Dead to Rights

THREE

By the time Joanna bounced over the cattle guard and into the grounds of the Buckwalter Animal Clinic, Richard Voland, the Cochise County Sheriff Department’s Chief Deputy for Operations, was already there. He was standing outside his Ford Bronco, conferring with Captain Ben Lowrey of the Bisbee Fire Department. In the background, thirty yards from the clinic itself, stood the sagging remains of Bucky Buck-waiter’s metal Bild-a-Barn shed.

The some-assembly-required shed was a mini replica of an old-fashioned barn slapped together over a concrete slab. Beyond that was a corral. At the far end of the corral, tethered to the fence by a halter but dancing nervously from side to side, was Bucky’s winter-coated, eight-year-old quarter horse, Kiddo. A young woman Joanna recognized as Bucky’s veterinary assistant, Bebe Noonan, was with the distressed animal, petting it and trying to calm it. The horse seemed unconvinced.

“How bad is it?” Joanna asked as she came within speaking distance of Dick Voland and Ben Lowrey.

A long-time sheriff’s department officer, Voland had served as chief deputy in the previous administration, and he had actively opposed Joanna’s election. Once elected, Joanna’s first impulse had been to dump him. It had taken her only a matter of days, however, to realize that his experience was a vital asset-one her fledgling administration couldn’t afford to ignore. As a result, she had kept Voland on even though their day-to-day working relationship continued to be prickly at best.

Balding and massive at six-four, Dick Voland shook his head. “Bad,” he said. “We’ve got at least one dead body inside. There could be more.”

Joanna felt sick. “Bucky Buckwalter?” she asked, dreading the answer.

Voland shook his head. “Can’t say for sure. Right off the bat, though, the doc would be my first guess.”

“Who left in the ambulance, then?”

“The perpetrator,” Voland growled. “I understand the guy’s an acquaintance of yours, Sheriff Brady. Somebody named Hal Morgan. According to Deputy Pakin, a few hours ago you seemed to be of the opinion that Morgan didn’t pose any kind of threat to the Buckwalters. Looks to me as though you were wrong about that.”

Joanna nodded. She had already reached the same conclusion, but it was far worse to hear confirmation of her own worst fears coming from someone else, especially from her second-in-command.

“What happened?” she asked.

“It’s too soon to tell. The fire crew is mopping up inside.

One of the firemen discovered the body. Bebe Noonan…” Voland paused long enough Io consult a notebook. “Full name’s Bianca Noonan the young woman over there with the horse-is the one who reported the fire. If you’re looking for heroes, she’s it. She found Morgan lying just inside the door to the barn and dragged him outside. She also rescued the horse.”

Following Voland’s glance, Joanna saw that Bebe Noonan had untied the skittish gelding and was leading him to the far end of the parking lot, where she tethered him to the chain-link fence that marked the westernmost boundary of the animal clinic property. Even there, she remained with the animal, alternately petting him and clinging to his neck.

Joanna turned to the fire chief. “How soon do you think we’ll be able to get inside?” she asked.

“The fire’s out, except for a couple hot spots, but we’ll have to check for structural damage before we can let anyone else go inside. I’ll let you know.”

Lowrey walked away, leaving Joanna and Dick Voland alone. The chief deputy waited until the other man was out of earshot before he attacked. “You never should have ordered Pakin off the case,” he said. “Obviously the incident was far from over…”

Joanna knew full well that the only way to survive with Dick Voland was to push back. “No Monday-morning quarterbacking, Dick,” she snapped. “That particular incident was over. You know as well as I do that we don’t have the manpower to have one deputy spend his whole shift waiting to see if something might happen.”

“Well,” Voland said derisively, motioning toward the still smoldering hulk of a barn. “If you call this over, I’d hate to see wait you call an ongoing.^,,

Joanna had to st^ruggle to maintain her composure. “Look, Dick,” she said, “you’ve made your point. Now how about getting down to business and telling me precisely what went on.

“Bebe came to work at noon,” he said. “She evidently works afternoons and most weekends. That’s her little brown Honda parked over there by Doc Buckwalter’s van. She said he parked her car, went inside the clinic, and was getting things lined up for the afternoon appointments. Bucky wasn’t here, and neither was Terry, but she didn’t think anything bout it.

“About a quarter to one or so,” Voland continued, “she looked out the window and saw smoke pouring out the door the barn. She called nine-one-one right away to report the fire and then came running out here to make sure the doc’s horse was all right. She went in to let the horse out of his stall. That’s when she stumbled over Morgan. He was lying on the floor just inside the door. If she hadn’t dragged him outside, he’d probably be a goner now, too, instead of just on his way to the hospital.”

“Smoke inhalation?” Joanna asked.

Voland nodded. “That and an egg-sized knot on the back of his head.”

“Somebody hit him then?” Joanna asked, thinking that someone else, a third party, must have been in the barn with the other two men.

Voland scowled and shook his head. “Most likely he cracked the back of his head on the cement floor when he fell. Anyway, according to Ben, the fire was mostly confined to the tack room and to the hay and grain stored at the far end of the barn. It made for lots of smoke, although, as you can see, there’s not much damage to the front of the building.

Joanna swallowed hard before she asked the next question. “What about Terry? Is there a chance she’s in there as well?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Voland replied. “According to Bebe, she drives an old T-Bird. Since it’s not in the parking lot, we’re hoping she went somewhere. I’ve got people looking for her right now.”

Joanna found herself praying that Terry Buckwalter was safe, that her body wouldn’t be found among the ruins. It was bad enough that one person was dead. If there were two…

Unable to speak, Joanna studied the roofline of the building, especially the noticeably sagging far end. She had been inside this particular barn only once, several years earlier, shortly after it was completed.

Bild-a-Barns were the construction equivalent of fast food. They came from the modular school of design and were shipped in lots made up of prefabbed numbered pieces. Once at a site, they came together like a giant Erector set, clipped together over concrete slabs and preassembled metal frames.

Bild-a-Barns came in several different styles and configurations. They could be as small as one stall and one storage room or as large as ten stalls, depending on how many sections the owner was willing to fasten together. This one was a five-stall/tack room version, giving Bucky Buckwalter enough room for Kiddo along with space left over to board four additional animals.

Joanna remembered the barn dance the local Rotary Club had thrown in conjunction with the completion of the building. They had staged an old-fashioned square dance complete with a live band and a traveling barbecue outfit that had been trucked in front Tucson. The proceeds had been used to benefit the local Little League.

On that happy occasion, Bucky Buckwalter had been extraordinarily proud of the latest addition to his clinic. At the time, no one could possibly have predicted that three or four years down the road, that same barn would be the site of its owner’s death. And not just death, either, Joanna corrected her-self. The site of Bucky’s murder.

Joanna was so lost in contemplation of both the damaged building and her own thoughts that she almost didn’t hear Dick Voland’s question. “Are you all right?”

His sudden show of concern caught Joanna totally off balance. “I’m okay,” she answered quickly. “But you’re right, you know. All this is my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Voland returned quickly, with almost no trace of his customary gruffness. “Forget what I said earlier. Sure, it’s easy as hell to have twenty-twenty hindsight in situations like this. Our manpower’s spread way too thin to have a deputy stand around all day holding some damn protester’s hand. What’s important, though, is that we’ve got the perpetrator. It’ll save Ernie the time and trouble of going looking for him.”

Trying not to betray how much Voland’s unexpected kindness had affected her, Joanna turned away and glanced around the parking lot. “Where is Detective Carpenter, by the way?” she asked.

Ernest W. Carpenter-Ernie for short-was Cochise County ’s sole homicide investigator. “He and Deputy Carbajal are on their way back from working that natural-causes stiff up in Sunizona,” Voland answered. “According to Dispatch, they should be here within a matter of minutes. The last I heard, they were still fifteen miles out.”

At the far end of the parking lot, Bebe Noonan continued to work at calming the panicky horse. The two of them, woman and horse, were just beyond Bucky’s Ford Econoline van.

Joanna started across the parking lot, heading for Bebe. “Come get me as soon as Lowrey clears it for us to go inside.”

“Us?” Voland asked after her.

“Us,” Joanna repeated wearily.

She knew full well the need of keeping the number of crime-scene visitors to a minimum. Unfortunately, she also understood the need for people in her department and in the community at large to see her as a “real” police officer-as an active player and investigator rather than as a mere figurehead.

“If you say so,” Voland replied. Joanna could tell by the change in the tenor of his voice that he didn’t approve, but he accepted her decision without argument. “Where are you going to be?” he asked.

“Right now I’m going to go talk to Bebe,” Joanna said.

Leaving Voland alone, Joanna picked her way across the parking lot. The high heels she had worn for the board of supervisors meeting proved hazardous in the loose gravel and ankle-twisting potholes. By the time she reached the chain-link fence, Bebe had finally succeeded in calming the skittish horse. He was standing still while Bebe rested her head against his chestnut-colored neck.

Bianca Noonan was a slight, painfully thin young woman in her early twenties. Mousy hair, a slight overbite, and close-set eyes all combined to make her less than beautiful. She was crying. Her narrow, tear-stained face was smudged by smoke, with rivulets of tears cutting through the grime.

“Belie?” Joanna said tentatively.

The young woman straightened up and shot Joanna a despairing look. “Dr. Buckwalter’s in there dead, isn’t he,” she said.

“Someone’s dead,” Joanna replied carefully. “We still don’t know for sure who it is.”

“But it has to be him,” Bebe insisted. “I mean, who else could it be? Dr. Buckwalter’s van is here and he’s not. I a-ready looked through the whole clinic. He’s not in there. Not anywhere.”

“We won’t be able to find out for sure until the fire chief lets us go inside the building to check. Until we make a positive identification of the victim, it’s best not to speculate. Meanwhile, we’re going to need your help.”

Bebe nodded mutely.

“Chief Deputy Voland said you were the one who discovered the fire. Is that true?”

Bianca Noonan nodded again. “I also found the other man. When I went into the barn to get Kiddo, I stumbled over him. There was so much smoke that I couldn’t see. I fell right on top of him. At first I was afraid he was dead. The only thing I could do was grab him by one arm and drag him outside. Then I went back in for Kiddo. I saw the ambulance leave. Is the man all right?”

Joanna shook her head. “We don’t know that, either,” she said. “As soon as we hear something, I’ll let you know.”

For several seconds, Joanna and Bianca stood there in silence. “What about the clinic?” Joanna asked finally. “When you went in there, was there anything amiss-anything out of place, or else anything in there that didn’t belong?”

Bebe shook her head. “Nothing,” she answered. “As far as I could tell, everything seemed fine.”

The young woman shuddered and took a ragged breath. “I guess you could go inside and look for yourself, Sheriff Brady,” she offered. “I have the keys right here.”

“No, that’s not necessary,” Joanna said hurriedly. “We shouldn’t do that. We might inadvertently disturb some important piece of evidence. Detective Carpenter will be here in a few minutes. He’ll need to go through it, of course. Until then, however, the fewer people inside, the better. The detective will probably want to talk to you as well.”

The horse stirred restlessly. “It’s okay, Kiddo,” Bebe said, stroking the horse’s long, smooth neck. That action seemed to have as much of a soothing effect on the tearful young woman as it did on the horse.

“But I already told Deputy Voland everything I know,” Bebe objected.

“What about Mrs. Buckwalter?” Joanna asked. “Her car isn’t here in the lot. Where’s she?”

Bebe sniffed and brushed away tears. “Like I told Mr. Voland, it’s Tuesday,” she said. “Terry’s pro’ly off playing golf. That’s what she does most afternoons.”

“Where?”

“At that new place out by Palominas-the Rob Roy. She plays there three or four times a week-for sure on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays.”

Several years earlier, a wealthy and decidedly gay couple-motorcycle-riding California transplants with more money than good sense-had shown up in Cochise County prepared to buy a golf course. When their initial plan to buy one course was derailed at the last minute, they bought them-selves a chunk of cow pasture along the San Pedro River where they built a brand-new state-of-the-art course, starting from the ground up.

Locals who had grumbled and gritched and said it would never work had long since been proved wrong. Rob Roy Links-named after a gloomy biker-frequented bed-and-breakfast in Folkstone, England -had become a rousing success. Peter Wilkes, the younger of the two, served as the resident golf pro, while his partner of twenty years’ standing, Myron Thomas, along with Esther Thomas, Myron’s seventy-something mother, ran the food concessions.

The course was so well-maintained and the food so out-standing that the Rob Roy had become the county’s destination golf course and a popular watering hole/dining establishment as well. Not only had it attracted a loyal local following, it was also frequented by golf-crazy touring gays who sometimes stayed for weeks at a time in one of the Rob Roy’s five stand-alone casitas.

Over time even the most recalcitrant local golfers had been won over. Members of the two vastly divergent clienteles-locals and visiting gays-mingled together in tee-time forged foursomes under the same rule that applied to the armed forces: “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” As Peter Wilkes liked to point out on occasion-the rule might be new to the army, but it was one of golf’s enduring traditions of etiquette.

“Do you want me to call out there and talk to Terry?” Bebe Noonan offered. “I could pro’ly get Mr. Thomas to go get her off the course to tell her what’s happened.”

Joanna shook her head. “Not right now,” she said. “It’s too soon. We should have some kind of positive ID before we do that. Even if the dead man does turn out to be Dr. Buckwalter, we try not to deliver that kind of news over the telephone. It’s better if someone talks to her in person.”

Bebe nodded dully while a new cloudburst of tears streamed down her cheeks. “I understand,” she said.

“Sheriff Brady,” a man called from behind them.

Joanna turned in time to see Detective Ernie Carpenter come trudging across the graveled parking lot. Dressed in his characteristic suit and tie, he carried a small battered suitcase.

“Detective Carpenter,” Joanna said. “This is Bebe Noonan, Dr. Buckwalter’s assistant.”

“The one who discovered the fire?” Carpenter asked, giving Bebe a quick appraising once-over.

When Bebe didn’t reply, Joanna answered for her. “She’s the one.”

Briskly businesslike, Carpenter looked around. “Is there a place where I could change clothes?” he asked.

This time the young woman nodded. “There’s a bathroom right inside the door at this end of the building.”

“Is it locked?”

“Most likely. I can let you in, though. I have a key.”

Leaving the tethered Kiddo on his own, Bebe led Ernie around the side of the building. Moments later she returned alone. “I still can’t believe any of this,” she said. “I’m from out in the valley,” she added. “Things like this just don’t happen out there.”

Joanna felt like telling her that in this day and age no one was immune to crime. The Noonans lived in Double Adobe, just a few miles away from the spot along High Lonesome Road where Andy Brady had been gunned down a few months earlier.

“Is Detective Carpenter the one you were telling me about?” Bebe continued. “The one who’ll be asking questions?”

Joanna nodded. “Right,” she said. “He’ll be in charge of the investigation.”

“But why do I have to answer more questions?” Bebe wailed as more tears spilled down her forlorn cheeks. “Like I said, I already told the deputy everything I know.”

Joanna tried for a reassuring snide. The realities of a homicide investigation were no doubt a long way from Bebe Noonan’s rural experience. Hoping to bolster the young woman’s morale, Joanna attempted to give her a little advance warning of what would take place.

“It will probably seem to you as though the detectives do nothing but ask the same questions over and over. It’s cumbersome, but that’s how the process works. By gathering details from everyone involved, homicide investigators eventually pull together a picture of what really happened.”

“I see,” Bebe murmured.

“Just as long as you tell the truth,” Joanna continued, “you don’t have a thing in the world to worry about. All right?”

There was a long pause. “I’ll do my best,” Bebe replied finally in a strangled whisper. “I promise I will.”

Seconds later, Detective Ernie Carpenter came striding back around the corner of the building. Most of the time, Cochise County ’s lead homicide detective looked as though he had just stepped out of a department-store window. Sometimes called Gentleman Jim Carpenter, he was forever being teased by his fellow officers for conspicuous overdressing. While other plain-clothes officers went for a less formal look with sports coats and maybe an occasional bolo tie, Carpenter customarily turned up at the office wearing brightly polished wingtip shoes, white shirt, a spotless tie, and a crisply pressed suit.

What went for office attire, however, didn’t work when it came to crime scenes. For those he always carried a little brown suitcase, one he had inherited from his wife, Rose, after her second trip to the Copper Queen Hospital to have a baby. The now battered case went with him everywhere. Called to a crime scene, a dapper Detective Carpenter would arrive, suitcase in hand. Soon he would disappear into a rest room or behind his vehicle. Minutes later, he would emerge looking more like a second-rate plumber than a fashion plate

He reappeared now in a pair of denim coveralls, serviceable high-topped boots, and surgical gloves.

“According to Ben Lowrey, we’re about ready to go in Sheriff Brady,” he said as he walked past. “Dick says you want to come along, but with all the ashes, soot, and water I hope to hell you have something else to wear.”

Having wrecked two separate expensive outfits during her first week in office, Joanna had solved the problem by ordering a full-length coat from an ad at the back of one of Eleanor Lathrop’s many back issues of Sunset magazine. The fully washable J. Peterman coat-what the ad called a cowboy duster-had arrived with sleeves that hung four inches beyond Joanna’s fingertips and a tail that dragged on the ground. Joanna’s mother-in-law, Eva Lou Brady, had cut the coat down to size and then fired up her Singer sewing machine to hem it properly. Following Ernie’s example, Joanne kept the remodeled duster, a pair of worn tennis shoes, and several pairs of thick athletic socks in the back of her Blazer at all times.

Hurrying back out to her own vehicle, Joanna pulled the coat on over her two-piece business suit. She exchanged he heels for socks and sneakers. In less than a minute she we ready to enter the barn with Ernie Carpenter and the other:

When she rejoined them, Ernie gave her an appreciative grin. “Whenever I see you in that outfit,” he said, “it make me think of those old Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns.”

“Thanks,” Joanna told him crisply. “I believe I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Her reply brought the ghost of a smile to the corners Chief Deputy Voland’s mouth, but he made no comment about Joanna’s change of attire one way or the other.

“If you’ll wait just a minute,” he said. “I’ll pass along some marching orders.” Then, raising his voice, he shouted to the parking lot at large. “Okay, folks,” he announced, “listen up.”

That was one of the reasons Joanna had kept Dick Voland on as chief of operations. His rumbled commands automatically inspired respect and attention. At the sound of his voice, all the people there-assembled deputies and firemen alike-stood still, awaiting direction.

“Until we know otherwise,” he told them, “this entire area constitutes the crime scene. That means inside the fence and along the highway outside it as well. I want the whole area searched. As soon as the fire-fighting equipment is out of here, I want the parking lot sealed off. Nobody unauthorized is to come in or out.”

Voland paused for a moment before continuing. “Deputy Hollicker.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You see that Buick parked just outside the fence?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That vehicle evidently belongs to the guy the ambulance hauled off to the hospital. I want you to make sure no one goes anywhere near it until we can have it towed away.”

Voland paused long enough to let his eyes scan across the several remaining deputies. “Deputy Pakin?” he called.

Lance Pakin separated himself from the others. “Yo,” he responded.

“I want you to get on down to the hospital. Whenever this Morgan character comes out of the emergency room, you’re to keep an eye on him. Just in case he has some kind of miraculous recovery and they release him, I want you to stick to him like glue. If they admit him and put him in a room, station yourself outside his door and don’t leave until you hear from me.”

“Got it,” Pakin said.

“Deputy Carbajal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m putting you in charge of getting a search warrant for the Buick. Talk to Pakin and get the details from him about what went on here this morning. That should be enough to show probable cause. When you finish up with that, I want you to take charge of the evidence search, but the warrant comes first, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

With those details handled, Voland turned to Ben Lowrey. “Ready,” he said. “Lead the way.”

The four of them-Ben Lowrey, Ernie Carpenter, Dick Voland, and Joanna Brady-walked into the barn in single file. No one said a word about ladies before gentlemen. Joanna was content to bring up the rear.

“The body’s all the way in the back,” Ben Lowrey explained as they went. “That’s where there was combustible fuel in the form of hay, oats, ropes, leather, and so forth. That’s also where the fire burned hottest, so be careful. We’ve still got a few hot spots back there.”

Moments later, Joanna understood what he meant. Over what had been the hottest part of the fire, the overheated metal roof had sagged and stretched under the weight of water. Here and there soot-laden water dribbled down from on high. When Dick Voland’s crisp khaki uniform took a direct hit on the shoulder, Joanna couldn’t help being grateful for the duster. A few steps later, however, a gritty drip from what was most likely the same leak hit Joanna right in the eye.

Slogging along in murky, ash-tilled water and breathing smoky air, Joanna was halfway down the barn before she smelled anything other than smoke. When she realized that the vaguely sweetish odor had to be nothing other than baked human flesh, she put one hand to her mouth to suppress a gag. By the time the others stopped walking, she pretty much had herself under control.

When Lowrey and Voland stood aside to let her move closer, she saw Ernie Carpenter crouched on his haunches some four feet from the corpse. The dead man lay face down in another pool of murky water. His clothing had been mostly burned away, but there was enough left for Joanna to see that the body was wearing boots-leather cowboy boots. As many times as Joanna remembered seeing Bucky Buckwalter, either in the clinic or out of it, he had always worn boots. Even without being able to see the dead man’s face, Joanna was pretty sure she recognized Bucky’s Tony Lamas.

“His arms may have protected his face from the flames,” Ernie Carpenter observed, “but we’ll have to see about that once we turn him over.” The detective glanced at Ben Lowrey. “Nobody moved anything, right?”

“Come on, Ernie, how stupid do you think we are?” Lowrey replied.

“Don’t get sore, Ben,” Carpenter told him. “Just checking. Everybody stays back while I take a few pictures.”

Joanna Brady was more than happy to put some distance between herself and the body while the detective began snapping photos. Standing there quietly with the flash going off periodically, all she could think of was how, mere hours earlier, this lump of charred flesh had been a living, breathing human being, taking care of day to-day business. Now the man lying lace down in the puddle was giving a whole new meaning to the term “ashes to ashes.”

“When you finish that, you may want a picture of this, too,^” Ben Lowrey said.

“What is it?” Carpenter asked, clicking the camera without looking away from the body.

“I’d say it’s melted wax. Paraffin,” Lowrey answered. “It could be that a candle, or candles, were left burning in loose hay. That could have been what was used to start the fire. The bales would have been slow to start because they’re packed so tight, but once they get going, they burn like mad.”

“Why would someone use candles to ignite a fire?” Joanna asked. “Why not light a match?”

“To give the arsonist time enough to get the hell out of the way,” Dick Voland answered. “That way he could be long gone before the fire was ever discovered. The candles were probably already burning when Bebe Noonan showed up for work, but she didn’t see smoke until much later, when the hay actually caught fire.^”

Ernie Carpenter turned away from the body long enough lo look where Ben Lowrey was pointing. After taking a picture of the grayish, soot-covered lump on the floor, he picked it up, stuffed it in a glassine bag, and slid it into the side pocket of his shabby overalls while Joanna found herself wishing that some of her insurance sales experience had included the rudiments of arson investigation.

Meantime, Ernie looked questioningly around the remains of the shed. “But where would the killer get candles till here in the middle of a barn?” he asked finally.

“Maybe they came from HaI Morgan’s car,” Joanna suggested quietly.

All three men turned at once lo look at her. “Why do you say that?” Ernie Carpenter demanded.

“Because I remember Bucky saying something about Hal Morgan holding a candlelight vigil last night out in front of the animal clinic.”

“Hot damn!” Carpenter exclaimed. “With any kind of luck, there’ll be one or two left so we can do a chemical comparison. Getting a match will go a long way toward helping build our case.”

He turned to Lowrey. “Give me a hand here, Ben. Let’s turn this guy over and make sure who he is.”

With Ben managing the feet and Ernie taking the body by the shoulders, they turned the dead man onto his back. As soon as they did so-as soon as Joanna saw the man’s face-she knew that everyone’s initial suspicions had been con-firmed.

Dr. Amos Buckwalter, also known as Bucky, was as dead as he could be.