Dead to Rights

FOURTEEN

In the course of the next hour and a half, as Joanna talked Bebe Noonan, she learned something else about the stark realities of being a police officer. Yes, she had signed up to catch bad guys and do paperwork and do battle with the board of supervisors. But she had also signed up to share other people’s pain. Bebe Noonan was in pain.

Her tidy little camper was totally at odds with the rest of the Noonan place. The trailer may have been small and cramped and hot, but it was also spotlessly clean. The chrome faucet gleamed. Covers on the neatly made bed were absolutely straight. No hint of dust or dirt marred the cracked linoleum floor. The room’s sole decoration was a hand-painted ceramic wall plaque that announced, “Jesus loves you.”

Bebe’s trailer constituted a small, pitiful piece of order bravely wrested from the utter chaos around her. Listening lo Bebe talk, Joanna realized that Bebe’s sense of desolation went far beyond the physical ugliness and apparent poverty of her surroundings. Her isolation was emotional as well as physical.

Bianca Noonan lived on her parents’ place, but she lived separate from them as well. As she told her story, it was plain to see that she lived there out of necessity rather than choice or out of some sense of warmth and family togetherness. As Janna listened to Bebe talk, she was surprised to notice, for the first time, that this plain young woman-with a wiry frame, dishwater-blond hair, and almost total lack of self-confidence-bore an eerie resemblance to a much younger Terry Buckwalter. A pre-Helen-Barco Terry Buckwalter.

No wonder Bucky had hired Bebe to work for him. No wonder she had been so susceptible to his charms and empty promises. No wonder, either, that she so desperately wanted keep Bucky Buckwalter’s baby. With or without the presence of a father, Bebe wanted this child. A baby would give her someone to love. Someone who, unlike her own family, might love her in return.

The more Joanna heard, the more she realized how sad the whole situation was. She knew, too, that it would continue to be so far into the future. It was difficult for her to keep from saying some of the things that were on her mind-lessons she had already learned the hard way-about how demanding it was to be left to raise a child alone. Finally, exhausted by the telling of it, Bebe Noonan simply ran out of team.

“How old are you?” Joanna asked after a long pause.

“Twenty-three,” Bebe sniffed.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell your parents?”

“I can’t,” Bebe whispered.

“You’ll have to tell them sooner or Liter,” Joanna insisted.

“My dad’ll kill me when he finds out.”

Joanna shook her head. “He won’t be happy, but he’ll cope,” she interjected. “That’s what parents do.”

“But he’ll say I’m no good,” Bebe continued. “He’ll throw me out. I’ll have to find someplace else to live.”

“Then you’ll find an apartment of your own,” Joanna told her.

Bebe’s eyes filled with tears once more. “How? I’ve been living here for free. Even so, I can barely afford my car payments. That’s why I went to see Terry. I wanted to ask her for help with the baby. And she told me to… to…”

“I heard what she told you,” Joanna said. “And you can’t very well blame her.”

“No,” Bebe said. “I suppose not, but I thought maybe…”

“You thought what?”

Bebe shrugged. “That since it’s Bucky’s baby, that maybe she’d give me something. You know, that she’d offer to help out with money. She’ll have insurance and stuff. She’ll be able to afford it.”

Joanna thought of Terry Buckwalter, suddenly unencumbered and liquidating assets as fast as she could so she could get on with her own life. In the meantime, here was Bebe expecting to put a very compelling, living and breathing wrench in the works. Joanna felt sorry for both women. She fell even sorrier for the baby.

“I lave you seen a lawyer?” she asked.

“No,” Bebe said. “I haven’t even seen the doctor yet. Why would I need a lawyer?”

“Because if you’re expecting to collect money from Bucky’s estate or from his Social Security account, you’ll have to file a paternity suit. You’ll have to prove Bucky is the baby’s father. In order to do that, you’ll need a lawyer. It’s not all that hard to establish paternity these days, but you’ll need to collect some DNA evidence. The only way to do that is with court order. You’ll be better off doing it before Bucky is buried rather than afterward.”

“But do I have to?” Bebe asked miserably. “Do I have to go through all that-get a lawyer and go to court and all like that? If I do, my parents will know, and so will everybody else.”

“I told you before, Bebe. People-your parents included-are bound to find out eventually,” Joanna pointed out. “And if what you say is true, if your parents really are going to throw you out, then you’d better start acting like a grown-up right now and making some arrangements to protect not only yourself but also the baby. Social Security isn’t going to pay survivors’ benefits to a child based on your unsubstantiated claim as to who the father might be. You’re going to have to prove the baby is Bucky’s. If I were you, I’d get on the telephone right now.”

“Is that why you came to see me?” Bebe asked. “To tell me that?”

“No,” Joanna said. “I came to ask you if you were with Bucky the night before he died. Terry told me he wasn’t home that night. I thought maybe he might have been with you.”

“He wasn’t with me,” Bebe said. “I only wish he had been. The last time I saw him was that afternoon. The day before he died. At work.”

“Do you have any idea where he might have been that evening, then?”

Bebe shrugged. “Probably playing poker. He did that a lot.”

“With whom?” Joanna asked.

“I don’t know. He never really told me. And I didn’t ask. I didn’t think it was any of my business. That’s what love is all about,” she added. “Learning to trust.”

Joanna was so astonished by that statement that she wanted to scream. He was married to another woman, screwing around with you, and you trusted him? How stupid can you get?

Exasperated beyond bearing, Joanna glanced at her watch. “I have to go now,” she said, getting to her feet. “I have plenty to do, and so do you.”

Bebe followed her out the door to the car. “Do you know which lawyer I should talk to?” Bebe was asking. “About the DNA thing, I mean.”

Joanna realized that she had already said far too much. If she said anything more, she would simply be helping to pit two bereaved women against one another. “No,” Joanna said. “I don^’t have any idea who to suggest. You’ll have to figure it out for yourself.”

It’s part of being a grown-up, she wanted to say. Part of being a parent. But Joanna Brady had reached the limit on her ability to give advice. “If I were you,” she said. “I’d check in the phone book-the Yellow Pages.”

Belle’s face dissolved into a watery smile. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll go to work on that right away.”

Feeling a little like King Solomon offering to carve up the baby, Joanna headed back toward the Cochise County Justice Center. Considering all that had happened in the past two days, that name had an ironic, almost cynical, ring to it. Was there any such thing as justice to be found in a case like this one? Or for people like Hannah Green? For two cents, right about then, Joanna Brady would have been happy to turn in her badge and go back to being the office manager of an Insurance agency.

By the time Joanna pulled into her parking place, it was well into late afternoon. She felt as though she had been dragged through a wringer. Lack of sleep from the night before gnawed at her whole body. Once again she was grateful for the privilege of that reserved parking space and for the private entrance that allowed her to come and go without having to face whatever crisis was currently in process in the main lobby.

The door between Joanna’s office and Kristin’s was closed, and Joanna didn’t rush to open it. Stuck to the middle of her desk was a stack of messages. Thumbing through them, Joanna found the usual assortment. Two calls from Eleanor Lathrop, one each from Frank Montoya and Dick Voland. The last one came from Marianne Maculyea. That was the first message Joanna attempted to return. There was no answer. The moment Joanna depressed the switch hook to try making another call, Kristin appeared at the door, closing it behind her as she entered.

“Until I saw your line light up, I didn’t know you’d come in,” she said. “There are some people outside waiting to see you.

“Who?” Joanna asked.

“One’s a priest. He said his name is Father Michael McCrady. The other is a really scary-looking guy in leathers. He says his name is Frederick Dixon. He claims he’s a friend of yours. I checked your calendar and didn’t see any appointments, so…”

“Frederick Dixon…” Joanna mused. “That doesn’t ring any bells. What does he look like?”

“Thirties or forties maybe,” Kristin answered. “I can’t really tell. But he’s bald. Not a hair on his head.”

“Butch Dixon!” Joanna exclaimed. “I always forget his name is Fred.”

“Who’s Butch Dixon?”

“He is a friend of mine. From up in Peoria. He runs cafe that’s close to the Arizona Police Officers’ Academy. I met him in November and again this month when I was u there. What’s he doing here?”

“I have no idea,” Kristin said sourly. “He showed up over an hour ago. I told him you were out and I didn’t know when you’d be back. He said it was all right, that he’d wait.”

“And who’s the other one again?”

“Father McCrady. Father Michael McCrady.”

Joanna nodded. “Hal Morgan’s friend.”

“By the way,” Kristin added, almost as an afterthought, “we had a call from the Highway Patrol a little while ago. There’s been a bad accident off Highway 80, east of Tomstone. A speeding van full of U.D.A.s lost control and flipped. It sounds like a real mess. We’ve got cars en route, but nobody from our department is on the scene yet.”

The fact that people were waiting for her in the front office faded into insignificance. Traffic incidents involving van packed to the gills with undocumented aliens, most of whom were never properly belted in, often resulted in terrible carnage.

“If the Department of Public Safety is investigating, how come they’re calling us?” Joanna asked.

“II was a pursuit. The officer tried to pull the van over for faulty equipment. Instead of stopping, the driver turner off onto a county road. That’s where the accident happened.

“Who all’s going?” Joanna asked.

“All three deputies from that sector, and Ernie Carpenter tip well.”

“It’s a fatality?”

Kristin nodded. “I guess,” she said. “At least one. There could be more.”

“What about Dick Voland?”

“He’s going, too. He’s still in his office right now, but he’ll be leaving in a minute.”

It would have been easy for Joanna to sit back and let her deputies handle what was bound to turn into a major incident. But Sheriff Brady was working very hard at earning the reputation of being a hands-on sheriff. “So will I,” she said.

“What should I tell the two guys out front, then?” Kristin asked.

“Nothing,” Joanna said. “I’ll handle them myself.”

Pulling herself together, she walked out into the reception area. Up in Phoenix, Joanna had heard Butch mention his Goldwing on occasion, but this was the first time she had seen him clad in full-leather motorcycle regalia. He was stretched out comfortably on the couch, feet on the glass-topped coffee table, reading a book. Appropriately enough, the book was none other than Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Meantime, an elderly gentleman in white-collared priests’ attire paced back and forth in front of Kristin’s desk.

The moment Joanna came into the room, Butch closed the book, smiled broadly, and hurried to his feet. “Joanna,” he said. “There you are.”

At only five feet seven or so, Butch Dixon was relatively short, but powerfully built. As Kristin had noted, Butch’s shaved head was absolutely bald, but the pencil-thin mustache he had sported several months earlier was gone. Its absence made him look younger.

“What are you doing here?” Joanna asked, walking for-ward to shake his hand.

“Decided to take a few days R and R,” he said. “A couple of years ago a guy showed up at the Roundhouse claiming that he could get drunk in any mining town in Arizona and wake up in any other mining town and never know the difference. I decided to put that to the test.”

“You came here to get drunk?”

Butch grinned. “No. I came to see if there’s any difference. I’ve been to Globe and Miami and Superior. I’ve even been to Ajo and Morenci before, but I’ve never been to Bisbee. If you and Jenny don’t have plans for the evening, I thought maybe I could take my favorite lady cop and her daughter out for pizza or something.”

Joanna shook her head. “Sorry, Butch,” she said. “No tonight. A call just came in. I’ve got to go to Tombstone right away. It’s a traffic incident that will probably take most o the evening.”

Disappointment washed briefly across Butch’s face, but that was followed by a good-natured grin. “Maybe tomorrow, then,” he said cheerfully. “I’m staying at the Grand Hotel from now through Monday. Give me a call and let me know.”

Joanna was disappointed, too. Butch Dixon had been an Interesting, fun person to be around. An evening of light hearted conversation and pizza would have been just what the doctor ordered after this impossibly grueling week.

She smiled. “It sounds good,” she said. “I’m sorry about tonight, but…”

“I know,” Butch said. “Don’t worry about it. When duty calls, you’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

With that, Butch grabbed his helmet and book and left, leaving Joanna both relieved and sorry he was gone. Sle turned, then, to the priest: a white-haired, gaunt figure of a man. Behind thick steel-rimmed glasses his gray-blue eyes were at once piercing and kind.

“I’m Sheriff Brady,” she said, offering her hand. “What can I do for you, Father McCrady?”

“I’m a friend of Hal Morgan’s.”

Joanna nodded. “I know,” she said. “From M.A.D.D. Mr. Morgan told me about you. I’d be happy to speak to you, but as you heard, there’s been an emergency…”

“Yes,” he said, “I understand. But what I have to say won’t take long. I just wanted to thank you for putting Hal Morgan in touch with Burton Kimball. Hopefully it won’t be necessary for Hal to utilize Mr. Kimball’s services. Still, it was very kind of you to make that connection for him.”

“I’ll say it was,” Dick Voland growled. The chief deputy, hat in hand, had entered the reception area just in time to hear what Father McCrady had to say. “Sheriff Brady seems to be celebrating Random Acts of Kindness Week a little early this year,” he said.

Joanna turned on him. “I believe that’s enough, Dick.”

“I’m on my way to Tombstone, Kristin,” he said with a glower. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.” He headed for the door.

Joanna stopped him. “Wait a minute, Dick,” she said. “I’m going there, too. Maybe we should ride over together. It’ll give us a chance to talk. You and I seem to have more than one topic to discuss.”

“But I was leaving right now,” Voland objected. “So am I,” Joanna returned.

Voland sighed. “Which car?” he asked. “Mine or yours?” Joanna realized that if she and her chief deputy were about to have a battle royal, it was important that Joanna Brady be the one in the driver’s seat. “Mine,” she said, then she turned back to Father McCrady. “If you’ll excuse us, we have to go now.”

“One more thing, Sheriff Brady,” the priest said. “Hal isn’t actually charged with anything at the moment, is he?”

“Not yet,” Joanna replied. “My chief detective has been occupied with a number of other cases, but that could change. The Buckwalter incident is still being actively investigated.”

“That being the case, is it really necessary to have a police officer following him around everywhere he goes? Hal is finding that very disturbing.”

Joanna glanced in Dick Voland’s direction. He nodded back at her. Urgently. “Homicide is also disturbing,” Joanna said evenly. “At this time we still believe a police presence is necessary.”

“But why?”

“Because he’s a flight risk,” Voland put in, answering Father McCrady’s question in Joanna’s stead.

Father McCrady peered around Joanna and let his eyes settle on her chief deputy. “I can assure you that Hal Morgan didn’t kill that man. Nevertheless, he has given me his word of honor that he’ll make no effort to leave Bisbee until the Investigation is complete and he has been fully exonerated.”

“Hal Morgan’s word may be good enough for you,” Dick Voland said. “But it doesn’t mean much to anyone else. We’re working on physical evidence.”

“What physical evidence?” Father McCrady asked.

“Obviously we can’t reveal that,” Joanna said. “What Mr. Voland and I are both saying, Father McCrady, is that the guard stays for the time being.”

Hurrying back into her office, Joanna called Jenny at her grandmother’s house. “I’ve got to go to Tombstone,” she said. “It’s a serious car accident. I may he very late. Would you please ask Grandma and Grandpa Brady if you can spend the night?”

Any other night, Jenny would have been thrilled at the prospect of sleeping over. Tonight was a different story. “Oh, Mom,” she whined. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “Now hurry and ask.”

Minutes later, Joanna and Dick Voland were in the Blazer. With siren wailing and lights flashing, they headed for Tombstone. Voland sat on the rider’s side, with his arms crossed tightly across his chest. Maneuvering through town, Joanna concentrated on her driving. As they started up the Divide, however, before Joanna had a chance to say a word, Voland surprised her with an unexpected apology.

“Sorry about that Random Acts of Kindness comment,” he said. “I don’t know what gets into me sometimes. And thanks for backing me up on the Morgan surveillance, too. I’ve just got a feeling about this Morgan guy. I can’t explain it.

“You’ve been checking him out?”

Voland nodded. “I have. That’s what worries me. Nobody has a bad word to say about him. Nicest guy you’ll ever meet. Trust him with my life. Honest as the day is long.”

Joanna thought of her own meeting with Hal Morgan. That was how he had struck her, too. Honest.

“Maybe the people who are telling you those nice things about him are right. Maybe he didn’t do it.”

“And maybe he did,” Voland insisted glumly.

Joanna spent the rest of the trip to the accident scene recounting to her chief deputy what she had learned in the course of the day. She told him about Terry Buckwalter’s plan to sell her husband’s practice and leave town as soon as possible. She also told him about Bebe Noonan’s pregnancy. Voland whistled when he heard that.

“I know Ernie was out talking to the Rob Roy guy this afternoon,” Voland said. “So he may have found out about the golf stuff, but the pregnancy bit is something else. How’d you find that out if Ernie didn’t?”

There was a certain grudging respect in Dick Voland’s voice, something Joanna had never heard there before. “Just lucky, I guess,” she said.

Several miles passed before Dick Voland spoke again. “The last time I remember seeing Terry and Bucky together was at a football game last fall. They seemed just fine-as normal as apple pie. There was no way to tell all this other stuff was going on, but that’s the way life works. You think people are fine, and then one day they blow up in your face.” He paused. “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” he added.

“Yes,” Joanna agreed. “It certainly does.”

In the course of the next four hours, Joanna learned far more than she had ever wanted to know about triage. Nothing she had read in textbooks could have prepared her for the carnage waiting in a gully off a narrow dirt track east of the Tombstone Municipal Airport. Eighteen adults had been locked in the back of the speeding van when it flipped. Two were dead at the scene. Two more were in critical condition and had been airlifted to trauma centers in Tucson. Neither of those two victims was expected to make it. Others, less seriously injured, had been stashed, under guard, in three different hospitals in Cochise County, and two in Tucson. The remaining five, people with injuries no more serious than cuts and bruises, had been booked into the Cochise County Jail.

Just dealing with the prisoners proved to be a logistical nightmare. Most of the time, Border Patrol policy dictates that undocumented aliens simply be returned to Mexico. This time, however, with authorities wanting to file vehicular homicide charges against the driver, it had been deemed necessary to hold all the U.D.A.s in what, for now, was being billed as “protective custody.”

The smuggler/driver-who had been wearing a seat belt and wasn’t injured in the wreck-had left the scene on foot. After three hours of searching, a canine unit finally found him hiding under a mesquite tree in a wash.

It was almost ten by the time Joanna and Dick Voland returned to the county jail. Not wanting to leave until all the prisoners had been properly booked, Joanna settled down at her desk. There were more messages-two more from her mother and one from Larry Matkin, but Joanna simply put them aside with the others. She would return her calls-all of them-in the morning and not before.

Shortly after eleven Tom Hadlock, the jail commander, stopped by Joanna’s office to report that all the prisoners had been booked into the jail.

“I’ve got the coyote in an isolation cell,” Hadlock told her. “I was afraid some of his victims might try to do him in.”

“I wouldn’t be too surprised if they did,” Joanna said. “Any idea who he is?”

At the time of his arrest, the smuggler had been carrying no driver’s license and had given what everyone had assumed to be a phony name.

“You bet,” Tom replied proudly. “When we ran his prints through that new Automated Fingerprint Identification System, they rang bells from here to Texas. The guy’s real name is Jesus Rojas Gonzales. He has three outstanding warrants on non-related drug-running charges-two in New Mexico and one in Texas. Those warrants plus the three kilos of black gold heroin hidden under the floorboards are most likely what triggered his attempt to elude the Highway Patrol officer who was stopping him for nothing more serious than a busted taillight. By the way, how’s the officer doing?” Had-lock asked.

“About how you’d think,” Joanna replied. “He’s in shock. He doesn^’t think he did anything wrong, but there are plenty of people who are ready to string him up right along with the coyote.”

The jail commander grinned. “The Highway Patrol is the state’s baby,” he said. “It’ll be interesting to see what the governor^’s Ms. Morales makes of this.”

After Hadlock left her office, Joanna gathered her purse and coat. She was preparing to leave herself when she realized the light was still on in the reception area outside her door. Stepping across the room, she had just switched off tilt light and was about to return to her own office when silt heard a strange rumbling sound. It took a moment for her to place the noise-someone snoring.

Three offices and the conference room opened off the reception area-hers, Dick Voland’s, and Frank Montoya’s Frank’s office was empty, as was Joanna’s. In Dick Voland’ office she found her chief deputy lying stretched out full length on his couch. Except for his shoes, he was fully clothed. His sock-clad feet stuck out beyond a length of plain wool blanket. He was sound asleep.

Joanna went over to him and shook him gently by the shoulder. “Wake up, Dick,” she said.

His eyes blinked open. Glazed with weariness, he stared at Joanna for a moment without seeming to recognize her. “Everything here is under control “ she continued. “Go home and get a good night’s rest. There’s no reason for you to sleep here.”

Slowly he swung his feet to the floor and then sat with his hands clasping his forehead. “I can’t go home,” he muttered.

“Of course you can,” Joanna returned. “If you’re too tired, I’ll get one of the deputies to drive you.”

“I said, I can’t go home!” He drew the blanket around him and sat staring down at the floor. There was something in the way he looked, some quality of abject misery in his voice, that warned Joanna there was more going on here, something over and above his being too tired to drive.

Without waiting for an invitation, she sank down on the couch beside him.

“What is it, Dick?” she asked.

“Ruth kicked me out,” he said at last. “She says she wants a divorce, and I haven’t had time to go looking for an apartment.”

“Ruth kicked you out?” Joanna repeated. “How come? What’s going on?”

“She’s jealous,” he answered.

“Jealous of your job? She’s been married to a cop for long enough that she should know how it goes.”

There was a long silence. “No,” he said finally. “It’s not the job. She’s jealous of you.”

“Of me!” Joanna exclaimed. “You’ve got to be kidding. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You told her there was nothing to it, didn’t you?”

“I tried,” Dick Voland said miserably. “I don’t think she believed me.”

Shocked beyond speech, Joanna got tip, walked bark over to the doorway and switched on the light. “How long have you been sleeping here?” she asked.

“A week,” he said. “I’ve been keeping my clothes in the car and showering in the deputies’ locker room, all the while hoping she’d come to her senses.”

“Do you want me to talk to her?” Joanna asked.

“Not on your life!” Dick Voland replied. “That’s the last thing I want you to do.”