J. Jance - Dead to Rights

Joanna nodded. “I see,” she said.

“Why is that?” he asked. “If Deputy Voland doesn’t believe me, why do you?”

“It occurred to me this afternoon that maybe someone else-somebody with his or her own reasons for wanting Bucky Buckwalter dead-is using your motivation as camouflage. Whoever the killer is, he’s expecting us to take things at face value-to charge you and let him off the hook.”

As a sudden expression of comprehension flashed across his face, Hal Morgan raised himself on his elbow. A few minutes earlier, the mere act of nodding his head had pained him. This time, if the pain was there, it didn’t seem to register or show. Suddenly Hal Morgan was transformed into a cop again-a cop on the trail of a killer.

“Do you know who it is?” he demanded.

Joanna shook her head. “Not yet,” Joanna said. “But I have a few ideas. Talking to you has given me a few more.’

Morgan studied her for a minute, then he eased himself hack down on the pillow. “You know, I did want to kill him once,” In admitted. “The night Bonnie died, I could have done it with my bare hands. I think I would have, if some-body hadn’t stopped me. And I still felt the same way when I saw that smug little bastard in Phoenix last summer. I went there thinking there was going to be a trial, that I’d have a chance to testify. But Buckwalter’s lawyer had already worked out a plea bargain. When I found out about that deal, I might still have done something drastic if it hadn’t been for Father Mike.”

“Father Mike?” Joanna put in. “Who’s he?”

“A friend of mine. Father Michael McCrady. I met him through M.A.D.D.”

“Is he a counselor for them, or a chaplain maybe?”

Morgan shook his head. “No. He’s a member, just like everybody else. His sister was a nun in Milwaukee. A drunk ran her down in a crosswalk as she walked from her school back to the convent after a school Christmas pageant. Of all the people I talked to after Bonnie’s death, Father Mike was the first one who got to me, the first one who made sense. Talking to him finally made me see beyond my own hurt, made me see the big picture. He helped me understand that we were all in the same boat and that it’s useless to take your hurt and anger out on a single individual. It’s far more important to get people in general to see that drunk driving is a menace to everyone. Father Mike is the one who convinced me that by working with M.A.D.D., by raising people’s awareness, maybe I can keep what happened to Bonnie and me from happening to someone else.”

“In other words,” Joanna said, “you’re saying that you didn’t come to Bisbee to kill Bucky Buckwalter?”

Hal Morgan’s gaze met and held Joanna’s. “That’s right,” he said. “I came to pass out leaflets.”

Joanna thought for a moment before she spoke again. “Yesterday afternoon, Terry Buckwalter gave me a note, on she claims you gave her up in Phoenix. It was written in pencil and had a reference on it to a Bible verse.”

Morgan nodded and closed his eyes. “Exodus 21:12,” he said. “ ‘He that smiteth a man, so that he die, shall be surely put to death.’ “

“You did give it to her then?”

“Yes,” Hal Morgan said. “And at the time, I meant every word of it, but, like I said, that was before I met Father Mike.”

Another long silence followed. “Am I under arrest then? Morgan asked at last.

“No,” Joanna told him. “Not yet.”

“What’s the point of the deputy, then?”

“Some people seem to think you’re a flight risk,” Joanna answered.

“Some people,” Morgan repeated. “Like your friend Voland, for instance? What about you, Sheriff Brady? What d you think?”

For a moment, Joanna considered how she should answer. What she thought was complicated by what she felt, and what she felt was directly related to her own experience. On one side of the scale there was the far-too-blithe, wedding ring- and grief-free Terry Buckwalter. On the other was Hal Morgan, a seemingly honorable ex-cop who, almost a year later, was still grieving over the loss of his beloved wife. Terry’s reaction to Bucky’s murder was totally foreign to Joanna Brady, while Hal Morgan’s continuing anguish was achingly familiar. Based on those stark contrasts, it wasn’t too difficult to see where Joanna Brady’s sympathies might fall.

“Have you ever been in Bisbee before, Mr. Morgan?” she asked.

I leshook his head. “Never,” he told her.

“Even so, ”Joanna said quietly, “you may have heard something about me and my husband.” She paused and had to swallow before she could continue. “His name was Andy-Andrew Roy Brady. He was murdered last September seventeenth. He was shot and died the next day-the day after our tenth anniversary.”

The look on Hal Morgan’s face registered both surprise and pain. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I had no idea.”

Joanna acknowledged his condolence with a nod and then continued. “His killer was a hired gun-a hit man working for a Columbian drug lord. The killer’s name was Tony Vargas.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Morgan asked.

The room became deathly silent as Joanna sought the courage to finish her story. “Vargas didn’t go to prison,” she finished at last. “He died. I killed him. I shot him.”

“You shot him yourself?”

Joanna nodded. “It was ruled self-defense, so there was never any trial, but if I had needed a defense attorney, Burton Kimball is the one I would have called.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute; a little while ago you said you believed me.”

“I do,” Joanna answered. “But just because I do doesn’t mean everyone else will.”

Hal Morgan reached out and retrieved Joanna’s business card. It was only when he was holding it in his hand, examining it, that she noticed his fingers and saw that Hal Morgan was still wearing his wedding ring. Three weeks under a year after his wife’s death, he had yet to take his off. Terry Buckwalter’s was already history. The contrast was telling.

Morgan was still looking at the card when he spoke again.

“I’m sorry about your husband,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

‘‘Thank you,” she returned.

“Is that why you’re helping me?” Hal Morgan asked.

Joanna shrugged. “Maybe,” she said, standing up. “If nothing else, I know how you feel.”

“Won’t it cause trouble for you? ”he asked. “With your people, I mean?”

She smiled. “It could. On the face of it, there’s certainly potential for a conflict of interest. That’s why I’m not pulling the deputy, even though I personally don’t believe you need an armed guard.”

“It’s okay,” Morgan said. “I understand.” Then, after moment, he added, “Your homicide dick isn’t going to like it when he finds out you’ve referred me to a local defense attorney. ”

“Who’s going to tell him?”

For the first time there was the slightest hint of a smile lurking under Hal Morgan’s gray-flecked moustache. “Not me,” he said, holding out his hand. “Thanks for everything.”

Joanna shook hands with him, then walked as far as the door, where she stopped, pausing with one hand on the lever. From a law-enforcement standpoint what she had done made no sense. On a personal level she was incapable of doing anything else.

“You’re welcome,” she told him. “And good luck wit Burton. He’s a good man.”

Once back in the Blazer, Joanna radioed the department and asked to be patched through to Dick Voland. “I’ve just from the hospital,” she told him.

“You went to see Morgan?”

“That’s right,” Joanna said. “And I talked to Deputy Howell, too. She’s due to get off at three. Do you have an officer scheduled to relieve her?”