Exit Wounds (31 page)

“Yes,” Irma said, lowering the magnifying glass. “Who are you?”

“I’m Sheriff Brady, Sheriff Joanna Brady.”

“That’s right. I remember now. Aren’t you D. H. Lathrop’s little girl?” Irma asked, peering up at her visitor.

Surprised, Joanna answered, “Yes. He was my father.”

“I’m the one who hired him to work for the company, you know, back when I was running the PD employment office. When he showed up there, your father had never done a lick of work in a mine. Everybody else said he wouldn’t last, but I had a good feeling about him. And he stuck in there—right up until he decided to go into law enforcement. When he ran for office, I was proud to vote for him. Did that every time he ran. D. H. Lathrop was a nice young man. It’s a shame he got killed the way he did. Now, what do you want?”

Joanna was taken aback, both by Irma Mahilich’s abrupt manner as well as by her unexpectedly detailed memories of D. H. Lathrop.

“I suppose you’re here to ask me more questions,” Irma continued. “They send that social worker around from time to time to bother me. She’s so young she looks like she should still be in high school. She asks me things like who’s the president of the United States and other such nonsense. I don’t know who the president is because I don’t care anymore. Those politicians are all just alike anyway. But it’s like she’s trying to find out how much I know about what’s going on around me. If I knew everything, then I wouldn’t need to be in a place like this, now would I?”

“No,” Joanna agreed. “I don’t suppose you would.”

“So what do you want?” Irma demanded again. “For Pete’s sake, spit it out, girl. And while you’re at it, have a seat. I don’t like it when people hover over me.”

Joanna sat in a chair on the opposite side of the table with a clear view of the lid to the two-thousand-piece puzzle that featured a stained-glass window in brilliant primary colors—jewel-tone blues, greens, reds, and yellows. Just looking at the tiny, intricate pieces was enough to give Joanna a headache. The round-edged border was all in place but not much else.

“We’re working on a case,” Joanna said quietly. “A homicide case. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“What homicide?” Irma asked. “Somebody here?”

“No.”

“Good. That’s a relief then. So who died?”

“Three women, actually. A woman was murdered over by the San Pedro last week. Two additional victims were found in New Mexico the next day.”

With her hand trembling, Irma picked up a piece of the puzzle and put it unerringly in the proper spot, sighing with satisfaction as it slipped neatly into place.

“That lets me out then,” she said as she resumed studying the other loose pieces. “I’ve been shut up in here for years, so I can’t possibly be a suspect.”

“No,” Joanna agreed, “you’re not a suspect, but we thought you might be able to help us find the killer. Your grandson thought the same thing.”

“Which one?” she asked.

“Bob.”

“You mean Bob Junior,” Irma said, nodding. “That boy’s always giving me far more credit than I’m due.” With that, Irma put down her magnifying glass and stared at Joanna. “Now tell me, how could I be of help?” she asked.

“All three women were murdered with the same weapon,” Joanna answered. “They were shot with ammunition that dated from 1917. We have reason to believe that the ammunition, and maybe even the weapon, may have come from a cache of weapons that was once stored in the safe in the General Office.”

“Oh, those,” Irma breathed. “The ones from the Deportation. I remember telling Mr. Frayn, my boss, at the time they opened that safe—I remember saying, ‘We need to get rid of those things, Mr. Frayn. Burn them if need be. They were bad news when they were used in 1917, and they’re bad news now.’ But Mr. Frayn—Otto Frayn, his name was—wouldn’t hear of it. ‘We’ll just hand them out to whoever wants them,’ he said, and that’s what he did. Passed them along to the people who worked there.”

“Which is why I’m here talking to you, Mrs. Mahilich,” Joanna said. “We need to know who all was working there with you at the time.”

“You should contact the company for that,” Irma said, picking the magnifying glass back up and resuming her careful examination of the puzzle pieces.

“We already tried that,” Joanna explained. “At the moment they’re unable to locate any official records that date from as long ago as 1975, but your grandson suggested we talk to you. He said you’d probably remember who worked there. Maybe you can’t remember all of them, but if you could put us in touch with one or two, perhaps those people can lead us to others.”

“I don’t suppose this can wait until after I finish the puzzle, can it?” Irma asked.

“No,” Joanna said, glancing at the empty expanse of open puzzle. “I’m afraid we need what information you can offer a little sooner than that.”

“Oh, all right,” Irma said impatiently. “You might want to go over to the desk and get me some pieces of paper and a pencil. Meet me at that table over there.” She pointed to a table in the still empty TV alcove. “That way we won’t disturb any of the puzzle pieces.”

While Joanna hustled off to the receptionist’s desk, Irma produced a folded walker from under her chair. She was just tottering up to the second table when Joanna returned. Joanna reached to help Irma onto a chair, but Irma pushed her hand away.

“Leave me alone and turn off that TV set,” she snapped. “With all that noise, I can barely hear myself think.”

Chastened, Joanna located the remote and turned off the television. Then she took a seat at the table and pushed paper and pencil in front of Irma. When she was seated, Irma once again stowed her walker, picked up the pencil and began to draw, frowning and biting her lower lip in total concentration. Joanna watched while Irma drew a series of shaky rectangles on the first sheet of paper. Then she began to label each of them.

“This is the way the desks were arranged when you first came into the building,” she explained. “It’s easier for me to remember where people were located than it is for me to remember their names. Nona Cooper sat here, for instance,” Irma said, pointing at one of the first rectangles she had drawn. “And the door was right next to her, so you had to come in past her desk. She always had a picture of her little boy on her desk. I believe his name was Randolph, but she called him Randy, and he was cute as a button. He died, though. Got drafted into the army right out of high school and died in Vietnam in 1967. Poor Nona. She never got over it. She died in ’76, just a year or so after she got laid off. Committed suicide. Can’t say I blame her.”

Joanna had her notebook out by then. Sorry she hadn’t brought spare tapes and grateful to be proficient in shorthand, she made swift notes of everything Irma said.

“Would Nona Cooper have been given one of the weapons from the safe?” Joanna asked.

Irma shook her head. “Certainly not,” she huffed. “Randy was killed by sniper fire. Nona wouldn’t have had a gun in her house on a bet.”

Joanna and Irma worked that way for the better part of an hour, with Irma drawing and labeling individual desks in the various rooms, all the while delivering thumbnail sketches of each desk’s respective occupant. Irma had begun drawing the fourth and final room when Joanna’s cell phone rang.

“What an annoying sound,” Irma grumbled upon hearing the distinctive rooster crow. “You should get yourself a phone with a nicer ring than that.”

Answering quickly, Joanna got up and moved out of earshot. “What’s up?” she asked her chief deputy.

“Fandango’s lawyer told them to go the search warrant route. Jaime’s on his way to pick up a warrant right now, then he’ll head for the airport in Tucson. He should be able to catch a flight out to L.A. this evening, but he’ll have to stay over until tomorrow morning to execute the warrant.”

“This sounds expensive,” Joanna said. “Isn’t there any other way to do it?”

“Not really,” Frank said. “For one thing, Carmen Ortega had downloaded some of what she had filmed into an attachment and e-mailed it to Fandango. We don’t have the equipment it would take to download it. For another, Fandango has a networked computer system for keeping track of calendars and expenses. Again, you have to use their equipment to access it. Not only that, if any of the threats are there, we want them to be admissible in court.”

“Okay, okay,” Joanna agreed. “I get it.”

“Dr. Lawrence, the ME from Hidalgo County, is faxing over his preliminary report, but Ernie’s been on the phone with him. Detective Carpenter is right here in my office. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Sure,” Joanna said. “Put him on.” She waited while Frank handed the phone over to Ernie. “So what does Dr. Lawrence have to say for himself?” she asked.

“It’s all pretty interesting,” Ernie answered. “Insect larval evidence would indicate that the two New Mexico victims died a week ago tomorrow.”

Joanna didn’t like to think about how succeeding generations of teeming maggots could be used to estimate the shelf life of corpses that had been left outside to rot in the elements, but she appreciated the fact that the process worked with uncanny accuracy.

“A week ago?” she asked. “On Tuesday, you mean?”

“That’s right,” Ernie replied. “The same day as Carol Mossman’s murder. What’s even more interesting is this: Both victims were evidently fully clothed when they were shot. The doc found microscopic fabric fibers in the entrance wounds on both victims.”

“You’re saying they were stripped of their clothing after they were killed?” Joanna asked.

“Yes, ma’am, and, considering the extent of the entrance and exit wounds, whoever did that job must have had an iron-clad stomach,” Ernie told her. “First they were moved—carried, most likely, rather than dragged—from where they were killed to where they were found. Then they were stripped and finally tied up.”

“How weird,” Joanna said.

“You’ve got that right,” Ernie agreed. “But Doc Lawrence says that the rope-burn chafing on both victims’ ankles and wrists is definitely indicative of postmortem injury rather than pre.”

“And if they were carried as opposed to dragged…” Joanna began.

“Then the killer is one strong dude who wants us to think we’re dealing with a sexual predator when we’re really not.”

Joanna thought about this last piece of information. “So we’re not out of line in thinking they were murdered because they were interfering where they weren’t wanted.”

“Which takes us right back to The Brethren,” Ernie agreed.

“I want you to get on the horn to the Mojave County Sheriff’s Department,” Joanna said after a moment’s consideration. “Talk directly to Sheriff Blake if you can. Let him know what we’re up against, and see if he’ll have his people send us everything they have on The Brethren.”

“I doubt they’ll have much,” Ernie said.

“Maybe you’re right, but we want whatever they
do
have,” Joanna told him.

When she finished with the phone call, she turned back to the table where she had left Irma Mahilich, only to find it empty. Irma had returned to the puzzle table and her magnifying glass, having left behind a set of four completed office drawings. The last one contained seven or eight desks, but without Irma’s commentary, the names meant little.

Joanna approached the puzzle table, carrying the drawings. “Oh, there you are,” Irma Mahilich said. “I’m glad you’re finally off the phone.”

“Could you tell me a little about the people on the last drawing?” Joanna asked.

“No,” Irma said. “I can’t, not today, anyway. Thinking about all those people’s names and what they did has worn me out completely. I need to go take a nap, but I didn’t want to leave without telling you good-bye. Now if you’ll be good enough to tell the receptionist that I’m ready to go back to my room, she’ll call for one of the aides to come get me.”

“I can help you,” Joanna said. “I don’t mind.”

“It’s not that,” Irma said. “I’m a little slow and I can walk just fine, but I can’t always remember what room I’m in. My neighbors get cranky when I go up and down the halls trying my key in all the doors until I find my own place. Short-term memory loss, they call it. Drives me batty sometimes.”

Joanna looked down at the sheets of paper in her hand and at all the desk-placement arrangements and at the co-workers’ names Irma Mahilich had summoned from that long-ago time. The old woman had been able to recall all kinds of pertinent details concerning her work life and her office mates from thirty and forty years ago, but in the present she was unable to remember the number of her own room.

“It’s room one forty-one,” Joanna said. “And I don’t mind taking you there.”

“Oh, no,” Irma said. “You go on about your business. I’m fine.”

Joanna nodded, and let Irma do it her way. “Thank you so much for all your help,” Joanna said. “But is there a time when I could come back and talk to you again?”

“Anytime,” Irma said. “I’m always here. You’ll probably have to remind me of what this is all about, because I won’t remember from one day to the next. And bring those pieces of paper along with you. It helps me to have something to look at, something physical. As Hercule Poirot might say, that helps get the little gray cells up and working.”

Joanna went to the receptionist’s desk and then waited while a young Hispanic aide in a flowered smock stopped by the puzzle table to accompany Irma Mahilich back to her apartment. Watching their slow progress across the lobby and down a long corridor, Joanna Brady had a sudden awful glimpse of her own future. She could only imagine the vital businesslike young woman Irma Mahilich had been when she held court inside the PD General Office years ago, first as a clerk in the employment office and finally as private secretary to Otto Frayn, the local branch’s general manager.

Was Joanna doomed to have something similar happen to her? Would she one day come to a point when she’d be able to recall details of long-ago murder investigations from her days as sheriff and the names of all the investigators who had worked them while not being able to find her own way home? She hated to think about what a long, slow, debilitating decline like that would mean not only for her and for Butch, but also for her children—for Jenny and for the unborn child she carried in her womb.