Read Online Rattlesnake Crossing by J. A. Jance - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. A. Jance
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"depending on the actual time of death, what you've told me may or may not have any bearing on this case. Regardless, let me assure you that you've done the right thing by telling us everything you know."
Sarah Holcomb shook her head. "I always did talk way too much," she muttered morosely. "From the time I was just a little tyke. You'da thought that by the time a woman gets to be my age she'd know better."
"But—" Joanna began again.
Sarah waved her aside. "No," she said. "You go on now. I don't want to talk no more. Not to you and not to nobody else, either."
Feeling as though she'd botched things somehow, Joanna let herself out the front door. She hurried back to Clyde Philips' house in time to see a tall, beefy woman with bleached blond hair disappear through the front door.
Joanna arrived at the bedroom doorway as the woman slammed a heavy brown valise to the floor just inside the room. Planting both hands on her hips, she turned to survey her surroundings. "I'm Fran Daly of the Pima County Medical Examiner's office," she told Jaime Carbajal. "Doctor Fran Daly. Who are you?"
At five-four, Joanna couldn't see over Dr. Daly's broad shoulder, but she peered around the other woman in time to catch sight of a grimy Jaime Carbajal using a metal ladder to climb up and out of the crawl space. Gingerly, he eased himself onto what seemed to be a relatively stable part of the bedroom floor.
"I'm Detective Carbajal," he replied. "I'm a homicide detective with the Cochise County Sheriff's Department."
"All right. So where's the body?"
Jaime nodded back toward the hole. "Down there," he said. "The victim was lying on a bed that collapsed and fell through the floor into the crawl space."
"Great," Fran muttered irritably. "Just what I need. The body's fallen into the basement. What else? It looks like a damned army's been in and out of this room. What the hell happened here?"
"Well," Jaime explained, "a woman fell through the floor right along with the victim. As I understand it, she was seriously hurt in the fall. We had to call for help. All told, it took six men—four firemen and two EMTs to get her out—and—"
"You're telling me six men have been tracking through my evidence? Who the hell's the dimwit who authorized that? The least those clowns could have done was worn booties over their shoes so they wouldn't have left these god-awful tracks all over the place. Are you responsible for this mess, Detective Carbajal?"
Joanna couldn't see the superior sneer Fran Daly leveled at Jaime Carbajal, but she heard it well enough.
"No," Joanna said quietly. "I am."
Dr. Fran Daly spun around and glared at her. Built with all the grace and delicacy of a tank, she wore a cowboy shirt and jeans. Her only pieces of jewelry were a man's watch and an immense, turquoise-encrusted silver belt buckle on a wide leather belt.
"And who might you be?" Fran Daly demanded.
"My name's Joanna Brady."
"Well," Fran said, "I was directed to report to someone named Voland—Chief Deputy Richard Voland. Where's he?"
"Outside," Joanna said. "Chief Deputy Voland is busy at the moment, but you're welcome to talk to me."
"What are you?" Fran Daly asked. "His deputy?"
"As a matter of fact," Joanna said deliberately, "it's the other way around. Dick Voland is my deputy. I'm Sheriff Joanna Brady, Dr. Daly. And I'm also the person—I believe you used the term 'dimwit'—who made the decision that it was more important to effect a timely rescue of a seriously injured woman than it was to tiptoe around preserving evidence. When it comes to handling injury situations, the possibility of losing some trace evidence must take a backseat to emergency medical care. What was done here seemed like a reasonable trade-off to me. If I had it to do over, I'm sure that I'd reach the exact same conclusion."
Fran Daly sighed and rolled her eyes. "All right then," she said. "Just show me where the body is and let me get started. And for God's sake, somebody turn
Sarah Holcomb shook her head. "I always did talk way too much," she muttered morosely. "From the time I was just a little tyke. You'da thought that by the time a woman gets to be my age she'd know better."
"But—" Joanna began again.
Sarah waved her aside. "No," she said. "You go on now. I don't want to talk no more. Not to you and not to nobody else, either."
Feeling as though she'd botched things somehow, Joanna let herself out the front door. She hurried back to Clyde Philips' house in time to see a tall, beefy woman with bleached blond hair disappear through the front door.
Joanna arrived at the bedroom doorway as the woman slammed a heavy brown valise to the floor just inside the room. Planting both hands on her hips, she turned to survey her surroundings. "I'm Fran Daly of the Pima County Medical Examiner's office," she told Jaime Carbajal. "Doctor Fran Daly. Who are you?"
At five-four, Joanna couldn't see over Dr. Daly's broad shoulder, but she peered around the other woman in time to catch sight of a grimy Jaime Carbajal using a metal ladder to climb up and out of the crawl space. Gingerly, he eased himself onto what seemed to be a relatively stable part of the bedroom floor.
"I'm Detective Carbajal," he replied. "I'm a homicide detective with the Cochise County Sheriff's Department."
"All right. So where's the body?"
Jaime nodded back toward the hole. "Down there," he said. "The victim was lying on a bed that collapsed and fell through the floor into the crawl space."
"Great," Fran muttered irritably. "Just what I need. The body's fallen into the basement. What else? It looks like a damned army's been in and out of this room. What the hell happened here?"
"Well," Jaime explained, "a woman fell through the floor right along with the victim. As I understand it, she was seriously hurt in the fall. We had to call for help. All told, it took six men—four firemen and two EMTs to get her out—and—"
"You're telling me six men have been tracking through my evidence? Who the hell's the dimwit who authorized that? The least those clowns could have done was worn booties over their shoes so they wouldn't have left these god-awful tracks all over the place. Are you responsible for this mess, Detective Carbajal?"
Joanna couldn't see the superior sneer Fran Daly leveled at Jaime Carbajal, but she heard it well enough.
"No," Joanna said quietly. "I am."
Dr. Fran Daly spun around and glared at her. Built with all the grace and delicacy of a tank, she wore a cowboy shirt and jeans. Her only pieces of jewelry were a man's watch and an immense, turquoise-encrusted silver belt buckle on a wide leather belt.
"And who might you be?" Fran Daly demanded.
"My name's Joanna Brady."
"Well," Fran said, "I was directed to report to someone named Voland—Chief Deputy Richard Voland. Where's he?"
"Outside," Joanna said. "Chief Deputy Voland is busy at the moment, but you're welcome to talk to me."
"What are you?" Fran Daly asked. "His deputy?"
"As a matter of fact," Joanna said deliberately, "it's the other way around. Dick Voland is my deputy. I'm Sheriff Joanna Brady, Dr. Daly. And I'm also the person—I believe you used the term 'dimwit'—who made the decision that it was more important to effect a timely rescue of a seriously injured woman than it was to tiptoe around preserving evidence. When it comes to handling injury situations, the possibility of losing some trace evidence must take a backseat to emergency medical care. What was done here seemed like a reasonable trade-off to me. If I had it to do over, I'm sure that I'd reach the exact same conclusion."
Fran Daly sighed and rolled her eyes. "All right then," she said. "Just show me where the body is and let me get started. And for God's sake, somebody turn
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