Exit Wounds (12 page)

“Not yet,” Joanna said. “Doc Winfield and Detective Carpenter are both on their way. We should probably wait until they get here. Who found the body?”

“Lloyd did,” Hadlock replied, referring to Lloyd Rolly, the assistant jail commander. “When we turned up one prisoner short, I sent him back out looking.”

“Did he move anything?” Joanna asked.

Hadlock shook his head. “Lloyd checked for a pulse and then called me. I called the EMTs, but he was gone.”

George Winfield’s Dodge Caravan pulled into the parking lot, followed immediately by Dave Carpenter’s Econoline van.

“Good news,” George said, hurrying toward them. “I just heard from Pima County. They’re sending Fran Daly. She’s leaving Tucson right now and will be here as soon as she can. That way she can take charge of the body to begin with rather than our having to do transfers back and forth.”

Joanna had worked with Fran Daly on several other cases. Fran was a no-nonsense type who was an expert at dating long-dead corpses through the succession of bug and larvae found on the rotting flesh. Other than that, she was a fairly nice person.

“We could have done worse,” Joanna said.

“That’s what I thought,” George Winfield agreed.

With Tom Hadlock in the lead, they made their way through the remotely controlled locks of the jail complex and out into the razor-wire-lined rec yard, which was lit up as brightly as the Warren Ballpark playing fields. Richard Osmond’s body lay on the bench of a concrete picnic table. His hands were folded across his chest. Joanna was forced to agree that the dead man did indeed appear to be sleeping.

George cocked his head to one side and studied the body. “I’m guessing it’s either an OD or natural causes. Anybody want to place bets?”

“Leave me out of it,” Ernie Carpenter grumbled. “You always win.”

Joanna turned to the jail commander. “Does his rap sheet show any drug convictions?”

“Not that I noticed,” Hadlock replied.

“Does he have a wife?” Joanna asked.

“Live-in girlfriend,” Dave Hadlock said. “Her name’s Marla Gomez. We’re trying to track down an address for her. Their apartment in Bisbee was in Osmond’s name. Once he ended up in jail, Marla and the kid moved out. They may be staying with her parents, who live in Douglas.”

“They have a child?” Joanna asked.

Tom Hadlock nodded. “A boy. He’s four or five.”

“You’ll let us know as soon as you have the address?”

“Right,” Tom said.

Dave Hollicker showed up then, camera in hand, and was directed to the picnic table bench. As the CSI began snapping crime scene photos, Ernie Carpenter shook his head.

“How many people were out here this afternoon?” he asked.

“Counting prisoners, detention officers, kitchen trustees, and deputies, right around a hundred.”

“We’re not likely to find much as far as physical evidence is concerned, mostly because we’re going to find too much,” Ernie said. “Our best bet will be to talk to the people who were there—guards and prisoners both. Maybe, while we’re waiting for Fran Daly to show up, we could start interviewing some of those folks, beginning with Osmond’s cell mates.”

Joanna nodded. “Sounds good,” she said as the hulking Ernie strode away.

“As for me,” George Winfield said when he and Joanna were left alone, “since I’m taking a pass on this case, I believe I’ll go on home. I’ll have a word with your mother—or, rather, I’ll let her have a word with me on the other major topic of the evening.” He gave Joanna an understanding smile. “But again,” he added, “congratulations. Ellie’s comments notwithstanding, you and Butch and the baby will be just fine.”

By the time Joanna had walked back across the parking lot and let herself into the Justice Center conference room, Frank Montoya had shown up as well.

“This isn’t good,” he said. “I’ve already had two calls—one from
The Bee
and another from
The Tribune
out in Sierra Vista. The reporters heard about it before I did. How’s that possible?”

“It’s all politics,” Joanna said. “And in politics, anything goes. What did you tell them?”

“That I’d check things out and let them know.”

Briefly Joanna brought him up to speed. By the time she finished, Tom Hadlock was leading a handcuffed man down the hall toward the interview room, where Ernie Carpenter was already waiting. Joanna and Frank followed them into the room. “This is Brad Calhoun,” Tom said, shoving the man into a chair. “He’s one of Richard Osmond’s roomies.”

“Look,” Calhoun said, “I have no idea what happened to Richard, but whatever it was, I had nothing to do with it. I swear to God.”

“Go ahead and remove the cuffs,” Joanna told Tom Hadlock. “We’re just talking here. I’m Sheriff Brady, Mr. Calhoun. This is Chief Deputy Montoya, and this is Homicide Detective Ernie Carpenter.”

Calhoun was holding out his hands so Tom Hadlock could unlock the cuffs. When he heard Ernie’s name and title, his jaw dropped. He waited until Tom Hadlock had taken the cuffs and left the room.

“Did you say homicide?” Calhoun asked. “You mean somebody’s dead? I thought Richard just took off somehow. That he’d figured out a way to go over the fence—that he’d waited until everybody else went back inside and then away he went, know what I mean?”

“Mr. Osmond didn’t go over the fence,” Ernie told him somberly. “He’s dead, and we’re wondering what, if anything, you might know about that.”

“Do I need a lawyer?” Calhoun asked.

“You tell us,” Ernie returned. “When’s the last time you talked to Mr. Osmond?”

“Right after dinner,” Calhoun answered hurriedly. “Right after we finished up the watermelon.”

“What was said?”

“Richard said he was tired, that he thought he’d take a nap. Didn’t surprise me none. We were all wore out. The heat really takes it out of you. The AC in the jail went out last night, you see, and it was too hot to sleep—for me, anyway. It was just plain miserable.”

“So you didn’t think it was odd when Richard Osmond said he needed a nap.”

“Naw. It was so ungodly hot that we were all beat. I was a little surprised, though, when he nailed that whole bench for himself. I didn’t see him again after that, and I didn’t think about it either—not until John and me got back to the cell and Richard wasn’t there. We figured out he was missing about the same time the guards did, and then all hell broke loose. They figured he’d escaped somehow, and they put the whole place on lockdown.”

“Did Mr. Osmond do drugs?” Ernie asked.

Calhoun grinned. “Around our cell, alcohol is the drug of choice, ma’am. I’d have to say Richard had been…well…maybe not sober, but dry at least, ever since they locked him up. Same goes for me and John Braxton, too.”

“You don’t think it’s possible Osmond might have gotten himself some contraband drugs?”

“Not that I know of,” Calhoun said, “but we weren’t like, you know, best buddies. He wouldn’t have told me if he had.”

There was a knock on the door. Tom Hadlock pushed his head inside the room. “I’ve got the girlfriend’s parents’ address down in Douglas—Mr. and Mrs. Gabriel Gomez. Should somebody from the jail handle this?”

“No, Tom,” Joanna said. “We will.” She looked at Frank Montoya, who nodded, stood up, and headed for the door.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

Joanna stayed in the interview room for the remainder of Calhoun’s interview and for John Braxton’s as well. Fran Daly arrived in less than an hour and a half after being summoned. Once Dr. Daly went out to the rec yard to take charge of the body, Joanna headed home. Butch was in bed, reading, when Joanna walked into the bedroom.

“Where’s everybody?” Joanna asked.

“Tigger and Lucky are in Jenny’s room.”

“You didn’t leave the puppy loose, did you?” Joanna asked.

“Do I look that stupid? Of course he’s not loose. Jenny and I rigged up a temporary crate to use until we can get a real one.”

“Good,” Joanna said. “What about the other one?”

“Lady’s over there,” Butch said, nodding toward Joanna’s side of the bed. “See for yourself.”

The Australian shepherd lay curled into a tight ball on the rug between the bed and the wall. She looked up as Joanna came around the side of the bed. Her tail thumped tentatively on the floor, but she made no effort to raise her chin off her paws.

“Did you say Lady?” Joanna asked.

“Yup,” Butch replied. “Jenny picked it. She said she was dainty and ladylike, so that’s what she’s going to be called—Lady.”

Joanna went over and patted the top of Lady’s head. “How did you get her to come in here?” Joanna asked.

“Don’t ask me. Jenny’s the one who finally persuaded her to come into the house. She found your side of the bed all on her own.”

“Smart dog,” Joanna observed.

“Opinionated,” Butch corrected. “She’s fine as long as I don’t get anywhere near your side of the bed.”

Joanna undressed and then crawled into bed herself, sidestepping the dog as she did so. “You owe me,” he said.

“With Mother, you mean?” Joanna asked.

“I’ll say.”

“Sorry,” she said.

“I calmed her down eventually, but it took all of my considerable skill and charm.”

“I can make it up to you,” she offered, snuggling closer.

“Good,” Butch said. “I thought you’d know how. What’s the word on murder and mayhem?”

Right that minute, Joanna Brady didn’t want to think about Richard Osmond and how he had died. “Do you mind if we talk about this in the morning?” she asked.

“No problem,” Butch replied. “No problem at all.”

Six

F ran Daly and George Winfield stood with their heads close together, leaning over something just out of Joanna’s line of vision. “The needle went in right here,” Fran was saying. “Just at the base of the skull. He never felt a thing. Death would have been almost instantaneous.”

Joanna held back, not wanting to see what they were looking at. The air around her was thick with nauseating odors. She could barely breathe, and yet she felt compelled to move forward, to make her way around to where she could see the naked figure lying there exposed beneath the harsh, bright lights. She expected to find the naked dead man lying exposed on Doc Winfield’s autopsy slab to be Richard Osmond. Instead, it was Butch Dixon.

She awakened from the nightmare and scrambled out of bed. In her race for the bathroom, she stepped on Lady and almost fell in a tangle of legs and dog. Heaving, she made it to the bathroom in time, but only just barely. Seconds later, Butch was there as well, standing behind her with one hand on her shoulder.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Is there anything I should do?”

Joanna was embarrassed to be found kneeling in front of the toilet and puking. “Go away,” she mumbled impatiently through chattering teeth. “Go away and leave me alone.”

He did. Finally, having survived that first powerful fit of nausea, Joanna showered, then pulled on a robe. Lady, waiting just outside the bathroom door, got up and followed Joanna through the house, trailing behind her like a four-footed shadow. The overhead skylights in the hallway shed a hazy gray glow as Joanna and the dog made their way to the kitchen. Butch was already there. The clock on the microwave read five-thirty as she hitched herself up onto one of the barstools positioned along one side of the island.

Butch looked up at her. “Are you all right?” he asked. She nodded. “Coffee’s almost done,” he added. “Do you want some?”

Just the smell of Butch’s freshly brewed coffee made Joanna’s queasy stomach turn flip-flops. She shook her head. “I think I’ll have tea,” she said.

“Tea?” Butch objected. “You don’t even like tea.”

“I do when I’m pregnant,” she told him. “The same thing happened when I was pregnant with Jenny. I couldn’t drink coffee the whole time.”

Obligingly Butch filled the teakettle and put it on a burner. “This is going to take some getting used to,” he said. “What do you eat for breakfast when you’re pregnant?”

“No juice,” Joanna said quickly. “English muffins with peanut butter and nothing else usually works.”

“Coming right up,” he said.

Joanna huddled miserably in her robe while Butch bustled capably around the kitchen. Usually Joanna’s nightmares dissipated a few minutes after she awoke. This time the disquieting image of Butch laid out in the harsh lights of the ME’s examining room stuck with her and wouldn’t go away.

“Joanna?” Butch asked. “Are you listening?”

“Sorry, I must have been woolgathering. What did you say?”

“I asked what you’re up to today.”

“We’ll have to deal with what happened to Richard Osmond at the jail yesterday,” she told him. “But I’m also hoping we’ll make some progress on the Mossman case.”

“Sounds busy,” Butch said. “Will you be having lunch with Marianne?”

Friends since junior high, Joanna and the Reverend Marianne Maculyea tried to have lunch together at least once a week. On the surface, they were just two old friends enjoying each other’s company. But there was more to their weekly get-togethers than that. As two women working in nontraditional jobs and living in nontraditional families, each served as the other’s primary support system. Other than Marianne, there weren’t all that many women clerics working in Bisbee, or in Cochise County, either. And, as far as Joanna knew, there were no other female sheriffs anywhere.

“We probably will meet up,” Joanna said dubiously. “But the way I feel right now, I’m not so sure about eating lunch.”

“Isn’t there something you can take for morning sickness?” Butch asked, putting a plate containing two peanut-butter-spread English muffins on the counter in front of her.

Joanna shook her head. “Too many antinausea drugs have the potential of causing birth defects.”

“So we just have to wait it out?” Butch returned.

Joanna nodded. “Grin and bear it,” she said.

While Joanna nibbled tentatively at her English muffins, Butch went into the laundry room and began distributing dog food. At the first clatter of dog dishes, Tigger came racing from the far end of the house, followed by the puppy. Butch put the food in the garage and then opened the door, but only Tigger and Lucky went out. Butch had to leave the door open and then come all the way back into the kitchen before Lady sidled into the laundry room and then on into the garage.