J.A. Jance: Dead Wrong

“Do we have a cause of death?” Joanna asked.

Ernie nodded. “Blunt-force trauma to the head from a single blow. But the cause of death isn’t what makes this such an interesting case, Sheriff Brady. I’ve been in Homicide a long time, and I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Like what?” Joanna asked.

“All ten of the guy’s fingers have been whacked off,” Ernie said, letting his breath out slowly. “All ten of ‘em! And not with a knife, either. Whoever did it probably used kitchen shears or maybe garden pruning shears of some kind. The only good thing about it is at least the guy was dead when they did that part.”

Ernie’s chilling words washed across Joanna like a bucket of icy water. It was a mind-bending shock to move from the carefree atmosphere of the baby shower to a recitation of murder and mayhem in the space of less than an hour. For a moment the room was totally silent. Gathering herself, Joanna was the first to speak.

“What actually killed him, then, and when?”

“The doc says he’d been dead for a good twenty-four hours and maybe more before he was found, and that he was killed somewhere else and brought to the dump site much later. There are some signs of defensive wounds-bruising and that kind of thing-that would indicate some kind of struggle.”

“Any trace evidence from the perpetrator?”

“Doc Winthrop collected some hair and fiber from the body. I brought that and the bloody tarp back here to the lab. Dave is starting to go over it now-looking for prints, blood smears, and so forth. The bloodstains we saw on the tarp were due to leakage from the wounds to his fingers.”

“Any ID found on the body?” Joanna asked.

“None at all,” Ernie said. “Doc estimates John Doe to be in his mid- to late fifties. Lots of dental work, done on the cheap, that would help identify him if we end up having to use dental records. Other than that, the only distinguishing mark is a tattoo-a homegrown, do-it-yourself job-that says ‘One day at a time.”“

“What does removal of the fingers tell us?” Joanna asked.

“My guess would be that the victim’s prints must be in the system somewhere,” Jaime offered. “The killer is betting that if we don’t have fingerprints, we won’t be able to identify him.”

Joanna considered that suggestion. “So it’s possible we’re talking about a guy who has been in jail at least once at some time in the past, and he’s also been involved in AA.”

“Doesn’t narrow the field much,” Frank said. “Lots of ex-cons have issues with drugs and alcohol. The big problem with Alcoholics Anonymous is just that-they’re anonymous. We’re not going to get any help from them in making our ID.”

“But that’s exactly what we have to do-figure out who he is,” Joanna said. “Until we take that first step, there’s no way to trace his movements leading up to the homicide. Have we checked out missing-persons reports?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jaime Carbajal replied. “Already done. I’ve got MP info from Arizona, New Mexico, California, and Nevada. So far there’s nothing that’s even close.”

“What are the chances,” Joanna asked, “that we’re dealing with someone who was locked up for a long time? Maybe he decided to make trouble for someone-maybe someone who helped put him away-as soon as he got out. Let’s check and see if we have any recent parolees who have suddenly dropped off their probation officers’ radar.”

“Don’t expect me to work overtime on this one,” Ernie grumbled sourly.

Joanna studied her detective. Ernie had a tendency to be grumpy on occasion, but throughout the briefing his attitude had been one notch under surly.

“What do you mean, Detective Carpenter?” she asked. “Do you have a problem with this case?”

“Damn right I’ve got a problem with it!” Ernie growled. “We’ve got no crime scene. No suspects. So with nothing to go on, why the hell should we be out busting our balls to find out who knocked off some drunken ex-con?”

“I believe it’s called equal protection,” Joanna said evenly. “Just because someone’s been in prison doesn’t give someone else the right to murder them. Somebody killed this man and mutilated his body. It’s up to us to find out who did it and why.”

Recrossing his arms, Ernie shut his mouth and subsided into his chair. Joanna turned her attention to Jaime Carbajal. “Do you have any ideas?”

“Not right off. In addition to the missing-persons reports we should also keep an eye out for reports on any abandoned vehicles. The victim sure as hell didn’t drive himself out to Border Road. If he left his car somewhere or if someone else abandoned it for him, chances are it’s parked somewhere it doesn’t belong. Eventually someone will get tired of seeing it, pick up a phone, and report it.”

“It’s a thought,” Joanna said, “but it could take days for someone to turn it in, especially with the weekend coming up.”

Jaime shrugged. “Best I could do,” he said.

Joanna turned to Frank. “Any bright ideas from you?”

“Nothing so far,” he said.

“Well, then,” Joanna said. “You guys do what you can,” she said to Ernie and Jaime. “And let me know right away if anything turns up.”

Once the door had closed behind the detectives, Joanna turned to Frank. “What got into Ernie? I don’t ever remember seeing him act quite like that.”

“He did seem out of sorts,” Frank conceded. “I know he’s taken a couple of sick days in the last couple of weeks, but I don’t know anything more about it than that. I’ll see if I can find out what gives.”

Joanna and Frank then returned to the usual day-to-day business of administering the 120-person department. Because of a billing snafu, Mainstay Foods, the jail’s major food vendor, was refusing to make further deliveries until the problem was solved. There were scheduling questions, sick leave and vacation issues, and all the difficulties that went along with trying to cover too many shifts and too many jobs without enough personnel to go around.

“I’m almost as tired of being shorthanded as I am of being pregnant,” Joanna observed at last as Frank closed his notebook.

Her chief deputy laughed. “You’ve got me there,” he said. “I wouldn’t have a clue what being pregnant feels like, but I know all about being constantly shorthanded. It’s hell.”

When the briefing was over, Joanna returned to her office to find that a whole new stack of mail had been added onto the top of the one she had managed to whittle down during the morning. By five in the afternoon she had pretty well finished. She was loading up her briefcase to go home when Ted Chapman, the executive director of the Cochise County Jail Ministry, tapped on the doorjamb next to her open office door.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

Ted Chapman was a very nice guy, and Joanna genuinely liked him. His work with jail inmates went far beyond merely ministering to their souls. Single-handedly Ted had introduced and helped maintain ongoing literacy and GED programs inside the Cochise County Jail that made it possible for inmates to finish out their jail terms better educated than when they went in. As far as Joanna was concerned, however, Ted Chapman had one major failing-at times he could be incredibly long-winded. One of Ted’s so-called minutes could expand to fill up all available time, and since Joanna was chronically short on time, it was difficult for her to rein in her impatience.

Not only that, with Butch out of town, Joanna was only too conscious that Jenny was at home alone. At fourteen, Jenny was certainly old enough to spend time on her own. Still, with chores to do and animals to feed…

“Come on in,” Joanna said. “What’s up?”