Another cloud of dust signaled the arrival of the Sheriff’s cruiser. Sheriff Bobby Medrano pulled up in his brand new Ford Cherokee, climbed out, and sauntered over to Romero, cupping a cigarette so he could light it. He had dressed hurriedly, his shirt wrinkled and half-buttoned, and did not appear to be happy. He nodded his head toward McCabe and turned back to Romero.
“Talk about getting put on the map,” he said. “This crime is already all over the news. A reporter from CNN is flying in tonight. Any idea who the victims are yet?”
“No IDs on the bodies.” Romero pulled out a cigarette. McCabe looked at him and Medrano with disdain and made a comment about littering in a historical area. Romero ignored him and went on,
“Techs haven’t had a chance to sift the scene. We need to get the bodies out of here before the media converges on the area. I’ll have someone throw up a barrier on the main road to keep spectators away. It’s private property, but who pays attention to those signs anyway?”
“Hell making the identifications without no more than we have right now,” added Chacon. “We did take DNA samples of some family members of women missing in the County. We can compare those if the ME can provide us with DNA from the bodies.”
“One step at a time. We’ll get that when the time comes,” Romero said.
“Yeah, and my wife’s going nuts right about now,” McCabe said. “If you don’t need me, I’m out of here.”
“Okay, Tim. Thanks for your help. I’ll keep you in the loop.”
McCabe waved to Jemimah and yelled, “Let’s go home.”
As he drove slowly up the hill away from the gate, Jemimah pulled in behind him. She could see gray clouds clustering over the mountains. There was a smell of moisture in the air. It would take more than a gully-washer to sweep away what they had just been through.