Authors: J. A. Jance
Joanna and Frank then returned to the usual
day-to-day business of administering the 120-person department.
Because of a billing snafu, Mainstay Foods, the jail’s major
food vendor, was refusing to make further deliveries until the
problem was solved. There were scheduling questions, sick leave and
vacation issues, and all the difficulties that went along with
trying to cover too many shifts and too many jobs without enough
personnel to go around.
“I’m almost as tired of being
shorthanded as I am of being pregnant,” Joanna observed at
last as Frank closed his notebook.
Her chief deputy laughed. “You’ve got
me there,” he said. “I wouldn’t have a clue what
being pregnant feels like, but I know all about being constantly
shorthanded. It’s hell.”
When the briefing was over, Joanna returned to her
office to find that a whole new stack of mail had been added onto
the top of the one she had managed to whittle down during the
morn
ing. By five in the afternoon she had pretty
well finished. She was loading up her briefcase to go home when Ted
Chapman, the executive director of the Cochise County Jail
Ministry, tapped on the doorjamb next to her open office door.
“Got a minute?” he asked.
Ted Chapman was a very nice guy, and Joanna
genuinely liked him. His work with jail inmates went far beyond
merely ministering to their souls. Single-handedly Ted had
introduced and helped maintain ongoing literacy and GED programs
inside the Cochise County Jail that made it possible for inmates to
finish out their jail terms better educated than when they went in.
As far as Joanna was concerned, however, Ted Chapman had one major
failing—at times he could be incredibly long-winded. One of
Ted’s so-called minutes could expand to fill up all available
time, and since Joanna was chronically short on time, it was
difficult for her to rein in her impatience.
Not only that, with Butch out of town, Joanna was
only too conscious that Jenny was at home alone. At fourteen, Jenny
was certainly old enough to spend time on her own. Still, with
chores to do and animals to feed…
“Come on in,” Joanna said.
“What’s up?”
“It’s about one of my guys,” Ted
said.
Knowing that a problem with one of Ted’s
“guys” could run the gamut from something as serious as
an inmate’s mother being on her deathbed to something as
simple as a jail-yard feud over possession of the basketball,
Joanna closed her briefcase and settled in for the duration.
“Which one?” she asked.
“Oh, nobody here,” Ted said quickly.
“Not one of the inmates. I’m sure it’s not anyone
you know. Brad’s actually an associate of mine.”
“Brad?” Joanna asked.
Ted nodded. “Brad Evans,” he said.
“Got sent up twenty-five to life in the late seventies for
murdering his wife. I first met him when he got shipped down to
Douglas to work on the dorms for the new Arizona State Prison
Complex they were building down there. Over the years, he got saved
and got himself squared away. Took complete responsibility for what
happened to his wife. Never gave anybody any trouble. While he was
still locked up, he started working toward his jail ministry
certification. Once he got out, he asked to work in the Papago Unit
down there. Considering his former problems with booze, we thought
it would be a good fit. Or at least I thought it would be a good
fit. Now I’m not so sure.”
Since Douglas was only thirty miles away from her
office, Joanna knew a good deal about the prison complex located
there. One of the three units, the Papago, was sometimes referred
to as the Arizona State Prison Complex’s dry-out wing. In the
mid-eighties the ASPC had decided to separate inmates with DUI
offenses from other incarcerated felons. With that in mind, prison
officials had negotiated the purchase of a failed Douglas-area
motel that now housed over three hundred male prisoners in a space
designed for no more than two hundred and fifty.
Four-plus years of being in charge of a jail had
taught Joanna a whole lot more than she wanted to know about people
involved on the wrong side of incarceration. In her experience,
having an ex-con working with and counseling current inmates seemed
like a bad idea. And although Ted’s programs did tend to
produce good results, there were times when Joanna thought his
ideas hopelessly naive. It didn’t surprise her to hear that
one of
Ted’s protégés had pulled
some kind of boner, one that would likely reflect badly on a man
who consistently put himself out on a limb for the prisoners he
served.
“Poor Ted,” Joanna sympathized.
“So now you’re discovering what I learned a long time
ago—no good deed goes unpunished. What did he do?”
“He just took off,” Ted answered.
“Everything was going fine, right up until yesterday, when he
didn’t show up for his counseling sessions. When he
didn’t turn up again today, his supervisor called him at home
and got no answer. When somebody finally called me and let me know
what was going on, I drove straight to his apartment down in
Douglas to see if he was all right. He didn’t answer my
knock. There were two unopened newspapers in the driveway, mail in
the mailbox, and no car. Given Brad’s history with booze,
I’m guessing he’s had a relapse and is back on the
sauce. I was hoping maybe you could help me find him before things
get any worse than they already are.”
Suddenly Joanna’s impatience with Ted Chapman
melted away. She was no longer nearly so anxious for him to get to
the point so she could head home. Ted’s “guy”
happened to be just what her department was looking for—a
released, long-term prison inmate with a history of alcohol abuse
who had suddenly gone AWOL. Was it possible this Brad guy would
turn out to be her department’s Border Road John Doe?
Unfortunately, both the Double Cs had already left for the day.
“What’s his name again?” Joanna
asked, pulling out a piece of paper and picking up a pen.
“I call him Brad,” Ted replied.
“But his real name is Bradley—Bradley Evans.”
“How old is he?” she asked.
Ted shrugged. “I don’t know for sure.
Fifty-something, I suppose.”
“And what does he look like?”
“Reddish-blond hair,” Ted answered.
“Balding. A little pudgy around the middle.”
“Any tattoos?” Joanna asked.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Ted
returned. “Why?”
Without answering, Joanna picked up the phone and
speed-dialed George Winfield’s office number. “Are you
still there?” she asked when the medical examiner
answered.
“Not really,” he returned. “At
least I’m not supposed to be. I’m actually standing
with my keys in hand and one foot out the door.”
“Put down the keys and wait for me,”
Joanna told him. “I can be there in a few minutes.”
“Why? What’s the big hurry?”
“I have someone here in my office. I think he
can shed light on this morning’s case.”
“You’d better hurry, then,”
George said. “It’s Friday, and your mother is expecting
guests for dinner. If you make me late again, Ellie will have my
ears.”
“Don’t worry,” Joanna said.
“This won’t take long.” When she put down the
phone, Ted Chapman was staring at her. “What’s going
on?” he asked.
“I’m not sure, Ted,” Joanna said
slowly, “but I’m afraid I may have some bad news for
you. Early this morning a Border Patrol officer found an
unidentified homicide victim out along Border Road. It sounds to me
as though there’s a lot of similarity between him and your
Mr. Evans. Reddish-blond hair. Fifty-something. Homemade tattoo on
his upper left arm that says ‘One day at a
time.’”
“You want me to see if I can identify
him?” Ted asked.
Joanna nodded. “Yes, if you don’t mind.
Identifying the victim would be a big help to our investigation.
Without knowing who he is, we’re pretty much dead in the
water.”
It took Ted a moment to come to grips with what
Joanna had said. Finally he nodded. “Of course,” he
said, getting to his feet. “I’ll be glad to.”
Ted sat quietly in the passenger seat of
Joanna’s Crown Victoria as she drove the several miles from
the Cochise County Justice Center, through town to Old Bisbee, and
then up the winding curves of Tombstone Canyon to the failed
low-cost mortuary George Winfield had converted into a
state-of-the-art morgue.
On the way Joanna considered calling Ernie and
Jaime at home to let them know what was up. In the end she decided
against it. If Ted did manage to make a positive ID, there would be
plenty of time to send out for reinforcements.
George was waiting in the doorway and looking
pointedly at his watch when Joanna pulled in and parked under the
covered portico.
“This is Ted Chapman,” Joanna announced
once she and Ted were both out of the car. “He’s head
of our jail ministry. One of his colleagues from the Arizona State
Prison Complex down in Douglas has gone missing. I’m thinking
perhaps…”
“Of course,” George said gravely,
taking Ted Chapman by the arm. “Right this way.”
George led them into a velvet-lined room that, in
the building’s mortuary days, had been a private family
viewing room. As part of the county morgue it now served a grimmer
but similar purpose. Joanna stood at Ted’s side while George
went into the next room, retrieved the body, and then opened the
curtain.
When he removed the sheet to reveal the
dead man’s face, Ted swayed as though his knees were about to
give way beneath him. Taking him by the elbow, Joanna eased him
onto a nearby chair.
“It is him,” Ted whispered hoarsely.
“It’s Brad.”
She turned back to signal George to shut the
curtain, but he had already done so. She gave Ted a few minutes to
regain his composure. “Thank you, Ted. Does Mr. Evans have
any next of kin?”
“Probably,” Ted said. “But I have
no idea who they are or how to contact them.”
“My detectives are going to need to talk to
you as soon as possible,” Joanna told him. “Now that we
have an ID, they’ll be able to start making progress on the
case. If I call them back in, would you mind talking to
them?”
“Tonight?”
Unlike Joanna, Ted Chapman wasn’t a cop. He
didn’t grasp the urgency of getting on the killer’s
trail while it was still warm.
“Yes,” Joanna said. “Tonight.
Right now.”
“All right,” Ted said. “But
I’ll need to call my wife and let her know what’s going
on.”
While Ted used his cell phone to explain the
situation to Ginny Chapman, Joanna used hers to call Jenny.
“When will you be home?” Jenny asked.
“What’s for dinner?”
“You’re probably on your own for
dinner,” Joanna returned. “Something’s come up
here at work. I may have to stay late.”
“With Butch gone, I thought we’d get to
have a girls’ night, just the two of us, the way things used
to be.” Jenny sounded genuinely disappointed.
“I thought so, too, sweetie,” Joanna
said. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” Jenny replied
hotly. “You’re not sorry at all.”
With that, she hung up, leaving her mother
listening to the empty hum of the phone line.
O
n her
way back to the Justice Center, Joanna called the Double Cs about
interviewing Ted Chapman. Ernie wasn’t home and didn’t
answer his cell. “You caught me in the middle of
dinner,” Jaime said. “I’ll be there in a
few.”
“Any idea where Ernie is?” Joanna
asked.
“Tucson,” Jaime answered. “He
told me before we left work that he and Rose were going there for a
meeting of some kind.”
“For someone who claims to hate driving back
and forth to Tucson, it seems like he’s been doing that a lot
lately.”
“Yes, it does,” Jaime agreed, but he
didn’t say anything more than that, and Joanna didn’t
press it.
Joanna could see that Ted was shaken by what had
happened to his friend, but he was eager to be of assistance in
whatever way possible. While they waited for Jaime to show up for
the interview, Ted called one of the jail ministry
administrators.
“Hey, Rich,” he said. “Ted
Chapman here. Sorry to call you at home like this, but I have some
bad news about one of your guys—Brad Evans. He’s been
killed—murdered.”
Joanna waited during a long pause while the
unexpected news was assimilated.
“It happened along Border Road,” Ted
continued. “Someone found the body early this morning. I just
identified it, but the sheriff’s department is trying to
locate next of kin, and I was wondering…Sure, sure. If you
wouldn’t mind, that would be great. What’s the phone
number here?”
Joanna reeled it off.
“All right,” Ted said into the phone.
“Call this number when you have the information. If I’m
not here, ask for Sheriff Brady.”
Having put that in process, Joanna and Ted went
into the conference room to await Jaime Carbajal’s arrival.
The young detective came bearing gifts—a grocery-bag care
package that included paper plates and plastic silverware as well
as several bean-and-green-chili burritos wrapped in tinfoil and
still warm to the touch.
“You didn’t eat, did you, boss?”
Jaime asked.
“Not since lunch,” Joanna answered.
“That’s what Delcia thought,” he
said with a grin. “She claims pregnant women need to keep up
their strength. How about you, Ted? Hungry?”
“Not really,” he said, but once
Joanna’s first burrito was unwrapped he succumbed and had one
anyway. Joanna plowed gratefully into hers. Until she took that
first bite, she had been unaware of how close she had been to
running on empty.
As Jaime sat down at the table, Joanna pushed him
the piece of paper on which she had jotted down Bradley
Evans’s name as well as the address of his apartment in
Douglas.
“I’m so sorry to hear about the loss of
your friend, Ted,” Jaime ventured. “What can you tell
us about him?”
Ted Chapman took a deep breath. “I’ve
known Brad for a long time,” he said. “Before I broke
away to start the Cochise Jail Ministry, I spent years working for
the Arizona State Prison Ministry. Ginny’s parents were from
Douglas, and she wanted to live closer to them, so when there was
an opening in Douglas, I transferred down here from Florence. Brad
was already there when I arrived.
“Most convicts are con artists one way or the
other. They’re like politicians. They’ll say anything
to suck you into believing that their version of things is the
gospel. Brad wasn’t like that. He was always a straight
shooter, but tough enough that no one messed with him.”
Jaime looked up from taking notes. “What was
he in for?”
“Second-degree murder,” Ted answered.
“He got twenty-five-to-life for killing his wife back in the
late seventies. It happened out in Sierra Vista, or maybe it was
just near there, I don’t remember which.”
“I’ve asked Maggie from Records to get
us the file,” Joanna said.
“I don’t remember his wife’s
name, but she was pregnant at the time of her death,” Ted
continued. “He was drunk and evidently functioning in a
blackout when it happened. I don’t believe her body was ever
found.”
“They got a conviction with no body?”
Jamie asked. “That’s pretty unusual.”
Ted nodded. “There was enough blood found in
Brad’s vehicle and on his body to make a pretty good case
that she was dead. And with her pregnant, I guess feelings were
running pretty high. Even without a body, the county attorney was
prepared to go for
murder one. Instead, Brad
copped a plea to second degree. Like I told Sheriff Brady here, he
accepted full responsibility for his actions. Based on good
behavior, he probably should have been turned loose a long time
before they finally let him go, but every time he came up for
parole, his former mother-in-law was there at the hearing to speak
in opposition.”
“How long ago did Evans get out?”
“Three or so years ago. When I first met him,
I would have to say he was what they call a dry drunk—an
alcoholic who wasn’t actively drinking but who hadn’t
done anything about working on the underlying issues. I helped him
get into the program. You know anything about the twelve
steps?”
Joanna and Jaime both shook their heads.
“There are twelve steps to recovery. One of
them involves making amends to all the people you may have harmed.
Once Brad got into the program, he wrote a letter to his former
mother-in-law, asking her forgiveness, but nothing changed her mind
about him. She was at the last meeting before the parole board set
him loose, and she was still adamantly opposed to their letting him
out. Still, once he was on the outside, Brad stayed with AA, and
he’s one of the ones who really worked his program. He was
serious about it. That’s why I thought he’d be so good
working with the guys in the Papago Unit as a kind of peer
counselor. And he was.”
“You have no idea where Brad’s former
mother-in-law lives now?”
“No,” Ted answered.
“Do you have any idea about Brad’s
friends or associates?”
“Not really. I’m guessing the people he
was closest to will be the ones he was working with at the prison,
maybe some of the
guards, but they
wouldn’t know him nearly as well as the inmates he was
counseling.”
Jaime nodded. “We’ll get down there
tomorrow and talk to them. It’s a start. Can you think of
anything else?”
Ted shook his head. “Pride’s a terrible
thing,” he said bleakly.
“Why do you say that?” Joanna
asked.
“Because when Brad went missing, I was
convinced he had fallen off the wagon. I was terribly disappointed
in him, mainly because I thought it would reflect badly on me. The
first thing that went through my head when I saw him uptown in the
morgue was that at least he wasn’t drunk. It makes me ashamed
to think that idea even crossed my mind. What kind of person would
think that way?”
“Lots of them, Ted,” Joanna said.
“Give yourself a break.” She turned to Jaime.
“Can you think of anything else we need to ask?”
“When was he last seen at work?” Jaime
asked.
“Tuesday. He had Wednesdays off.”
“All right, then,” Jaime said.
“That’s about it.”
“I can go, then?” Ted asked.
“Sure,” Joanna said with a smile.
“Go home to Ginny. I’m sure she’s worried about
you. If we need anything else, we know how to get hold of
you.”
Jaime waited until Ted Chapman had left the room.
“So you win the prize, boss,” he said. “John Doe
turns out to be an ex-con with alcohol problems. I believe you
called that one right on the money.”
“But we still don’t know who killed
him,” Joanna returned.
There was a light knock on the conference-room
door. Maggie Mendoza came in carrying a computer printout.
“This is what the Department of Corrections has on Mr.
Evans,” she said.
Joanna took the file. She hadn’t planned to
look at it in any detail. Her intention was to glance at it briefly
and then pass it over to Jaime so he could study it, but then a
familiar name leaped off one of the pages: D. H. Lathrop! When Brad
Evans was first picked up in October of 1978, Joanna’s own
father had been the arresting officer.
Joanna felt a sudden shiver of recognition. It was
as though her father had reached out from beyond the grave and
tapped her on the shoulder. She hurried to the conference-room door
and called after Maggie, who was on her way back to her desk.
“Wait a minute.” She turned back to
Jaime. “What’s the wife’s name?”
Jaime picked up the papers and scanned through
them. “Lisa Marie Evans.”
“Where are the homicide records from
1978?”
“In storage up in the old courthouse,”
Maggie said. “Why?”
“I need one,” Joanna said. “Lisa
Marie Evans. Murdered in October of 1978.”
“Do you need it tonight?” Maggie asked.
“If you do…”
Joanna glanced at her watch. The hour hand was
edging toward eight. She didn’t blame Maggie for not wanting
to make a nighttime visit to the creaky old courthouse uptown, but
it had to be done.
“We really do need it tonight,” Joanna
said.
“All right,” Maggie agreed.
“I’ll go get it, but it may take time. Those files
aren’t in the best of order.”
When Maggie left the conference room, so did
Joanna. The pressure the baby was putting on her bladder was more
than she could withstand. When she returned from the rest room,
Jaime was finishing a call.
“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks so
much.”
“Who was that?” Joanna asked.
“Rich Higgins,” Jaime answered.
“The guy Ted Chapman called. Rich is human resources director
for Arizona State Prison System Jail Ministries.”
“So we have a next of kin?”
“Her name’s Anna Marie Crystal with a
Sierra Vista address. She’s listed in Brad’s employment
records as ‘mother-in-law.’ She’s also the
beneficiary of his group life insurance. It’s not very
much—a ten-thousand-dollar death benefit, but
still…”
“Did Brad Evans remarry?” Joanna
asked.
“If he did, Ted never mentioned it,”
Jaime replied.
“We should probably check this out,”
Joanna said. “Twenty-plus years ago Brad Evans went to prison
for murdering his wife, but he still lists his dead wife’s
mother as his beneficiary? That strikes me as very
strange.”
“Do you want me to go talk to her
tonight?” Jaime asked. “Since Ted already identified
the body, we don’t need her for that, but…”
Joanna looked at the computer printout. Even across
the table she could make out her father’s name, Deputy D. H.
Lathrop. It was eight o’clock, and Sierra Vista was thirty
miles away, but even if it meant getting home at midnight, Joanna
wanted to be there when Jaime spoke to Anna Marie Crystal.
She picked up the phone and dialed home.
“Hullo,” Jenny said.
“How are you?” Joanna asked.
“Okay, I guess,” Jenny mumbled
unconvincingly.
“Is everything all right?”
“I suppose.”
“What did you have for dinner?”
“Noodle soup.”
“As you know, there’s been a homicide,
Jenny,” Joanna told her. “We’ve just found an
important lead, but it means I need to go to Sierra Vista. Will you
be all right?”
“I guess. I’m watching TV, but
there’s nothing good on.”
“The doors are locked?”
Jenny sighed. “Yes, Mother.”
Joanna knew that being called “Mother”
was never a good sign, but still…
“It’s part of a case your grandfather
investigated years ago,” Joanna continued. “I really
need to be there.”
Want
was more
like it, but that’s not what she said.
“Go ahead,” Jenny told her.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Mother!”
“Good night,” Joanna said.
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Your car or mine?” Jaime asked as
Joanna put down the phone.
“Yours,” Joanna said. “I’m
just along for the ride.”
They had crossed the Divide in the Mule Mountains
and had turned off Highway 80 toward Sierra Vista when
Joanna’s cell phone rang.
“I tried the house,” Butch said.
“Jenny told me you were still working.”
“It’s a homicide,” Joanna said.
“Jaime and I are on our way to do the next-of-kin
notification.”
“Didn’t Dr. Lee say you were supposed
to take it easy these last couple of weeks?” Butch
demanded.
“I am taking it easy,” Joanna returned.
“Jaime’s doing the driving.”
“And you’re wearing your seat belt the
right way?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, a little annoyed by
his fussing. “How was the panel?”
“Okay,” he said.
“You don’t sound very
enthusiastic.”
“I’m wondering how much good this kind
of thing does, when what I really want is to be home. I always
thought writers were like hermits. This seems more like being a
politician out on the stump, having to meet and greet. Carole Ann
tells me I need to get used to it.”
Having just survived a bruising election campaign,
Joanna knew exactly how it felt to be on the stump. She, for one,
was glad to be off it.
“Jenny said this was one of your
father’s old cases,” Butch said. “One of those
cold-case-file deals?”
“Not really,” Joanna answered.
“The homicide victim whose body was found this morning turns
out to be someone my father arrested and sent to prison for murder
in 1978. When we requested the record, there was my father’s
name on the report. It was strange seeing his name like that, like
there was some kind of weird connection between us. I don’t
know how to explain it.”
“Jenny didn’t sound too thrilled to be
left on her own,” Butch said. “I would have thought
she’d be ecstatic. She’s always saying we baby her too
much.”
“I think it’s called attention
deficit,” Joanna said.
“Probably pretty typical,” Butch said.
“You’ve got a lot on your plate, Joey. No wonder Jenny
feels neglected at times. Occasionally, so do I. We both want your
undivided attention, and there’s only so much of you to go
around.”