J. Jance - Rattlesnake Crossing

"Is there anyone else around here who might have seen this friend or who might be able to tell us more about him?" Joanna asked. "We need to know who he is and where he comes from."

"Beats me," Sarah Holcomb said. "I reckon the only way to do that is go up and down the road askin' everybody you meet." She smiled brightly. "But that's what detectives get paid to do, ain't it?"

"Yes," Joanna agreed. "It certainly is."

The conversation might have drifted on indefinitely if Joanna's cell phone hadn't chosen that moment to crow its distinctive ring from deep in the bowels of her purse.

"My land!" Sarah proclaimed when Joanna extracted the handset and answered it. "A phone in a purse! What will they think of next!"

"Sheriff Brady?" Tica Romero said urgently.

"Yes. What is it?"

"We've got a problem. A Southwest Gas guy was out checking the natural gas pipeline along the San Pedro, some-where between the bridge and Pomerene proper. He just called in to say he found a car-a wrecked brown-and-orange VW bus. He thinks there's a body inside, but since the van’s hanging half on and half off the riverbank, we won't be able lo get to it without a wrecker."

"Damn!" Joanna exclaimed. "Has anybody called Ruben Ramos?"

"Yes, ma'am. He's on his way."

"So am I," Joanna said. "What about Dr. Daly at the medical examiner's office up in Tucson?" she added. "Has anybody called her?"

"Chief Deputy Voland did that already. She's coming, too." Tica paused. "When is Doc Winfield due back?"

"Monday. Which may be fine for some people-like my mother, for instance-but it's not nearly soon enough for me."

Joanna ended the call and then turned back to Sarah Holcomb. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm going to have to go."

"I heard you say somethin' about callin' in the medical examiner. That means somebody else is dead, don't it?"

There wasn't much point in denying the obvious. "I'm afraid so."

"Who is it?" Sarah asked.

"We don't know yet, not for sure," Joanna replied. "And we can't release any kind of information until after we have a positive ID."

"You just go ahead and play coy if you want to," Sarah Holcomb returned, "but I've got a real bad feeling about all this. It's Frankie, isn't it?"

"Really, Mrs. Holcomb, I just can't say."

Sarah Holcomb, however, was undeterred. "And if he is the one," she continued, "I'm likely the very last person to see him alive. Which means, I suppose, there'll be another whole set of dumb questions. Right?"

"Maybe," Joanna said noncommittally while edging toward the door. "If that's the case, we'll be in touch."

"Well, if'n you do, get ‘hold of me in advance to set up an appointment," Sarah Holcomb admonished. "'That's the proper way to do things."

"Right," Joanna said, making her escape to the gate. "We'll definitely phone you in advance."

"And another thing, Sheriff Brady," Sarah called after her from the porch. "You do know what this country needs, don't you?"

With one hand on the relative safety of the Blazer's door, Joanna turned back. "No," she said. "What's that?"

"Another president like Richard Milhous Nixon," Sarah Holcomb replied staunchly. "Now, there was a man who believed in law and order." With that she and her cane disappeared into the house, slamming the door behind her.

Once the Blazer started, Joanna breathed a sigh of relief. Next time anybody has to talk to Sarah Holcomb, she told her-self, I'm sending in the reinforcements.

Back out on Pomerene Road, she came across the Southwest Gas guy in only a matter of minutes. He was standing on the shoulder of the road and waving both arms frantically to flag her down.

"I'm Sheriff Brady," Joanna told him, displaying her badge. "Is anybody else here yet?"

"Not so far. Name's Heck Tompkins. I'm a pipe inspector for Southwest Gas. With all the rain we've had the last few weeks, we try to go over the whole pipeline at least once a week, especially the parts of it that are so close to the river. That's where I was going when I saw the car-down to the river to check on the pipe. It's just over there."

Hobbled by her heels, Joanna limped across the rough terrain and over a low-lying hill until she was close enough to catch a glimpse of the dangling VW. One glance was enough to tell her that Tompkins' assessment was right. With the riverbank as eroded as it was in that spot, it was far too dangerous to try to get much closer to the vehicle than ten to fifteen feet away. But it was also possible to see the shadow of a figure slumped over the wheel on the driver's side.

Oddly enough, Joanna felt nothing but a sense of relief at seeing the body, a sense of closure. Whatever Frankie Ramos had done-whatever nightmares had driven him to commit his heinous crimes-he'd at least had the good sense to end it once and for all. It was over. Cochise County's first ever "spree" killer was out of commission. Joanna could hardly wait for morning to come so she'd be able to call Monty Brainard back in Washington, D.C., and tell him.

A tow truck dispatched from Benson was the next to arrive. The young driver was eager to get hooked up to the VW so he could tow it out and go on to his next call. "Sorry," Joanna told him, "this is a crime scene. You'll have to wait here until the medical examiner gives you the go-ahead."

"Says who?" the driver asked.

With an acne-covered face and close-set eyes, the tow-truck driver barely looked old enough or smart enough to drive. "I do," Joanna said, flashing her badge. "My name's Brady, Sheriff Joanna Brady."

"Oh," he said, blinking. "All right, then. I'll wait."

Chief Ruben Ramos' dusty Crown Victoria was the next vehicle to arrive on the scene. He jumped out of the driver's seat and was on his way across the hill toward the van before Joanna managed to head him off.

"This is a crime scene, Ruben. We have to wait for the medical examiner," she said, placing a restraining hand on his arm.

Ruben stopped and turned toward her. His face, glistening with sweat and tears, was wild with grief. "But what if Frankie isn't dead?" he demanded. "What if he needs help?"

“It's too late, Ruben. That car's been hire for a long time, hours most likely. Look at the tracks. The wind has all but obliterated them. And all the windows are rolled up. It's probably two hundred degrees inside that vehicle. Frankie may have been alive when he went over the edge, but he isn't now.”

Ruben Ramos' shoulders slumped. Shading his eyes with one hand, he stared at the VW for the better part of a minute, then turned and retreated to the road. There the group stood waiting in uncomfortable silence. To Joanna's surprise, the next arrival was none other than Dr. Fran Daly.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," the medical examiner said, climbing out of her van. "What have we got this time?"

For the next hour or so, a surprisingly agile Fran Daly dared the eroded riverbank to take crime-scene pictures. All the while pictures were being taken, all the while the tow truck was dragging the VW back onto solid ground, Joanna continued to hold tight to the fantasy that it was all over, that her "spree" killer was no more.

That theory began to fall apart as soon as the door to the van was opened wide enough to allow her to catch a glimpse of the person slumped behind the steering wheel. The plastic bag over the head and the belt fastened around the neck were easy enough to recognize. Still, they could have meant something else. They could have meant that Frankie Ramos had taken his own life.

But when Ruben Ramos asked that the bag be removed so he could make a positive ID, all hope for an end of things evaporated.

Once Fran Daly uncovered the bloody mess, Frankie's father uttered an awful groan and then simply crumpled to, the ground. Standing beside him, Joanna reached out and tried to break his fall. So did Heck Tompkins. Between the two of them, they probably helped some.