“No,” Millicent Ross agreed. “I certainly didn’t. Thank you, Joanna. I owe you one.”
Joanna thought about Jenny, who wanted to be a veterinarian. Even though Jenny wasn’t yet in high school, Millicent Ross had been unfailingly encouraging about the chances of Jenny’s achieving that somewhat lofty dream.
“No, you don’t,” Joanna said. “You don’t owe me a thing.”
“I’m coming as soon as I can,” Millicent said. “Will you still be at the hospital when I get there?”
“Maybe,” Joanna said. “But it might be best if we didn’t cross paths.”
“I understand,” Millicent returned.
“But there is one other thing we need,” Joanna added. “Dr. Waller didn’t do a rape kit.”
Joanna heard Millicent’s sharp intake of breath. “You think she was raped?”
“I don’t know for sure, but performing the exam is the only way to confirm whether or not she was. And it’s also the only way to gather possible DNA evidence and photograph her wounds for the legal record. Without a signed consent form, that isn’t going to happen.”
“Believe me,” Millicent said determinedly. “There will be a signed consent form.”
“And insist they photograph whatever bruising there is and also that they do scrapings from under her fingernails,” Joanna added. “If she fought them-and from the way the truck looks, I think she did fight-there may be usable DNA material under her nails as well. The problem is,” she added, “there’s always a chance that, if word gets back to them, Jeannine’s parents will show up at the hospital after all. What you do then, I don’t know.”
“I’ll be able to handle it,” Millicent Ross returned.
Relieved that she had done as much as she could, both for Jeannine and for Millicent, Joanna put her phone away and headed back to the emergency room, where she corralled the first available clerk.
“I’m investigating that beating victim who was brought in early this morning,” she said, showing the clerk her ID. “I need the names of all the attendants who were on duty at the time she was admitted.”
“I can get you a list if you like,” the clerk said with a shrug. “But you see that guy over there-the tall skinny one?”
“Yes.”
“His name’s Horatio. Horatio Gonzales. He’s pulling a double shift right now. I’m pretty sure he was here overnight.”
Horatio Gonzales was indeed tall-six-four at least. And he wasn’t exactly skinny. Well-defined muscles showed under his hospital scrubs. “What can I do for you?” he asked when Joanna approached him with her ID in hand.
“Were you here this morning when that beating victim was dropped off?”
His dark eyes went even darker. “I was here,” he said. “She was hurt real bad.”
“What about the three men who brought her in. You saw them?”
“I guess,” he said.
“What can you tell me about them?”
Horatio shrugged. “Not much,” he said.
“Do you think they were the ones who did it?”
This time there was a spark of real anger when he spoke. “No way!” he declared.
“But if they weren’t responsible, why didn’t they stay around after they dropped her off?”
“Why do you think?” he said. “They didn’t speak much English. Maybe they were illegal or something. Or maybe they didn’t have the right kind of insurance for their vehicle or the right kind of license. I’m sure they were scared. If they’d talked to a cop, even a little lady cop like you, they might have gotten in some kind of trouble.”
On most occasions a “little lady” comment like that would have sent Joanna into a fury, but somehow, coming from Horatio Gonzales, she understood it was due to their very real disparity in size rather than a patronizing put- down. Joanna Brady was tiny compared with him.
“They wouldn’t have gotten in trouble with me,” she said. “That woman is a member of my department. They saved her life. All I want to do is thank them.”
That wasn’t entirely true, of course. Joanna
Despite ten more minutes of questioning, Hector Gonzales was unable to recall anything of use. Looking at the list of names the clerk had given her left Joanna feeling even more discouraged. The other ER attendants probably wouldn’t be any more interested in answering Joanna’s questions than Hector had been. She was standing near the entrance, thinking, when an ambulance rolled up to the door. Watching the action unfold, Joanna noticed, for the first time, the security cameras discreetly set in the supporting columns on either side of the driveway.
She turned and went straight back to the desk. “Who monitors the security tapes?” Joanna asked.
“The campus cops do that,” the clerk said. “We have nothing to do with it.”
Frank called her while she was driving from UMC to the University of Arizona campus proper. “Any luck finding the next of kin?” he asked. “The natives are restless. If I don’t give the reporters some info pretty soon, they’re going to go berserk.”
Joanna felt uneasy. Telling Millicent Ross wasn’t exactly abiding by the rules, but she had done it, and the chips would have to fall where they may. “It’s handled as well as it’s going to be,” Joanna told him. “Talk away.”
Ten minutes later she was on the U of A campus in the cubbyhole office of Captain George Winters, the man in charge of the University Police Department. “We usually have an officer stationed at the ER entrance,” he said. “Last night Dick went home sick around midnight, and we weren’t able to locate a sub on such short notice. The best I can do for you is to let you view the security tapes.”
Seated at a console, Joanna scrolled through a series of security camera videos. The time readout read 03.33.46 when a 1980s vintage Chevy LUV pickup with a camper shell over the bed pulled into view. Two people leaped out of the truck and went running inside. Moments later, in a flurry of activity, attendants-one of them clearly Horatio Gonzales-appeared pushing a gurney. It took some time for them to maneuver a blanket-swathed figure out of the pickup, load her onto the gurney, and then roll her inside.
Once the patient disappeared into the building, the three men from the pickup conferred briefly, then they all piled back into the pickup and drove away. Try as she might, Joanna was unable to make out the letters and numbers of the license plate. The image simply wasn’t clear enough. Captain Winters had given her two different tapes to review, taken via two different cameras. When she examined the second one, taken from a slightly different angle and from closer to the vehicle, she was able to read the last three numbers on the license-464-and the saguaro cactus that identified it as an Arizona plate, but the preceding part of the license wasn’t visible at all.
Captain Winters came into the room as she finished rewinding the second tape. “Did you find what you needed?” he asked.
“Some, but not all,” she answered. “Is it possible to make copies of these?”
“I don’t see why not,” he said. “It’ll take a few minutes. Maybe you’d like to come back for them later.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “I’ll wait.”
While waiting, she redialed Frank Montoya. “I’ve got a security video of the vehicle that dropped Jeannine off at the hospital, but I can’t read the whole license number-the image is too grainy. Where would you suggest I go to have the images enhanced? Should I take the tapes to the Arizona State Crime Lab here in Tucson?”
“No way,” Frank said. “Those guys are a bunch of amateurs. Go to Pima Community College, the one out on Anklam Road. One of my cousins, Alberto Amado, teaches computer science there. He does photo imaging on the side. I’ll call and see if he’s in.”
“Please do that,” Joanna said.
By one o’clock that afternoon, with Alberto’s help, Joanna was armed with the complete license number from the Chevy LUV as well as the name and address of the registered owner. She felt guilty as she called the Department of Public Safety to put out an APB on a man named Ephrain Trujillo, who listed a Douglas, Arizona, home address, but there wasn’t any choice. No doubt, Mr. Trujillo was one of the good Samaritans who had rescued Jeannine Phillips from certain death and brought her to the hospital. That meant he and his friends were the only witnesses who would be able to take Joanna and her investigators to the spot where the attack had occurred.
