twenties. Slender. Freckle-faced.”
Parris snorted. “Well that sure narrows it down.”
“And she’s a redhead.”
The chief of police, who had been jotting notes in his pad, paused to stare at his best friend.
“What?”
“You’ve just described a young woman we got a call about last winter. Brewster—but what’s her first name.” Parris closed his eyes, scratched at thinning hair. “Oh yeah. Wilma Brewster.”
The tribal investigator searched his own memory. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“She’s an engineering student over at RMP who went AWOL. Her mother reported her missing about…let’s see…I think it was just before Christmas. One of my officers took the complainant to her daughter’s apartment, got entry from the supervisor. No sign of foul play. The mother wasn’t sure whether any clothes were missing. The daughter’s university-issue bicycle was in the apartment.”
“What was she doing with university wheels?”
“Miss Brewster worked part-time for the campus police force.”
“And she just upped and left without a word to anybody?”
“That’s about the size of it. And the girl has had some medical problems.”
“Such as?”
“Schizophrenia. This isn’t the first time she’s wandered off. But according to her mom, the symptoms have been pretty much controlled for the past three years—as long as she takes her medications.” Parris grimaced. “Bad news is that when Miss Brewster left her apartment, she also left her prescription pills in the medicine cabinet.”
“How’d a schizophrenic get a job with the campus police?”
“I doubt they had access to her complete medical history. Even if they did, they might’ve given her a chance. There are a lot of sick people who manage to function well enough to get by.” The chief of police shook his head. “Are you not familiar with the two or three borderline psychotics working in my own department?”
“Say no more.”
“Thank you. It is not a subject I wish to dwell on.”
“This missing gal own a car?”
“She did. The Toyota was parked right outside her apartment. Dead battery.”
“So the bike’s in her room, her car won’t start. How does she leave town? Hitchhike?”
“Quite possibly. But I should point out that Miss Brewster’s apartment is on the north side of Eikleberry Avenue, between Gish Lane and Arnett Street.”
Moon closed his eyes, visualized a mental map of the small town. “Right across from the bus station.”
“You got it. Grumpy old duffer working behind the counter wasn’t much help—said, ‘Maybe I seed her, maybe I didn’t—damn scruffy college kids are comin’ and goin’ all the time.’” Parris grinned. “He sells lots of tickets. Denver. Rock Springs. Albuquerque. Salt Lake. Wilma Brewster could’ve gone anywhere. But from what you’re telling me, sounds like she ended up in Durango.”
“There been any activity on her credit cards?”
“The kid didn’t hold any plastic. She had a spotty credit record—her Visa was pulled last year.”
“Wherever she’s living, maybe she got some kind of job. Any employment reports on her Social Security number?”
“We haven’t tried that hard to run her to ground. I figured she was hanging out with some friends—or maybe bumming her way across the country.” Scott Parris squinted sad blue eyes at his Ute friend. “Sometimes college gets to be too much. A fair number of these kids get burned out. Some drop out and go home. Others join the Peace Corps—or the Marines. A few, like Miss Brewster, just walk away.” The chief of police scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Maybe Durango PD could turn up something. If she’s still hanging around down there.”
Aunt Daisy was certain the redheaded woman was scared of something. Or somebody. Moon wondered who the young woman might be running from. “This Wilma Brewster, she have a boyfriend?”
Scott Parris shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“You have a
Parris snorted. “Well that sure narrows it down.”
“And she’s a redhead.”
The chief of police, who had been jotting notes in his pad, paused to stare at his best friend.
“What?”
“You’ve just described a young woman we got a call about last winter. Brewster—but what’s her first name.” Parris closed his eyes, scratched at thinning hair. “Oh yeah. Wilma Brewster.”
The tribal investigator searched his own memory. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“She’s an engineering student over at RMP who went AWOL. Her mother reported her missing about…let’s see…I think it was just before Christmas. One of my officers took the complainant to her daughter’s apartment, got entry from the supervisor. No sign of foul play. The mother wasn’t sure whether any clothes were missing. The daughter’s university-issue bicycle was in the apartment.”
“What was she doing with university wheels?”
“Miss Brewster worked part-time for the campus police force.”
“And she just upped and left without a word to anybody?”
“That’s about the size of it. And the girl has had some medical problems.”
“Such as?”
“Schizophrenia. This isn’t the first time she’s wandered off. But according to her mom, the symptoms have been pretty much controlled for the past three years—as long as she takes her medications.” Parris grimaced. “Bad news is that when Miss Brewster left her apartment, she also left her prescription pills in the medicine cabinet.”
“How’d a schizophrenic get a job with the campus police?”
“I doubt they had access to her complete medical history. Even if they did, they might’ve given her a chance. There are a lot of sick people who manage to function well enough to get by.” The chief of police shook his head. “Are you not familiar with the two or three borderline psychotics working in my own department?”
“Say no more.”
“Thank you. It is not a subject I wish to dwell on.”
“This missing gal own a car?”
“She did. The Toyota was parked right outside her apartment. Dead battery.”
“So the bike’s in her room, her car won’t start. How does she leave town? Hitchhike?”
“Quite possibly. But I should point out that Miss Brewster’s apartment is on the north side of Eikleberry Avenue, between Gish Lane and Arnett Street.”
Moon closed his eyes, visualized a mental map of the small town. “Right across from the bus station.”
“You got it. Grumpy old duffer working behind the counter wasn’t much help—said, ‘Maybe I seed her, maybe I didn’t—damn scruffy college kids are comin’ and goin’ all the time.’” Parris grinned. “He sells lots of tickets. Denver. Rock Springs. Albuquerque. Salt Lake. Wilma Brewster could’ve gone anywhere. But from what you’re telling me, sounds like she ended up in Durango.”
“There been any activity on her credit cards?”
“The kid didn’t hold any plastic. She had a spotty credit record—her Visa was pulled last year.”
“Wherever she’s living, maybe she got some kind of job. Any employment reports on her Social Security number?”
“We haven’t tried that hard to run her to ground. I figured she was hanging out with some friends—or maybe bumming her way across the country.” Scott Parris squinted sad blue eyes at his Ute friend. “Sometimes college gets to be too much. A fair number of these kids get burned out. Some drop out and go home. Others join the Peace Corps—or the Marines. A few, like Miss Brewster, just walk away.” The chief of police scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Maybe Durango PD could turn up something. If she’s still hanging around down there.”
Aunt Daisy was certain the redheaded woman was scared of something. Or somebody. Moon wondered who the young woman might be running from. “This Wilma Brewster, she have a boyfriend?”
Scott Parris shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“You have a
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