emerged. “The Kurds are from northern Iraq, but a lot of them left after Saddam tried to wipe them out. Remember his mustard gas attack against one of their villages? Genocide rears its ugly head again. You would think that after Hitler, the world would have learned better, but apparently not.”
She shook her head, as if trying to clear it of demons. “Anyway, as I was saying about Tujin being an only child, I think her mother had health issues and couldn’t have any more children. She sure didn’t look healthy. When she was here with Tujin that day, I saw her wince a couple of times, like she was in pain.”
Had there been violence in the Rafik household? “Did you mention that to the sheriff?”
“In retrospect, maybe I should have.” She shelved the last book and stood up with a groan. “My back isn’t what it used to be. Tell you what, you want to talk to someone who actually knew Tujin, let me set you up with Peggy Binder. She was one of Tujin’s teachers.”
Stuffing the microfilm printouts into my carry-all, I said, “I’d appreciate that. She might be able to give me the names of Tujin’s friends, or those of any adults she might have been acquainted with.”
She gave me a thoughtful look. “I’ve read that most victims know their killers. Is that right?”
I nodded.
Her dark eyes clouded over. “That just makes it worse.”
Having known and trusted a murderer or two myself, I agreed. No one wants to think that the person they invite to dinner is capable of horrific crimes. We prefer the representatives of evil to arrive as strangers.
A glance at my watch revealed why I had been tempted by the ugly cookies in the microfilm room. I’d worked through both breakfast and lunch. After thanking Martha for her help, I headed for the nearest fast food drive-through.
Since the Jeep is a stick shift I never eat while driving, so I gobbled down my Big Mac in the parking lot. The McDonald’s sat at the top of a hill, and unlike most fast food restaurants, actually had a view. As I ate, I looked down along the length of Los Perdidos’ main street. In the city center, saloons and adobe-housed businesses comprised the usual Western mix-up before the southern end of town degenerated into car lots and railroad tracks.
For all its ungainly growth, Los Perdidos had yet to birth a real mall. No movie houses, no game arcades or bowling alleys, just a few strip malls containing Blockbusters, mom & pop restaurants, and nondescript businesses. I wondered what the local teens did for fun. Stayed home and read
Moby Dick?
To the east a series of ticky-tacky housing tracts and a small apartment complex sprawled across the desert. In the foothills rising toward Geronimo’s rugged peaks, Apache Chemical pumped white vapor from its smokestacks into the azure sky. Located conveniently nearby, as if purposely built there to treat the victims of industrial accidents, sat Los Perdidos General Hospital, its steel-and-glass facade gleaming in the sun.
After finishing my Big Mac, I wiped dribbles of Secret Sauce off my fingers with a skimpy napkin and headed to the hospital to deliver the toys purchased at Wal-Mart.
This time I bypassed the receptionist and took the elevator straight to Pediatrics, where I handed the toys to a nurse. As she thanked me, a speaker set high on the wall announced that Dr. Nelson Lanphear was needed for a consult in Radiology. I recognized the name as that of the medical examiner who performed the autopsy on Precious Doe.
Radiology was on the second floor, where a helpful orderly identified Lanphear for me. The doctor, a beefy man with a bald head, stood quietly in the hallway while a younger doctor stabbed his forefinger at a clipboard. From what I could hear, the younger doctor disagreed with the older man’s diagnosis.
Lanphear waited patiently, then when the other man wound down, said, “Oh, yes, that’s what I thought, too, at first. But then I noticed…” He saw me listening and
She shook her head, as if trying to clear it of demons. “Anyway, as I was saying about Tujin being an only child, I think her mother had health issues and couldn’t have any more children. She sure didn’t look healthy. When she was here with Tujin that day, I saw her wince a couple of times, like she was in pain.”
Had there been violence in the Rafik household? “Did you mention that to the sheriff?”
“In retrospect, maybe I should have.” She shelved the last book and stood up with a groan. “My back isn’t what it used to be. Tell you what, you want to talk to someone who actually knew Tujin, let me set you up with Peggy Binder. She was one of Tujin’s teachers.”
Stuffing the microfilm printouts into my carry-all, I said, “I’d appreciate that. She might be able to give me the names of Tujin’s friends, or those of any adults she might have been acquainted with.”
She gave me a thoughtful look. “I’ve read that most victims know their killers. Is that right?”
I nodded.
Her dark eyes clouded over. “That just makes it worse.”
Having known and trusted a murderer or two myself, I agreed. No one wants to think that the person they invite to dinner is capable of horrific crimes. We prefer the representatives of evil to arrive as strangers.
A glance at my watch revealed why I had been tempted by the ugly cookies in the microfilm room. I’d worked through both breakfast and lunch. After thanking Martha for her help, I headed for the nearest fast food drive-through.
Since the Jeep is a stick shift I never eat while driving, so I gobbled down my Big Mac in the parking lot. The McDonald’s sat at the top of a hill, and unlike most fast food restaurants, actually had a view. As I ate, I looked down along the length of Los Perdidos’ main street. In the city center, saloons and adobe-housed businesses comprised the usual Western mix-up before the southern end of town degenerated into car lots and railroad tracks.
For all its ungainly growth, Los Perdidos had yet to birth a real mall. No movie houses, no game arcades or bowling alleys, just a few strip malls containing Blockbusters, mom & pop restaurants, and nondescript businesses. I wondered what the local teens did for fun. Stayed home and read
Moby Dick?
To the east a series of ticky-tacky housing tracts and a small apartment complex sprawled across the desert. In the foothills rising toward Geronimo’s rugged peaks, Apache Chemical pumped white vapor from its smokestacks into the azure sky. Located conveniently nearby, as if purposely built there to treat the victims of industrial accidents, sat Los Perdidos General Hospital, its steel-and-glass facade gleaming in the sun.
After finishing my Big Mac, I wiped dribbles of Secret Sauce off my fingers with a skimpy napkin and headed to the hospital to deliver the toys purchased at Wal-Mart.
This time I bypassed the receptionist and took the elevator straight to Pediatrics, where I handed the toys to a nurse. As she thanked me, a speaker set high on the wall announced that Dr. Nelson Lanphear was needed for a consult in Radiology. I recognized the name as that of the medical examiner who performed the autopsy on Precious Doe.
Radiology was on the second floor, where a helpful orderly identified Lanphear for me. The doctor, a beefy man with a bald head, stood quietly in the hallway while a younger doctor stabbed his forefinger at a clipboard. From what I could hear, the younger doctor disagreed with the older man’s diagnosis.
Lanphear waited patiently, then when the other man wound down, said, “Oh, yes, that’s what I thought, too, at first. But then I noticed…” He saw me listening and
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