When I enrolled Kevin at SVSSE, I was told it was the best possible school in the area as far as academics were concerned. And yet the school administrators were stupid enough to let something like this go on right under their noses? As for Susan Nelson, how could a monster like that be allowed to have a teaching credential? It's criminal, utterly criminal!”

Joanna was struck by the fact that unlike Jeremy Stock, Karenna Thomas was prepared to place the blame squarely where it belonged—on Susan Nelson's shoulders—rather than on her son's.

“Yes, it
is
criminal,” Joanna agreed, “but you need to speak to your son about all this and let him know that you're aware of what was going on. I hope he was actually listening yesterday when I was explaining about Travis being the victim of a sex
crime, because apparently Kevin has been victimized in exactly the same way.”

For once, the usually cool and collected Colonel Thomas seemed to lose her composure. “What am I supposed to do about all this?” she asked, her voice nearly breaking.

“You'll need to try to bring that idea home to Kevin—that he was manipulated by a sexual predator. He's a victim and so are any other boys who were caught up in Susan Nelson's web. You'll also need to prepare him for the very real possibility that some or even all of this may eventually become public knowledge. Law enforcement officials are required to protect the names of juveniles, but this is a relatively small town. Word may leak out, especially if the families involved—including your own family, perhaps—decide to take the school to court and sue for damages.”

An ashen-faced Karenna handed the phone back to Joanna. “Just because Kevin said he wanted Mrs. Nelson dead doesn't mean he killed her. As I told you yesterday, Kevin was with me in Tucson all day on Saturday.”

“Yes,” Joanna said with a nod, “but given the circumstances, we'll need to verify everything the two of you did on Saturday. We'll be doing the same thing with all the other affected families, once we ascertain exactly who all was involved. In the next few days, we'll be interviewing the boys and their parents together and most likely collecting DNA samples as we go. I expect those interviews will be more about eliminating suspects than they will be about finding one. I have every confidence that will be the case with Kevin—he'll be eliminated.”

“What do I do in the meantime?”

“Go home and talk to your son. He's been through a shattering
experience. He's going to need you. I'm telling you the same thing I told Jeremy and Allison Stock about Travis and the same thing we'll be saying to all the other families as well. Don't be afraid to seek counseling, for your son and for yourself, too. My department can put you in touch with the county's victims' advocate service, although you may want to seek out something more private.”

“How is Travis?” Karenna asked, standing up to leave. “I've known him for years. He's a great kid. Is he okay?”

“He's pretty well shattered, too,” Joanna answered.

“But is he going to be okay?”

Joanna thought back to the scene in the Stocks' living room and to how Jeremy had almost instantly leaped to the conclusion that Travis was somehow at fault.

“He'll probably be okay over time,” Joanna said. “At least I hope so. Unfortunately, in situations like this it's easy for people to jump to the erroneous conclusion that the boys involved are somehow perpetrators rather than victims. That's why I believe counseling is so important for all concerned.”

By then, Karenna Thomas was already at the door. She paused and turned back to Joanna. “Thank you for giving me this difficult news in person, Sheriff Brady. I'm sure you have plenty of other things vying for your attention right now, and you could easily have handed it off to someone else. I appreciate your going out of your way to do it.”

“You're welcome,” Joanna said. “Having to deliver bad news comes with the territory, but today has been especially tough—for everyone.”

JOANNA WAS TROUBLED AS SHE DROVE BACK TO BISBEE THINKING
about the devastation her department's homicide investigation had now visited on at least two unsuspecting families, with probably many more to come. Her own unborn baby, of course, chose that moment of quiet reflection to start kicking up a storm.

“Settle down, Sage,” she admonished the child aloud. “Hold your horses. We've got some time yet.”

Because Butch was reluctant to sign off on naming their baby girl Sage, Joanna only addressed her that way in private. For Butch, sage was all about cooking turkeys and making dressing. For Joanna, it was different. D. H. Lathrop had loved Arizona history, but when it came to fiction, his favorite author had been Zane Grey, his favorite title being
Riders of the Purple Sage
. With Eleanor grumbling in the background that Joanna was far too young to be exposed to such things, D. H. had settled his daughter
beside him on the sofa and read it aloud to her, stopping only when she drifted off to sleep. She still owned the book—her father's well-loved and very tattered copy. George Winfield had seen to it that the book had come to Joanna when he and Eleanor had sorted through the boxes in their garage. Whenever Joanna caught a glimpse of the book on the shelf over Butch's desk, that's what it evoked—a sweet memory of her long-absent father.

But just now, with the baby squirming in her belly, she couldn't help thinking about Allison Stock and Karenna Thomas. Back when the two women had been pregnant with their respective sons or when they had brought their infant boys home from hospital nurseries, had either of them ever considered the idea that only a few years down the road, the boys would become the victims of a sexual predator? For Joanna, that thought carried her right on to another.

The two women had reacted to hearing that dreadful news in almost a mirror-image fashion—first with shock and dismay, yes, but ultimately with compassion. Joanna had known Jeremy Stock for years—ever since she was elected to office—and yet she had been both surprised and dismayed that his knee-jerk reaction had been to place so much of the blame on Travis. Why would Jeremy do that? Why would
any
parent do it?

Then it hit her. She remembered how testy she had been with all the people who, in the course of the last few days, had been bold enough to suggest to her that, in view of her mother's recent passing and with the added complication of her pregnancy, perhaps Joanna should consider working less and staying home more. Shamefacedly, she realized now that she had more or less told them all to go to hell, mostly by snarling at them rather than thanking them for their concern.

Pot to kettle,
Joanna reminded herself ruefully. The way Jeremy and Allison Stock raised their son was their private business and none of hers. And then, in order to take her mind off the Stocks, she reached for her phone and called Butch.

“What's for dinner?” she asked when he answered.

“Jenny called early enough to place her order. Evidently the cafeteria at NAU isn't big on green chili casserole, so that's what we're having. She picked up some tortillas and tamales on her way through Tucson, so that's the remainder of the menu.”

“Who all is coming?”

“The usual suspects,” Butch answered. “Carol and the boys, Bob and Marcie, Jim Bob and Eva Lou.”

Carol was Carol Sunderson. Years earlier, when an electrical fire had burned her mobile home to the ground, she had been left a homeless widow with two young grandsons to support. She and the boys had moved into the original house at High Lonesome Ranch, the one where Joanna had once lived, paying a very affordable rent out of wages earned by working for Joanna and Butch as a sometime housekeeper/nanny. The grandsons, Danny, now eleven, and Rick, thirteen, were in and out of Butch and Joanna's house as much as if it were their own.

Joanna counted the guests off in her head. With the four of them, Carol's three, Bob and Marcie, and Joanna's original father- and mother-in-law, Jim Bob and Eva Lou, the dinner guests came to a total of eleven. She was glad that serving an impromptu meal for that many people posed no problem for Butch. It would have been a major cooking crisis for her.

“Where are you?” Butch asked. “And how's your day?”

She gave him a brief rundown. “I'm on my way back to the office now,” she said when she finished. “Since I won't be in at all
tomorrow, I need to clear up as many details as possible before I call it a day.”

“Just don't be late for dinner,” Butch cautioned. “I don't mind cooking, but I can't cook and entertain visitors at the same time. There's not enough room in the kitchen.”

Joanna's chronic tendency to miss mealtimes was one of the few ongoing bones of contention in their otherwise relatively trouble-free marriage. Butch was good about her showing up late when it was just their family. He always left a plate for her to warm in the microwave when she did get home, but she knew it bugged him if she went AWOL when they were expecting guests.

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “I'll be Johnny on the spot.”

When she reached the Justice Center and pulled into her parking space behind the building, the one next to hers was occupied, which meant Chief Deputy Hadlock was still there. She went straight to his office and knocked on the doorframe.

“Busy day?” she asked, peeking inside.

“The media has been eating me alive. There are rumors out there that there's been some sexual wrongdoing on the part of an SVSSE faculty member, and everyone wants to know if Susan Nelson had anything to do with it.”

“Who's asking?” Joanna asked.

“Who do you think?”

“Give Marliss the standard answer you give to everyone else—no comments on ongoing investigations. For right now, if Marliss gives you any more lip, send her in my direction. She's been invited to the funeral tomorrow, so that should keep her out of your hair for a while at least. As for the investigation? Between you and me, Susan Nelson was a pedophile who shouldn't have been within a mile of young male students, but we won't be
making any statements to that effect until we have some idea of the full extent of her wrongdoing. And on the topic of the Geronimo homicides, we still haven't found a single connection between our two victims.”

“I heard that you were doing a second interview with Travis Stock. Is he involved in all this? Do you think he's good for the two homicides?”

Obviously Tom had been keeping his ear to the ground all day in addition to dealing with media concerns.

“I'm thinking not,” Joanna answered. “When Susan Nelson was frog-marched off the school grounds, the kidnapper was holding her with his right hand while presumably carrying a weapon of some kind in the left-hand pocket of the hoodie.”

“Which would make the killer left-handed,” Tom suggested

“And Travis Stock is right-handed,” Joanna replied. “That's one thing in his favor. What's not in his favor is the fact that he and the victim were romantically involved, and she recently dumped him. Not only that, his alibi is crap, and his school hoodie has suddenly gone missing.”

“So he's not out of the woods, then?”

“Nowhere near, and if we removed his name from the suspect list without investigating him more fully, we wouldn't be doing our jobs.”

“Okay, then,” Tom agreed before abruptly changing the subject. “Is it true that Let's-Make-a-Deal Jones is going to allow Katherine Hopkins to plead to manslaughter?”

“Probably,” Joanna answered.

The chief deputy shook his head in dismay. “If that isn't enough to piss off the Good Fairy!”

In terms of their working relationship, having Tom Hadlock
feel comfortable enough to crack a joke with her amounted to big progress.

“It's our job to catch the bad guys and turn over our findings to the county attorney,” she said. “What Arlee Jones does with them after that is on his head not ours.”

Joanna turned back toward her own office.

“Are you heading out soon?” Tom asked.

“Not right away,” she said. “Since I'll be off tomorrow, I want to clear as much paperwork off my desk as possible.”

“Speaking of paperwork, duty rosters for the next month are done and sitting on your desk. I'm getting a little better at that, and I'll be at the board-of-supervisors meeting bright and early in the morning. I've taken a look at the agenda. I don't think they'll need me to say anything.”

“If something comes up and you do need me,” Joanna told him, “feel free to call. I'll be at a funeral. I won't be on the moon.”

“Thanks, boss,” Tom said. “Will do.”

Joanna retreated into her own office. Once there, she gratefully stripped off the Kevlar vest her steadily expanding waistline had rendered too small and entirely uncomfortable. She had a larger one, out in the luggage compartment of the Yukon, but she was reluctant to make the switch. Wearing a vest large enough to accommodate her waist made it too big everywhere else.

Tomorrow,
she told herself.
I'll change over to the other one tomorrow.

With that, she turned to her desk. The expected paperwork was there waiting for her, all right, but she shoved it aside without a glance. There was something else that required her attention at the moment—something important that she had been
holding at bay by keeping her mind totally focused on the two separate homicide investigations.

The night before, at the restaurant, Bob and Butch had ganged up on her and finally convinced her that she was the one best suited to stand up during the funeral service and deliver George and Eleanor's eulogies. Opening her computer, she sat staring at the blank screen for a very long time, wondering what to say. Her relationship with George was far less complicated than her dealings with Eleanor had been, so she started with him:

Joanna's fingers came to a sudden halt. The clicking keyboard went ominously silent. What should she say about her mother? What was it Marc Antony had said about his pal Julius? “I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.” The truth is, people expected praise during funerals, but right off the bat Joanna could think of
very little to praise. She and Eleanor had been at war for most of their lives together. Was that something that should be acknowledged or glossed over? And what about her brother—a child born out of wedlock and given up for adoption long before her parents married? If Eleanor had been overjoyed to welcome Bob Brundage into her life, didn't he need to be publicly acknowledged, too?

And then there was Joanna's father's long-term mistress, Mona Tipton. After George and Eleanor married, George had come upon years' worth of journals kept by D. H. Lathrop. It was only through reading her father's diaries that Joanna had learned about his relationship with Mona. Only days before his tragic death, D.H. had come down on the side of hearth and home, breaking away from Mona in favor of Eleanor and Joanna. His sudden death had left behind two terribly bereft women who continued to live in the same town and who, of necessity, occasionally encountered one another in public. Eleanor's heartache over the loss of her husband had manifested itself more as anger than grief, while Mona, with no obvious justification for the depth of her loss, had simply suffered in silence.

At last Joanna's fingers moved again, more slowly this time and much more tentatively: