J. Jance - Day of the Dead

“The case was never solved. The murdered girl’s mother-the baby’s grandmother-has asked an organization I’m affiliated with to see if we can find out what happened.”

“I’ve heard of that,” Fran said. “What’s it called-T. L. Something?”

“Right,” Brandon supplied. “TLC-The Last Chance. Emma Orozco, the grandmother, came to TLC for help. She also had the coffin exhumed and brought it to me.”

“In other words, this isn’t an official Pima County case,” Fran said.

“That’s right. It’s cold and not being actively investigated by anyone but me.”

“Given that, I doubt I could devote any time or people to this. Plus, if the tissue was embalmed, obtaining definitive results may not be possible. Besides, DNA testing is expensive.”

“A company in Washington State will do the actual testing,” Brandon interjected. “I’m asking you to attempt to collect a nonstandard tissue sample. If you’ll agree to try, I’ll have Genelex send you a collection kit.”

For a moment, Fran Daly sat with her fingers templed under her chin. Finally she made up her mind. “Where’s the coffin now?” she asked.

“Out front,” Brandon said. “In the back of my Suburban.”

Fran sighed. “Bring it around to the side door. I’ll have one of my assistants check it in.”

“Much appreciated. Should the collection kit be sent to your attention?”

Fran Daly nodded. “Yes, but we’ll only work on this as time permits. One thing for sure, though: If you’re looking to establish a chain of evidence…”

“How about we go for results first and worry about the chain of evidence later?” Brandon asked.

“You bet,” Fran replied with a smile. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re still the boss.”

J. A. Jance

Day of the Dead

Twenty-Two

Brian’s initial call to Yuma didn’t go well. It took hardly any time at all for him to figure out Lieutenant Jimmy Detloff of the Yuma County Sheriff’s Department was a jerk.

“That hacked-up UDA?” he returned when Brian inquired about the girl whose body had been found in a trash bag not far from a rest area on Interstate 8. “Why are you asking about her?” Detloff continued. “That case happened years ago.”

“We have reason to believe it’s happened again,” Brian returned. “AFIS got a hit. A fingerprint on a new case matches one from the garbage bag your victim was found in.”

“Oh,” Detloff said. “I remember that now. Our new little fingerprint gal was really proud of herself for finding it. We’d just gotten our AFIS computer up and running. She was all hot to trot to put that one print into the system. Didn’t do any good. Nothing came of it at the time.”

It has now, you creep, Brian thought. He said, “What did you come up with?”

“On that case?” Detloff said. “Not much.”

“You never identified any suspects?”

“Are you kidding? We never identified the victim, to say nothing of a suspect. Like I said, she was a UDA. They die like flies around here, especially in the summer, and who cares? If we tried to track down what happened to every damned wetback who ends up in the wrong place at the wrong time, we’d never get anything else done. End of story.”

A creep and a bigot! Brian thought. “Not quite the end,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate having a faxed copy of the file-including the autopsy results-as soon as you can send it to me. I have the AFIS summary, but I need the rest.”

Detloff sighed. “That’ll take time. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get around to it. I have other cases to deal with-current cases.”

“I’m sure you do,” Brian said. There was no sense pissing him off. “Whenever you get around to it will be fine.”

He gave Detloff the fax number, but as soon as the line was clear, he punched redial. When he reached the Yuma County Sheriff’s Department, he asked to speak to the fingerprint lab.

“Deborah Howard,” a woman answered.

“My name is Detective Brian Fellows with the Pima County Sheriff’s Department…”

“You wouldn’t happen to be calling about that AFIS hit, are you?” she interrupted.

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“That’s so cool. It was one of my first cases when I came to work here three years ago, and I was the one who found the print inside the bag. It was the first one I personally enhanced and entered in the system.”

“I was just talking to Lieutenant Detloff-”

“Oh, him,” Deborah said. She didn’t say anything derisive, but she didn’t have to. Her tone of voice said it all. “What’s up with him?”

“I asked him to fax me a copy of that homicide file,” Brian said carefully. “My guess is it’ll be a long time coming.”

“Right,” Deborah agreed. “Don’t hold your breath. Is there any way I can help?”

“Maybe so,” Brian said. “Other than the trash bag, was any other physical evidence found with the victim?”

“Hang on,” Deborah said. “Let me check.” A few minutes later when she came back on the line, she sounded excited. “I just checked with the evidence clerk. A bag of clothing was found near the body. Detloff is a complete ditz. None of the clothing was ever checked for prints.”

“Can you do that?”

“You’d better believe it,” Deborah Howard said. “If I find any, I’ll put them into AFIS right away. And if you’ll give me your numbers, Detective Fellows, I’ll call you with any updates. And if Lieutenant Detloff doesn’t deliver that report in a timely fashion, let me know. I may be nothing but Detloff’s ‘little fingerprint gal,’ but I have plenty of friends in other units in this department. Not going across desks and through channels doesn’t scare me. If Detloff doesn’t send you that report, I will.”

Brian Fellows was smiling when he hung up the phone for the second time. Yes, Detloff was a jackass who had managed to annoy a key member of his own department, leaving her terminally pissed. From where Brian was sitting, that was perfectly fine.

When Brandon Walker left the ME’s office, it was only mid-morning. He knew he and Diana would have to leave the house by one o’clock in order to be in Sells before the funeral, but there was enough time to squeeze in one more stop on his way home.

The Medicos for Mexico office was located on the north side of East Broadway in what had once been an auto dealership. An upscale resale furniture store had taken over the showroom space. Medicos’s suite of offices had been carved out by remodeling the service bays. Brandon parked near the front door and walked into the building.

The receptionist in the spacious lobby turned out to be a young blond woman with a spectacular figure, pouty lips, and no visible signs of body piercing.

“Can I help you?” she asked. Her cool appraising glance was one step short of hostile.

“My name’s Brandon Walker,” he told her. “Is Dr. Stryker in?”

Evidently the former sheriff’s name carried no ink here, either. In response she folded both arms across her chest-not a good sign. “Do you have an appointment?” she demanded.

“No,” Brandon admitted. “No, I don’t.”

“What’s this about?”

“It’s a private matter,” Brandon reassured her carefully. “Larry and I are longtime acquaintances. We’ve met occasionally, on a social basis. I was in the neighborhood this morning and thought I’d drop by. You might tell him I’m Diana Ladd’s husband.”

“One moment,” the receptionist replied skeptically. “I’ll see if he can meet with you.”

The Medicos lobby was accented with huge hunks of original modern art. The artists had probably found their inspiration somewhere in the interior of Mexico. The signatures scrawled in the lower corners hinted that the artists themselves probably hailed from south of the border as well.