TOM HADLOCK HAD SPENT MOST OF HIS LAW-ENFORCEMENT CAREER running the Cochise County Jail, functioning as an administrator rather than as a patrol officer out on the streets. It was a career path that helped him enormously in handling the paperwork aspects of serving as acting sheriff, but it had left him painfully lacking in terms of actual crime-scene expertise. When it came to examining the Peloncillos dump site, he was more than happy to take his cues from people who, although theoretically his underlings, were far more experienced in the tasks at hand than he was, and he was glad they were on the job.
After determining there were no usable footprints, Dave Hollicker settled in to study and photograph the crime scene. At the point where the body was found, broken grass stems running along the top edge of the wash and continuing down the bank seemed to indicate that something heavy—the corpse, presumably—had been shoved off the edge and left to roll down the bank. There was no other trace evidence to be found—no cast-off blood, no signs of a struggle. Nearby lay two large black plastic garbage bags that also appeared to have rolled down the bank. Once Dave had completed his crime-scene photos of the body, he approached the bags. They were securely tied shut, but the side of one had torn open, with an army of ants marching purposefully in and out.
The air was so thick with the odor of dead flesh that Dave approached the bags fully expecting to find another body. Instead he used the tip of his Swiss Army knife to pry open the layer of plastic. After peering inside, he stepped away.
“What is it?” Tom called down. “Another victim?”
“Nope,” Dave replied. “Looks like somebody dumped a bunch of dead groceries. And considering where we found them, we’re going to bag ’em, tag ’em, and drag ’em back to the crime lab.”
He took a few more photos and then returned to the surface. “Okay, Doc,” Tom said to Kendra Baldwin. “You’re up.”
While the M.E. conducted her preliminary examination, there was nothing to do but watch and wait. Dr. Baldwin and Ralph Whetson had just finished zipping the corpse into a body bag when Deb Howell returned with Detectives Carpenter and Carbajal in tow.
The group gathered near the loaded body bag as the M.E. stripped off her latex gloves.
“What can you tell us?” Tom asked.
“Female,” Dr. Baldwin answered. “Most likely Hispanic, probably between fifteen and twenty years of age. It would appear that she was killed elsewhere and dumped here. No obvious cause of death at this time, but I can say she’s severely undernourished.”
“Do you think she’s a UDA?” Tom asked.
“Maybe,” the M.E. replied. “We’ll know more when I do the autopsy and get a look at her teeth. If she’s had dental work done, I may be able to tell if it’s from here in the States or from somewhere else.”
“Any items of clothing or personal effects?” Ernie Carpenter asked.
“Nothing,” the M.E. replied. “Apparently she was stripped naked before being dumped. If she had any identifying markings—tattoos, moles, that kind of thing—the scavengers took care of those. There’s a slim possibility that I’ll be able to rehydrate the tissue enough to raise a fingerprint or two, but don’t hold your breath, and even if we get a usable one, chances are her prints won’t be on file.”
“Do your best,” Tom told her, and then he turned to the Double C’s. “Here’s the deal. In addition to Jane Doe, we’ve found partial remains of at least two additional victims, and there may be even more. I want us to scour this whole area on foot and put down evidence markers wherever we find anything resembling human remains. Sheriff Brady has contacted an organization that can have a pair of cadaver dogs on the scene sometime tomorrow. They’ll be better at finding small stuff than we are, but let’s take a crack at it ourselves before we bring in the dogs. Let’s go back to the road and walk along it at three-foot intervals. Under the circumstances that’s about as close to an organized grid search as we can manage.”
Kendra and Ralph were loading the body bag into the van when a car showed up on the road. It slowed down and then stopped on the shoulder. A moment later a woman stepped out of the car and began waving frantically in their direction. “Whoohoo!” she called. “Chief Deputy Hadlock, do you have a moment?”
Even from a distance and despite the fact that she was wearing a golf visor, Marliss Shackleford’s wild mane of bleached-blond hair was unmistakable to everyone present, including Tom Hadlock. He had failed to caution Tica about putting anything out over the radios. Obviously Marliss had been listening in on her police scanner, and now she was heading for his crime scene.
“Crap,” he muttered under his breath. “What did I do to deserve this?”
“You’re acting sheriff,” Jaime Carbajal told him with a grin. “Did you maybe forget to appoint someone to take over at Media Relations while you’re pinch-hitting as sheriff?”
“Shut up, Detective Carbajal,” Tom groused at him. “Leave me alone and go look for bones. Otherwise you may end up stuck in Media Relations your own damned self.”
Pulling himself together, Hadlock sauntered over to head the reporter off. “This is a crime scene, Marliss. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Is that a body bag they’re loading?” she asked breathlessly.
“You know for a fact that I’m not able to comment on an active investigation. Once we’re ready to do so, we’ll hold an official press briefing, and you’ll be notified.”
“It looks like you’ve got the whole homicide squad out here working, and on a Saturday, too. That must be chewing up overtime like crazy, so whatever’s going on must be serious.”
“You’re welcome to draw your own conclusions, Marliss,” Tom told her. “Homicide is always a serious matter because people die. But it’s an active investigation, and I’m not talking to you about any of this right now. I suggest you climb back into that little RAV4 and head straight back to town.”
“Is the victim male or female?”
“Go!” Tom ordered.
“Is there any indication as to how that person died?”
“Get.”
“Can you tell me who alerted you to the fact that a crime had been committed?”
Fortunately, none of Tom’s interactions with the Carver family had been broadcast over the police-band radio.
“Ms. Shackleford,” he said sternly, “my officers are conducting an investigation, and you are interfering with that process. We have work to do. I strongly suggest that you get the hell out of here.”
“There’s no reason to be rude,” she told him. “And what about freedom of the press?”
“I don’t have a problem with freedom of the press as long it doesn’t interfere with our work. Now, are you going to leave on your own or do you want to spend the next half hour or so sitting in the back of one of our vehicles?”
“I’m going, Chief Deputy Hadlock,” she said, backing away, “but you’re not exactly winning friends and influencing people.”
He turned back to the crime scene, muttering under his breath as he went.
“You know what? Ask me if I care.”