Day Of The Dead Part 23

"In other words, we may find lots of material," Ralph said.

"That's right," Brandon returned. "I'm looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack, and first I need you to find the haystack."

"I'll get right on it," Ralph told him. "You do what you can to keep everyone out of harm's way. In the meantime, I'll see about getting you some help. Once we're set, I'll be back in touch."

"Thanks," Brandon said. "I appreciate it."

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Brian was within minutes of heading out to Kino Hospital for the autopsy when Homicide Captain Julio Hernandez stopped by his desk. "What's up?" Brian asked. within minutes of heading out to Kino Hospital for the autopsy when Homicide Captain Julio Hernandez stopped by his desk. "What's up?" Brian asked.

"The Big Guy wants to see you."

The Big Guy was none other than Sheriff William Forsythe. In all his years with the Pima County Sheriff's Department, Detective Brian Fellows had never before been summoned for a personal audience with the top gun. He blinked in surprise.

"Sheriff Forsythe wants to see me?" Brian asked stupidly.

Hernandez nodded. "ASAP."

Feeling like a grade school student being sent to the princ.i.p.al's office, Brian made his way to the administrative wing of the building where, after giving his name to a receptionist, he was nodded into Bill Forsythe's s.p.a.cious office. The sheriff was on the phone. Frowning, he motioned for Brian to have a chair.

"Sure," the sheriff said into the phone. "Of course. I know just what you mean, and I'll take care of it. Don't worry about a thing."

Forsythe put down the phone and then glowered across his desk at Brian. "Thanks for coming, Detective Fellows," he said. "I was just looking over the paperwork from yesterday, and I came across your interview with Erik LaGrange."

"Is there a problem?" Brian asked.

"I'll say there's a problem," Forsythe growled. "Do you know who LaGrange works for?"

"Yes," Brian answered. "Medicos for Mexico. It says so right there in the report."

"And Medicos for Mexico is run by...?"

Brian bristled at the condescending, pop-quiz nature of Forsythe's dressing-down, but he tried not to let it show. "Dr. Lawrence and Gayle Stryker," he answered carefully.

"Do you have any idea how influential these people are in this community?" Forsythe demanded. "You don't drag people like them through a homicide investigation just for the h.e.l.l of it."

"Gayle Stryker was having an affair with the guy who's our prime suspect," Brian interjected. "He claims she's the only one who can give us an accounting of where he was and what he was doing the night before the murder."

Forsythe pounced on Brian's words. "Yes," he said. "The night before, night before, but not the but not the day of day of the murder. I've looked at the preliminary ME report. Fran Daly estimates time of death as sometime Sat.u.r.day morning. LaGrange told you himself that the woman left his house the previous evening. That means, Detective Fellows, that Mrs. Stryker's being with LaGrange on Friday night has nothing whatsoever to do with whether or not the dirtbag has an alibi." the murder. I've looked at the preliminary ME report. Fran Daly estimates time of death as sometime Sat.u.r.day morning. LaGrange told you himself that the woman left his house the previous evening. That means, Detective Fellows, that Mrs. Stryker's being with LaGrange on Friday night has nothing whatsoever to do with whether or not the dirtbag has an alibi."

"But-"

"No buts, mister," Forsythe interrupted. "I'm giving you the word, and I'm giving you an order. Back off! If you even so much as call Gayle Stryker and ask her a single question, I'll have your ears and your badge. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," Forsythe grumbled irritably. "Now get going."

Twenty-Three.

The dead baby was so small that they could not place her kneeling as the Desert People place their dead. So they laid the little girl on her bright blankets and very carefully covered her with branches of shegoi- shegoi-creosote bush and kui- kui-mesquite. Then they picked up the big rocks.

By then the mother could not see. She was looking at the sun. She did not want to be a weak Indian, but she could not watch as they threw the rocks on the little mound of brush. She turned and started down the mountain toward the village. She walked fast and stumbled often.

When the woman reached her house, the first thing she saw was one of the cradles which she had made for her baby. The cradle was swinging from the branches of a mesquite tree. For this nuhkuth nuhkuth she had used a brown blanket. She s.n.a.t.c.hed the cradle down. She folded the blanket and pressed it against that thing inside her which hurt so much. Then she went away from the house because she did not want to be there when the others came back. she had used a brown blanket. She s.n.a.t.c.hed the cradle down. She folded the blanket and pressed it against that thing inside her which hurt so much. Then she went away from the house because she did not want to be there when the others came back.

The trail led down to the water among the cottonwoods. The woman could not see where she was going, but she did not care.

There were many trees down by the water, but most of the leaves had come off because summer was gone. And it was almost dark because Tash- Tash-the sun-had already set.

The woman was still holding the brown cradle blanket close against her breast when she seemed to hear a baby's weak voice. She looked and just beyond the water she saw a tiny brown cradle swinging from the low branches of a tree.

Brian Fellows arrived at the ME's office still smarting from his encounter with Sheriff Forsythe. By the time he got there, the victim's fingerprints had already been taken and forwarded to the lab, but even with that out of the way, the rest of the autopsy seemed to take forever. Dr. Daly's work was thorough and unhurried. One by one she noted the numerous individual wounds-evidence of long-term physical and s.e.xual abuse that had resulted in visible damage as well as internal bleeding and scarring. at the ME's office still smarting from his encounter with Sheriff Forsythe. By the time he got there, the victim's fingerprints had already been taken and forwarded to the lab, but even with that out of the way, the rest of the autopsy seemed to take forever. Dr. Daly's work was thorough and unhurried. One by one she noted the numerous individual wounds-evidence of long-term physical and s.e.xual abuse that had resulted in visible damage as well as internal bleeding and scarring.

"This isn't something that went on for a day or two and then stopped," the ME said. "The extent of the scabbing and scarring would be consistent with weeks or maybe even months of torture. You're dealing with a monster here, Mr. Fellows, a real sicko. If I were you, I'd get him off the streets p.r.o.nto."

To Brian's way of thinking, "sicko" hardly covered it, especially if any of those other cases turned out to be related. "I already figured that out," he said. "What about defensive wounds?"

"Didn't find any," Dr. Daly returned. "See that?" She pointed to a still-visible indentation on what remained of one pathetically thin wrist.

Brian nodded.

"Chafing like that would be consistent with her being bound or chained for long periods of time," Dr. Daly explained. "I'd say we're finding no defensive wounds because she wasn't able to defend herself."

"Are you saying she was alive when the final a.s.sault began?"

Fran Daly nodded grimly. "Hopefully not for long," she said.

Two hours later, Brian left and went straight back to his office, where he discovered PeeWee was among the missing. Tackling the pile of sorted files, Brian hit the phone and began contacting the various agencies involved, requesting complete autopsy reports on each of the victims. Brian wasn't at all surprised to find nothing in his in-box from Jimmy Detloff. Before he could make an end-run call to Deborah Howard, however, PeeWee burst into their shared cubicle. "How'd it go?" he asked.

"Mixed bag," Brian answered. "Forsythe b.i.t.c.hed me out personally and told me we should lay off the Strykers. His contention is that the time of death makes Gayle Stryker's involvement with LaGrange beside the point. Plus, they're pillars of the community."

"And the autopsy?" PeeWee asked.

Brian sighed. "You lucked out big-time. Dodging it was the right thing to do. That poor kid went through h.e.l.l before she died, and h.e.l.l lasted for a very long time. The more I think about LaGrange, the less I think he's capable of doing what was done to her. He strikes me as too much of a wimp."

"Maybe you're right, but what about that matching fingerprint?" PeeWee returned. "The one from his house that AFIS connected to the Yuma County case?"

"What if LaGrange didn't do it, but knows about it and knows who did?" Brian asked.

PeeWee thought about that. "If it was me and knowing the kind of nutcase the killer is, I'd be scared to death-afraid the killer would turn on me next."

"Bingo," Brian returned.

"Want to go talk to him again?"

"Not right this minute," Brian said. "We'll let him stew in his own juices awhile longer. When we do get around to him, he'll be even more up for talking than he was yesterday."

Donna, the Homicide Unit's head clerk, tapped on their cubicle wall. "Mail call," she announced, handing over a large interoffice envelope. "Faxes, actually. They came in a few minutes ago, all of them labeled 'urgent.' "

"From Jimmy Detloff?" Brian asked.

"No," Donna said. "They're from someone named Deborah Howard. Is she a detective over there in Yuma County?"

"Deborah Howard isn't a detective," Brian replied, "but she probably ought to be."

Erik LaGrange lay on his cot and breathed the fetid air while time slowed to a standstill. After two nights of virtually no sleep, he had finally dropped off on Sunday night despite the steady din from the other cells and the disturbing presence of lights that dimmed but never went out completely. on his cot and breathed the fetid air while time slowed to a standstill. After two nights of virtually no sleep, he had finally dropped off on Sunday night despite the steady din from the other cells and the disturbing presence of lights that dimmed but never went out completely.

Sometime toward morning, though, he had been awakened by a terrible groaning coming at him from somewhere down the barred corridor. The moaning rose and fell, with no particular message of either pain or sorrow-a steady keening wail of hopelessness. Whatever was wrong with that person-mental or physical-there was no fixing it, just as there was no fixing what was happening to Erik.

He understood now that he was lost. Despite his earnest prayers, no one-not Gayle and certainly not G.o.d-would come to his rescue. Erik had done nothing wrong, but whoever was after him had convinced the cops he was guilty of murder, and those two hotshot detectives wouldn't rest until they'd nailed him for it.

Sat.u.r.day morning he'd been worried about losing his job. On Monday he kept trying to get his mind around the fact that he would probably lose his freedom-maybe even his life.

When a guard showed up and unlocked Erik's cell in the early afternoon, his spirits soared. "Are they letting me out?" he asked.

The guard's hatchet-nosed face broke into a smile that revealed more than one missing tooth. "Sure, buddy," he said, applying a pair of handcuffs. "You'll be out in no time."

"Really. Will they give me back my clothes?"

The guard's jack-o'-lantern grin cracked into a hoot of laughter. "That's a good one."

He led Erik as far as the barred entrance at the far end of the cell-lined corridor. After he pushed a keypad, the door was unlocked by an invisible hand. As they walked to the far end of an empty corridor, the guard spoke into his radio. "Hey, Conrad. Get this. Our guy thinks he's got one of those Get-out-of-jail-free cards. Wants to know if we're going to give him back his clothes."

The unseen recipient of this information laughed, too. Meanwhile, the guard turned serious. "It's a bail hearing," he explained. "Those are pretty much come-as-you-are."

When Erik was led into the courtroom, Earl Coulter, wearing the same awful tie, appeared at his side. The proceedings were so amazingly short that Earl didn't have time to fall asleep. In a matter of minutes a judge had agreed with the prosecutor's claim that there was ample evidence that Erik LaGrange should be bound over for trial. When asked how he pleaded, Erik had to be nudged in the ribs before he choked out, "Not guilty." There was never a question of bail.

As Erik waited with the other prisoners to be returned to his cell block, he looked at them. Studying their faces, tattoos, and surly expressions, he tried to understand how it was that he was now one of them. Whoever they were, whatever they had done, these men, and others just like them or worse, were likely to be Erik's companions for the rest of his life.

With that realization, a black pall of despair engulfed him. He saw no way out.

Delia Ortiz had barely slept all night. She'd been on her feet so much the previous day that her back was killing her. When she finally did sleep, she dreamed about the baby. It was always the same. The baby was born. She knew he was alive because she'd heard him cry, but when she asked the nurse to show him to her and let her hold him, the woman shook her head. "No," she said, speaking in the style of the Tohono O'odham, "not right now. After." barely slept all night. She'd been on her feet so much the previous day that her back was killing her. When she finally did sleep, she dreamed about the baby. It was always the same. The baby was born. She knew he was alive because she'd heard him cry, but when she asked the nurse to show him to her and let her hold him, the woman shook her head. "No," she said, speaking in the style of the Tohono O'odham, "not right now. After."

Every time Delia dozed off, the dream reappeared. Each version was slightly different. Sometimes Fat Crack and Wanda were in the room. Sometimes Aunt Julia was there, although Aunt Julia had been dead now for two years. Sometimes only she and Leo were there with the doctors and nurses, but the basic part of the story was always the same. Delia would ask for the baby, only to be told no, she couldn't have him. Each time the dream reached that point, she would awaken, panting for breath and with her heart pounding in her throat.

It was almost sunrise when Delia finally drifted into a deep, dreamless slumber. She was so sound asleep, she didn't notice when Leo crept out of bed. Planning to stop by the office on her way to Wanda's house, she had set the alarm for seven, but when she finally awakened, it was nearly eleven. Leo had turned off her alarm. At first Delia was annoyed with Leo for letting her sleep, but when she discovered how much her back still hurt, she decided he was probably right. She had needed the rest far more than she needed to stop by her office.

She lay in the room that had once belonged to Aunt Julia and thought about how her friends from D.C. would laugh if they saw her in this tiny house. In yuppie D.C., Aunt Julia's place would have been considered less than a hovel. But coming from Great-aunt Julia, the adobe-walled house was an inheritance Delia treasured.

The baby was disturbingly still, and Delia began to worry. Maybe the dream was right. Maybe this baby, too, had perished in her womb. Then, after several anxious minutes, he awoke from his nap and landed a solid kick in Delia's ribs. Relieved, she rolled herself up onto the edge of the bed and looked down at her bare feet. Her ankles were still swollen, but not as badly as last night. She'd have to remember to take Leo's advice and stay off her feet as much as possible.

She took her time getting dressed. At this late stage of pregnancy, Delia didn't have much choice when it came to maternity clothing. She had to settle for the stuffy, too-warm maroon dress that had been fine during the winter but was bound to be too hot this afternoon and tonight at the feast house at Ban Thak, Ban Thak, but at least, for the graveside part of the services, Delia would be seated next to Wanda in one of the chairs under the canopy. By then she'd be ready for shade and a chair. but at least, for the graveside part of the services, Delia would be seated next to Wanda in one of the chairs under the canopy. By then she'd be ready for shade and a chair.

It was almost noon when she drove into the Ortiz compound and spotted a flashy bright red convertible parked next to her mother-in-law's door. Delia knew at once whose it was. Leo had spent months reconditioning Diana Ladd's stupid Buick.

"Great," Delia muttered to herself. "I should have known she'd be here first."

Except it turned out Diana wasn't there after all. Lani was the one who answered the door.

"I'm so sorry," Lani said when she saw Delia. It wasn't clear if the girl was saying she was sorry Fat Crack was dead, or if she was apologizing for something else. And it didn't matter.

"Yes," Delia said, forcing herself to be civil. "It's too bad, isn't it."

Coming home to the house in Gates Pa.s.s about noon, Brandon noticed at once that Diana's Invicta convertible was missing from the garage. He was struck with a momentary stab of fear. If Diana and Lani weren't home, where were they? Inside, though, he found Diana safely tucked away in the office with her nose buried in her computer. Damsel lay at her feet. to the house in Gates Pa.s.s about noon, Brandon noticed at once that Diana's Invicta convertible was missing from the garage. He was struck with a momentary stab of fear. If Diana and Lani weren't home, where were they? Inside, though, he found Diana safely tucked away in the office with her nose buried in her computer. Damsel lay at her feet.

"Where's Lani?" Brandon asked.

"On her way to Sells," Diana answered. "She wanted to spend some time with Wanda before the funeral starts, and she's delivering our flowers in person."

Diana's blase answer was totally at odds with Brandon's gutroiling concerns. It set his teeth on edge. "You let her take the Invicta?" he objected.

The perfectly reconditioned 1960 Buick Invicta, a bright Tampico Red convertible with its powerful engine, was Diana's special baby. She'd bought it from the widow of the original owner, who'd unloaded it at a charity auction. After paying far too much for what was little more than a wrecked hulk, she'd had the sorry spiderweb-laden husk of a convertible trucked back to Arizona from San Diego and delivered to the Ortiz brothers' garage at Sells. Leo, who had spent a lifetime keeping decrepit old cars and trucks limping along, had been overjoyed at the prospect of bringing a once-splashy cla.s.sic back to pristine condition. He'd even hired an old upholsterer in Nogales, Sonora, who, for a price, had replicated the Invicta's signature red-and-white Cordaveen imitation-leather interior.

Once Leo had delivered her reconditioned prize into Diana's waiting hands, she seldom let anyone else drive it-Brandon included. When she went into town to run errands, she'd slap on a scarf and take off, turning heads wherever she went. Brandon was astonished that Diana had turned Lani loose with that 325-horse-power engine. And to drive it to the reservation? That defied belief.

"She tried starting the Camry," Diana explained. "It wouldn't turn over. She was going to jump it, but I told her not to bother. We're taking the Suburban, right?"

"She'd better not wreck the d.a.m.ned thing," Brandon grunted. It was easier for him to complain about the Buick than it was to bring up what was really bothering him-Larry Stryker.

Diana laughed his grousing aside. "Come on," she said. "Don't be paranoid. She's only ever wrecked one car."

"That may be true," Brandon agreed, "but the girl was born with a lead foot, and that 401-cubic-inch engine was made to fly."

In that moment they both thought back to a night several years earlier when Lani, a few days past her eighteenth birthday, had totaled her Toyota pickup. Returning from visiting a friend near Three Points, she had lost control of the vehicle on a tight curve at the top of Gates Pa.s.s. Miraculously, even though her vehicle had sailed off a cliff, it had landed upright and stayed there.