A SQUAWK FROM SAGE OVER THE NANNY CAM BROUGHT JOANNA wide awake at six the next morning. Once Tom Hadlock had left, she’d stayed up late enough for one more feeding, but given the fact that it had been nearly midnight by then, Joanna felt totally sleep deprived as she staggered into the kitchen.
Holding Sage in her left arm and pouring milk and cereal with the other, Joanna managed to get both kids fed at more or less the same time. Since Sage showed no inclination toward going back to sleep, Joanna wrapped her in an extra layer of blankets and then carried her outside in a sling while she and Denny did the morning chores. Afterward she sat down to enjoy a double miracle. Now that she was no longer pregnant, she could drink coffee again without turning green at the very thought of it. And with Sage finally back asleep and Denny playing outside, Joanna was able to drink it while it was still hot. That was when Butch called.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I’m feeling downright pioneerish,” she told him with a laugh. “You should have seen me outside this morning, feeding the horses and cattle and carrying Sage around in a sling. The only thing missing was a sunbonnet, although it was pretty frosty here last night, and it’s way too cold for sunbonnets this morning. How are things with you?”
“Wondering if I should tell you about this or not,” he said.
He sounded troubled, and Joanna felt a tug of worry. “Tell me what?”
“The hostess who drove me back and forth to the library last night tried to put the moves on me.”
That wasn’t at all what Joanna had been expecting, and she had to stifle the urge to giggle. “You’re kidding. Really?”
“Really,” Butch replied, “and it wasn’t funny, either.” The way he said it made Joanna wonder if maybe he’d heard a hint of that stifled giggle after all.
“All through dinner she was groping my thigh under the table,” Butch continued. “And after the event she wanted to stop by the hotel so we could have a beverage—wink, wink, in case I wasn’t getting the message. I finally got rid of her by telling her my wife had had a baby just two weeks ago. So we’re a real pair, Joey—you’re a modern-day pioneer, and I’m a late-breaking sex object.”
The words “sexual-assault victim” flashed through Joanna’s head, although she understood full well that victim status in those kinds of situations was anything but a two-way street. Butch sounded genuinely troubled about what had happened, but since he seemed prepared to take a light-handed approach, so did Joanna.
“It was probably that shiny bald head of yours that got her attention.”
“Maybe so,” Butch replied. “But I’m guessing no male authors—young or old, bald or not—would be safe within reaching distance of that literary dragon lady. And, of course, if I tried to call her on it, the situation would immediately devolve into one of those ‘he said/she said’ things, and I’d end up being turned into the villain.”
“Sorry,” Joanna agreed, knowing all too well that what he said was true. No matter what, any kind of sexual interaction would be presumed to be the man’s fault.
Once he finished letting off steam, they talked awhile longer, with Joanna bringing him up to date on the latest about both the kids and the case before Butch had to head for the airport to catch his flight to Albuquerque. As the call ended, another one came in—this one from Tom Hadlock.
“Struck out with the FBI’s SAIC up in Tucson,” he said. “Whipple gave me the runaround. Said he’d need to have more information before he’d be able to request the assistance of a profiler from D.C.”
“What kind of information?”
“He was a little vague on specifics—autopsy reports, I suppose, along with crime-scene photos, notes from our investigating officers, that sort of thing.”
“No real sense of urgency, then?” Joanna put in.
“Hardly.”
“Did you mention our concern about the possibility of additional victims?”
“I did,” Tom said dejectedly, “and it didn’t make a lick of difference with the alphabet-soup guy. He said to send him what we have tomorrow. He’ll make a determination at that time, which translates to when he’s damned good and ready.”
Just then Joanna caught sight of the book Denny had left lying on the coffee table. It was one of his favorites—The Little Engine That Could.
“Let me take a crack at it,” Joanna said.
“Good luck,” Tom countered, “but I doubt Whipple will listen to you, either.”
“I’m not going to talk to Ted Whipple,” Joanna told him. “Are you familiar with the story of the Little Engine That Could?”
“I guess,” Tom admitted, “from back when I was a kid. Why? What does that have to do with Ted Whipple?”
“The train can’t get over the mountain to Yon because its engine has broken down. Everybody else is ready to give up, except for the clown. He keeps right on asking one engine after another for help, until somebody finally agrees to give it a go.”
“Who are you gonna call?” Tom asked. “Agent Watkins?”
“For starters,” Joanna replied.
“Good luck, then,” Tom said. “Let me know how it turns out.”
It was almost ten in the morning by then, late enough on a Sunday for an incoming call to be considered civilized.
Robin answered on the second ring. “Hey, Joanna,” she said. “How’s it going? I just got back from my morning run and saw on the news ticker that you’ve had some excitement down your way—that your people are investigating a multiple homicide. You’re still on leave, right?”
If the dump-site story was already showing up on a Tucson-based news feed, that meant word was definitely getting out. No doubt Marliss Shackleford had been working overtime.
“Correct on all counts,” Joanna said. “I’m on leave, and my people have their hands full dealing with a multiple homicide. We’ve located a dump site that contains the remains of several victims.”
“A serial killer, then?” Robin asked.
“That’s how it looks,” Joanna answered. “Most of the remains have been out in the elements long enough so all that’s left is skeletal. One, however, is much more recent—a couple of days old at most. According to the M.E., we’re looking at a Hispanic girl, most likely in her mid- to late teens who was thirteen weeks pregnant at the time of her death. Dr. Baldwin says she was severely undernourished and had evidently been subsisting on a steady diet of dry dog food.”
“Cause of death?”
“Asphyxiation, most likely, combined with hypothermia. The M.E. found evidence that suggests the victim had been locked in a freezer.”
Robin gave a low whistle. “What about the other victims?” she asked. “Did they die the same way?”
“One of them probably died of a gunshot wound to the head. Jury’s still out on the other two. As I said, those are skeletal remains only, and the M.E. is going to have to jigsaw the pieces back together in order to learn more.”
“I’m betting that most of the victims will turn out to be young and female,” Robin suggested.
“That’s my guess, too.”
“And you’re thinking of asking the Bureau for help?”
“More than just thinking,” Joanna replied. “The question has been asked and answered. Tom Hadlock already tried calling Ted Whipple and got nowhere fast.”
“Not surprising,” Robin replied. “Ted Whipple is one of those chain-of-command kind of guys who doesn’t make a move until all the t’s are crossed and i’s are dotted.”
“We weren’t really looking for additional manpower,” Joanna told her. “All we wanted was access to a profiler, someone who might be able to tell us what kind of person we’re looking for and point us in the right direction.”
“What do you have so far?”
“The dump site is in a remote location, one that would be known to locals but not so much to outsiders.”
“You’re thinking the perpetrator is one of your own?”
“Yes, someone who lives around here and can come and go and operate under the radar without arousing any suspicion. During the autopsy of the most recent victim, Dr. Baldwin noticed internal bruising to a lower leg that would indicate the victim had been held in restraints for a considerable period of time. Our biggest concern right now is that he might be holding additional captives. Once he knows we’re working his dump site, chances are he’ll—”
“Get rid of them and then bail,” Robin concluded, “which means you can’t afford to wait around for crossing t’s or dotting i’s.”
“Exactly,” Joanna said.
“You may have come to the right place,” Robin said after a moment. “One of my good friends happens to be just what you’re looking for—an FBI profiler. Her name is Rochelle Powers, and we were roommates back at the academy in Quantico. By some strange coincidence, she’s currently in Arizona, visiting her folks, who live in Scottsdale. We were planning to get together while she’s here. Would you like me to give her a call?”
“Would you?”
“I’m happy to, but how will this kind of back-door arrangement go over with your acting sheriff?” Robin asked.
“Tom Hadlock won’t mind,” Joanna said. “As I said, he already took his own shot at Ted Whipple and got nowhere.”
“Tom Hadlock?” Robin inquired. “Isn’t he the chief deputy who was running the show the night you were in so much trouble?”
“One and the same,” Joanna answered.
“Cool guy,” Robin said. “Everybody seemed to think he was in over his head, but he came through that whole mess like a champ.”
“He’s doing the same thing now,” Joanna said. “Sticking him with a multiple homicide means throwing him into the deep end. He’s swimming like crazy, but he asked me for some logistical support, and that’s why I called you.”
“Fair enough,” Robin said. “Is it all right, then, if I give Rochelle your phone number?”
“By all means.”