J. Jance - Skeleton Canyon

“DNH?” Joanna asked.

“Do not hire, ”Barbara Calderone explained. “In this business, before we hire someone, we run his or her name, Social Security number, and date of birth through the computer just to be sure we’re not rehiring someone who’s already created some kind of difficulty for us, which this Katherine Ross certainly must have done. I have to say, this is one of the oldest DNH designations I’ve ever seen. Most of the time, records that n up that way are for people who’ve developed inappropriate relationships with their patients. Or else ones who have developed difficulties with prescription medications-particularly other people’s prescription medications,” she added meaningfully. “But then, I suppose you know all about that.”

“Right,” Joanna responded. She was surprised that she had made it this far with Barbara Calderone without some demand as to Joanna’s legal right to make such inquiries. Still, she wasn’t about to turn down the information.

“Could you connect me with the legal department, then?”

“Sure,” Barbara Calderone replied. “Hold on. I’ll transfer you.”

The man Joanna spoke to there, a Mr. Armando Kentera, wasn’t nearly as loquacious as Barbara Calderone had been. “We do have a file on Ms. Ross,” he conceded, “but, without a properly documented court order, that’s all I can tell you. We’re dealing with privacy issues here, Sheriff Brady. I can’t give out any further information than that.”

From the tone of Mr. Kentera’s voice, Joanna knew there was no sense arguing. Thanking him, she ended the call and then dialed the Copper Queen Hospital, asking to be put through to Ignacio Ybarra. He answered after the second ring.

“This is Sheriff Brady,” Joanna told him. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he answered. “It’s nothing serious. Dr. Lee says I just got overheated. They’re letting me out. One of my cousins is coming to pick me up. Detective Carbajal wanted to take me up to the Peloncillos this afternoon to look at the campsite. I tried to get back to him, but the office said he had been called away to something else.”

“That’s right,” Joanna said.

“Tell him if he wants to go tomorrow, he should give me a call.”

“Right,” Joanna said. “I will. Tomorrow will probably be plenty of time, but in the meantime, Ignacio, I could use your help with something else.”

“What?”

“It’s about Bree’s journals.”

“What about them?”

“I read the final entry in one of them,” Joanna said. “The one volume we were able to find. The words were ‘My mother is a liar.’ Do you know anything about that?”

“I guess so. Her mother was always leaving home. About twice a year she’d go away for two weeks or so, sometimes even longer. She told Bree she was doing some kind of mission work, but Bree found out that wasn’t true.”

“You mean Katherine wasn’t off doing medical mission work when she told Brianna that’s what she was doing?”

“Right.”

“Where was she, then?”

“I don’t know,” Ignacio replied. “If Bree ever found out, she never told me.”

Joanna recognized the wary reluctance in Ignacio’s voice. “She did find out something, though, didn’t she?” Joanna prodded. “What?”

“That her mother couldn’t have gone off on any medical missions. She wasn’t a nurse anymore. She didn’t have a license.” “Thank you, Ignacio,” Joanna told him. “That’s all I need to know.”

Minutes after talking to Ignacio Ybarra, Joanna had Kristin Marsten fax an official inquiry to the Arizona State Department of Licensing. The reply returned with an alacrity that Joanna found astonishing. Katherine V. Ross had lost her right to be a nurse at the request of her former employer-Good Samaritan Hospital. Her license had been permanently revoked.

She had been implicated in the wrongful death of a patient-one Ricardo Montano Diaz-who had died as a result of an accidental overdose of medication. The hospital had settled the resultant legal suit by making a sizable monetary payment to the dead man’s family. There was no mention of criminal charges being brought against the nurse. However, as her part of the settlement with the Diaz family, she had agreed to give up the practice of nursing. Just to make sure, however, the hospital had gone to the extraordinary measure of making sure her license was revoked.

Having gleaned that much information from the first page of the multipage fax, Joanna almost put it aside without glancing at any of the subsequent pages. Halfway down the second page, though, the words dust storm leaped off the page.

Mr. Diaz, it turned out, had been critically burned in a fiery, dust storm-related accident on Interstate 10 when the loaded semi he was driving had plowed into another vehicle, trapping and killing a woman and two children. David O’Brien’s first wife and his first two children.

Outside her window, a long fork of lightning streaked across the darkening sky, followed immediately by the crack and rumble of nearby thunder. Joanna barely noticed. She turned loose the pages of the fax and let them flutter onto her desk.

“My mother is a liar,” she said to herself. And probably much worse besides.

The words wrongful death could conceal a multitude of everything from involuntary manslaughter to aggravated first-degree murder. How had this death happened? Joanna wondered. And who was ultimately responsible?

The hospital had paid the claim, or at least the hospital insurer had. Katherine O’Brien, nee Ross, had lost her nursing license as a result of what had happened, so presumably she had been held primarily accountable. Had she acted alone? What about David O’Brien, her future husband, who most likely had been a patient in the same hospital at the time of Mr. Diaz’s death?

While Joanna stared off into space, her mind kept posing questions. What if, after all these years, while trying to figure out where to send her mother’s birthday card, Brianna O’Brien had somehow stumbled across the same information? What if she had confronted her parents about the roles they had both played in the other man’s death?

With a storm in her heart that very nearly matched the one blowing up outside her window, Joanna sat at her desk and considered. To everyone who knew them, Katherine and David O’Brien appeared to be a fine, upstanding couple. Supposing Bree, having discovered bits and pieces of their darker past, had threatened to expose them. Would they have killed their own daughter to keep that secret from becoming public knowledge?

After all, if the simple disobedient gesture of wearing a forbidden pair of earrings had merited a slap in the face, how would David O’Brien have responded to something much more serious?

Sitting there thinking the unthinkable and wondering whether or not the O’Briens were capable of murdering their own daughter, Joanna was startled out of her terrible reverie a few minutes later when the intercom buzzed once more. “Detective Capenter is on the line,” Kristin announced.

“What gives?” Joanna asked, picking up the phone. “Are you bringing Nettleton in?”

“Sending him,” Carpenter replied. “Nettleton, that is. Detective Carbajal picked him up for transport just a while ago. We arrested him on suspicion of possession of stolen property.”

“Stolen property?” Joanna echoed.

“That’s right. We found a ‘92 Honda that was reported stolen two days ago in Tucson. It was hidden in a shed at the very back of his lot. It hadn’t quite made it through his on-prem chop shop. Once we get around to tracking VINs on some of the other pieces of vehicles we found out on Sam’s back forty, there may be more besides.”