as Annette Sheldon?”
“It looks like it.” Axton sipped. “Which means that your buddy Kenneth Sheldon isn’t such a hot prospect anymore.”
“Maybe there’s a connection—it’s worth checking out. Where’d she work?”
“Foxy Dick’s.” Max handed Wager a small pile of papers. “Here’s what the Adams County Homicide people came up with.”
Wager leafed through the Xeroxed sheets, scanning the less important information and spending more time on the narrative sections. The only witness was the man who found the body. There were the medical examiner’s reports summarized, a coroner’s report, a responding officer’s brief report. It was a spotty dossier, and Wager did not recognize the investigating officer’s signature.
“I hope it’s not a loony,” said Axton.
This victim’s name was Angela Sanchez Williams. Twenty-one years old, divorced, one child. She had danced at Foxy Dick’s for six weeks. Before that, she had worked as a cocktail waitress at a restaurant out at Stapleton Airport. She had no known enemies; she did have a boyfriend, Brad Uhlan. He had a confirmed alibi. She left work and didn’t arrive home. Her mother, who lived with her and baby-sat for the child, reported her missing early the following morning. However, no results on the Missing Persons bulletin came in until five days later when a body matching Williams’s description was found by a mower crewman along County Road 44, northeast of Denver.
“It does sound familiar,” said Wager.
“Don’t it though.”
The medical reports offered little more than the cause and approximate time of death; the body had lain too long in the sun to determine rape or assault, and the internal organs had decayed. Given the lack of clothing, however, and the probability that the woman had been killed elsewhere and tossed beside the road later, the presumption was rape and murder.
“Anything on NCIC?” asked Wager. One of the services of the National Crime Information Center was to list crimes with a similar m.o.
“Ross sent a query this afternoon, but no reply yet.”
Nor would there be for a while, and the crime’s characteristics were so common nationally that whatever did come back would probably be useless. Wager scanned the list of telephone numbers pressed beneath the glass top of his desk, then he dialed the Adams County sheriffs office. A quiet-voiced man answered.
“This is Detective Wager, Homicide, DPD. I’m calling about that shooting death out on County Road 44. Is Detective Lee on duty?”
“Yes, sir, I know the one you mean. But Lee’s not here. He’s our Homicide man, but he won’t be in until around eight-thirty, Detective Wager.”
“Thanks.” He hung up and shook his head at Axton’s inquiring glance. “Have to wait until morning.” Axton grunted. “Let’s go look for Pepe the Pistol.”
They turned the watch over to Munn and Golding at eight. As usual, Munn was a few minutes late coming on, just as he would be a few minutes early going off. Every minute away from this job, he once told Wager, meant an extra day of life for him. But he was too close to retirement to quit now. It was a race, he said, chewing on a chalky tablet, between retiring and dying, and sometimes he thought dying would be a hell of a lot easier in the long run.
Golding came into the stale office like a brisk whiff of after-shave lotion. “Gabe! Christ, you look sick, man!”
“I’ve been on duty eight hours.”
“And drank a gallon of coffee and filled your belly with pure crap. No wonder you look green.” He pulled a magenta sheet from his vest pocket. “Look here”—he unfolded it and slapped it on the desk like a high card—”this is it! This is the real thing. Biofeedback was good, but it used a machine. This is one hundred percent organic, and it works!”
The bright sheet of paper had a Navajo design of some kind at the top and in flowing script below said “Aura Balancing.”
“What the hell is
“It looks like it.” Axton sipped. “Which means that your buddy Kenneth Sheldon isn’t such a hot prospect anymore.”
“Maybe there’s a connection—it’s worth checking out. Where’d she work?”
“Foxy Dick’s.” Max handed Wager a small pile of papers. “Here’s what the Adams County Homicide people came up with.”
Wager leafed through the Xeroxed sheets, scanning the less important information and spending more time on the narrative sections. The only witness was the man who found the body. There were the medical examiner’s reports summarized, a coroner’s report, a responding officer’s brief report. It was a spotty dossier, and Wager did not recognize the investigating officer’s signature.
“I hope it’s not a loony,” said Axton.
This victim’s name was Angela Sanchez Williams. Twenty-one years old, divorced, one child. She had danced at Foxy Dick’s for six weeks. Before that, she had worked as a cocktail waitress at a restaurant out at Stapleton Airport. She had no known enemies; she did have a boyfriend, Brad Uhlan. He had a confirmed alibi. She left work and didn’t arrive home. Her mother, who lived with her and baby-sat for the child, reported her missing early the following morning. However, no results on the Missing Persons bulletin came in until five days later when a body matching Williams’s description was found by a mower crewman along County Road 44, northeast of Denver.
“It does sound familiar,” said Wager.
“Don’t it though.”
The medical reports offered little more than the cause and approximate time of death; the body had lain too long in the sun to determine rape or assault, and the internal organs had decayed. Given the lack of clothing, however, and the probability that the woman had been killed elsewhere and tossed beside the road later, the presumption was rape and murder.
“Anything on NCIC?” asked Wager. One of the services of the National Crime Information Center was to list crimes with a similar m.o.
“Ross sent a query this afternoon, but no reply yet.”
Nor would there be for a while, and the crime’s characteristics were so common nationally that whatever did come back would probably be useless. Wager scanned the list of telephone numbers pressed beneath the glass top of his desk, then he dialed the Adams County sheriffs office. A quiet-voiced man answered.
“This is Detective Wager, Homicide, DPD. I’m calling about that shooting death out on County Road 44. Is Detective Lee on duty?”
“Yes, sir, I know the one you mean. But Lee’s not here. He’s our Homicide man, but he won’t be in until around eight-thirty, Detective Wager.”
“Thanks.” He hung up and shook his head at Axton’s inquiring glance. “Have to wait until morning.” Axton grunted. “Let’s go look for Pepe the Pistol.”
They turned the watch over to Munn and Golding at eight. As usual, Munn was a few minutes late coming on, just as he would be a few minutes early going off. Every minute away from this job, he once told Wager, meant an extra day of life for him. But he was too close to retirement to quit now. It was a race, he said, chewing on a chalky tablet, between retiring and dying, and sometimes he thought dying would be a hell of a lot easier in the long run.
Golding came into the stale office like a brisk whiff of after-shave lotion. “Gabe! Christ, you look sick, man!”
“I’ve been on duty eight hours.”
“And drank a gallon of coffee and filled your belly with pure crap. No wonder you look green.” He pulled a magenta sheet from his vest pocket. “Look here”—he unfolded it and slapped it on the desk like a high card—”this is it! This is the real thing. Biofeedback was good, but it used a machine. This is one hundred percent organic, and it works!”
The bright sheet of paper had a Navajo design of some kind at the top and in flowing script below said “Aura Balancing.”
“What the hell is
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