Shoot / Don't Shoot

It was only a vague hunch. Certainly there was nothing definitive enough about the niggling question in Joanna’s head to justify dragging Carol Strong into the discussion. At this point, the possible connection between this new case and the others was dubious at best. But if Joanna could coin up with a solid link between them .. .

Purposefully, Joanna hurried across the room and retrieved the telephone book from the nightstand drawer. Her experience at the jail on Monday, where she had fought her way up through the chain of command, had convinced her there wa­s no point in starting at the bottom. She called the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department and asked to speak with the sheriff himself.

“Sheriff Austin is on the other line,” the receptionist said. “Can I take a message?”

“This is Sheriff Joanna Brady,” Joanna answered “From Cochise County. If you don’t mind, I’ll hold.”

Wilbur Austin came on the line a few moments later. “Well, hello, Sheriff Brady. Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, but I’m sure we’ll run into one another at the association meeting in Lake Havasu in February. I hear you’ve been having all kinds of problems with this session at the APOA. Someone mentioned it today at lunch. I just heard about it’ this afternoon. It’s a damn shame, too. Dave Thompson was a helluva nice guy once upon a time. Went a little haywire, I guess, from the sound of things.”

A little haywire? Joanna thought. I’ll say! But she made no verbal comment. Wilbur Austin’s stream-of-consciousness talk button required very little input from anyone else.

“I heard, too, that you visited my jail here the other night. Hope my people gave you whatever assistance you needed. Always glad to oblige a fel­low officer of the law. Had a few dealings with poor old Walter McFadden from time to time.... “

Austin’s voice trailed off into nothing. Joanna waited, letting the awkward silence linger for some time without making any effort to fill it. Her father had taught her that trick.

“If you run into a nonstop talker and you need something from that person,” Big Hank Lathrop had advised her once, “just let ‘em go ahead and talk until they run out of steam. People like that gab away all the time because they’re afraid of the silence that happens if they ever shut the hell up. If you’re quiet long enough before you ask somebody like that for something, they’ll break their damn necks saying yes.”

The heavy silence in the telephone receiver set­tled in until it was almost thick enough to slice. “What can I do for you, Sheriff Brady?” Wilbur Austin asked finally.

“I’d like to speak to the lead investigator on the Rhonda Weaver Norton homicide,” Joanna said.

It worked just the way Big Hank had told his daughter it would, although Austin was cagey. “This wouldn’t happen to have any connection with your visit to my jail the other night, would it?” he asked.

“It’s too soon to tell,” Joanna admitted. “But it might.”

“Well, that’ll be Detective Sutton,” Wilbur Austin said. “Neil Sutton. Hang on for a minute, I’ll give you his direct number.”

“Thanks,” Joanna said.

Moments later, after she dialed the other number, Detective Sutton came on the line.

“Neil Sutton here,” he said.

“This is Joanna Brady,” she returned. “I’m the new sheriff down in Cochise County. Sheriff Austin told me to give you a call.”

“Oh, yeah,” Neil Sutton said. “Now that you mention it, I guess I have heard your name. Or maybe I’ve read it in the newspaper. What can I do for you, Sheriff Brady?”