Left for Dead (32 page)

“Can I go with you?” Christine asked. “Please? What if Phil doesn’t come get me today? What if he doesn’t know I’m here?”

In some part of Christine’s tangled reality, she truly believed that her husband was alive and coming to get her. It wasn’t Ali’s responsibility to convince her otherwise.

“I’m sure he does,” she said reassuringly. “And I’m sure he’ll come for you as soon as he can.”

“But what if he doesn’t?” Christine asked. Distress took over. Her voice rose to a keening wail. “What if I have to stay here forever? Please take me with you. Please.”

By then, alerted to the disturbance by Christine’s raised voice, a
pair of uniformed attendants rushed into the room. While they tried unsuccessfully to calm Christine, Ali hurried to the door and buzzed to be let out. All the way down the hall and out through the lobby, she could hear that terrible, despairing cry. She felt guilty. Ali’s presence was what had caused Christine’s outburst, but Christine was the one who would suffer the consequences.

Back in her vehicle, Ali had to call information to get Patty Patton’s telephone numbers. She tried both the home number and the one listed for the post office. In each case, the phone rang and no one answered. Patty was a landline person, and she evidently wasn’t home.

“Patty, it’s Ali Reynolds,” Ali said into what sounded like an old-fashioned desktop answering machine. “It’s about Christine, and it’s important. Give me a call when you get this.”

5:30
P.M
., Monday, April 12
Tucson, Arizona

In the course of the afternoon, Sister Anselm ushered family members
into Rose Ventana’s room in the ICU. She knew that the visits were wearing on Rose, not only emotionally but also physically. The difficulty of communicating through her wired-shut jaw made speaking exceptionally difficult. Between each visit, she needed time to rest and regroup.

Sister Anselm was also aware that Detective Rush had taken her words of advice to heart. She and Al Gutierrez had spent the afternoon sitting on the sidelines. Sometimes Al seemed to be fielding phone calls while Detective Rush worked on her computer. Sister Anselm knew they were hanging around in hopes of interviewing Rose Ventana.

That opportunity came at five-thirty in the afternoon, with Rose’s long-awaited move from the ICU to a regular wing of the hospital. Since her new room was only a few doors away from Jose Reyes’s new room, many of the people Sister Anselm met in the corridor and in the new waiting room were familiar faces.

Shortly after the move, when the Fox family left for dinner in the cafeteria, Sister Anselm turned to her charge. “There’s someone else in the waiting room who would like to speak to you.”

“Who?”

“Detective Ariel Rush, a homicide detective from Phoenix, and Al Gutierrez, the Border Patrol agent who found you.”

“Do I have to talk to them?” Rose asked. Her mumbled words were understandable, but just barely.

“You don’t have to,” Sister Anselm said, “but they’d like you to. Detective Rush needs your help.”

“Why? Who’s dead?”

Sister Anselm had noticed that during their brief visits in the course of the day, Rose’s parents and sisters had all managed to avoid any discussions of Rose’s life as Breeze Domingo. They also hadn’t mentioned anything about Chico Hernández’s murder, leaving it up to Sister Anselm to break the bad news.

“A friend of yours,” Sister Anselm said. “Chico Hernández.”

“He’s dead?”

“Detective Rush is investigating his murder. She seems to think his killer may also be responsible for what happened to you. So if you’ll speak to her, you may be able to help.”

Rose thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “All right.”

Sister Anselm went out into the corridor, caught Detective Rush’s eye. “You can come in now,” she said. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Not necessary,” Detective Rush said. “This is a preliminary interview only. With Agent Gutierrez and me here, she’ll probably be more comfortable with you here as well.”

As they entered the room, Rose’s eyes followed Al, who was carrying an oversize briefcase. “You found me?” she asked him.

It seemed to take him a moment to understand her. When he did, he nodded.

“Thank you,” Rose said.

That sentence was entirely understandable. Al’s face broke into a wide grin. “You’re welcome,” he said.

During this exchange, Detective Rush was busy placing her open computer on the movable table next to Rose’s bed.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Ventana,” she said. “Ariel Rush from the Homicide unit of Phoenix PD. I’d like to record this. There’s a video device loaded into my computer. If you don’t mind, we’ll be using that to record this session.”

Rose nodded. “It’s okay,” she said.

After listing the time, place, and people present, Ariel Rush launched off on her questions.

“With the help of Agent Gutierrez here, I’m currently investigating the homicide of one Chico Hernández. Since you and he were both
reported missing by your roommates on Saturday, I assume you know him?”

Rose nodded.

“I also have a slide show that I’ve loaded onto my computer,” Detective Rush continued. “I’d like you to take a look at the photos and let me know if any one of those individuals is someone you recognize.”

The montage contained ten photographs in all. Watching from several feet away, Sister Anselm noticed that most of them were mug shots and some were simple head shots. Two of them had a grainy texture that looked as though it might have come from some kind of security video. As Detective Rush clicked through, Rose watched the photos; Sister Anselm followed them while also watching Rose. The young woman’s eyes widened in shock at the third photo in the group, and again several shots later.

“So do you recognize anyone here?” Detective Rush asked.

The answer was obvious, and Rose didn’t try to deny it. She nodded.

“I’m going to go back through the photos one at a time,” Detective Rush said. “You’ll notice each photo in the montage is numbered. If you recognize one of them, please tell me the appropriate number.”

Rose stared at the computer screen while the photos reappeared. “Three,” she mumbled a few seconds later. “And eight.”

“You recognize two of them?”

Rose nodded again. Nodding was clearly easier for her than speaking.

“And can you tell me how you know these gentlemen?”

Rose’s eyes sought out Sister Anselm, asking for guidance on whether she should answer the question. During Rose’s time in the ICU, a remarkable bond of trust had grown between the patient advocate and her charge.

“You need to tell her,” Sister Anselm said gently. “You need to tell Detective Rush all of it.”

“Those men in the pictures. They took me to the desert,” Rose said. “Left me.”

“They’re the ones who dumped you?”

“Yes.”

“Did they do anything else?”

“Hit me; kicked me.”

“Anything more?”

This time Rose said nothing.

“Tell me about Mr. Hernández,” Detective Rush continued. “Was he your employer?”

Rose hesitated but finally nodded.

“Your pimp?”

Again there was no answer forthcoming.

“Ms. Ventana,” Detective Rush said. “As you are no doubt aware, girls on the street often don’t bother reporting rapes. They think they won’t be taken seriously by the law enforcement community, but that’s not true for me. Just because you may have worked as a prostitute in the past doesn’t make you fair game. So tell me about the two men in these photos—number three and number eight. In addition to beating you and kicking you, did they do anything else? Did they sexually assault you, for example?”

There was another long pause before Rose’s whispered answer. “Yes.”

“Earlier today, Mr. Gutierrez, the Border Patrol agent who found you, and I visited the crime scene near Three Points. We came away with trace evidence that may include DNA from one of your assailants. Unless you want to, you can’t be compelled to give me any information about your medical condition or the course of treatment, but it would be a huge favor to me and to my investigation if I were to know some of the details of your treatment. For example, at the time you were admitted to PMC, do you know if a rape kit was taken?”

Rose looked questioningly at Sister Anselm, who nodded.

“Yes,” Rose said finally. “It was.”

“And if we can identify your attacker, is it your intention to press charges?”

Again Rose looked to Sister Anselm for confirmation. Another nod.

“Yes,” Rose said. “It is.”

“I’ll need your signature on an actual police report to make that official,” Detective Rush said. She took possession of the briefcase, opened it, and dug out a piece of paper. For the next several minutes, she scribbled on it before handing it over to Rose. “I know signing with your hand in a splint is tough. If you can make an X at the bottom, we’ll have Sister Anselm and Mr. Gutierrez sign as witnesses.
That way, I can make sure the kit is sent along to the crime lab so they can start processing it.”

When the paper was properly signed and witnessed, Detective Rush returned to the interview. “Now, please tell me about the last time you remember seeing Mr. Hernández.”

“Thursday. Going to Fountain Hills.”

“To Fountain Hills?” Detective Rush confirmed. “Why there?”

“Client,” Rose replied.

“What client? Did you know his name?”

“No.”

“Was the client in the photo montage?”

“No.”

“So you went to a house in Fountain Hills to see a client. What happened there?”

“He burned me,” Rose whispered. “Cut me. Raped me. He liked hurting me.”

“Do you know his name? Do you remember an address or a street name?”

Rose thought for a long time before answering. “Big house,” she said. “Last street. Backed up to the desert.”

“More than one story?”

Rose closed her eyes as if trying to concentrate. “Two,” she said, “and a basement.”

“Anything else?”

“Big gate, guardhouse, steep hill.”

“If I brought you photos of gates in Fountain Hills, would you be able to recognize the right one and choose it?”

“Maybe.”

“I hope so,” Detective Rush said. “We want to find the guys who dumped you, the ones in the photos, but I believe the guy in the house in Fountain Hills is a big-time bad guy. We know of at least three other possible victims, all of them dead but all showing injuries similar to yours—evidence of burning and of cutting.”

“All dead?” Rose asked.

Detective Rush nodded. “Dead, but with no DNA.”

“Condom,” Rose muttered.

Detective Rush paused. “Wait. He used a condom when he assaulted you?”

Rose nodded.

“But the guys who dumped you did not?”

“No.”

“That probably means one of two things,” Detective Rush said. “It could be that the guy in Fountain Hills is worried about picking up a local garden-variety STD. It’s also possible that he’s worried about leaving DNA lying around because he knows it may already be listed in the DNA database.”

Detective Rush seemed to be casting around for another set of questions, but Sister Anselm called a halt. “That’s all Rose can do for right now. She needs to rest.”

The detective closed her computer. “That’s all right,” she said. “She may have given me exactly what I need to know.”

5:00
P.M
., Monday, April 12
Patagonia, Arizona

Once in her Camaro, Patty Patton drove away from the Tewksbury crime
scene with every intention of going straight home. But then she started thinking about those flat-rate boxes. At this point she was still prepared to shout Christine’s innocence from the rooftops, but she was no longer so sure about Phil.

How dare he pull her post office—her blemish-free post office—into this kind of controversy? And if he had used the flat-rate boxes to move drugs around, had he carried them from one place to another in his mail truck, a vehicle that was assigned to her operation?

That ugly realization hit home, leaving Patty so upset that she could barely see to drive. When she came to the driveway of her house, she drove straight past it. Instead, she returned to the post office and pulled in back, next to the locked storage yard with the mail truck sitting inside, safe and secure under lock and key.

The truck looked harmless enough, sitting there all by itself. There was nothing sinister about it, nothing to indicate it had participated in any kind of wrongdoing, but for Patty’s own peace of mind, she needed to know. Was Phil Tewksbury true blue, or had he played her for a fool all these years?

Making up her mind, she put the Camaro back in gear, made a rooster-tail U-turn, and drove two blocks farther east to the parking lot of the San Rafael Café. It was getting on toward dinnertime, and there were several cars parked in the lot. Eventually, she found the one she was looking for: Border Patrol K-9 unit #347.

Several of the local Border Patrol agents, young bachelor types looking for lower rent, had taken rooms in various houses around town. Mark Embry, of unit #347, and his German shepherd, Max, were Patty’s hands-down favorites.

Once a week Mark’s mother sent her son a care package—homemade cookies and/or books—in a flat-rate box. The packages, shipped special delivery, came every Friday morning like clockwork, and Friday afternoon, once he was off shift, Mark would come by the post office to pick up his goodies. When he came in to pick up the mail, he always ignored the no dogs allowed sign and brought Max inside. When Max was the dog in question, Patty ignored the sign, too.

As expected, the dog was waiting patiently in the backseat of Mark’s vehicle. That meant Max’s handler was in the restaurant chowing down on dinner. When Patty went inside, she found Mark seated at the counter. As Patty slipped onto the stool next to him, he looked up from his hamburger plate and smiled.

“Afternoon, Ms. Patton,” he said. “How are things?”

Patty didn’t know how much he knew or didn’t know about the situation with Phil Tewksbury. She wanted to have Mark’s help without having to reveal too many details.