Random Acts (4 page)

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 Eleanor 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 the 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?”

“Who are you?”

“Sheriff Joanna Brady from Cochise County,” she said. “George Winfield was my stepfather. Eleanor was my mother.”

“Eleanor of the red dot?”

“That would be the one.”

“I won't have any information until after the first of the autopsies is completed. In addition to which, since this is part of an ongoing investigation . . .”

“Save your breath, Detective Holman. I know the drill, but I also know a little about extending professional courtesy to fellow officers. And since I voluntarily came forward with important information in this matter . . .”

“Possibly important information,” he responded.

Joanna drew herself up to her full five-­foot-­four, which was a good nine to ten inches shorter than the detective. “Are you a gambling man, Detective Holman?”

“I suppose. Why do you ask?”

“You go right on in there and observe Dr. Turner's autopsy, but if it turns out I'm right and my stepfather was shot to death, then I expect some respect from you and some consideration as well.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Detective Holman said. “Now, if you'll excuse me . . .”

He disappeared through the door.

When Joanna looked back at her husband, Butch was grinning. “Obviously not a poker player,” he commented.

“At least he hasn't played poker with me,” Joanna replied, smiling in spite of herself.

Knowing they were stuck in the waiting room for an hour at least, Joanna picked up her phone and began returning calls. By now Marliss Shackleford had left three separate messages, so Joanna started there, wanting to start by getting the worst of the bunch out of the way.

“I'm so glad you finally got back to me.”

The word “finally” grated. “As you can well imagine, Marliss,” Joanna said carefully, “this has not been my best day for returning phone calls.”

“Is it true both George and Eleanor are gone?”

“Yes,” Joanna answered, “both of them. George died at the scene of an accident on I–17. My mother passed away in the OR at St. Gregory's Hospital in Phoenix earlier this morning.”

“Have the next-­of-­kin notifications been done so we can go ahead and run the story?”

That stopped Joanna cold. Marliss had always purported to be such a great friend of Eleanor's, but now the truth was out. She didn't even have the decency to express her condolences. Friendship or not, for her this was now all about the story.

“My mother's side of the family may have been notified,” Joanna said. “But I don't have any idea about George's. I'd hold off on the story if I were you.”

“But we have a deadline . . .”