J. Jance - Day of the Dead

Alvin Miller wasn’t a great one for using proper titles, and Brian recognized his voice. “What’s up?”

“AFIS just got a hit on one of the prints from yesterday’s crime scene. I can fax it up to you or-”

“Hold on,” Brian said. “I’ll be right there.”

He wasn’t right there. The elevator took forever. “What have you got?” he asked as soon as Sally Carmichael unlocked the lab door for him to enter. “Is it the victim? Do we have a name?”

“Slow down,” Alvin said. “One thing at a time. I’ve requested detailed information on the case in question. It should arrive in the next several minutes. AFIS only sends out an abbreviated version, but from what I’ve learned so far, the matching print was a single one found on the inside of a garbage bag containing dismembered human remains. It was found three years ago near a rest area along Interstate 8 on the far side of Gila Bend, halfway to the California border.”

“Human remains?” Brian repeated. “What kind of human remains?”

“An unidentified female, thirteen to fifteen years of age.”

“The case is still open?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you saying it’s possible the victim here is actually the perpetrator in that other case?”

“I doubt that,” Miller said. “I think it’s more likely that you’ve stumbled into a serial homicide case. LaGrange may be involved, but I’m guessing so is somebody else. If I were you, I’d look for other cases with the same MO.”

So Brian did just that. He went back up to his cubicle and logged on to the VICAP system. The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, the brainchild of longtime L.A. homicide detective Pierce Brooks, was created back in the seventies, when the only way of finding similar crimes and perpetrators was to pore through mountains of newspaper files. Computers changed all that.

He keyed in the few details he knew: female victim, twelve to twenty years old, dismembered body. A few moments later, as he scrolled through the results of his search, what chilled him was the number of unsolved crimes that matched those criteria-forty-one in all, stretching through more than three decades. At the very end of the list, the earliest case in the database leaped out at him-Roseanne Orozco.

That was the name Brandon Walker had mentioned that morning as they dug Fat Crack’s grave, the victim he had called the Girl in the Box. The coincidence was too much to ignore. It was highly unlikely that Erik LaGrange had already been a serial killer as a five-year-old. Still, Brian’s instincts told him there had to be a connection. To find it, he needed information.

The Yuma County Sheriff’s Department had been the investigating agency in the crime Alvin Miller had uncovered. Brian put in a request for information on that case, asking that it be faxed to him. He had already asked for Roseanne Orozco’s file, but a weekend request for a paper file on a thirty-year-old case had yet to bubble to the top. Besides, since the homicide had occurred on the reservation, it seemed likely that much of the information on that case might still be located at the Law and Order office out in Sells.

He considered calling Brandon at home to ask if he remembered anything in particular about the case, but he thought better of it. Even though Brandon’s involuntary exit from office was years in the past, Brian knew that involving the former sheriff in a current investigation was bound to have unpleasant repercussions for everyone concerned, most especially for Brian Fellows.

Brandon picked Diana up from the Ortiz place. As they drove home, she leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. “Tired?” he asked.

“I’m not used to doing that much physical labor,” she said. “If there isn’t enough food to go around at the feast tomorrow, it won’t be for lack of trying. If I ever look at another pile of masa harina or masa trigo, it’ll be too soon. How about you? You were gone a long time.”

He told her then about the situation with Emma Orozco and about how all record of Roseanne’s stay in the hospital had somehow been misplaced or deleted. “Isn’t that about when the husband of that teacher friend of yours was working on the reservation?”

“Larry Stryker?” Diana asked.

“Yeah. The guy who runs those free clinics down in Mexico.”

“You mean Larry Stryker? Medicos for Mexico.”

“Right. Maybe I should talk to him about this.”

“About Roseanne Orozco? It happened more than thirty years ago, Brandon. She went in for an appendectomy. I doubt he’ll remember the first thing about her.”

“Roseanne happened to be an appendectomy patient who was murdered four months after undergoing surgery,” Brandon replied. “The way I remember things, there weren’t that many murderers in Pima County back then, let alone out on the reservation.”

“Suit yourself,” Diana said. “Their home number may be unlisted, but it’s in my database.”

“Good,” he said. “That would be a big help.”

Diana sighed and lapsed into silence. “What’s wrong?” he asked several miles later. “I can smell the smoke.”

“You’re sure that’s all it is?”

“All what is?”

“Your sudden interest in Larry Stryker. It’s not because-well, you know.”

“Because he and Gayle backed Bill Forsythe’s election campaign?”

“Yes.”

“Believe me,” Brandon said, “if I thought Bill Forsythe himself could help me find Roseanne Orozco’s killer, I’d be on my way to talk to him right this minute.”

“Oh,” Diana said. She sounded relieved.

When they got home, Lani was there. So were Davy and Candace and Tyler. It ended up being a hectic homecoming. The family gathering they had planned but canceled after Fat Crack’s death ended up taking place after all. Davy and Brandon went off together to the Albertsons on Silverbell and Speedway Boulevard to pick up steaks and salad makings.

“I called to see if Kath and Brian could make it after all,” Diana told Brandon a while later as he seasoned steaks at the kitchen counter. “Brian’s still at work, so Kath took a pass.”

“Too bad,” Brandon said. “I always enjoy having everybody around.”

Just then Tyler came streaking into the kitchen, hot on Damsel’s trail. “Maybe you should take her outside while you grill the steaks,” Diana suggested. “I wouldn’t want her to hurt him.”

“It looks like it’s the other way around,” Brandon muttered under his breath. “Come on, girl,” he said to the dog. “Let’s go outside and find you a little peace and quiet.”

Taking the platter of uncooked steaks, Brandon retreated to the backyard with Damsel, where he turned on the grill. While waiting for it to heat up, Brandon sat down on one of the patio chairs. Damsel flopped down beside him.

“Tyler’s a noisy little brat, isn’t he?” Brandon asked.

Damsel replied by thumping her tail on the flagstone pavers.

“And you’re a good dog. All you were trying to do was get out of his way.”

A door opened on the far end of the patio. “Dad?” Lani said.

“Yup.”

“Who are you talking to?”

“Damsel,” Brandon replied sheepishly. Being caught talking to a dog seemed to him to be right up there next to senile. “We’re out here commiserating.”

“How come Tyler’s so hyper?” Lani exclaimed.

“Tyler?” Brandon asked innocently. “ ‘Hyper’? That may be your opinion, Damsel’s opinion, and my opinion, but don’t mention a word of it to your mother. She thinks the little rascal walks on water.”

Gracefully, Lani folded her long slender legs. She sat down cross-legged next to Damsel and cradled the dog’s head in her lap. This first quiet moment with his daughter found Brandon at a loss for words. It was a cool, clear night-downright chilly, in fact. Brandon had been sitting there thinking about going back inside for a sweater. Lani, on the other hand, wore a T-shirt and shorts. Her attire gave him a chance to exercise his fatherly prerogatives.