Damage Control (10 page)

Butch studied her for a long time. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Joanna said firmly and with far more confidence
than she felt. “I’ll talk to Jim Bob and Eva Lou. They’re always willing to pitch in and help out. This can be done, Butch,” she added. “One way or the other, we’ll make it happen.”

“Thanks, Joey,” Butch said softly. “This means more than I can say.”

JOANNA AND BUTCH WERE IN BED BY NINE AND ASLEEP BY
nine-thirty. When the phone rang an hour later, Butch groaned, pulled a pillow over his ear, and flopped onto his other side. Hoping to catch the phone before it awakened Dennis, Joanna groped on her nightstand until she managed to lay hands on the offending instrument.

“Not another one,” she grumbled into the phone. “We can’t handle another one.”

Late-night call-outs usually meant someone had died unexpectedly somewhere in Joanna’s jurisdiction.

“Don’t worry,” Larry Kendrick said hurriedly. “Nobody’s been murdered—so far.”

Larry was the department’s lead dispatcher, and it was unusual for him to be pulling a weekend nighttime shift. “Why
are you working?” she asked. “Aren’t you usually off on weekends?”

“With vacations coming up, we’re doing some shift trading.”

“Sounds good,” she said, “but if nobody’s dead, why are you calling me?”

“We got called to a bar fight at the Branding Iron tonight. Two deputies responded. Both were assaulted.”

The Branding Iron was a relatively new establishment in the area and an unexpected success. Fueled by incurable optimism, a newly retired couple had bought a dead motel near Paul’s Spur, transformed the room area into a dining room and the office area into living quarters. Then they had opened the place as a steak house complete with an immense wood-fired grill. They served three sizes of steaks, one kind of grilled chicken, ranch beans, salad, and tortillas—flour and corn. They also served booze, but the Branding Iron had a reputation for selling more food than booze. Bar fights were unusual among its clientele, which included regulars who came from as far away as Tucson.

Joanna moved Lady out from under her feet and then made her way into the living room, so her being on the phone wouldn’t disturb Butch any more than it already had.

“Which deputies?” Joanna wanted to know.

“Brophy and Butler,” Larry answered.

“Are they all right?”

“According to the patrol supervisor, they’re fine. A few scratches and a pair of bruised egos. There’s nothing like being beaten up by a couple of women to make you feel like you’re a piss-poor excuse for a cop, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

Joanna was taken aback. “Deputies Brophy and Butler were beaten up by some women?”

“That’s right,” Larry said. “A pair of them. The two suspects are being transported back to the Justice Center right now. Tom Hadlock wanted me to ask you what you want him to do with them.”

Tom Hadlock was Joanna’s jail commander.

“If they assaulted my officers, that’s a felony. Lock them up and throw away the key until we can get around to having a preliminary hearing sometime on Monday. They can cool their heels until then. What I can’t understand is why anyone’s bothering to ask me about this.”

“Tom wanted you to be aware of the situation, is all. With their parents dead, Tom’s afraid locking them up might come back to bite the department in the butt.”

“Their parents,” Joanna repeated. “You mean these women are sisters?”

“Yes,” Larry said. “Their folks are the people who took that header off the mountain out in the Huachucas yesterday.”

The light dawned. “You’re talking about the Beasley girls—Sandra and Samantha?”

“That’s right. Sandra was evidently there having dinner with some friends. Samantha showed up. First the two started arguing, then it got physical. Glasses and dishes were thrown. Hair was pulled. When the waitstaff couldn’t break it up, they called for the owner, who doubles as the bartender, to come help. As soon as he showed up, the women stopped fighting each other and turned on him. By the time Deputies Brophy and Butler responded to a 911 call, the fight had moved into the bar. It took both officers and several customers to finally bring the situation under control. The dining room is a shambles. So is the bar.”

“And now they’re being brought to my jail,” Joanna said.

“Yes. In separate patrol vehicles. But Tom wants to know what we should do with them when they get here.”

“Are they hurt?”

“Some scratches, cuts, and bruises. One of ’em is going to have a real shiner.”

“Do either one of them need to see a doctor?”

“Probably not.”

“Drunk?”

“Don’t know that for sure, but it sounds like one or both of them has had quite a bit to drink.”

“Fine, then,” Joanna said. “Tell Tom I want him to clear the other inmates out of one of the cells. Once the two sisters are booked, lock them up by themselves in the same cell and leave them there.”

“Together?” Larry asked. “Are you sure?”

“That’s what I said—together. They’ve been carrying on this blood feud for forty years or more. Their parents couldn’t bring them together, but I’m willing to try a dose of enforced friendship. Maybe when Sandra and Samantha sober up, they’ll figure out it’s time to talk about whatever’s bothering them.”

“What if they hurt each other?”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Joanna said. “Tell Tom if he has any questions, he should call me back.”

When she hung up, Joanna leaned back against the couch, intending to wait a few minutes to see if Tom would call her back. She was still sitting there with the phone in her lap and sound asleep when Butch, with Dennis and a bottle in hand, nudged her awake at 2:00
A.M.

“I got up to feed the baby and you weren’t in bed,” Butch said. “What are you doing out here?”

“There was a problem at the jail last night,” Joanna said. “I’m waiting for Tom Hadlock to call me back.”

“If the man has any sense, he’s probably in bed asleep by now,” Butch said. “And you should be, too.”

“Thanks,” Joanna said. “You’re right.” With that, she staggered back into the bedroom. When she woke up next, the sun was shining in through the window and bacon was frying in the kitchen. When Joanna showed up there, Butch seemed to have the baby and breakfast well in hand. Pausing long enough to pour herself a cup of coffee, she kissed Butch on her way to the table.

“Thanks for letting me sleep in.”

“You’re welcome, but what was the problem at the jail that had you up half the night?”

“A barroom brawl down at the Branding Iron,” she said. “Two sisters got into it. They beat the crap out of the bartender, two of my deputies, and each other. I decided they should sleep it off in the same cell. Since no one’s called to say otherwise, they must not have killed each other overnight.”

They were about to load into the car to head for church when Joanna’s phone rang. “We’ve identified our trash-bag Jane Doe,” Dave Hollicker announced.

“Who is she?” Joanna asked. “And how did you do that?”

“Her teeth,” Dave replied. “There’s that new program that keeps computerized dental records on missing persons. Doc Winfield came in early this morning to take charge of the remains so he could examine them and issue a death certificate. He was the one who thought to enter the dental records into that Missing Persons database, and that’s how we ID’d her. The victim’s name is Wanda Louise Mappin. She was age thirty-one and
developmentally disabled. Her mother, Lucinda Mappin, lives in Eloy. Wanda was reported missing from her residence, a group home in Tucson, on March twenty-first of this year.”

Joanna knew that having George at work so early on a Sunday morning probably meant that he and Eleanor were still on the outs.

“Does Detective Carbajal know about this?” Joanna asked.

“Yes, ma’am. He does. All of it. He’s actually spoken with the mother. She’s driving down here. She should be at the Justice Center a little after one. She may be able to identify some of the items we found in the bag along with all that sand—the Keds, some bits and pieces of clothing, an earring, and a little gold locket.”

Joanna sighed. Of all her duties as sheriff, meeting with homicide victims’ bereaved family members was one of her least favorite responsibilities. She did it because she felt she had to—because it went with the territory. If Lucinda Mappin was coming to meet with the officers investigating her daughter’s death, Joanna would be there as well.

“Let Jaime know I’ll be there at one to meet with the mother, too.”

“No Sunday afternoon off, then?” Butch asked when she ended the call.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Joanna told him.

“But we’re supposed to go to Jim Bob and Eva Lou’s after church.”

Joanna had known that; she had also forgotten. “We should probably take two cars, then,” she said.

On the way into town in her Crown Victoria, Joanna called in to the on-duty jail supervisor.

“How’s our sister act doing this morning?”

“Samantha and Sandra? They seem to be fine. I’ve been checking on them regularly with the monitor. Looks like they’re not speaking, which, under the circumstances, is probably just as well.”

“Probably,” Joanna agreed.

Next she tried calling George. “I hear you were at work bright and early this morning,” she said. “Good work on the ID.”

If George heard Joanna’s compliment, he didn’t acknowledge it. He was too focused on his own difficulties.

“I never went home,” he said miserably. “Well, I did stop by for a while after I finished up with Leonard Sunderson, but since Ellie still wasn’t speaking to me, there wasn’t much sense in hanging around. I have a fold-out couch here in the office, so I came back up the canyon and slept here. I don’t know what’s going on with her,” he added. “I missed a dinner party on Friday. So what? It’s not as though that’s the first time it’s ever happened. I can’t imagine why she’s making such a big deal of it. Do you have any ideas about this?”

“Sorry, George,” Joanna said. “I can’t help you there. My mother’s been a mystery to me my whole life. What about Sunderson?”

“We found him in what was left of his bed. I doubt he even woke up before his oxygen tank exploded. Once that happened, it was too late for him to get out.”

“Smoking in bed, then?” Joanna asked. “Suicide?”

“Neither one. We’ll most likely have to chalk this one up to aluminum wiring. According to Ted Carrell, the DPS arson investigator, aluminum wiring in those old mobile homes is a disaster waiting to happen. He thinks the wiring overheated,
smoldered in the wall for a long time, and then finally broke out and set the place on fire—starting with Mr. Sunderson’s oxygen tank.”

“And Jaime’s Jane Doe?” Joanna asked. “What’s her name again?”

“Wanda,” George replied. “Wanda Mappin. I’ve just done a preliminary on her remains, but it looks like Dave called it about right. Several superficial stab wounds to the ribs, but what killed her was blunt-force trauma from repeated blows to the head.”

By then Joanna was pulling into the church parking lot. “I’ve got to go now, George,” she said.

“But if you hear from your mother and she tells you anything about what’s going on—”

“I’ll let you know, George,” Joanna said. “I promise.”

Once Joanna was seated next to Butch in the pew, she checked out the bulletin and saw that the topic for that day’s sermon was “My Brother’s Keeper.” Joanna stayed focused on the proceedings long enough to make it through the opening hymn, the Scripture reading, and the announcements—including the one that mentioned that the Ladies’ Auxiliary would be accepting donations of food, clothing, and cash to benefit a family whose home had been burned down the day before. Joanna was glad that Marianne was continuing to look out for Carol Sunderson and her family, but once the actual sermon started, Joanna was far too busy
being
her brother’s keeper to pay much attention to the message.

Would Carol Sunderson be relieved to know that her husband hadn’t deliberately taken his own life? Or would she be devastated because the home she’d managed to create for her family, the one with the bargain-basement rent, had turned into a death
trap? And what about Alfred and Martha Beasley’s daughters? Joanna knew she’d have to speak to them that afternoon. What would she say? And then she’d end up having to speak to Lucinda Mappin as well. What comfort could she offer to the mother of a brutally murdered child? Would Joanna be able to find any words of consolation adequate to that painful task?

After the service they went downstairs to the church social hall for coffee hour. Marianne’s two-year-old son, Jeffy, had escaped from the nursery and was playing a shrieking game of toddler tag, terrorizing the place by dodging in and out between people juggling cookies and coffee cups. No doubt within months, Dennis would be walking and he, too, would join that noisy parade. Meanwhile, eight-year-old Ruth, the daughter Marianne and her husband, Jeff, had brought home from an orphanage in China, clung shyly to the sleeve of her mother’s robe.

Joanna found it reassuring to know she wasn’t the only woman there dealing with work and family issues. Marianne’s mother was no longer on speaking terms with her daughter. That rift came with an unexpected side benefit. It meant Marianne didn’t have to deal with the kind of constant meddling Joanna was forever having to endure from her own mother on the subject of family and career.

“Are you okay?” Marianne asked, seeking Joanna out. “You looked preoccupied.” It was a nice way for Marianne to say she had noticed Joanna wasn’t paying attention to the sermon.

“Sorry,” Joanna said. “There’s a lot on my plate right now.”

“I know how that goes,” Marianne said with a laugh. “Some of the ladies were talking about doing a fund-raiser to benefit Carol Sunderson and the kids. What would you think about that?”

“It’s fine with me,” Joanna said. “As long as I’m not the one doing it. I’m overbooked as it is right now. Adding one more thing to the mix just isn’t possible.”

“That was my take on the situation, too,” Marianne said. “Go ahead and knock yourselves out. Just don’t expect me to run it.”

Someone came up to talk to Marianne just then. As Joanna turned away, Marliss Shackleford-Voland caught her eye and came hurrying toward her. That was one of the problems with living in a small town—you found yourself thrown in with people you’d much rather avoid, Marliss being a prime case in point.

Long a columnist for the local paper, the
Bisbee Bee,
and now married to Joanna’s former chief deputy, Dick Voland, Marliss was always on the prowl looking for fodder for her column, “Bisbee Buzzings.” This Sunday-morning coffee hour was no exception.