The newspaper business boomed in Santa Fe, with headlines that implied the murders had been solved. Charlie Cooper was dead. Single women breathed a collective sigh of relief. There was no deranged madman walking the streets of Santa Fe.
Voluminous files on the murder investigation sat in a neat stack on Romero’s desk. Although he felt compelled to transfer them to the Sheriff’s office, he had a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. Jemimah held fast to her belief that Charlie couldn’t be the killer. They were getting ready to meet with Sheriff Medrano to summarize the case.
Then a phone call from the Assistant ME moved the investigation back to square one. The tox screen had come back on Charlie Cooper. His blood had a high concentration of Methaqualone, better known as Quaalude, and alcohol. He would have probably been unconscious right after his knees were shot out and the bullet entered under his chin. That much Quaalude could have killed him in a few hours without anyone shooting him. It would have gone down as another accidental drug overdose.
Romero called Jemimah to give her the news. She was tempted to say, ‘I told you so,’ but held back, instead giving him a half-smile, which of course he could not see.
At ten o’clock that morning, Jemimah arrived at the law enforcement complex, flashed her badge to the guard at the gate and parked next to Lieutenant Romero’s vehicle. She walked over to him. Through his dark glasses, she couldn’t tell whether or not he was glad to see her. The fireworks between them, fueled by something neither could define, had cooled. Mainly, she felt, because they had not been thrown together much lately. She still had feelings for him but was not sure she wanted to pursue them. She felt overdressed in a dark linen suit, tailored white blouse, and black pumps, but figured that if she looked good, it enhanced her performance. The Sheriff could be a tough nut to crack and doubly tough to impress.
Romero smiled and earned an automatic response from her. They both looked neat and professional. The receptionist directed them to the Sheriff’s office. The furniture had been rearranged since the last time they had been there. Functional, but not deserving of any awards from Architectural Digest.
“Good to see you both,” said Sheriff Medrano. “Have a seat. Carmen, bring some coffee in, would you?” He looked disheveled, as though he hadn’t slept in a week.
“Lieutenant Romero, Rick, bring me up to speed on the four bodies at the morgue. What do we have so far?”
“Not a hell of a lot on the victims personally,” Romero said, “other than whatever we gathered from friends and relatives. Janet Leyba, twenty-two years old, a secretary at the Hampton Lumber yard on Alameda Street. Bernice Williams, twenty-eight, a waitress at Tesuque Lodge. Her sister said she frequently hitchhiked around town. Barbara Dunigan, twenty-two. Worked at a high-end jewelry shop in downtown Santa Fe. Last, Linda Spottsburg, twenty-three. Worked at odd jobs and lived with a guy named Bart Wolfe at Coronado Heights trailer park. He’s that fellow that got shot at the Indian ruins a while back.”
Romero looked satisfied with his recitation and seemed to be waiting for a compliment from the sheriff.
“The ME give you any idea of the time lapses between murders?” Medrano asked.
“Roughly. First victim died in December, number two in January, three and four around mid-April and June. The dates pretty much coincide with when they were reported missing.
“Anna Mali, the fifth victim, seems to be a random killing, not connected to these. Santa Fe PD has a suspect—a transient. Only been in town a few months. Rules him out on the other murders.”
Medrano thumbed through the photographs. “The victims have anything in common—tall, thin, blond, hookers, anything?”
“Only that they’re between twenty and thirty. Small, attractive women. Liked to party and spent a lot of their free time at the bar in Madrid.”
“They were all on the petite side,” Jemimah chimed in. She was feeling left out of the conversation.
Medrano walked over to the thermostat. “Kind of warm in here, don’t you think?” he said, twisting the dial. “The media’s busting with speculation, trying to incite the public, scaring them into believing a madman’s on the loose. Damn phones won’t stop ringing.”
Romero loosened his tie. “I hear you. My office is fielding calls right and left. Once Charlie Cooper’s body was found, we figured we had our killer. We were ready to close the case. But it turns out Charlie’s blood had a high concentration of drugs and alcohol. It’s likely he was murdered.”
Jemimah shot Romero a ‘get to the point’ look.
“So the killer is still on the loose?” Medrano frowned. “I can’t go into re-election with this case hanging over my head like that. Not going to bode well with the media.”
“Jemimah’s been working non-stop on this case,” Romero offered. He evidently felt she needed defending, which irritated the hell out of her, but she held her peace. “I’ll let her fill you in on what she’s come up with.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time gathering material on this case,” Jemimah said. “This is not your typical ‘mad-dog killer who’s scouring the streets looking for victims.’ These seem to be specific killings.”
“Specific, rather than random. What makes you think that?” Medrano interrupted.
“I’m thinking ‘wrong place, wrong time’ type of murders. All these women had been out with Charlie Cooper at one time or another, probably slept with him, and they all ended up dead. Why? Did he kill them? Probably not,” she said.
“That sounds pretty speculative, Miss Hodge. How do we know he wasn’t stalking them, looking for the right opportunity to kill them?” The Sheriff’s manner was impatient.
Jemimah re-crossed her legs. “Well, I don’t think he was capable of killing these women. He just doesn’t fit the profile.”
“Cooper’s that fellow that everyone thought committed suicide out at the cabin in the Sandias. Now you’re telling me we’ve got another murder on our hands?” The Sheriff shook his head.
“Looks that way, yes. When I met with the ME last week, he was leaning toward the suicide theory, but I remembered someone mentioning that Charlie was left-handed. The gun was in his right hand when he was found,” Jemimah said.
“And that proves what?” The Sheriff said.
“So they did more testing and determined that the traces of gunpowder residue on his hand were minimal. There should have been more.” Jemimah was beginning to get flustered.
“More residue? Many cases are solved with minimal gunpowder residue. It doesn’t take much. The guy might have just offed himself. People do that.” Medrano drummed his fingers on the table. “Let’s leave the technicalities to the forensics squad.”
“I think someone probably shot him then put the gun in his hand to make it look like a suicide,” Jemimah said.
Romero raised his eyebrows. This was all new to him. She looked back at him, trying not to look too smug.
“It’s all in that report I just handed you, Rick,” she said. “Sorry. We didn’t have a chance to talk about it before.”
The temperature in the room was growing warmer by the minute. Jemimah wondered if Medrano had turned the thermostat down or up. Maybe she was feeling intimidated by his questions. She fanned the lapels of her blouse.
“Dr. Hodge seems to think this is the work of a psychotic killer,” Rick Romero said. “Someone who had contact not only with Cooper but with each of the victims.”
She thought about blowing him a kiss, so grateful was she that he was siding with her.
“Where are you going with this, Miss Hodge?” Sheriff Medrano interrupted her thoughts. “Quite frankly I’m going to need a little more convincing. After all, you are the new kid on the block. I can buy speculation seven days a week for a dollar a pound.”
Jemimah pushed her chair back, almost knocking it over. She grabbed her shoulder bag and exited.