Random Acts Page 3

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Butch said.

  Joanna answered with a little white lie. “I’m thinking about how to break the news about George to Mom.”

  “Tough duty,” Butch said.

  “And I’m thinking about how I’ve always been too hard on her,” Joanna added. “Maybe it’s time I tried to dial some of that back.”

  “Good idea,” Butch agreed. “No time like the present.”

  They were a ways north of the Gila River before Joanna’s phone began ringing off the hook as ­people from inside the department learned what had happened. After having to tell the story over and over again and hearing countless “so sorries,” Joanna ended a call from Homicide Detective Ernie Carpenter and then switched off her phone.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” she said to Butch. “Besides, once I know what’s going on, I’m going to need to call all these ­people again anyway to update them on Mom’s condition.”

  “You can call them back, or I will,” Butch said. “You’re not in this mess alone, babe, and don’t you forget it.”

  The sky was beginning to lighten in the east as they approached Phoenix, having driven there in a little under three hours flat. It was time for the cop part of Joanna Brady’s heart to take over for the daughter part. Turning on her phone, she dialed Tica’s number.

  “Who investigated the accident?” she asked.

  “I thought you’d want to know that. Highway Patrol—­a guy by the name of Arturo Davis. He was the initial officer on the scene, and a Yavapai County deputy named Blake Yarnell was the second to arrive. George’s remains have been transported to the Yavapai County Morgue in Prescott. Would you like me to text you all those numbers?”

  “Please,” Joanna said. “That would be a big help.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “And, Tica?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you for sending Jaime Carbajal to give me the news. That was incredibly thoughtful.”

  “It’s what the department does for complete strangers, Sheriff Brady,” Tica reminded her. “Why wouldn’t we do it for you?”

  When they arrived at the entrance to the hospital, the escorting cop cars turned off their lights, blinked their headlights, and melted into the early morning traffic. Butch pulled up into the porte cochere and stopped in front of the sliding glass doors.

  “You go on in,” he said. “I’ll find a parking place and join you in a minute.”

  Joanna entered the marbled lobby and walked over to the reception desk. “I’m here to see Eleanor Lathrop Winfield,” Joanna said. “My name’s Joanna Brady; Eleanor is my mother.”

  The woman behind the counter typed some letters into her keyboard and then frowned at the information that appeared on her screen. “If you wouldn’t mind taking a seat here in the lobby, the doctor will be right down.”

  Suspecting bad news, Joanna nodded and retreated to a small seating area near the front entrance. When Butch showed up a minute or so later, she waved for him to join her.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “The doctor’s on his way down.”

  “That’s not good,” Butch observed.

  Just then an elevator door slid open and a tall, rangy man in scrubs entered the lobby, swiveling his head as if searching for someone. When the clerk behind the counter gestured in Joanna’s direction, he came straight over as Joanna stood up to greet him.

  “My mother?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “She didn’t make it,” he answered quietly. “We lost her in the OR. Her injuries were too extensive. Since we knew you were already on the way, we decided to wait until you arrived to give you the news.”

  “No,” Joanna said. “This can’t be true.”

  She stumbled blindly backward toward her chair and might have fallen had Butch not been there to guide her.

  “Because of the circumstances, Ms. Brady, there will have to be an autopsy. The accident occurred in Yavapai County, so we’ve notified the ME there to have someone come and collect the remains.”

  “Can I see her?” Joanna asked.

  The doctor glanced questioningly in Butch’s direction before he replied. “It would be good to have a positive identification,” he said, “but I’m not sure that’s wise. Your mother was in a high-­speed roll-­over accident. She has multiple cuts, contusions, and abrasions. The visible damage is quite extensive and shocking.”

  “I’m a police officer,” Joanna said quietly. “I want to see her.”

  Shrugging, the doctor pulled out his pager. “This is Dr. Collins. Please move the deceased patient, Mrs. Winfield, into a room on the seventh floor,” he said. “Her daughter is coming up, and she’ll need some privacy.”

  “Do you want me to come, too?” Butch asked.

  “No,” Joanna said, passing him her phone. “I’ll do this alone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, but while I’m gone, try calling Bob. If we can catch him before he gets on a plane, we should. With autopsies and MEs involved, it may be several days before we can make any plans for funeral ser­vices. He may want to hold off on his departure for a day or two.”

  “Okay,” Butch said. “I’ll call Bob first; then I’ll call the kids.”

  “Thank you,” Joanna whispered, not trusting her voice.

  As Dr. Collins headed back for the elevator, Joanna hurried to keep pace. “Your mother had no idea that her husband was gone,” he said. “We were afraid the shock would be too much for her, so we didn’t give her that information. Turns out that telling her would have made no difference. Her internal injuries were simply too extensive.”

  Joanna should have been full of questions, but she was numbed to silence.

  “There is one thing, though,” Collins added. “She was unconscious when they brought her into the ER. Once we were up in the OR and the anesthesiologist was about to put your mother under, she came to for a moment. It was difficult to understand her, and it’s possible she wasn’t entirely lucid, but she was fussing about a red dot. She wanted to be sure we told you about it.”

  “What red dot?”

  “I have no idea. Perhaps we’re wrong about what we thought she said, but since she was so focused on it—­almost frantic about it—­I wanted to be sure to give you the information.”

  The elevator opened on the seventh floor, and Dr. Collins ushered Joanna into a long tiled corridor. The walls were done in a pastel shade of peach. Framed pieces of original artwork hung on the walls between doorways. The place looked more like an art gallery than a hospital.

  Most of the doors were open with patients, visitors, or nurses visible inside the rooms. Dr. Collins stopped in front of one the closed doors. “Your mother’s in here,” he said. “Take as much time as you need.”

  Joanna forced herself to step over the threshold and then stood still for a calming moment, steeling herself for what was to come, as the door whispered shut behind her. Her mother’s still form lay under a sheet on a rolling hospital bed. Joanna took a single cautious step forward. As she approached the bed, Joanna was horrified. Eleanor’s face had been so badly pulverized that she was barely recognizable. Someone had shaved off a chunk of hair in order to stitch up a jagged cut that ran from the middle of her scalp to the top of her eyebrow. A living Eleanor Lathrop, who had prided herself on never stepping out of her house without every hair carefully in place, would have been horrified.

  Joanna stood in silence for what seemed a long time. Then, even though her mother was clearly beyond the reach of her voice, she found herself speaking aloud. “George is gone, Mom, and so are you,” she said softly. “And I’m so sorry—­sorry that you’re gone and sorry for everything I ever did to drive you nuts.”

  That was what Joanna had come to say and it was all she had to say. She fell silent, as if waiting for Elean
or to respond. After all, Eleanor had always been the one to have the last word. And it seemed as though she did this time, too: the red dot. In an instant of amazing clarity Joanna knew exactly what Eleanor’s frantic comments about the red dot meant and why her mother had so desperately wanted to be assured that Joanna would get the message.

  Turning on her heel, she reached for her phone, but of course it wasn’t there. She had left it down in the lobby with Butch. A nurse stood in the corridor just outside the door, as if waiting to see if Joanna required any assistance. The woman seemed startled when the door slammed open, and Joanna bolted past her.

  “Is there anything else you need?” the nurse asked.

  “No,” Joanna said. “Thank you. I’m done here.”

  She paced impatiently in front of the elevator, pushing the button over and over, until the door finally opened. She found Butch in the lobby exactly where she’d left him, her phone pressed to his ear.

  “Here’s Mom now,” he said when he saw Joanna sprint off the elevator. “I need to go.” He hung up. “What’s wrong?”

  “I need the phone,” she said.

  It took her browser only a few seconds to locate the number for the Yavapai County Sheriff’s office. She had met Sheriff Gordon Maxwell at law enforcement conferences. He wasn’t someone she knew well, and right now she wished she did. The operator who took the call, after ascertaining this was not an emergency, eventually put it through to the sheriff’s office. There another gatekeeper tried her best to redirect Joanna’s call. “The sheriff is rather busy this morning. Could his chief deputy help you?”

  “I don’t want the chief deputy,” Joanna said firmly. “This is Sheriff Joanna Brady from Cochise County. I wish to speak with Sheriff Maxwell himself.”

  “Please hold.”

  “What’s going on?” Butch asked.

  Before she could reply to Butch’s question, Sheriff Maxwell came on the line. “Sheriff Brady,” he said. “I was just now reading the overnight reports and learned that your stepfather died in last night’s roll-­over accident on I–17. I’m so sorry.”

  “That’s why I’m calling,” Joanna said quickly. “I don’t believe it was an accident, and George Winfield isn’t the only victim. My mother, Eleanor, died in the OR shortly before I made it to the hospital.”

  “You think it’s homicide?” Maxwell asked. “I’ve got the report right here in front of me. Dr. Winfield slammed into the overpass at full speed. No skid marks. No sign of any braking. Officers on the scene said there was no sign of alcohol, but given the victim’s age, it might have been a medical emergency. What makes you think otherwise?”

  “When is the autopsy?” Joanna asked.

  “Gavin Turner, our ME, was out of town over the weekend, so he’s a little backed up. He’s got two cases in front of Dr. Winfield’s at the moment. With all of them presumably natural causes, he’ll most likely do them in the order in which they arrived.”

  “A suspected homicide would move to the head of the queue, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “I think the autopsy is going to reveal that George Winfield was shot to death by someone wielding a rifle complete with a laser targeting system. I’ve seen how badly mangled my mother’s body was. If George’s body was in similar shape, it’s possible the entry wound was overlooked during the initial investigation. After all, it was the middle of the night, and he was already dead. ­People see what they expect to see. If the EMTs on the scene regarded George as an old codger who had suffered a heart attack or stroke, it’s not likely they would go looking for a bullet wound.”

  “A laser sight?” Maxwell asked. “Where is all of this coming from?”

  “My mother,” Joanna said. “She regained consciousness briefly as they were taking her into the OR. She insisted that they tell me about the red dot.”

  “But she didn’t specify which red dot?”

  “No, but how many important red dots are there in the world? I think the dot appeared on George’s chest. The next thing you know, kerblamo—­they slammed into the overpass.”

  Gordon Maxwell was silent for a moment. “Okay, then,” he said. “This changes things. I’ll give Doc Turner a call and see if he can move Dr. Winfield’s autopsy to the head of the line. And I’ll get my homicide guys on the case, too. This means we’ll need to take a look at the wreckage in a whole new light. DOT has shut down the overpass while they examine it to make sure it’s still structurally sound, but if this is a crime scene, we’ll need to take a much closer look in daylight hours.”

  “Thank you,” Joanna said.

  “Give me your number,” Maxwell said. “Depending on what shows up in the autopsy, my chief homicide detective, Dave Holman, will be in touch.” Then, after a pause, he added. “So sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Joanna said. She had heard those words so many times today that her response was almost mechanical. “But for right now let’s concentrate on catching the SOB who did it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Maxwell said. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

  Joanna ended the call and then looked anxiously around the lobby, searching for a restroom.

  “Right over there,” Butch said, reading her mind and pointing. “I’ll be right here when you finish. Then we’re going to go have breakfast and talk.”

  By the time they left the hospital, Joanna’s phone had registered fourteen voice mails, including two separate messages from Marliss Shackleford of the Bisbee Bee. Joanna didn’t bother playing any of them right then. She wasn’t ready.

  “What did Bob say?”

  “That he’ll hold off on coming for now, but that both he and Marcie will be here for the funerals.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Jim Bob and Eva Lou were already at the house when I called Jenny, so they got the news at the same time she did. It’s a good thing they were on hand. Jenny has been a brick, but she fell all to pieces when I told her. I’m glad Eva Lou was there to take charge.”

  “So am I,” Joanna said.

  They had stopped at a Denny’s on Indian School and had chosen a booth as close to the back of the restaurant as possible. “I took the liberty of calling Burton Kimball,” Butch said, once the waitress had delivered Butch’s coffee and taken their order. “I hope you don’t mind. I remembered George mentioning that Burton had drawn up their new wills a while back, and I thought he should be in the know.”

  “Good call,” Joanna said. “No telling how long it would have taken for me to get around to that.”

  “According to Burton, he has letters regarding their wishes for final arrangements, and naturally, Higgins and Sons is the mortuary of choice.”

  Joanna nodded. “No big rush on that score,” she said. “The bodies can’t be released for burial until after the autopsies, and Mom’s body is still here in Phoenix.”

  “What should we do then?” Butch asked. “Go back home? Stay here in Phoenix? What?”

  “I want to go to Prescott,” Joanna said. “When the autopsy report comes through, I want to be on hand to see what it says. And then I want to go to the crime scene up by Camp Verde. I want to see for myself where it happened.”

  “Aren’t you too close to this?” Butch asked. “In addition to which, you’re outside your jurisdiction and have zero official standing.”

  “The fact that I have no official standing in the investigation is the only reason I can go there,” Joanna countered. “I’m already off work. Right now we’re two hours away from Camp Verde. If we go back to Bisbee, we’ll be six hours from there. I want to go now and get the lay of the land firsthand. We’ll be home tomorrow. That’ll be plenty of time to start dealing with final arrangements.”

  “Tell me about the red dot,” Butch said quietly.

  Joanna bit her lip. “Dr. Collins told me about it on our way up to t
he room. He said Mother was frantic to be sure I was told about it. At first none of it made sense to me. And then, when I was there in the room, standing next to the bed, it suddenly became clear. She must have seen a laser dot on George just before it happened.”

  Unbidden tears started again. “I wanted her to be alive when I got there,” Joanna said, choking back a sob. “I wanted to tell her I was sorry for being such a problem child when I was growing up. I don’t know what I was hoping for—­most likely not a Hallmark moment. Maybe I wanted her to tell me I was forgiven and that maybe, just maybe, she was proud of me and of what I’ve done with my life.”

  “She was and she did,” Butch said quietly.

  “Did what?”

  “Told you that she was proud of what you’ve done with your life. When the chips were down, she entrusted you with a precious gift—­that red dot. She must have known you were smart enough to find out what really happened last night. Sometimes, Joey,” he added, “actions speak louder than words.”

  For the first time since she had tumbled out of bed hours earlier, Joanna smiled. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a very smart man?”

  “Not recently,” Butch said as the waitress brought their food. “And not nearly often enough.”

  By 11:00 A.M. they were in the lobby of the Yavapai County Medical Examiner’s office in Prescott. The equipment in the morgue may have been up to the minute, but the hard-­backed wooden chairs in the lobby came from a much earlier era. Told by a receptionist that Dr. Turner was currently unavailable, they had been seated for the better part of ten minutes when a lanky man in a sports jacket hurried into the room, glancing at his watch as he came.

  The new arrival was obviously a known entity. “Hey, Dave,” the receptionist said. “How’s it going?”

  “I’m running late. Doc will have my ears.”

  Dave had to be Dave Holman, Joanna realized. As he moved toward an interior door, she was hot on his heels. “Detective Holman?”