“Yes,” Hal Morgan said. “And at the time, I meant every word of it, but, like I said, that was before I met Father Mike.”
Another long silence followed. “Am I under arrest then? Morgan asked at last.
“No,” Joanna told him. “Not yet.”
“What’s the point of the deputy, then?”
“Some people seem to think you’re a flight risk,” Joanna answered.
“Some people,” Morgan repeated. “Like your friend Voland, for instance? What about you, Sheriff Brady? What d you think?”
For a moment, Joanna considered how she should answer. What she thought was complicated by what she felt, and what she felt was directly related to her own experience. On one side of the scale there was the far-too- blithe, wedding ring- and grief-free Terry Buckwalter. On the other was Hal Morgan, a seemingly honorable ex-cop who, almost a year later, was still grieving over the loss of his beloved wife. Terry’s reaction to Bucky’s murder was totally foreign to Joanna Brady, while Hal Morgan’s continuing anguish was achingly familiar. Based on those stark contrasts, it wasn’t too difficult to see where Joanna Brady’s sympathies might fall.
“Have you ever been in Bisbee before, Mr. Morgan?” she asked.
I le shook his head. “Never,” he told her.
“Even so,” Joanna said quietly, “you may have heard something about me and my husband.” She paused and had to swallow before she could continue. “His name was Andy-Andrew Roy Brady. He was murdered last September seventeenth. He was shot and died the next day-the day after our tenth anniversary.”
The look on Hal Morgan’s face registered both surprise and pain. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I had no idea.”
Joanna acknowledged his condolence with a nod and then continued. “His killer was a hired gun-a hit man working for a Columbian drug lord. The killer’s name was Tony Vargas.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Morgan asked.
The room became deathly silent as Joanna sought the courage to finish her story. “Vargas didn’t go to prison,” she finished at last. “He died. I killed him. I shot him.”
“You shot him yourself?”
Joanna nodded. “It was ruled self-defense, so there was never any trial, but if I had needed a defense attorney, Burton Kimball is the one I would have called.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute; a little while ago you said you believed me.”
“I do,” Joanna answered. “But just because I do doesn’t mean everyone else will.”
Hal Morgan reached out and retrieved Joanna’s business card. It was only when he was holding it in his hand, examining it, that she noticed his fingers and saw that Hal Morgan was still wearing his wedding ring. Three weeks under a year after his wife’s death, he had yet to take his off. Terry Buckwalter’s was already history. The contrast was telling.
Morgan was still looking at the card when he spoke again.
“I’m sorry about your husband,” he said. “I didn’t know.”
‘‘Thank you,” she returned.
“Is that why you’re helping me?” Hal Morgan asked.
Joanna shrugged. “Maybe,” she said, standing up. “If nothing else, I know how you feel.”
“Won’t it cause trouble for you?” he asked. “With your people, I mean?”
She smiled. “It could. On the face of it, there’s certainly potential for a conflict of interest. That’s why I’m not pulling the deputy, even though I personally don’t believe you need an armed guard.”
“It’s okay,” Morgan said. “I understand.” Then, after moment, he added, “Your homicide dick isn’t going to like it when he finds out you’ve referred me to a local defense attorney.”
“Who’s going to tell him?”
For the first time there was the slightest hint of a smile lurking under Hal Morgan’s gray-flecked moustache. “Not me,” he said, holding out his hand. “Thanks for everything.”
Joanna shook hands with him, then walked as far as the door, where she stopped, pausing with one hand on the lever. From a law-enforcement standpoint what she had done made no sense. On a personal level she was incapable of doing anything else.
“You’re welcome,” she told him. “And good luck wit Burton. He’s a good man.”
NINE
Once back in the Blazer, Joanna radioed the department and asked to be patched through to Dick Voland. “I’ve just from the hospital,” she told him.
“You went to see Morgan?”
“That’s right,” Joanna said. “And I talked to Deputy Howell, too. She’s due to get off at three. Do you have an officer scheduled to relieve her?”
“Not yet,” the chief deputy returned. “I was was waiting for marching orders from you. Now that I know you’re not pulling the guard, I’ll definitely have someone there by three.”
“Still no overtime, though, Dick,” Joanna cautioned. “I want you to utilize people from the regular patrol roster.”
“Right,” Voland agreed. “No overtime.” He paused. “I’m really glad you’ve come around to my way of thinking on this one, Joanna. I was afraid Morgan would stage some kind of miraculous recovery and just walk out of the hospital. Ex-cop or not, I don’t want to lose this guy. Neither does the county attorney.”
Dick Voland’s voice on the radio was surprisingly cordial.
No doubt that had something to do with his mistaken belief that Joanna, too, had now joined the others in their conviction that Hal Morgan had murdered Bucky Buckwalter, that the case was as good as closed. It seemed a shame to let him know otherwise.
“Where’s Ernie?” Joanna asked.
“He and Jaime Carbajal are still up at Sunizona. Things are hopping up there. Doc Winfield called a few minutes ago wanting to talk to him as well, but Ernie’s come up with some kind of hot lead in the Carruthers case. I just sent Dave Hollicker hightailing it up to Sunizona with a search warrant. It sounds like Ernie’s convinced that the daughter, Hannah Green, did her old man in. The problem is, right this minute no one can find her.”
Since Ernie already had the Carruthers autopsy results in hand before he left town, Joanna knew that whatever the coroner was calling about had to have something to do with Bucky Buckwalter.
“Doctor Winfield is done with the Buckwalter autopsy then?” Joanna asked.
“Sounds like. It’s not typed up or anything. That won’t happen until tomorrow, but Winfield was willing to brief Ernie on the results in the meantime.”
“What time will Ernie be getting back to town?” Joanna asked.
“No idea whatsoever,” Voland answered. “But most likely it’ll be late. You know what Ernie’s like once he gets his nose to the ground. I told the Doc that he probably won’t turn up any before tomorrow morning.”
That news disappointed Joanna on two fronts. For one, without Ernie talking to Winfield, the department wouldn’t have access to even the most preliminary autopsy results until noon the next day at the earliest. Not only that, if Hal Morgan’s version of the events leading rip to Bucky’s murder was correct, someone besides Morgan had visited the crime scene.
Joanna needed someone to check that out, to go canvassing the Buckwalters’ Saginaw-area neighbors searching for any kind of corroboration. She had hoped that job would fall to Ernie. But there were time constraints. The questions had to be asked while details were still fresh in people’s minds, before they forgot something they had seen without any comprehension of its potential importance. If Detective Carpenter was otherwise occupied, someone else would have to pick up the slack and do the shoe-leather work-someone from Dick Voland’s Patrol Division. That was bound to blow Joanna’s cover with her chief deputy. But that was what she’d been elected for-to
