Tight-lipped, Leann didn’t answer. Instead, she flipped the opened newspaper across the table. “It’s the lead story,” she said. “Page one.”
Joanna picked up the paper. The story at the top of the page was datelined Tempe.
The battered and partially clad body of a woman found in the desert outside Carefree last week has been identified as that of Rhonda Weaver Norton, the estranged and missing wife of Arizona State University economics professor, Dr. Dean R. Norton.
According to the Maricopa County Medical Examiner’s Office, Ms. Norton died as a result of homicidal violence. The victim was reported missing last week by her attorney, Abigail Weismann, when she failed to show up for an appointment. When Ms. Weismann was unable to locate her client at her apartment, the attorney called the Tempe police saying she was concerned for Ms. Norton’s safety.
Two weeks ago Ms. Weismann obtained a no-contact order on Ms. Norton’s behalf. The court document ordered her estranged husband to have no further dealings with his wife, either in person or by telephone.
Reached at his Tempe residence, Professor Norton refused comment other than saying he was deeply shocked and saddened by news of his wife’s death.
The investigation is continuing, but according to usually reliable sources inside the Tempe Police Department, Professor Norton is being considered a person of interest.... see Missing, pg. B-4.
Instead of finishing the article, Joanna looked up Leann Jessup’s pained face.
“I took the missing person call,” Leann explained. “Afterward, I checked the professor’s address for priors. Bingo. Guess what? Three domestics reported within the last three months. The son of a bitch killed her. He probably figures since he’s a middle-aged white guy with a nice time and a good job, that the cops’ll let him off. And the thing that pisses the hell out of me is that he’s probably right.”
“Three separate priors?” Joanna asked. “When the officers responded each of those other times, was he ever arrested?”
“Not once.”
Leann Jessup’s attractive lips curled into a disdainful and decidedly unattractive sneer. “Are you kidding? You read what he does for a living.”
Joanna consulted the article to be sure. “He’s a professor at ASU,” she returned. “What difference does that make?”
“The university is Tempe’s bread and butter. The professors who work and live there can do no wrong.”
“Surely that doesn’t include getting away murder.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it if I were you,” Leann answered bitterly. As she spoke, she thumbed through the pages until she located the continuation of the article. “Do you want me to read aloud?” she asked.
Joanna nodded. “Sure,” she said.
Lael Weaver Gastone, mother of the slain woman, was in seclusion at her home in Sedona, but her husband, Jean Paul Gastone, told reporters that women like his stepdaughter—women married to violent men—need more than court documents to protect them.
“Our daughter would have been better off if she had ignored the lawyers and judges in the court system and spent the same amount of
