Joanna nodded. “Let’s continue delaying the official release of Dora’s name for as long as possible,” she said. “But, bearing in mind that most people are murdered by people they know, what are the chances that Sally Matthews is somehow involved in her daughter’s death?”
“‘There’s nothing much on Sally Matthews’s sheet,” Frank said with a shrug. “My guess is she’s been slipping by the criminal justice system for a long time, doing drugs and probably manufacturing and selling, too, but without getting caught. The first time she really got busted was last summer. She got six months for possession and sale. It should have been more, but her public defender came through like a champ. Her current boyfriend, Mr. Leon ‘B. B.’ Ardmore, has a couple of drug-violation convictions as well. From what I’ve learned so far, I’d say he’s the mastermind behind the meth lab.
“But going back to Dora, it was while her mother was in the slammer that she ended up in foster care the first time—up in Tucson. From her reaction to the CPS caseworker out at High Lonesome Ranch the other night, I’d say she didn’t like it much. Maybe foster care made her feel like she was in jail, too.”
“What about Dora’s clothing?” Joanna asked. “Has Casey Ledford started processing them for possible fingerprints?”
“Not yet,” Frank Montoya said. “She agrees with Doc Winfield about the paint flecks, and there may be a whole lot more trace evidence on that clothing than just fingerprints and paint. Her suggestion is that we deliver all the clothing to the Department of Public Safety Satellite Crime Lab in Tucson and have their guys go over everything. The state has better equipment than we do, and a whole lot more of it, too. Needless to say, the sooner we get the clothing into the DPS pipeline, the better.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Jaime Carbajal offered. “Once we finish with Jenny’s interview, Ernie and I will take the clothing to Tucson.”
“Speaking of which,” Ernie said, peering at his watch, “Shouldn’t we get started?”
Joanna glanced questioningly at Frank. “Anything else of earth-shattering importance for the morning briefing?” she asked.
“All pretty standard,” Frank said, closing his folder. “Nothing that can’t wait until after the interview or even later.” He stood up. “Want me to send Jenny in on my way out?”
“Please,” Joanna murmured. She had dreaded bringing Jenny into the conference room for the interview, and she was more than happy to let Frank do the summoning. Jennifer entered the conference room clutching Harry Potter to her chest, as though having the book with her might somehow ward off the evil wizards. She paused in the doorway and surveyed the room. Joanna sensed that the conference room—a place Jenny knew well and where she often did her homework—had suddenly been transformed into alien territory. When Jenny’s eyes finally encountered her mother’s, Joanna responded with her most reassuring smile.
“You know both Detective Carbajal and Detective Carpenter, don’t you?” she asked.
Jenny nodded gravely.
“They’ll be the ones asking you questions and taping your answers. It’ll be important for you to tell them everything you know, down to the smallest detail. Sometimes it’s those tiny bits of information that provide investigators with their most helpful leads. Understand?”
Jenny nodded again.
“And you have to remember not to nod or shake your head,” Joanna added. “We may know what you mean, but your answer won’t show up on the tape.”
At that point, Ernie Carpenter stood up and took control of the proceedings. “Thanks for coming, Jenny,” he said, leading her to a chair. “Make yourself comfortable.”
For Joanna, the next hour and a half lasted an eternity. The process was excruciating for her. Motherly instinct made her want to prompt her daughter and encourage her, but the rules of interview procedure required her to keep still. There was too much likelihood that she might end up putting words in Jenny’s mouth. On the other hand, knowing how the game was played, it was difficult for Joanna to sit silently on the sidelines while Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal volleyed questions at Jenny. The process was designed to tell them which of the two had established a better rapport with the witness—which had succeeded in gaining her trust. As a police officer Joanna recognized and applauded the way the detectives manipulated her daughter; as a mother she hated it.
Ernie Carpenter’s children were grown and gone. Jaime Carbajal still had young children of his own at home. Whether or not that made the difference, soon after the interview began, it was clear the younger detective would be doing most of the questioning.
“So tell me about your friend Dora, Jenny,” Detective Carbajal said, settling back into his chair and crossing his arms.
Jenny stuck out her lower lip. Joanna’s heart constricted at that familiar and visible sign of her daughter’s steadfast stubbornness. “I knew Dora,” Jenny answered. “But she wasn’t my friend.” “But you were tentmates on the camp-out.”
“That’s because Mrs. Lambert made us,” Jenny said. “She had us draw buttons—sort of like drawing straws. If two people got the same color button, they were partners for the whole camp-out. That’s how I got stuck with Dora.”
“Tell me about her.”
“What do you want to know?”
Jaime Carbajal shrugged. “Everything,” he said.
“She wasn’t very smart,” Jenny began.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she had been held back—at least one grade and maybe even two. She was thirteen. Everybody else in our class is only twelve. Dora always looked dirty, and she smelled bad. She smoked, and she acted like she knew everything, but she didn’t. And she wasn’t very nice.”
“I can understand why Dora smelled funny and looked dirty,” Jamie Carbajal said quietly. “The place where she lived with her mother was filthy. The bathroom had been turned into a meth lab and the kitchen sink was bill of dirty dishes and rotten food. There was no place for Dora to shower or bathe.”
Jenny looked questioningly at Joanna. The idea of living with a mother who preferred manufacturing drugs to allowing her child to be clean must have seemed incomprehensible to her, just as it did to Joanna.
“There was some food in the house, but not much, and most of that wasn’t fit to eat,” Jaime Carbajal continued. “All in all, I don’t think Dora Matthews’s mother knew much about being a good mother. There’s a reason I’m telling you all this, Jenny. I understand why you may not have wanted to be Dora’s friend while she was alive, but I’m asking you to be her friend now. You can do that by helping us find out who killed her.”
“I don’t know how,” Jenny said in a subdued voice.
“Tell us whatever you remember,” Jaime urged. “Everything. Let’s start with Friday afternoon, when you went on the camping trip. What happened there?”
“Well,” Jenny began, “first we drove to Apache Pass. After we put up our tents, we ate dinner and had a campfire that wasn’t really a campfire—because of the fire danger. Mrs. Lambert had its use a battery-powered lantern instead of a regular fire. It was after that—after we all went to our tents—that Dora said we should go for a walk and ...”
Jenny paused and looked at Joanna. Sitting across the conference table from her daughter, Joanna forced her expression to remain unchanged and neutral.
“And what?” Jaime prodded.
“... and have a cigarette.” Jenny finished the sentence in a rush. “I tried smoking one, only the taste of it made me sick—so sick that I threw up. It was after I barfed that we found that woman’s body—Mrs. Haskell’s body”
“Did you see or hear anyone nearby when you found the body?” Jaime asked.
Jenny shook her head. “No. There wasn’t anyone. She was lying there by the road, naked and all by herself.”