Random Acts (6 page)

“So there were four shots in all?” Joanna asked, and Holman nodded.

“Not much of a marksman,” Butch muttered.

“But good for us,” Holman said. “The trucker was right there. We know at least four shots were fired . . .”

“ . . . and the shooter wouldn't have had time enough to hang around gathering up his brass,” Joanna finished.

“Exactly,” Detective Holman said. “So let's go find it.”

The highway crew, done with their work but glad to have a few more minutes on the clock, joined in the search, one that was entirely successful. Three .223 shell casings were found up on the bridge deck. One was found below, almost hidden from view in an expansion joint.

By then they'd been hiking around in the noonday sun for the better part of an hour, and the heat was starting to get to Joanna. When one of the highway workers passed out cups of ice water from the orange bucket on the back of his truck, Joanna drank one and poured the other one over her hair.

Dave looked at her and frowned. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“She's pregnant,” Butch said, explaining what should have been obvious.

“And she's been out here looking for brass all this time?” Dave replied. “Let's get her inside somewhere so she can cool off.”

Knowing she was overheated, Joanna didn't object to their talking about her like she wasn't there or to their bossing her around, either. Within a matter of minutes, they were settled in the relative chill of a McDonald's, where Joanna downed several glasses of lemonade in rapid succession, which in turn required an immediate visit to the restroom. She returned to the booth to find Holman and Butch deep in conversation.

“So we're looking for someone who's not an experienced shooter using a rifle with a laser sight,” Butch said. “I think that means we're looking for a kid.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Depending on the weapon, just the gun itself could weigh up to eight pounds. Add in the sight. What's that?”

Holman shrugged. “Could be another five or six pounds.”

“So let's say the shooter is standing up on the overpass,” Butch continued. “He's waiting to do the deed and building up his courage to do, but he's also holding the weapon the whole time. When he finally gets around to using it, the damned thing weighs more than he expects because his arm's tired.”

“Which might account for the missed shots,” Joanna put in.

“And also meaning that the shooter could well be a kid without sufficient muscle power to actually control the shots,” Holman added.

Before anything more was said, Dave's phone rang, and he picked it up immediately. “Yes, Mr. Slonaker,” he said. “Thank you so much for calling me back.” There was a pause. “Yes,” Dave continued. “That's correct. I'm a homicide detective. It turns out the guy in the RV died from a bullet wound.”

Knowing Slonaker was the truck driver, Joanna leaned closer, hoping to hear what was being said. She couldn't make out the exact words, but the sounds of distress coming through the phone were clear enough.

“Yes,” Dave went on. “You're right. It's a miracle it was them instead of you, but with all of this in mind, I need to ask you a ­couple more questions. And if you don't mind, I'd like to put you on speaker so I can make notes of what you're saying.”

Joanna held up her phone and mouthed the words, “Do you want me to record this?”

Nodding his assent, Dave turned his phone on speaker while Joanna switched hers to record, but Ken Slonaker was still too focused on his own near-­death experience to be of much use.

“I almost died last night,” he said. “My wife's been telling me for a year now that it's time for me to hang up my keys and retire. Maybe I will. There are nutcases out here killing ­people for no other reason than they're driving down the road? That's crazy!”

“I couldn't agree with you more,” Dave said. “But if we're going to take this guy down, we'll need your help.”

“What kind of help?” Slonaker asked, finally managing to get a grip. “You name it; I'll do it.”

“You said there was no traffic on the freeway. What about on the overpass?”

“Now that you mention it, I remember seeing a vehicle up there,” Slonaker said after a momentary pause. “I saw it driving away as I pulled up. Well, I saw the lights anyway.”

“Headlights? Taillights?”

“No, asshole lights,” Slonaker replied. “You know, those guys who jack up their four-­by-­fours until they're six feet off the ground? They're all assholes. They're also the ones who put spotlights on top of their vehicles. They're only supposed to use them off road, but . . .”

“Wait,” Dave said. “You're saying you saw a vehicle with those kinds of lights leaving the scene of the crime and didn't mention it earlier?”

“I had no idea this was ‘the scene of a crime.' In fact I had forgotten about it completely until just now when you asked. Besides the vehicle wasn't
at
the scene of a crime,” Slonaker countered. “He was above it—­up on the overpass. Probably didn't even see what happened.”

“Can you describe the vehicle?”

“All I saw was what was visible over the guardrail. Pickup truck. No make or model, but a dark color of some kind. Jacked up like that and with the lights on top, I'm guessing a four-­by-­four mostly used off road.”

“Which direction was it headed?” Dave asked.

“Eastbound.”

“So what happened when you arrived?”

“I already told all this to the other officers,” Slonaker objected.

“I need to hear it, too, if you don't mind,” Dave told him.

“Okay, so I saw the RV's taillights swerve up ahead of me. I thought maybe the guy had dozed off or something. Then the lights sort of bucked up into the air when it hit the overpass and then went off the road. I knew it was bad before I even stopped. In fact I called it in before I got out of my truck. The 911 operator wanted to know how many ­people were involved. That's when I went down the embankment. It took a while for me to find them. They were all the way at the bottom, still strapped in, but cut to pieces. There was blood everywhere. I checked for pulses. The man was already gone. The woman was still hanging in, but just barely. But this was clearly an accident. At least that's what it looked like to me. Now you're saying it's a homicide?”

Joanna touched Dave's hand enough to get his attention, then she shook her head and held a shushing finger to her lips. Dave frowned but he got the hint.

“We're investigating it as a possible homicide,” he said.

“Is there anything else?” Slonaker asked.

“Not at this time,” Dave said. “If we need something further, we'll get back to you.” He ended the call and then looked questioningly at Joanna. “What was all the head shaking about?”

“Has there been any mention in the press that the case is being investigated as a possible homicide?”

“Not that I know of. Our CSIs know about the bullets, and the ME knows about the gunshot wound, but until he's able to contact Dr. Winfield's relatives and make the notification . . .”

“Call him. Tell him not to mention the homicide aspect until we give the go-­ahead.”

“Why?”

“We think the shooter might be a kid, right?”

“Maybe but . . .”

“And if we go on acting like we're not investigating a homicide, he may believe he's getting away with it. With any kind of luck, we can trick him into coming back in search of that missing brass.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

“We're going to salt the mine,” Joanna said.

“How?”

“If you'll give me one of those four casings, we can put it back on the overpass and hope the shooter comes looking for it.”

“Nope,” Dave asserted. “No way either one of us is going to tamper with even part of this evidence. These casings are familiar. SWAT uses the same kind of ammo at the range. I'll give you four of those, marked so we can use them for positive identification later, but I don't see how this will help us identify the guy. How do you propose to do that?”

“By setting up some kind of temporary surveillance system on that overpass and on every roadway leading to or from it.”

“Is that even feasible? If the guy sees patrol cars parked anywhere in the neighborhood, he'll drive right on by.”

“I'm not talking cops and patrol cars. It turns out, you and I have a mutual friend—­Ali Reynolds. Maybe she can set up some kind of wireless surveillance system that won't be completely obvious to the bad guy. All we need is a plate number on the vehicle. Once we have that, we'll be way ahead of where we are now.”

Dave nodded. “I suppose it's worth a try.”

Ali's number was in Joanna's recent calls list, and Joanna dialed the number with her phone on speaker. Ali answered on the second ring.

“Are you in Sedona?” Ali asked. “Do you need a place to stay or do you want to come to dinner?”

“Actually, I'm in Camp Verde with a friend of yours, Dave Holman, and we need your help.”

“What kind of help?”

“I'm hoping for assistance in setting up a multi-­camera surveillance system in a remote location.”

“A permanent system or temporary?”

“Definitely temporary.”

“To capture what?”

“A vehicle license plate,” Joanna answered.

“Where?”

“At the overpass on I–17 at General Crook Trail. That RV wreck this morning was no accident. My stepfather was shot. We're reasonably sure that the shooter was standing on the overpass at the time since we found several pieces of brass up there.”

“And you're thinking he'll come back looking for it?”

“Exactly. Once we ID his vehicle, it'll be much easier to nail him, but the problem is, the location is out in the middle of nowhere, and I have no idea how to pull it off.”

“And I suppose you want this done immediately if not sooner?”

“Yes.”

“Let me think for a moment,” Ali said. Then after a pause, she said, “What about setting up a phony construction zone? Knowing a construction crew is liable to turn up on the scene should give the bad guy a certain urgency in getting back there to collect the evidence. It so happens I have a whole closetful of wireless video cameras right here at our company headquarters in Cottonwood that can be deployed at a moment's notice. The problem is, they all
look
like video cameras. If we put up construction zone barrels and cones, we may be able to conceal the cameras inside them, and slowing traffic will give the gear a chance to capture better images.”

“Even in the dark?”

“Yes, but I suspect that's going to require some careful rigging. We'll need some cones and barrels to carve up jack-­o'-­lantern style so we can see which ones work best with our video equipment. It might also be a good idea to have one or two of those construction generators parked at the site just to make the whole construction scenario more believable.”

“There's a Department of Public Works maintenance yard in Cottonwood,” Dave said, speaking aloud for the first time. “I can give them a call and let them know that they should give you whatever you need.”

“Okay,” Ali said. “Camille Lee is the one who will be coming there to pick things up. By the way, does High Noon have a billing entity on this or are we doing it gratis?”

“Send the bill to the Yavapai County Sheriff's Department,” Dave said. “I haven't cleared it with Sheriff Maxwell, yet, but by the time you're ready to do the installation, it will be.”

He stood up as Joanna ended the call. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“Back to Prescott,” he said. “I want to get these casings turned over to the crime lab so they can look for prints. I'll have a deputy pick up some range casings and bring them to you. Where will you be?”

Joanna looked around the noisy McDonald's. What she needed more than anything right then was some peace and quiet. “Just a sec.”

She redialed Ali's number. “Is there a chance Butch and I could hang out at your place for a while this afternoon while you get things pulled together?”

“Sure,” Ali said. “No problem. I'll text you the address, and I'll give our majordomo, Leland Brooks, a call so he'll be expecting you.”

Hanging up, Joanna caught Holman taking a surreptitious look at his watch. She took that as a telltale sign about what he wasn't saying—­that he was also due back at the ME's office in Prescott for the Eleanor Lathrop autopsy.

“What about the kids?” Butch asked. “Shouldn't we leave all of this to the ­people here and head back home? And we're just going to stop by a relative stranger's house and hang out for a while even though she won't be there?”

“Ali's not a complete stranger,” Joanna reminded him. “We both met her earlier. Besides, Eva Lou and Jim Bob are looking after the kids. They couldn't be in better hands. And I need to do something, Butch. I suggested this surveillance thing, and I want to be here to see it through. Either it'll work tonight, or it won't work at all. Besides, I don't know about you, but I'm in no condition to make a six-­hour trip back to Bisbee right now.”

“Me either,” Butch admitted reluctantly. “Maybe we'll have time enough to grab a nap, but I'm not wild about spending the night. If we both get our second wind, I'd rather head home than stay over.”

“Fair enough,” Joanna said.

When Butch and Joanna arrived at Ali's house on Manzanita Hills Road, they were greeted by a white-­haired gentleman with a British accent who escorted them into a cool library where the coffee table was already set with glasses, ice, and two pitchers—­one filled with iced tea and the other with lemonade. Joanna poured a glass of lemonade, which she topped off with a dose of iced tea, giving her weary body a jolt of much-­needed caffeine.