Joanna got out of the car. Then, remembering Maggie’s bandaged hands wouldn’t allow her to operate the door handle, Joanna hurried around the Crown Victoria to let her passenger out. Once on her feet, Maggie leaned briefly against the side of the car, as if she wasn’t quite capable of standing on her own. Concerned, Joanna reached out and offered to take Maggie’s arm. “Are you all right, Ms. MacFerson?” she asked.
Maggie bit her lip. “Maybe it won’t be her after all,” she said, as tears welled in her eyes. “Connie’s only forty-three, for God’s sake. She turned forty-three in March. That’s too young.”
“You’re right,” Joanna said gently. “It’s far too young. Will you be all right with this?”
As she watched, Maggie MacFerson nodded, straightened her shoulders, and drew away from both the car and Joanna’s proffered assistance. “I’m a reporter,” she said determinedly. “This isn’t the first dead body I’ve ever seen, and it won’t be the last.”
Joanna led the way to the door. Because George Winfield’s Dodge Caravan was parked in its designated spot, she knew her stepfather was already there. She also knew that after hours, when George worked alone, he usually kept the outside door locked, buzzing visitors in only after they rang the bell and identified themselves over an intercom.
Joanna did so. George Winfield came to the door looking capable and handsome in his white lab coat. “Good evening, Sheriff Brady,” he said.
By mutual agreement, when meeting in a work setting, Joanna and her stepfather addressed each other by their formal titles. Maintaining a strictly business approach made it simpler for all concerned.
Joanna nodded in return. “This is Maggie MacFerson,” she said. “And this is Cochise County’s medical examiner, Dr. George Winfield.”
George held out his hand in a solicitous, gentlemanly fashion, then, noticing the bandages on Maggie’s hands, he withdrew it at once. “Connie is ... was my sister.” She faltered.
“I’m so sorry—” George began, but Maggie pulled herself together and cut him off in mid-sentence.
“Don’t,” she said, holding up one hand in protest. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Of course,” he said. “This way, please.”
He led the two women into a side room that must have once served as a small chapel. George had had a window installed along one wall. Opening a curtain on that allowed grieving family members to view their loved ones without having to venture into the brightly lit, sterile chill of the morgue itself. Joanna and Maggie MacFerson waited for several minutes in a silence softened only by the muted whisper of an air-conditioning fan.
Eventually George pulled the curtain open, revealing the loaded gurney that he had rolled up beside the window. Winfield reap geared on the other side of the window after he had pulled aside the curtain. Maggie stood up and leaned against the double-paned window. Slowly George Winfield drew back a corner of-the sheet, revealing a stark-white face.
Standing next to Maggie, Joanna felt the woman’s body sullen and heard her sharp intake of breath. “It’s her,” she whispered. “It’s Connie.”
With that, Maggie turned and fled the room. Joanna stayed long enough to nod in George’s direction, then she followed Maggie out into the reception area, where she had dropped into a chair.
“Are you all right?” Joanna asked.
“What on earth did he do to her? Dying’s too good for the son of a bitch!” Maggie growled. “Now take me someplace where I can have a drink.”
Joanna understood at once that this time a Burger King soda would hardly suffice. “Really, Ms. MacFerson,” Joanna began. “Don’t you think—”
“I think I need a drink,” Maggie interrupted. “If you won’t take me to get one, then I’ll find one myself.” With that, she got up and marched out the door. George Winfield entered the reception room just in time to hear the last of that exchange.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
“Maggie wants a drink,” Joanna explained. “Which, if you ask me, is the last thing she needs about now. She was so drunk earlier this afternoon that she didn’t remember my telling her that her sister was dead, and she didn’t remember cutting her hands with pieces from a broken glass, either.”
“She was functioning in a blackout?” George asked.
“Must have been,” Joanna replied. “That’s the only thing I can figure.”
“How long has it been since she’s had a drink?”
“A couple of hours,” Joanna replied with a shrug. “Several, actually.”
“If I were you, then,” George said, “I’d get her the drink she wants right away. If she’s enough of a problem drinker that she’s suffering blackouts, I’d advise not cutting off her supply of alcohol. She could go into DTs and die on you.”
Joanna was stunned. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. Her body is most likely accustomed to functioning with a certain level of booze in it. If you take the alcohol away suddenly, without her being under a doctor’s care, you risk triggering a case of DTs that could possibly kill her.”
“In that case,” Joanna said, “I’d best go buy the lady a drink. I’ll have Maggie call you later to give you all the relevant information, date of birth and all that. Before I go, I have to ask. Frank gave me the high points on your autopsy results—that Connie Haskell was beaten, raped, and tortured. Anything else?”
George Winfield shook his head. “Isn’t that enough? Whoever did this is a real psycho.”
“DNA evidence?” Joanna asked.
“Plenty of that. Either the guy didn’t think he’d get caught or else he didn’t care. Whichever the case, he sure as hell didn’t use a condom. And you’d better catch up with him soon,” George added. “If you don’t, I’m guessing he’ll do it again.”
On that grim note, Joanna started to leave. Before she made it to the door, George stopped her. “There’s something else I need to tell you,” he said. “Not about this,” he added hurriedly. “It’s another matter entirely.”
“Something about Mother?” Joanna asked.
“Well, yes,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Look, George,” Joanna said. “I’m in a bit of a hurry here. Could you stop beating around the bush and tell toe what’s going on?”
“Eleanor called CPS early this afternoon.”
“She did what?”
“Ellie called Child Protective Services. She was concerned about Dora being out at the ranch, so she called CPS. An investigator went to Sally Matthews’s house up in Tombstone Canyon. No one was home, but she went nosing around in the backyard, where she saw enough telltale debris to make her suspicious. She tracked down a judge. This evening she cane back with a search warrant and reinforcements.” George paused.
In her mind’s eye, Joanna once again saw the pulsing emergency lights flashing off the sides of the canyon as she drove through the Bisbee end of the Mule Mountain Tunnel. “Don’t tell me Sally Matthews is dead, too,” Joanna breathed.
“No, I don’t suppose so,” George said. “Nothing like that. At least not as far as we know.”
Joanna wanted to shake the man to stop his hemming and hawing. “What do we know?” she demanded.
“It looks like Sally Matthews has been running a meth lab in her house, the old Pommer place up Tombstone Canyon. The Department of Public Safety Haz-Mat guys are up there right now, trying to clean it up.”
“What about Dora?” Joanna asked.
“That’s the part I didn’t want to tell you.” George Winfield shook his head sadly. “Jim Bob called me a few minutes ago. That same CPS caseworker just showed up out at the ranch and demanded that Jim Bob and Eva Lou hand Dora over to her. Which Jim Bob and Eva Lou did, of course—hand her over, that is. The caseworker told them they didn’t have a choice in the matter. Dora’s headed for a foster home out in Sierra Vista. I guess both Dora and Jenny were pretty upset.”