“Wait right there,” Joanna told him. “I’m on my way.”
After putting the phone down, Joanna stared at it for an indecisive moment, then picked it back up and dialed Tica’s number.
“Officer Ruiz told you what’s up?” Joanna asked.
“Yes.”
“So who all’s heading to the scene?”
19
“Detective Carpenter’s on call tonight,” Tica replied, naming Joanna’s lead homicide detective. “Dave Hollicker’s on his way. So is Casey Ledford.”
With her investigative team-a detective, her crime scene investigator, and her latent fingerprint tech-all en route, Joanna nodded. “What about Doc Winfield?” she asked.
“The ME will be heading out in a couple of minutes,” Tica replied.
“Good,” Sheriff Brady said. “So am J.”
Grabbing her purse, Joanna hurried outside. As she stepped through the door, late-afternoon heat hit her like a physical blow. Her shiny Crown Victoria was parked in a shaded spot right outside her private back-door entrance, but knowing she was headed for a less than perfect road, Joanna bypassed that vehicle. Instead, she vaulted into her much dented but entirely trustworthy four-wheel-drive Blazer. As soon as she started the engine, she turned on the air-conditioning as well, although for the first several minutes the only thing blowing through the vents was nothing but more overheated air.
Pausing for traffic at the entrance to the Justice Center, Joanna searched the sky for some sign of the few stray clouds that had poked their puny tops over the edge of the horizon earlier in the day. Now those wisps of cloud had disappeared entirely, leaving behind not so much as a single drop of moisture. Cochise County old-timers swore the rainy season always started on the Fourth of July, usually just in time to drown out the municipal fireworks display. If that was going to be the case this year, weather conditions would have to change drastically in the course of the next few days. Joanna Brady didn’t hold out much hope. The summer monsoon rains would come when they were damned good and ready and not a day before.
20
Convinced she’d encounter less traffic by going through Tombstone, Joanna headed in that direction. As she drove, her mind began sifting through the officers at her disposal and considered what additional assets she’d need at the crime scene. She clicked on her radio.
“Which deputies from Patrol are en route to the crime scene?”
“Raymond and Howell,” Tica Romero replied.
“According to Manny, we’ve got seventeen dead dogs to handle,” Joanna said. “That being the case, we’d better call out Jeannine Phillips, too.”
Jeannine Phillips was Joanna’s second full-time Animal Control officer. “We’re going to need another pair of hands. Tell her to bring along the Animal Control equivalent of body bags. We’ll need a bunch of those.”
Joanna dreaded what would happen when word of the canine fatalities leaked out. Arizona was a state where it was legal for unrestrained children to ride as passengers in the back of moving pickup trucks, but it was against the law to have an unrestrained dog riding there. Obviously the dog lobby was far more powerful than whoever was supposed to be looking out for little kids. Joanna was convinced that the deaths of seventeen dogs would create far more outrage than Carol Mossman’s apparent murder.
And, since the deaths had occurred in Joanna’s jurisdiction and on her watch, she suspected that any public outrage would be aimed squarely in her direction.
As the miles ticked by, she tried to remember the exact sequence of events in which she had first been made aware of the Mossman situation and what actions she should have or could have taken to prevent this from happening. Manny Ruiz’s initial report had shown up in a mid-June morning briefing.
21
“What’s a hoarder?” she had asked Chief Deputy Frank Montoya.
“Jeannine tells me they’re people who are a couple of bubbles out of plumb,” Frank replied. “As long as their lives are going along normally, they’re fine, but once they go off the tracks, they start ‘saving’ animals. They usually mean well, but they often end up taking in far more animals than they can care for properly.”
“And they don’t have them vaccinated,” Joanna offered.
“Because they don’t take them to see vets,” Frank added. “With that many dogs, it’s too expensive. Same thing goes for buying decent food.”
Joanna had skimmed down Manny Ruiz’s report. “It says here that the dogs seem to be well cared for.”
Frank nodded. “And when he went by that day, none of the dogs were loose. They were all in their crates in a shed. That’s why Manny issued a citation rather than taking the dogs into custody.”
“And gave her two weeks to comply,” Joanna added.
Which she probably didn’t do, Joanna thought.
As she left Tombstone on the Charleston Road and headed west, the glare of the setting sun was blinding. Even with the help of her visor and sunglasses, it was almost impossible to see oncoming traffic.
She crossed the spindly bridge across the San Pedro River—the same river Cortes had followed north in search of the Seven Cities of Gold-and turned right. She knew from Manuel Ruiz’s previous report that Carol Mossman’s single-wide mobile home was about half a mile north of the intersection. As soon as she turned off, she could see the clutch of vehicles that meant some, if not all, of her officers had already arrived.
22
