Damage Control (28 page)

Doing her best to avoid both the glass and the bloodstained footprints, Joanna stepped into Martha Beasley’s old-fashioned kitchen. She stood there, next to an expanse of fern-patterned wallpaper and allowed the awful scene to sear itself into her soul.

A few feet into the room, Dan Sloan’s body lay sprawled in a horrifying pool of blood. He had been tall—well over six feet. His long lanky frame stretched from one end of the tiny kitchen almost to the other. His right sleeve was soaked in blood, and the back of his head lay tipped up at an odd angle against the broiler drawer of a vintage electric range, while the toes of his polished boots pointed toward the open door of the completely empty refrigerator.

That was what hit Joanna the hardest—the open refrigerator door. She was convinced that the fridge was where whatever drugs Larry Wolfe had used on Alfred Beasley had been concealed. The killer had come there tonight in hopes of destroying any remaining incriminating evidence. That was why Dan Sloan was dead. Larry Wolfe had been doing damage control.

Standing stock-still, Joanna forced herself to examine Dan’s body and catalog each gruesome detail. There were at least two wounds, one that had nearly severed the right arm. The other had torn through his abdomen just under Dan’s Kevlar vest. Blood spatter marred the shiny surface of Martha’s knotty-pine cabinets and dotted the garish wallpaper. A shockingly vivid pool of the copper-smelling stuff crept out from under Dan’s uniform
and spilled across the faded linoleum of Martha Beasley’s kitchen floor. Joanna knew how much blood there should be in a living human body. Seeing the size of the puddle confirmed for Joanna that she hadn’t told Sunny Sloan the truth—and rightfully so. Dan hadn’t died instantly, and he had suffered, too, lying there alone and helpless as his life’s blood oozed from his body.

The realization was almost enough to buckle Joanna’s knees. She reached out to catch her balance, but when she spotted blood spatter there, too, she somehow managed to pull herself back together.

This is how military commanders must feel,
she thought.
When they issue orders that send troops into an armed engagement, they know this can happen, will happen. People will die.

George Winfield appeared in the doorway at the far end of the kitchen. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I will be when we catch the son of a bitch who did this,” Joanna declared. “How long did all this take?”

“For him to die once he was shot?”

Joanna nodded.

“Ten, fifteen minutes or so. There’s no sign of any movement in his legs. He stayed exactly where he fell. That means we’ll probably find that the shot that killed him also severed his spinal column. With his right arm useless, he couldn’t turn himself over, much less crawl.”

“Why didn’t he call for help?”

Jaime Carbajal, appearing in the kitchen doorway, answered that one. “Maybe he tried to, but whoever did this turned on both the swamp cooler and the television. On the TV they turned the volume as loud as it would go. The two of them made enough racket that even if Dan had called for help, the neighbors wouldn’t
have heard him. And from the amount of blood loss, he was probably unconscious within a matter of minutes.”

“What a cold-blooded bastard!” Joanna exclaimed.

Jaime nodded. “I’ll say,” he agreed.

It surprised Joanna to realize that she felt no grief right then, only a cold and determined fury.

“Did you find a weapon?”

“His reserve Glock is still in his ankle holster,” Jaime said. “He never had a chance to draw it. His service pistol is still missing.”

There was a muffled gasp from the kitchen doorway. Joanna looked up to see Deb Howell standing there with one hand clasped to her mouth attempting to muffle a sob.

“It’s my fault,” Deb managed. “I should never have left Dan here on his own. I should have—” Unable to continue, she broke off. Jaime moved as if to comfort her, but Joanna beat him to it. Reaching up, she lay a consoling hand on her grieving detective’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault,” she countered.

Even though Joanna meant the words—for Deb if not for herself—they still rang hollow.

“But it is,” Deb responded. “I should have remembered how new he was and how little experience—”

“Dan Sloan was a trained police officer,” Joanna interrupted. “He knew he was on the lookout for a homicide suspect, didn’t he?”

Deb nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I told him.”

“In other words, he knew that if the guy showed up, he could be dangerous. It isn’t your fault that Deputy Sloan went in without calling for backup, Deb. He did that on his own.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” Joanna said firmly. “He knew better but he did it anyway. That’s why they call failure to call for backup ‘tombstone courage’—because officers who do it can die.”

She turned to Jaime. “And it’s not your fault, either,” she told him. “Understand? Dan wanted this job. He signed on to do it. And if we stand around blaming ourselves, who’s going to be left to go after Dan’s killer?”

Leadership 101,
Joanna thought.
Buck up the troops.

“So come on,” she added. “Let’s leave Doc Winfield and Casey to finish up here while the rest of us go do our jobs.”

They went back outside and time passed. Joanna wasn’t sure how much. It could have been minutes—or hours. Dave Hollicker had set up a pair of enormous highway construction lights next to the spot where Detective Sloan’s patrol car was still parked. On his hands and knees, he was doing a painstaking nighttime search of the surrounding area in hopes of locating any bit of trace evidence that didn’t quite fit.

Sometime during the wait, Joanna’s phone rang. “Dennis woke me up. Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Can you talk?”

When it came time to discuss the night’s appalling events with Butch, Joanna wanted to be far away from anyone else’s prying eyes and ears. But right now, in order to be an effective leader, she had to hold it together, exhibiting strength instead of weakness.

“Not right now,” she said.

“I love you.”

“Thank you.”

A few minutes later, Marianne Maculyea called as well. “I wasn’t on the list for tonight, but someone called me anyway. Do you want me to come there?” she asked.

Of course I want you to come here,
Joanna thought.
But at the first sign of sympathy I’m going to fall apart. Then I’ll be useless.

“No,” she said. “We’re working. The scene’s still pretty chaotic. You’d just be in the way.”

As the sky gradually lightened in the east, Joanna was still huddled with Jaime in his van, where he was trying to keep tabs on the APB. Without warning, George Winfield hustled out through the Beasleys’ screened front porch, down the center walkway, and out through the gate. The ME got in his Dodge Caravan and immediately started the engine. He seemed to be leaving.

Joanna hopped out of Jaime’s vehicle and hurried over to George’s. She tapped frantically on the Caravan’s window just as George put it in gear.

“Wait a minute,” Joanna said when he rolled down the window. “Where are you going? What are you doing?”

“If you’ll get out of my way,” George said, “I’m going to move my van.”

“But why?” she asked. “I thought we were gearing up for you to do the transport.”

“I am gearing up to do the transport,” George said. “Have you looked out at the street lately?”

Joanna hadn’t, but now she did—she turned and looked. To her amazement, on both sides of the street behind her stood two unbroken lines of officers, some in uniform, some not. The lines stretched from the house next door to the Beasleys’ and from the
one across the street down the hill and all the way around the next curve, where they finally disappeared from sight. The officers close enough for Joanna to see were standing at ease. They had assembled throughout the night in solemn silence. Speaking in hushed tones, they had organized themselves at a distance that was far enough away from the crime scene so as not to interfere. Now, in the welcome cool before dawn, they simply stood and waited.

“Who are they?” Joanna wanted to know. “Where did these people come from?”

“I have no idea,” George answered, “but those guys didn’t come here to watch my van drive down the street. They came to pay their respects to a fellow fallen officer, and we’re going to let them do it.”

George pulled out of the parking place, made a sharp U-turn and then drove down the street until the van vanished from sight. While Joanna waited for George to return, she caught the occasional flash of a camera. People gathered on the sidewalks were taking pictures. Whether the photographers were professionals or not, no doubt the resulting pictures would make their way into the media. The world wasn’t going to allow the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department to grieve for Deputy Sloan in private. Everything they did or said would be on full public display. It was important to get it right.

George Winfield understood that completely. “Showtime,” he said when he reappeared after hiking back up the street. “Who’s going to do the honors?”

“You lead the way,” Joanna said. “The three of us—Jaime, Frank, and I—will handle the gurney.”

“It’s a steep grade,” George cautioned. “We’ll put Jaime in front and use him for braking. Joanna, you steer. Frank, you walk alongside, and be prepared to grab for it if it starts to get away.”

They followed George around the side of the house to the back, where a wheeled gurney, already loaded with the zipped body bag, waited just outside the door. With Jaime pulling and Joanna pushing, they moved the gurney around the house. They pushed it through the front gate, with Dave Hollicker and Casey Ledford standing at attention on either side. Someone shouted a command. Down the line the assembled cops came to attention, standing ramrod-straight with their hands covering their hearts or else raised to their foreheads in a somber salute. And on their badges—the badges Joanna could see—each of them wore a thin black band.

Seeing those made Joanna swallow hard. She looked away quickly, pretending that she had to pay attention to the gurney as they guided it along the sidewalk, down the driveway curb cut, and then out into the street—the middle of the street—devoid now of all traffic.

Only a few days earlier, this very same stretch of Tombstone Canyon had been lined with throngs of cheering spectators assembled to watch Bisbee’s annual Fourth of July coaster races. This morning, with the sky just starting to turn to lavender, there were probably several hundred people in attendance, but the street was deathly quiet. There wasn’t a sound. Not one.

As they started downhill, Joanna glanced from side to side, trying to tell who all was here. She was able to pick out officers she knew from police and fire personnel agencies all over southern
Arizona—from Sierra Vista and Benson, Bisbee and Douglas, Willcox and Fort Huachuca—along with countless officers she didn’t know. All of them had answered Tica’s call. They had come out in the middle of the night and waited patiently until dawn to fulfill their sacred duty.

All night long, Joanna had refused to shed a single tear. Afraid of showing any sign of weakness, she had kept herself focused on what had to be done. Now, though, seeing those assembled men and women, her long-delayed tears could no longer be held in check. Unbidden, they spilled out of her eyes and coursed down her cheeks.

Joanna Brady had plenty of reason to cry. Some of the tears were tears of grief over the terrible tragedy of losing a promising young officer. But there were also tears of gratitude because so many wonderful people had shown up during the night to help Joanna and her department bear their awful burden.

George Winfield proved to be completely right about the steepness of the grade. Once they moved off the sidewalk and onto the pavement, gravity exerted its full force on the body-laden gurney. It took all of Jaime’s and Joanna’s strength—both of them gripping the handles with both hands—to keep Dan Sloan’s body from getting away from them and careening downhill like one last ghostly coaster racer.

But keeping both hands on the gurney meant there was no hand left for Joanna to use for anything else, including grabbing a tissue to wipe away her tears. She caught Frank Montoya looking at her questioningly, as if asking if she wanted his help, but she shook her head and told him no. This was her job. She was determined to see it through.

As cameras flashed, Joanna also knew full well what would
be on television and on the front pages of any number of newspapers at the very first opportunity—photos of the sheriff of Cochise County crying her eyes out.

Too bad!
Joanna thought fiercely.
What did they expect? That’s what they get for electing a woman.

WHEN THE GURNEY WAS FINALLY LOADED INTO THE M.E.’S VAN,
Jaime walked off and stood by himself for a few minutes, his shoulders heaving. Joanna turned to find Frank with his face damp with tears as well. Once again he offered her the use of his handkerchief. This time she gratefully accepted. She was using it to mop her face when the phone in her pocket sprang to life.

“It’s Fred,” her caller announced. “Fred Coyle, Sunny’s dad. She wanted me to let you know that we’ve called the people we need to call.”

“So we can release Dan’s name to the media?”

“Yes, but Sunny wants to know if you’ve caught the guy yet.”

“No,” Joanna said. “Not yet. Tell her we’re working on it.” She ended the call and returned Frank’s soppy hanky. “We can release Dan’s name,” she said.

“Good,” Frank said. “We should let Chief Bernard know he’s good to go for the ID press conference. It’s a good thing, too. I’ve already had one call about an article the
Bisbee Bee
is set to publish first thing this morning. Since they’re going with Dan’s name, we need to bring everyone else up to speed. If one outlet gets way ahead of everyone else…”

Tired as she was, Joanna felt her adrenaline kick back in. “Let me guess,” she said. “The one going off half-cocked would be Marliss Shackleford?”

“None other,” Frank replied.

Without another word, Joanna picked up her phone and dialed Chief Bernard. He answered on the second ring. “Any news?”

“We haven’t caught Larry Wolfe, if that’s what you mean,” Joanna said. “But we’ve got a brewing media situation.”

“Marliss?” Chief Bernard asked.

Joanna had always thought of Marliss Shackleford as her own personal cross to bear. Obviously the woman was a continuing problem for Alvin Bernard, too.

“Exactly,” Joanna said. “We just received permission to release Dan’s name. We need to get it out there to everyone else as soon as possible.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Chief Bernard replied with a mirthless chuckle. “You should see my parking lot. It’s swarming with reporters. The press conference is here, but you’re the one who should make the official announcement.”

Joanna knew he was right. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, so we can get started.”

She closed her phone.

“If there are going to be cameras, you might want to take a
look in the mirror,” Frank suggested diplomatically. “And you’re going to need one of these.” He handed her a black band for her badge. He was already wearing his. She put hers on and patted it into place.

“Thanks,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Once inside her vehicle, Joanna pulled down the visor, opened the mirror, and did what she could to fix her face. Frank was right. She looked awful. She hadn’t put on any makeup when she left the house. That turned out to have been a good thing because it would have been washed away. She had a compact and some lipstick and a hairbrush in her purse, but that was about it. She ran the brush through her hair, dabbed at her nose with the powder, and then slapped on the lipstick.

It’s a press conference, not a beauty pageant,
she told herself.

“Sheriff Brady?” Tica’s voice came over the radio before Joanna made it out of Old Bisbee.

“Yes.”

“I have Sheriff Barnes on the line. He needs to talk to you.”

Joanna was well acquainted with her fellow sheriffs in Arizona. The name Barnes didn’t ring a bell. “Who’s he?” she asked.

“Sheriff Ralph Barnes,” Tica replied. “Of Hudspeth County, Texas. I think you’re going to want to talk to him.”

“Patch him through.”

“Morning, Sheriff Brady,” Ralph Barnes said in what Joanna recognized as a west Texas drawl. “So sorry for your loss. Hurts like hell to lose one of your guys, but I think I’ve got some good news on that APB you put out.”

Joanna’s heart leaped to her throat. “You caught him?”

“Not exactly,” Barnes returned. “Let’s just say, whoever was
driving that ’99 Lexus won’t be bothering anybody ever again. He came through the Border Patrol checkpoint at Sierra Blanca about forty-five minutes ago. When they tried to wave him over, he took off like a shot. Border Patrol called us, and one of my deputies gave chase at speeds up to a hundred miles an hour. In the rain. Fifteen miles east of Sierra Blanca he hydroplaned. He went airborne, slammed into a bridge abutment, and then went end over end. The driver was alone in the vehicle, and he was ejected. Must not have been wearing a seat belt. My deputies were right behind him, but it still took ’em ten minutes to locate the body. Turns out the car landed right on top of the sucker—smashed him flat.”

“So Larry Wolfe is dead, then?” Joanna asked.

“Somebody’s dead,” Barnes returned. “As a damned doornail. That’s the name on his license, by the way—Lawrence Alan Wolfe—but it’s gonna take more than eyeballing what’s left of the guy to figure out for sure who he is. You happen to have any fingerprints or dental records on this yahoo? If you do, have ’em sent to Dr. Ken Dohan, the Hudspeth County M.E. There’s nothing I’d like better than to know we’ve got your man.”

“Me, too,” Joanna said, “but I’m driving right now and can’t write down anything. Tica,” she added. “Are you still on the line?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Please patch Sheriff Barnes through to Chief Deputy Montoya so Frank can get all the specifics. Then I’ll need to talk to Detective Carbajal. Sheriff Barnes, before you go. Did you happen to find a weapon—a Glock? We think Deputy Sloan was killed with his own weapon.”

“No, ma’am. We haven’t found anything like that yet, but I’ll
let you know if we do,” he said. “The sun’s up now. We’ll be searching every damned inch of the debris field, but it’s pretty extensive. Once we do ID him, what about next of kin?” Barnes added. “According to the amended APB, he’s suspected in the deaths of his in-laws and he may have tried to take out his wife as well. Should we notify her about what’s happened?”

“Sandra Wolfe was taken away by ambulance earlier this evening,” Joanna said. “She’s in no condition to be notified about anything. Once she is, though, we’ll handle that.”

“Anyone else, then?” Sheriff Barnes asked.

“Larry Wolfe’s parents are both dead. His brother lives in Saint Louis.” Joanna had to think for a few seconds before she was able to dredge up the brother’s name. “I’m pretty sure the brother’s name is Mark. I don’t have a middle initial or an address.”

“We’ll be able to sort that out,” Barnes said.

“From what I understand, the brothers have been estranged for some time.”

“No matter,” Barnes said. “Next of kin is next of kin. We’ll be responsible for finding Mr. Wolfe and notifying him. It sounds like you and your people have your hands full.”

“Thank you,” Joanna said. “And, Sheriff Barnes…” she began.

“Yes, ma’am?”

Joanna had to swallow hard before continuing. “Thank you so much for all your help,” she said. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

“Oh, yes, I do,” Sheriff Barnes replied. “All too well. Lost my K-9 officer and his dog to an escaped convict two years ago. Shot ’em down in cold blood before Deputy Franklin ever got his gun out of his holster. I cried like a baby when they caught that
worthless son of a bitch. He’s on death row in Huntsville right now. I’m planning on being there in person on the day they put him down.”

“I’m on my way to a press conference, so I’m going to have to put you through to my chief deputy. Frank Montoya will take down all the pertinent information.”

“I heard,” Barnes said. “But in the meantime, you take care of yourself, you hear?”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “Yes, I will.” Seconds later, she was on the horn to Jaime Carbajal. “Did you hear any of that?”

“Yes. It’s great news!” Although, from Jaime’s voice, it didn’t sound as though he thought it was all that great.

“I want you to be the one to tell Sunny we think we’ve caught him. In fact, I’d like you to do it as soon as you get off the phone with me.”

“All right,” Jaime said. “I’ll give her a call.”

Joanna knew that the longer he waited to face that particular demon, the worse it would be. “No,” Joanna said. “Not over the phone. You need to go there yourself, Jaime. Give her the news in person. Be there for her.”

Jaime said nothing, so Joanna changed the subject.

“What’s happening with Sandy Wolfe?”

“She’s completely out of it—worse even than when we saw her. One of the EMTs told me her blood pressure was off the charts. When the ER docs at the Copper Queen Hospital found out it was most likely a ketamine overdose, they made arrangements to airlift her to Tucson Medical Center. They’re afraid she’ll go into full respiratory failure.”

“In other words, not much chance of talking to her anytime soon.”

“Talking to her about…?”

“According to Sheriff Barnes, we’re going to need dental records for a positive ID on the guy driving the Lexus, but as long as Sandy’s non compos mentis, we’re not going to be able to ask her.”

Joanna drove for a few moments before speaking again. “Tell you what,” she added. “Once we know Sheriff Barnes has notified Larry’s brother in Saint Louis, we should check with him. He may not know Larry’s most recent dentist, but he may know of one from years ago. Old records would be better than no records. And if Casey found any fingerprints tonight, ask her to rush whatever she has into AFIS. I doubt Larry’s prints will be on file, but if he’s our guy, we should be able to match prints from our scene with prints from the dead guy in Texas.”

As Joanna signed off, she was pulling into the Bisbee Police Department parking lot. Chief Bernard had mentioned that the place was crawling with reporters, and that was absolutely true. They came running toward her car, surrounding it in a milling throng as soon as she turned in from the street. Once she was out of the car, the reporters followed her toward the building, shouting questions. She was grateful when an officer wearing a Bisbee PD uniform opened a side door and ushered her inside and down the hall to where Chief Bernard waited in his office. He rose to greet her.

“Sorry to say we don’t have a room big enough to do this inside, so we’ve set up to do it out front.”

“Wherever,” Joanna said. “Let’s just do it. I want this over and done with.”

Frank Montoya usually handled media interaction for Joanna’s department for the very good reason that Joanna had virtually zero tolerance for the task. The most difficult part for her
was announcing Deputy Sloan’s name. She had steeled herself to stifle her emotions when she did so, but that was easier in the planning than it was in the delivery. After that, she gave a brief overview: Both Samantha Edwards and Sandra Wolfe had been hospitalized for undisclosed medical reasons. A man who was a person of interest in that case who had fled the area was presumed to be the victim of a car crash that had occurred on I-10 in west Texas. No, his name could not yet be released.

Once she had finished reciting the information that could be discussed, Joanna had to ward off dozens of questions, rephrased several different ways, asking for details that could not be released. That was the part Frank Montoya excelled at—deflecting those questions with easy good grace. Joanna had to battle to keep her temper under control and to keep from saying what she really meant, as in, “What part of
N-O
don’t you understand?”

She was within moments of losing it completely when she was saved by the ringing of her telephone. Pulling the blaring phone from her pocket, she glanced at the screen and saw a number she didn’t recognize.
Probably another reporter,
she thought, exasperated. Even so, she was glad for even the slimmest of excuses to abandon the bank of microphones and leave the reporters along with their ongoing barrage of questions to Chief Alvin Bernard.

Joanna melted through the door and went back into the building, answering the call as she went.

“Is this Sheriff Brady?” a male voice asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “Who’s this, and how did you get this number?”

“From Sheriff Barnes in Texas. I’m Mark Wolfe, Larry’s brother.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss—” Joanna began.

“Never mind all that,” Mark interrupted. “I just need to know if what Sheriff Barnes told me is true.”

“That your brother’s dead? We’re trying to confirm that, but—”

“Not that,” he said impatiently. “I want to know about the rest of it—about Larry shooting a cop and possibly poisoning his father-in-law and attempting to poison his wife and her sister as well.”

The man sounded upset. If he was convinced of his brother’s innocence, Joanna didn’t want to antagonize him further.

“We don’t know any of that for sure,” Joanna said. Wary of his fury, she tried to soft-pedal the bad news. “So far it’s all conjecture. My investigators are still working the crime scene. It’s still far too early to be able to say anything definitive. The fact that your brother fled the state immediately after the shooting leads us to believe—”

But Mark Wolfe wasn’t easily deflected. “What about the poisonings?” he asked determinedly.

“The alleged poisonings,” Joanna corrected, trying to deescalate the situation. “We don’t know any of that for sure, either. An empty vial that we believe had once contained ketamine was found in his wife’s hotel room. We’ll be doing forensics analysis of any residue in that, as well as of any number of substances taken from Mr. and Mrs. Beasley’s—the in-laws’—home here in Bisbee. We’ll also be conducting toxicology screenings on all possible victims. Once we do that, we’ll have a better idea of what really happened.”

“I already know what happened,” Mark Wolfe said bitterly. “Larry did it.”

That wasn’t what Joanna expected to hear. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You think he’s guilty?”

“Absolutely,” Mark returned. “Guilty as sin. Why wouldn’t he be? He got away with murder at least once before. Why wouldn’t he try it again?”

“What do you mean, he got away with it?” Joanna asked. “What are you talking about?”

“My parents,” Mark Wolfe replied. “The hospital listed my mother’s death as heart failure. That may or may not be true, but I’m almost sure Larry helped my father along. He was there with Dad at the time he died. The M.E. in Tampa listed cause of death as an accidental overdose due to a combination of alcohol and an over-the-counter sleeping aid. I know my father, though. Dad never would have done such a thing—not intentionally, and not by accident, either.”