J.A. Jance: Dead Wrong

“It’s about one of my guys,” Ted said.

Knowing that a problem with one of Ted’s “guys” could run the gamut from something as serious as an inmate’s mother being on her deathbed to something as simple as a jail-yard feud over possession of the basketball, Joanna closed her briefcase and settled in for the duration. “Which one?” she asked.

“Oh, nobody here,” Ted said quickly. “Not one of the inmates. I’m sure it’s not anyone you know. Brad’s actually an associate of mine.”

“Brad?” Joanna asked.

Ted nodded. “Brad Evans,” he said. “Got sent up twenty-five to life in the late seventies for murdering his wife. I first met him when he got shipped down to Douglas to work on the dorms for the new Arizona State Prison Complex they were building down there. Over the years, he got saved and got himself squared away. Took complete responsibility for what happened to his wife. Never gave anybody any trouble. While he was still locked up, he started working toward his jail ministry certification. Once he got out, he asked to work in the Papago Unit down there. Considering his former problems with booze, we thought it would be a good fit. Or at least I thought it would be a good fit. Now I’m not so sure.”

Since Douglas was only thirty miles away from her office, Joanna knew a good deal about the prison complex located there. One of the three units, the Papago, was sometimes referred to as the Arizona State Prison Complex’s dry-out wing. In the mid-eighties the ASPC had decided to separate inmates with DUI offenses from other incarcerated felons. With that in mind, prison officials had negotiated the purchase of a failed Douglas-area motel that now housed over three hundred male prisoners in a space designed for no more than two hundred and fifty.

Four-plus years of being in charge of a jail had taught Joanna a whole lot more than she wanted to know about people involved on the wrong side of incarceration. In her experience, having an ex-con working with and counseling current inmates seemed like a bad idea. And although Ted’s programs did tend to produce good results, there were times when Joanna thought his ideas hopelessly naive. It didn’t surprise her to hear that one of Ted’s proteges had pulled some kind of boner, one that would likely reflect badly on a man who consistently put himself out on a limb for the prisoners he served.

“Poor Ted,” Joanna sympathized. “So now you’re discovering what I learned a long time ago-no good deed goes unpunished. What did he do?”

“He just took off,” Ted answered. “Everything was going fine, right up until yesterday, when he didn’t show up for his counseling sessions. When he didn’t turn up again today, his supervisor called him at home and got no answer. When somebody finally called me and let me know what was going on, I drove straight to his apartment down in Douglas to see if he was all right. He didn’t answer my knock. There were two unopened newspapers in the driveway, mail in the mailbox, and no car. Given Brad’s history with booze, I’m guessing he’s had a relapse and is back on the sauce. I was hoping maybe you could help me find him before things get any worse than they already are.”

Suddenly Joanna’s impatience with Ted Chapman melted away. She was no longer nearly so anxious for him to get to the point so she could head home. Ted’s “guy” happened to be just what her department was looking for-a released, long-term prison inmate with a history of alcohol abuse who had suddenly gone AWOL. Was it possible this Brad guy would turn out to be her department’s Border Road John Doe? Unfortunately, both the Double Cs had already left for the day.

“What’s his name again?” Joanna asked, pulling out a piece of paper and picking up a pen.

“I call him Brad,” Ted replied. “But his real name is Bradley- Bradley Evans.”

“How old is he?” she asked.

Ted shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. Fifty-something, I suppose.”

“And what does he look like?”

“Reddish-blond hair,” Ted answered. “Balding. A little pudgy around the middle.”

“Any tattoos?” Joanna asked.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Ted returned. “Why?”

Without answering, Joanna picked up the phone and speed-dialed George Winfield’s office number. “Are you still there?” she asked when the medical examiner answered.

“Not really,” he returned. “At least I’m not supposed to be. I’m actually standing with my keys in hand and one foot out the door.”

“Put down the keys and wait for me,” Joanna told him. “I can be there in a few minutes.”

“Why? What’s the big hurry?”

“I have someone here in my office. I think he can shed light on this morning’s case.”

“You’d better hurry, then,” George said. “It’s Friday, and your mother is expecting guests for dinner. If you make me late again, Ellie will have my ears.”

“Don’t worry,” Joanna said. “This won’t take long.” When she put down the phone, Ted Chapman was staring at her. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“I’m not sure, Ted,” Joanna said slowly, “but I’m afraid I may have some bad news for you. Early this morning a Border Patrol officer found an unidentified homicide victim out along Border Road. It sounds to me as though there’s a lot of similarity between him and your Mr. Evans. Reddish-blond hair. Fifty-something. Homemade tattoo on his upper left arm that says ‘One day at a time.”“

“You want me to see if I can identify him?” Ted asked.

Joanna nodded. “Yes, if you don’t mind. Identifying the victim would be a big help to our investigation. Without knowing who he is, we’re pretty much dead in the water.”

It took Ted a moment to come to grips with what Joanna had said. Finally he nodded. “Of course,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll be glad to.”

Ted sat quietly in the passenger seat of Joanna’s Crown Victoria as she drove the several miles from the Cochise County Justice Center, through town to Old Bisbee, and then up the winding curves of Tombstone Canyon to the failed low-cost mortuary George Winfield had converted into a state-of-the-art morgue.

On the way Joanna considered calling Ernie and Jaime at home to let them know what was up. In the end she decided against it. If Ted did manage to make a positive ID, there would be plenty of time to send out for reinforcements.

George was waiting in the doorway and looking pointedly at his watch when Joanna pulled in and parked under the covered portico.

“This is Ted Chapman,” Joanna announced once she and Ted were both out of the car. “He’s head of our jail ministry. One of his colleagues from the Arizona State Prison Complex down in Douglas has gone missing. I’m thinking perhaps…”

“Of course,” George said gravely, taking Ted Chapman by the arm. “Right this way.”

George led them into a velvet-lined room that, in the building’s mortuary days, had been a private family viewing room. As part of the county morgue it now served a grimmer but similar purpose. Joanna stood at Ted’s side while George went into the next room, retrieved the body, and then opened the curtain.

When he removed the sheet to reveal the dead man’s face, Ted swayed as though his knees were about to give way beneath him. Taking him by the elbow, Joanna eased him onto a nearby chair.

“It is him,” Ted whispered hoarsely. “It’s Brad.”

She turned back to signal George to shut the curtain, but he had already done so. She gave Ted a few minutes to regain his composure. “Thank you, Ted. Does Mr. Evans have any next of kin?”

“Probably,” Ted said. “But I have no idea who they are or how to contact them.”

“My detectives are going to need to talk to you as soon as possible,” Joanna told him. “Now that we have an ID, they’ll be able to start making progress on the case. If I call them back in, would you mind talking to them?”