Judgment Call. J. A. Jance
am I?”
In the old days, when Dr. George Winfield had been the Cochise County Medical Examiner, the call-out could have come from any number of people inside Joanna’s department. Unfortunately, George had fallen in love with Joanna’s mother, Eleanor, and she had packed him off into a retirement that now included an annual snow-bird migration back and forth between Arizona and Minnesota.
Both in public and in private, Joanna’s relationship with George Winfield had been businesslike and virtually trouble free even after he’d married Eleanor Lathrop. As sheriff and M.E., they had continued to work together with little difficulty. So it had come as something of a shock to Joanna and to other members of her department to discover that Doc Winfield’s replacement, Dr. Guy Machett, was anything but trouble free.
For one thing, Dr. Machett—never Doc Machett—insisted that everyone follow a strict chain-of-command hierarchy. If his services were required, he expected the call to come from Joanna herself and not from someone who reported to her.
“That’s my next call,” Joanna said.
“Good,” Larry said.
The relief in his voice spoke volumes. Larry had endured more than his share of Guy Machett temper tantrums. He didn’t need another one.
The clock in Joanna’s cell phone said 8:01 AM as she scrolled through her contact list to find Guy Machett’s number. He was nothing if not punctual, so she dialed his office number.
“Medical examiner’s office,” Madge Livingston drawled.
Forty years of smoking unfiltered Camels had left Madge with a throaty voice that might have been sexy if it hadn’t been punctuated by periodic fits of coughing. A sixty-something peroxide blonde, Madge had worked for county government all her adult life, moving from one department to another because no one had balls enough to put her out to pasture. Madge’s last remotion, one that had moved her out of the county office complex, had landed her in the M.E.’s office. Like Joanna, Madge had gotten along just fine with Doc Winfield. Her relationship with Dr. Machett was something less than smooth sailing.
Dr. Machett was a man with a very high opinion of himself, someone who felt he was doing the world a favor by sharing his vast knowledge and abilities with the lowly folks in Cochise County. Unfortunately, there weren’t many other people who agreed with that assessment.
“Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said. “Is he in?”
“I believe he’s on the other line,” Madge said. “Can you hold?”
In the old days, Joanna would have passed the information along to Madge with no further muss or fuss because Madge would have informed George of the situation. These days it didn’t work that way, and both Joanna and Madge knew it.
“Sure,” Joanna said. “I’ll hold.”
While she waited, Joanna tried to imagine what had been going on when Debra Highsmith was gunned down. There was no way to tell where the victim had been standing in relation to her killer. As far as addresses were concerned, High Lonesome Road was a fine place to live—Joanna had lived there with Andy and she lived there now with Butch—but it struck Joanna as a hard place to die. It had been true for Andrew Roy Brady and it was equally true for Debra Highsmith.
“Who’s calling?” Guy Machett asked when he came on the line.
Madge Livingston knew very well who was on the phone. Not telling her boss who was calling was his secretary’s way of getting a little of her own back.
“Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said. “We’ve located a body on High Lonesome Road.”
“Where the hell is High Lonesome Road?” he demanded. “Sounds like it’s out in the sticks somewhere.”
“It is. It’s just down the road from where I live,” Joanna told him, “also on High Lonesome Road. Take Highway 80 east from Bisbee and take the turnoff to Elfrida. Turn left almost immediately. That’s High Lonesome Road. Come north three miles. You’ll probably need four-wheel drive to get here.”
“Is that how you got there?” Machett asked.
“No,” Joanna said quite truthfully while at the same time trying not to betray the grin that had suddenly tweaked her face. “I came on horseback.”
JOANNA’S NEXT call was to Bisbee’s chief of police. “We found Debra Highsmith’s body,” she said without preamble.
“You’re sure it’s her?” Alvin Bernard asked.
Joanna sighed. “Yes, I am.”
“Where?” Chief Bernard wanted to know. “When?”
“My daughter went out for an early-morning ride and found the body on High Lonesome Road, about three miles north of our place. I’m no medical examiner, but I’d say she’s been dead for more than a day.”
“How?” Alvin asked.
He seemed to be stuck in the world of one-word questions.
“I counted at least three gunshot entrance wounds in her back and one in her leg. I’d say he used the leg shot to bring her down and then finished her off execution style.”
“Ugly,” Alvin said.
“Yes,” Joanna agreed. “Very, but since this looks like a joint case, I’m calling to see if you want to send out a detective.”
“Due to budget cuts, I’ve got only one investigator to my name, Matt Keller. He does the whole nine yards—property, homicide, whatever. I’ll be glad to send him along.”
“Does he have a four-wheel-drive vehicle?”
“Are you kidding? This is Bisbee,” Chief Bernard said. “We don’t have four-wheel-drive anything.”
“The road out here is rough. You might want to send Keller down to the Justice Center so he can hitch a ride out to the crime scene with Jaime Carbajal. I’ll tell him to wait until Matt shows up.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Bernard said. “Thanks for letting me know.”
After calling Larry Kendrick back with a request that Jaime wait for Detective Keller, Joanna turned to her daughter. Jenny and Kiddo were standing on the far side of the wash, where Kiddo was contentedly munching on several carrots Jenny had brought along in her pocket.
“Are you okay?” Joanna asked.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Jenny said. “I mean, I’ve seen something dead before.”
“Someone,” Joanna corrected, “and so have I. But to see someone shot like this? It’s still upsetting.”
“Even for you?”
“Even for me.”
Jenny took a bite out of a carrot and passed the remainder to Kiddo. Joanna managed to keep from asking if Jenny had washed the carrots before sticking them in her pocket.
“How did the bad guy leave?” Jenny asked. “If his getaway car was stuck in the wash, where did he go?”
“He must have left on foot,” Joanna said.
That made it possible that the killer had walked right past High Lonesome Ranch. Not a comforting thought, but Joanna needed to know for sure.
“That’s why I called for the K-9 unit,” Joanna continued. “Terry and Spike might be able to pick up his trail and at least give us an idea of which direction he went.”
“What if he walked by our house?”
Not