Devil’s Claw

“He was just a regular kid,” a tearful principal was saying into the microphone someone had shoved in his face. “Something of a loner, but he never gave his teachers any trouble. This just came at us out of the blue, with no warning.”

“See there,” Wayne said. “Now they’re turning school buses into war zones. You should stop driving that thing, Aggie. The way kids are today, it’s too dangerous.”

The stricken principal’s words had already chilled Agnes Hooper’s heart. Loner, she thought. Never gave teachers any trouble.

“That’s what people say about Lucy Ridder behind her back,” Agnes said softly. “That she’s a loner.”

Wayne turned away from the blaring television set and studied his wife’s face. “Lucy Ridder,” he said thoughtfully. “Isn’t she that Indian kid who lives with her grandmother out on Middlemarch Road?”

Agnes nodded. “Lucy’s the last one off my bus in the afternoon and the first one on in the morning.”

Wayne covered his face with both hands. “Dammit, Aggie!” he exclaimed. “I wish you could quit that damned job. Just haul off and quit. Walk away from the whole stupid mess.”

But they both knew quitting wasn’t an option. Driving a school bus didn’t pay beans, but the benefits were good. And it was Agnes Hooper’s medical benefits with the Elfrida Unified School District that were keeping her husband alive.

“You know I can’t do that, hon,” she said calmly. “It’s just not in the cards.”

Wayne shook his head. “It’s not right,” he said. “I’m the one who should be out working and taking care of you. That’s how life’s supposed to be, not the other way around. The last thing you should have to do is be out dealing with a bunch of crazy kids day in and day out!”

“They’re good kids,” Agnes said soothingly, wanting to calm him down. Dr. Loomis said it was bad for Wayne to be stressed. “They’re not crazy. As for Lucy Ridder, she’s never given me a moment’s trouble.”

“Right,” Wayne Hooper said with a despairing shake of his head. “As I recall, that’s the exact same thing that principal just said about the kid who shot up the school bus back there in Tennessee-he never gave anybody a lick of trouble.”

After finding Clayton Rhodes’ body, Joanna shifted into automatic and made all the necessary calls. Once George Winfield, Cochise County’s medical examiner, had been summoned to the scene, there was nothing for her to do but wait. She did go inside the unlocked house as far as the little telephone table. There she came face-to- face with a much younger image of Clayton Rhodes in a framed, formally posed wedding picture taken of him and his late wife, Molly. Bony and bow-legged even then, Clayton looked grimly uncomfortable and out of character in a dark, double-breasted suit. The youthful, sweet-faced Molly, slender in her bridal finery, bore little resemblance to the broad-hipped, heavyset woman Joanna remembered meeting years earlier, when she had first come to High Lonesome Ranch.

Turning from the picture, Joanna donned a pair of latex gloves and rummaged through the drawer in the table until she located a small, leather-bound address book. She remembered Clayton’s daughter’s first name-Reba-but she had no idea what her married name might be. Consequently, Joanna had to page through almost the whole notebook until she finally located the name under the letter S for Singleton-Reba Singleton. The address listed was in Los Gatos, California. Jotting the address and 415 phone number down on a scrap of paper, Joanna returned the address book to the table drawer and punched up her cell phone.

“I’d like the number for the Los Gatos, California, Police Department,” she told the operator.

“The emergency number?” the operator asked.

With Clayton dead, the emergency was long over. “No,” Joanna said. “The non-emergency number will be fine.”

She spent what seemed like several long minutes waiting on hold before a desk sergeant finally took her call. “My name is Joanna Brady,” she told him. “Sheriff Joanna Brady of Cochise County in southeastern Arizona. We’ve had a death here-a man named Clayton Rhodes. I understand his daughter lives there where you are-in Los Gatos. I need someone to do a next-of-kin notification.”

The desk sergeant sounded terminally bored. “Name?” he said.

“Clayton Rhodes.”

“No. The daughter’s name.”

“Reba Singleton.”

“Address.”

“943 Valencia,” Joanna returned, followed by the 415 area code telephone number.

“You say this Singleton woman is the stiff’s daughter?”

“The deceased’s name is Clayton Rhodes,” Joanna returned sharply. “The man happened to be a friend of mine-a good friend.”

“And this is the most recent address information you have for his daughter?”

Joanna was losing patience. “It’s the one that was in Mr. Rhodes’ address book,” she answered somewhat testily.

“That may be true, but it could be out of date. The phone number is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our area code’s been 650 for years now. If the dead guy didn’t bother to fix that in his book, the address listed may be out of date as well. What did he die of, by the way-murder, natural causes, old age?”

The word “suicide” stuck in Joanna’s throat. She wanted to find a way to cushion the blow for Reba Singleton. Learning a loved one has died is hard enough. Being told that person has taken his or her own life is infinitely harder on the people left behind. Joanna had never met Reba Singleton, but already her heart ached for her. By not saying too much right now, perhaps Joanna could give Clayton’s daughter a chance to prepare herself.

“Tell Ms. Singleton that the cause of her father’s death has yet to be determined,” Joanna said. “I’ll give you several numbers where I can be reached. Or else, if she’d rather, Ms. Singleton can speak directly to George Winfield, our medical examiner. I’ll give you his office and home numbers as well. That way, once your officers have notified her, she can call one of us for more details.”

“I’m sure that’ll suit our officers just fine.”

“Will you notify me once they’ve talked to her?” Joanna asked.

“That’s not how we usually do it,” he said.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d do it that way this time,” Joanna said firmly. “Let me know one way or the other, whether your people locate her or not. I need to know either way.”

“We’re not equipped-” he began.

Joanna cut him off in mid-excuse. “And what did you say your name was?” she asked.

“Carlin,” he replied after a short pause. “Sergeant Richard Carlin.”

“Thanks so much, Sergeant Carlin. You’ve been most helpful. It’s always a pleasure to work with someone who really cares about inter-departmental relations.”

She hung up before he had a chance to reply. Then, shivering against the cold, she turned on the porch light and waited on the front steps of Clayton Rhodes’ house to see who would be the first to arrive. The winner was Deputy Debbie Howell, followed closely by George Winfield. Somehow Joanna didn’t have the heart to go back to the shed and work the crime scene. She stayed where she was and sent Deputy Howell along to assist the medical examiner and catalog evidence. Not wanting to pay any more overtime than absolutely necessary, Joanna had put off summoning one of her two homicide detectives until after hearing what the medical examiner had to say.

Sitting alone on the top step, Joanna lost track of time. She was surprised by the amount of anger she felt toward Clayton Rhodes-toward a dead man. What was happening that he would have committed suicide over it? she wondered. Was his health going bad? Did he have money worries that he never mentioned? And why the hell didn’t he tell me about it? Maybe I could have helped. Or at least been there to say good-bye.

Clayton Rhodes hadn’t given Joanna that opportunity, and right then that omission on his part seemed utterly unforgivable.

She was still lost in thought some time later when Deputy Lance Pakin showed up fresh from his traffic investigation. She directed him to assist Debbie in bagging and loading Clayton’s body into the medical examiner’s van. While the two deputies went about doing that, George Winfield came up the gravel walkway and sat down beside her. “How’s tricks?” he asked.

Dr. George Winfield was a permanent snowbird who had come to Arizona from Minnesota. Hired by the Board