Doctor Elaine Schulz stands in front of the desk in the sheriff's office, leather briefcase laid open. She's late-thirties, blonde, the lean body of a runner beneath a navy two-piece. A collection of forms and files is propped against the lid of her case.
Cole Barnhart sits on a corner of the big, oak desk.
Deputy Benita Alvarenga's side-on to a long table lining the opposite wall, pen in hand, notepad open.
The sheriff adjusts the palm straw cowboy hat, pale eyelashes blinking slowly. “Might as well get started with this. I've asked Deputy Alvarenga, as liaison, to take notes.” He looks at her. “For the record, Marshals Scruggs and Whicher are present. In addition, Doctor Elaine Schulz, responsible for the autopsies.”
“Which autopsies?” says Scruggs.
“All of 'em,” the sheriff answers. “Todd Williams, Randell Creagan. Plus the Hispanic victims at the ranch.”
Scruggs sits forward, face tight. “Creagan was discovered in Maverick County. That's a change to procedure right there, sheriff.”
“Maverick County cleared it with us,” Barnhart says.
“A different doctor attended the body out at the rail track...”
Elaine Schulz cuts in, “That was Doctor Evans,” she says, “I have all of the field notes from the scene.”
“Elaine has the full confidence of both this and Sheriff Owens's department,” Barnhart says. “Neither county's big enough to run to a permanent medical examiner.”
Scruggs sits back. Folds his arms across his chest.
Doctor Schulz picks up a typed report, streaks of color in the skin at her throat. “All of the autopsies have been completed,” she says. She skims the lines in the report. “The Hispanics recovered at the Channing Ranch had no identification on their persons. None is likely to be forthcoming.”
“We still have no ID?” Scruggs says. “None whatever?”
The sheriff shakes his head. “I done told you the first day—they weren't carrying ID. They could be from anyplace. Nobody reported them missing. Even if they did, we'd never hear about it.”
Doctor Schulz reads on. “Given the risk of contamination, the known risk of rabies at that locale, the bodies were removed as an emergency precaution—compliant with the public health guidelines currently in place...” She glances at Sheriff Barnhart.
“I stand by it.” He hutches his shoulders.
“The victims at the Channing Ranch had all been shot multiple times,” the doctor says. “Nine millimeter, soft-nosed rounds. A semi-automatic pistol. All the same gun.”
“How about Randell Creagan?” Scruggs says.
“Different gun,” the doctor answers. “Forty caliber Smith and Wesson.”
“Everybody at the Channing Ranch is killed with the same gun,” Scruggs says. “Except for Alfonso Saldana.”
The doctor looks at him. She checks her notes. “Saldana—is the fatality taken by Webb County?”
“Yes, ma'am. Presumed part of the same group.”
“He was shot with a rifle?”
Whicher answers; “High velocity full-metal-jackets. From distance.”
Scruggs raises a finger. “I put in a call to Laredo Coroner's Office. On Saldana. They didn't get any of the lead—not even a bullet fragment. They can tell he was shot to death, the number of times he was hit. But nothing else.”
Sheriff Barnhart gazes down at Scruggs. “Do you know yet where Creagan was killed?”
“Not yet.”
Benita Alvarenga reads from her notes. “The prelim from Eagle Pass crime scene was faxed down—concerning the auto yard. It's a straight negative. For the record.”
Whicher looks at Sheriff Barnhart. “I found Creagan's hunting concession this morning. He had a bunch of trailers on it. No sign of a struggle there either.”
“We need a time of death on Randell Creagan,” Scruggs says to the doctor.
“T.O.D. is going to be in a window five to six hours around the time of the other deaths,” she says. “We have to take care, temperatures here, rates of decomposition can be significantly higher...”
“On a corpse outdoors,” Scruggs says, “we know.”
“Ten hours decomposition might take place over five.”
Scruggs scowls.
“There's still a few test results to come back. We can get it narrowed down.”
Sheriff Barnhart crosses one boot over the other. “Deputy Alvarenga says you’re looking at a couple fellers in particular—Merrill Johnson and that guy Harris. Feller you arrested on the hunting charge.”
“Right,” says Scruggs.
“That done made bail...”
“Right again.”
“Are you considering the pair of 'em for your killers?”
Scruggs shakes his head. “There a possible connection with trafficking illegal aliens. Some evidence for that, so far nothing more.”
Through the sheriff's open window, the wind carries the sound of a truck horn on the main drag. Whicher thinks of Creagan, turns to Doctor Schulz. “Ma'am, the group of Hispanics at the Channing Ranch—did any toxicology test take place?”
“Tox reports can take a week or more,” she says. “They're expensive and we know they weren't poisoned. We know how they died.”
“Could you run tests?”
The sheriff looks at him sharp. “What's on your mind?”
“There's a chance the victims could have traveled north by train. With freight loads.”
“What's that have to do with toxicology?”
Deputy Alvarenga's watching from the side table, eyes still.
“Some of the loads could have been bulk chemicals.”
“This is just an idea,” Scruggs says, voice testy.
“If they traveled on loads Johnson brokered, there might be evidence of that.”
Sheriff Barnhart leans in. “Meaning what? This guy Johnson gets them up country, to the border. That what you're saying?”
“They could cross the river on their own,” Whicher says. “Hook up with hunting types that know the terrain. The US side, the man's a freight forwarder. All the rail traffic, he knows it, the road loads, the truck drivers.”
Doctor Schulz puts down the report. She folds her arms over her chest.
“Could we still run tests for toxicology?” Whicher looks at Sheriff Barnhart, avoiding Scruggs.
“Son,” the sheriff says. “I'd think that might not be real easy. We done buried the bunch of 'em yesterday...”