Detectives Romero and Chacon met with the Missing Persons Task Force in the rectangular room at the Sheriff’s Offices next to the Santa Fe County Adult Detention Center. Arthur Chacon was in his mid-forties and had worked his way up the ladder to Chief of the Forensic Unit. He was dressed in a neatly pressed white shirt, tie and dark slacks, the standard uniform of the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s detective squad. The tips of his thin handlebar moustache were even with his earlobes. He had an avowed penchant for Tootsie Rolls.
Chacon handed out copies of all the information they had amassed, which wasn’t much. A few sex offenders were on one list, along with a couple of recently paroled inmates. There were statements from family, friends and coworkers of the missing women. Nothing of substance, nothing suspicious.
Most of the women were young, enjoyed drinking and dancing, seemed family-oriented and were gainfully employed. DNA samples from relatives were taken and sent to the lab in case there was a Jane Doe stored on a cold slab in a morgue somewhere. Photos of the missing women were included in the packet.
Missing persons bulletins with photos attached that had been sent around to Albuquerque, Las Cruces and the Four Corners area had produced no leads ... although Chacon’s office had received a tip about Charlie Cooper being seen with several of the missing women at a bar in Madrid in the past six months. He knew Charlie as a druggie who spent his time high on weed, so he was skeptical that the man was capable of any criminal act other than petty theft. Besides, of the losers who hung around the town of Cerrillos, Charlie was the only one with a job. Being a womanizer didn’t necessarily make him a suspect.
Romero had walked the perimeter of the pueblo looking for spent shell casings and reported there were none. Until ballistics had been completed on the bullet removed from McCabe’s shoulder, they wouldn’t know the caliber of the weapon used. He wouldn’t be surprised if Charlie wasn’t the shooter. He figured Charlie was a crack shot, and if he wanted McCabe dead for any reason, he would be dead. Jemimah Hodge had reviewed the case. He wondered if she had come up with anything. He dialed her number. She picked up on the first ring, before he had a chance to figure out if he was calling her to talk about the case or if he just wanted to hear her voice.
“Yes, hello Rick. I saw your number on Caller ID. What do you need? I’m in the middle of something.”
“Jem, I’m at the Indian Ruins and since it’s not too far from your place, I thought maybe you could drive over.”
“Have you discovered something I should know about?”
“No, I just wanted to compare notes. See if maybe we can shed a little light on the case. I’d like to close it up at some point.”
“I don’t think that a good idea right now.”
“Hey, you didn’t think this was personal, did you? It’s business.”
“I’m working on a case that needs my full attention. I can stop by your office in the morning and we can discuss it then.”
“Does that case you’re working on happen to have a State Policeman attached to it?”
“Go to hell,” she snapped. There was a lull at the other end, and she added, “Look, I’ve been wanting to go out to the ruins myself. Probably do that sometime tomorrow to take another look at the scene. I’ll get back to you if I discover anything new.” Jemimah knew she could have easily met him there. She was unsure how she would react to being that close to him.
Of course, he had to have the last word. “Okay, but it’s still considered a crime scene, so please document everything you do.” He hung up before she had a chance to respond that she wasn’t one of his rookie detectives and he didn’t have to lead her by the hand.