“Not that I can tell,” Cami said. “They may pay rent to the trust, but if they do, I can’t find any paper trail. My guess is the roads were unnamed until a few years ago when the state required mandatory compliance and all rural roads were assigned names. At that point, the residents must have opted for the simplest solution and named each road for the family that lived there.”
Ali didn’t say the rest of what she was thinking. If this was a polygamous situation, the oldest wife was the one female in each family who was allowed to drive, but not a single one of the women—not even the most senior—was allowed to vote. And if women in The Family weren’t allowed to drive or to vote, Ali wondered, what else were The Family’s girls and women forbidden to do?
“Is there a Lowell Road?” Ali asked. “If so, who lives on that?”
“No sign of a Lowell Road, but the largest set of buildings is on what appears to be the main drag, which is actually Angus Road. That one has the same kind of house, barn, and outbuilding arrangement as all the others, only the house itself is far larger. In addition, there are two possible public buildings, maybe a church or a social hall of some kind with plenty of parking nearby. There are several somewhat smaller structures in that compound as well.”
“Who lives there?”
“Someone named Richard Lowell. The single licensed female driver at that address is named Helena.”
“How many roads on the property in all?” Ali asked.
“I counted twenty-eight separate houses on the map. That would make for close to thirty families, including Wendell Johnson Sr., whose family evidently lives in town.”
Ali’s call waiting buzzed with a blocked number showing up in the caller ID window.
“All right,” Ali said. “Thanks, Cami. I’ve got to take another call. Keep putting the pieces together. I’ll get back to you.” She switched over to the other line. “Hello.”
“Is this Alison Reynolds?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Danny Alvarado, Sheriff Alvarado from Mohave County. Your name sounds familiar to me. Weren’t you involved in some kind of dustup over near Bullhead City a while back?”
“You have a good head for names, Sheriff Alvarado,” Ali said with a laugh. “And yes. I was the woman in the car trunk.”
“I just had a call from the Catholic bishop down in Phoenix—Bishop Francis Gillespie. I take it you know him?”
“Yes,” Ali replied. “He’s a family friend.” She realized as she said the words that it was no exaggeration. Bishop Gillespie was a friend.
“He was asking me about two unsolved cases from here in Kingman years ago—a young woman and her newborn infant. It turns out I was one of the investigators on that case and remember it well. Bishop Gillespie mentioned there might be a possible connection between those cases and a new situation over near Flagstaff. He said that both girls appeared to be runaways who were very young, very pregnant, and who wore their hair in a similar fashion.”
“Yes to all,” Ali said. “The hairdos were very distinctive—long braids wrapped around the tops of their heads.”
“As I said, I was one of the investigators in the Jane Doe matter, and I remember those very distinctive braids. What I’m not sure is how you came to know about them.”
“I heard about them from someone connected to both cases.”
“That would be the nun Bishop Gillespie mentioned?”
“Yes,” Ali answered. “Her name is Sister Anselm. She’s a special emissary of Bishop Gillespie’s, and functions as a patient advocate where necessary. Twelve years ago, Sister Anselm served in that capacity for both your victims—Jane Doe and her infant. Yesterday morning, by sheer coincidence, she was called out to care for this newly injured mother and child.”
“Has your victim been IDed?”
“Tentatively,” Ali answered. “We believe her name to be Enid Tower and that she ran away from one of the polygamous communities up near Colorado City. While on the run, she stepped into the path of an oncoming vehicle. That’s what put her in the hospital.”
“Not Colorado City again,” the sheriff said with a sigh. “Dealing with those people is a nightmare. Do you happen to know which group?”
“I believe they call themselves The Family,” Ali answered. “I don’t have much more information on them than that. From what I’ve been able to gather, the whole group consists of twenty-five to thirty families, give or take. At the time of your Jane Doe’s death, Sister Anselm attempted to suggest to the investigators that her death was the result of some kind of domestic violence. That idea got no traction at the time. This new case isn’t specifically domestic violence, either, but still . . .”
“The good sister was entirely correct in her assumption. Considering the degree of violence visited on our Jane Doe, that’s what we suspected at the time—that it was a DV case. However, with no additional information as to her origins, we got nowhere. I can see how, with a new lead like this and with a small population to draw from, a near DNA match from either our two victims or yours could lead back to our Jane Doe’s killer. Based on that, we’d be willing to reopen the case.”
Stunned, Ali realized that she had won the DNA argument without having said a word.
“But there’s a problem with that,” Sheriff Alvarado continued. “After I got off the phone with the bishop, I went downstairs to bring the evidence box up from the basement. To my chagrin, it’s nowhere to be found. It’s probably just misfiled. I’ve got my evidence clerk on a search mission, but so far there’s no sign of it.”
“Was any DNA evidence from your crime scene ever processed? Even if the box itself is missing, the state crime lab might still have the results taken from the evidence itself.”
Sheriff Alvarado sent a bark of humorless laughter into the phone. “My predecessor wasn’t a great believer in technology. That’s one of the reasons I’m sheriff now and he isn’t. He kept his eye on the bottom line. Since DNA profiling was expensive back then, he thought of it as an unnecessary frivolity. I’m sorry to say that the answer to your question is no—our Jane Doe’s evidence was collected but never processed.
“In the last two years, my administration has been trying to rework our collection of cold cases, but only as time, personnel, and money allow. Having said that, it may explain why the Jane Doe box is missing. Perhaps one of my guys started focusing on that case without letting me know. Once the box is located and on its way to the crime lab, I’ll let you know.”
“Great,” Ali said.
“How are your two victims doing, by the way? Did you say the mother’s name is Enid?”
“Yes, Enid Tower. I can’t tell you much about her condition, but as far as I know, both she and her baby are still alive. The baby was premature, but so far so good.”
“Excellent,” Sheriff Alvarado said. “Glad to hear it. If you learn anything more, keep me posted, and I’ll do the same.”
“One more thing,” Ali said. “What kind of a presence does your department maintain in the Colorado City area?”
“Not much. As you no doubt know, it’s part of my jurisdiction but difficult to reach by car. Back in the old days, all of us had to pull a few weeks of duty over there every year, living in a beat-up mobile home that doubled as the local substation and taking care of whatever came up. Then, about ten years or so ago, the department hired a guy named Amos Sellers who actually lives there. Deputy Sellers spends part of his time working out of the substation and part of it working out of his own home. He’s done a good job keeping a lid on things. Since he’s part of the community, people there tend to trust him. I haven’t had any complaints about him—at least none that made it as far as my desk.”
“Was there any kind of missing person report called in to him at the time Enid Tower took off?”
“Not that I know of. Had there been, it would have been forwarded to my attention.”