a DNA sample.
Brandon walked through one door into a locked entry. While waiting to be buzzed in through a security door, he studied a reader board that listed the names of staff doctors and field investigators. Of those, he recognized only one-associate medical examiner Dr. Frances Daly. Brandon remembered Fran Daly as a brash young woman fresh out of school and just starting her first job. At the time, female MEs had been rare. No one had thought Fran Daly would last, but she had-lasted and thrived. She had moved up through the ranks and was now second in command.
“Yes?” a voice asked over an intercom. “May I help you?”
Brandon knew to start at the top, or close to it. “I’m here to see Dr. Daly,” he said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. I’m a friend. Name’s Brandon Walker.” The disembodied voice sounded too young to remember that someone named Brandon Walker had once been sheriff of Pima County.
The lock buzzed. Brandon let himself inside. In the old days he had come into the place via this back door-the official cop entrance-but the office had seemed larger then. Now it was cluttered with a collection of apparently new and old desktop computers that covered every available surface. Behind the counter stood a young woman about Lani’s age. Her face was marred by a series of piercings-lips, nose, and chin. The gold and silver studs stuck in her flesh made Brandon’s heart flood with gratitude that Lani had so far avoided body piercings-at least ones her father could see.
“I’ll see if Dr. Daly is available,” the young receptionist said. “What’s your name again?”
“Walker,” he repeated patiently. “Brandon Walker.”
He half expected to be left cooling his heels. Instead, bare moments later, Fran Daly burst into the outer office. If anything, her colorful cowboy shirt was more outrageous than ones she’d worn years before. Her snakeskin boots were far more expensive than those she had worn in the old days.
“Why, Sheriff Walker,” she said, flashing him a gap-toothed smile and giving his hand a powerful shake. “It’s been years. How good to see you again! What can we do for you?”
The young woman had returned to her place behind the counter and was watching the meeting with undisguised interest. Although gratified by Dr. Daly’s enthusiastic greeting, Brandon wasn’t eager to discuss the corpse in his car within the young clerk’s earshot.
“Good to see you, too,” he said. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss this in private.”
“Of course.” She ushered him out of the lobby and into a corridor that stretched deep into the interior of the building.
“It’s good you caught me when you did,” she said. “I have an autopsy scheduled in a few minutes. If I’d started that, I’d have missed you. We’re shorthanded at the moment. A number of our people are in the reserves and have been called up for active duty. I hope to God their skills won’t be needed as much as some people think.”
Although Brandon had dealt with Fran Daly in the past, this was the first time he had ever ventured into her private domain. The room had no outside windows, but it was a surprisingly cheerful place, painted with colors that weren’t on any officially approved palette for decorating drab governmental facilities. One wall was dominated by a glass-fronted case full of rodeo-related trophies that dated from the late seventies and recounted Fran’s riding and roping prowess. Looking from the trophies to Fran Daly, Brandon saw her manner of dress in a whole new light.
“I had no idea you were into rodeo,” he said.
“It’s one of those things I never got over. I still compete occasionally, but it gets harder all the time.” She sat at a battered wooden desk and motioned Brandon into a chair. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“I’ve got a problem,” he said. “There’s a coffin in my car, a coffin containing whatever’s left of a fetus from thirty-two years ago. It’s been buried out on the reservation between then and now.”
Fran Daly was suddenly all business and all interest. “What’s the deal?”
“We’re attempting to identify the father.”
“With decomposed DNA,” Fran said, nodding. “Was the body embalmed or not?”
“I don’t know,” Brandon said. “The mother was murdered. The fetus was examined in hopes of identifying the father and perhaps the perpetrator. The grandmother has no idea what was done to the body prior to its being returned to the reservation for burial.”
“What’s your connection to all this?” Fran asked.
“The case was never solved. The murdered girl’s mother-the baby’s grandmother-has asked an organization I’m affiliated with to see if we can find out what happened.”
“I’ve heard of that,” Fran said. “What’s it called-T. L. Something?”
“Right,” Brandon supplied. “TLC-The Last Chance. Emma Orozco, the grandmother, came to TLC for help. She also had the coffin exhumed and brought it to me.”
“In other words, this isn’t an official Pima County case,” Fran said.
“That’s right. It’s cold and not being actively investigated by anyone but me.”
“Given that, I doubt I could devote any time or people to this. Plus, if the tissue was embalmed, obtaining definitive results may not be possible. Besides, DNA testing is expensive.”
“A company in Washington State will do the actual testing,” Brandon interjected. “I’m asking you to attempt to collect a nonstandard tissue sample. If you’ll agree to try, I’ll have Genelex send you a collection kit.”
For a moment, Fran Daly sat with her fingers templed under her chin. Finally she made up her mind. “Where’s the coffin now?” she asked.
“Out front,” Brandon said. “In the back of my Suburban.”
Fran sighed. “Bring it around to the side door. I’ll have one of my assistants check it in.”
“Much appreciated. Should the collection kit be sent to your attention?”
Fran Daly nodded. “Yes, but we’ll only work on this as time permits. One thing for sure, though: If you’re looking to establish a chain of evidence…”
“How about we go for results first and worry about the chain of evidence later?” Brandon asked.
“You bet,” Fran replied with a smile. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re still the boss.”
J. A. Jance
Day of the Dead
Twenty-Two
Brian’s initial call to Yuma didn’t go well. It took hardly any time at all for him to figure out Lieutenant Jimmy Detloff of the Yuma County Sheriff’s Department was a jerk.
“That hacked-up UDA?” he returned when Brian inquired about the girl whose body had been found in a trash bag not far from a rest area on Interstate 8. “Why are you asking about her?” Detloff continued. “That case happened years ago.”
“We have reason to believe it’s happened again,” Brian returned. “AFIS got a hit. A fingerprint on a new case matches one from the garbage bag your victim was found in.”
“Oh,” Detloff said. “I remember that now. Our new little fingerprint gal was really proud of herself for finding it. We’d just gotten our AFIS computer up and running. She was all hot to trot to put that one print into the system. Didn’t do any good. Nothing came of it at the time.”
It has now, you creep, Brian thought. He said, “What did you come up with?”
“On that case?” Detloff said. “Not much.”
“You never identified any suspects?”
“Are you kidding? We never identified the victim, to say nothing of a suspect. Like I said, she was a UDA. They die like flies around here, especially in the summer, and who cares? If we tried to track down what happened to every damned wetback who ends up in the wrong place at the wrong time, we’d never get anything else done. End of story.”
A creep and a bigot! Brian thought. “Not quite the end,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate having a faxed copy of the file-including the autopsy results-as soon as you can send it to me. I have the AFIS summary, but I need the rest.”
Detloff sighed. “That’ll take time. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get around to it. I have other cases to deal with-current cases.”
“I’m sure you do,” Brian said. There was no sense pissing him off. “Whenever you get around to it will be
