“Hi, Norm,” she said. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Thanks for stopping by, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “Won’t you have a seat?”
She didn’t want to have a seat. Summoning her away from another function seemed incredibly rude. Not wanting to create a scene, however, she did as he asked and slipped onto the banquette across from him.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” she said. “I’m due back in the other room.”
That should have been enough of a hint, but Norm didn’t take it. Instead he sampled another sip of beer.
“I knew your father,” he said.
That was hardly surprising. In its copper-mining heyday, Bisbee’s population had topped out at around sixteen thousand. Once the mining activity disappeared, so did half of the population. In a town of eight thousand people, everyone pretty well knew everyone else.
“Old D.H. was a good guy,” Norm added. “Someone you could count on. I miss him.”
It didn’t seem likely that Norm had summoned Joanna into the bar to reminisce about her father.
“I miss him, too,” she said.
“But you’re a sheriff now, just like he was. DNA’s odd that way,” he added. “I studied to be a mortician and so did both my boys. Now it’s my grandson. Third generation.”
So? Joanna wanted to say, but she didn’t. Norm was clearly working his way up to something. She needed to let him do it at his own speed.
“In this kind of a business climate, when you’re trying to keep the wolf from the door-from the whole family’s door-you sometimes do things you’re not proud of,” Norm said. “You do things you would never do under ordinary circumstances.”
Joanna maintained her silence.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what?” he asked.
“I don’t need to,” she said. “It’s what you came here to tell me.”
Norm nodded. “You’ve met Alma DeLong?”
For the first time Joanna understood that the conversation had nothing to do with Delcia’s cut-rate arrangements for her sister-in-law’s funeral.
“Yes,” Joanna said noncommittally. “I’ve met her.”
“Not a nice person.”
“Not nice,” Joanna agreed.
“Forceful, though,” Norm said. “Very forceful, and a good saleswoman. Knows how to overcome objections.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Joanna said.
“I do,” Norm said mournfully. “That’s how I got into this mess.”
“What mess?”
“The group-sales agreement with Caring Friends. When clients check into her facility, they have a section of paperwork that deals with End of Life Arrangements. If the family doesn’t have a personal preference, they can simply agree that Caring Friends will handle things, which means that, for a steep discount, we get the business.”
“That may be goulish,” Joanna said, “but it doesn’t sound illegal.”
“Have you ever met my grandson, Derek?” Norm asked.
“A few times,” Joanna said. “Didn’t he play basketball in high school?”
Norm nodded. “Won a basketball scholarship to ASU. He dropped out after his freshman year, though. Now he works in the family business. And that’s why I’m here.”
He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a camera memory card, and put it down on the table. He studied it in silence for a time before shoving it in Joanna’s direction.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Last fall my boys…” He paused and then specified, “my sons and I went deep-sea fishing down at Guaymas.”
He seemed to be wandering off on yet another tangent. Joanna wanted to grab him by the shirt, shake him, and say, “Get to the point!” Once again she kept still.
“We were gone for five days,” Norm said. “Came home with a whole carload of red snapper. But it was the first time we left Derek on his own. Left him in charge.”
“And?” Joanna prodded.
“While we were gone, he had a call from Caring Friends, from Alma DeLong. She said one of their clients-a woman named Faye Carter-had died. When Derek went to pick up the remains and bring them back to town, Ms. DeLong presented him with a signed death certificate, but she seemed quite anxious to have things handled in an expeditious fashion. She showed Derek paperwork that indicated it was the family’s wish to have Faye cremated and that there was to be no service whatsoever. Ms. DeLong told him that she’d come pick up the cremains the next day. But when Derek brought the body back to the mortuary, this is what he found.” Norm nodded grimly in the direction of the memory card.
“Derek took photos?” Joanna asked.
“They’re pretty graphic,” Norm said. “Of course, if you’re accustomed to seeing autopsy photos…”
Joanna picked up the memory card and slipped it into her pocket.
“But Derek also knew Ms. DeLong was a good customer of ours. Since none of us was on hand for a consultation, he decided on his own to take the pictures, but he also did what she wanted him to do. Faye Carter was cremated the very next day. Her ashes were turned over to Caring Friends.”
“And the photos?”
Norm shook his head. He seemed close to tears. “That’s the bad part,” Norm managed. “Derek gave them to me. I was shocked when I saw them. Appalled, even. With elderly bedridden patients, there are bound to be bedsores occasionally, but this was dreadful. Criminal.”
“What did you do?” Joanna asked.
“I’m ashamed to say I did nothing,” Norm said. “I took the photos from Derek. I told him I’d handle it and report it to the proper authorities, but I never did. I didn’t want to rock the boat. Then I heard about Philippa Brinson. I knew Philippa Brinson from years ago, and I couldn’t stand the thought that if she hadn’t run away, Alma DeLong and her people might have done the same thing to her. It took a day or so for me to work up my courage to do something about it, but I did, and now you have them.”
And if you had spoken up earlier, Inez Fletcher might not be dead right now, Joanna thought in sudden fury. But there was no need for her to say it aloud. Norm Higgins knew it all too well.
“Thanks for your help,” Joanna said, getting to her feet. “We’ll take it from here.”
“Will this be enough to put her in jail?” Norm asked hopefully.
“I’m not so sure about jail,” Joanna said. “That’s best left up to a judge and jury, but if it’s as bad as you say, it should be enough to shut her down.”
“I hope so,” Norm said plaintively.
So do I, Joanna thought.
I seem to remember that sometime in the not-too-distant past I hated computers. And there are times when I admire people like Warden Willison and Harry I. Ball, who prefer keeping records on paper; but from a law enforcement standpoint, computers are amazing. Databases are amazing. Search engines are amazing. Back at the sheriff’s department, we went to the Records Department, where a clerk put in three separate fields in the Department of Licensing database-Hummer, yellow, and Miguel. Within seconds, out popped a name-Miguel Escalante Rios, with what turned out to be a waterfront address in Gig Harbor just up Highway 16 from Tacoma.
When we went looking for Mr. Rios’s rap sheet, what we found was interesting. He had several convictions in his early twenties-grand theft auto, several drug-related offenses, and pimping, but those convictions were all nearly thirty years old. The most recent incident was a domestic-violence arrest three years ago, one in which charges were dropped when the wronged wife refused to take him to court. The mug shot from that arrest showed a handsome enough Hispanic man somewhere in his fifties. Only in profile could you see the vicious scar that ran down one side of his face where he was missing a good part of his right ear.
