Fatal Refuge: a Mystery/Thriller (The Arizona Thriller Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  Satisfied with the explanation, Kim nodded and watched silently. From the case, he pulled a metal frame about fourteen inches long and six inches wide and pressed it into the dirt around the print, working it into the hard soil until it anchored firmly. “First we take pictures with the frame,” he said. “The marks on the edges of it will tell us what size the shoe is.” He snapped four photos from four different angles, then put the camera away and took out an aerosol can of artist’s spray fixative.

  He turned to say, “Some techs use hair spray, but this has higher viscosity and works better.” He shook it carefully and holding it a foot above the print, sprayed a fine mist onto the print. “This stabilizes the dirt and sand so it holds together for the casting material.” He waited ten seconds, then moved the can an inch closer and sprayed again. After the third time he looked satisfied. He carefully measured a cup of dry dental cement into a plastic bowl. Next he poured water from his drinking bottle into a measuring cup, poured it into the bowl and began to stir.

  Kim watched, fascinated, as bright yellow flakes in the grey material slowly disappeared, absorbed. When all the yellow was gone he said, “Now it’s ready to pour.” He began at the middle of the heel, moved to the toe, and back again, reversing directions and moving toward the sides until the print was covered by the mixture an inch deep. “It will take about thirty minutes to set,” he said, and began meticulously to clean and replace his equipment.

  Kim had lost track of time watching his thoughtful, precise actions. When he finished, the ache in her thighs intruded, along with the thought that she had hiked more than ten miles today and wasn’t done yet. She needed to leave.

  “You don’t need me here, so…”

  Lieutenant Raney interrupted. “How did you happen to find her?”

  “Oh, I came to look for the pronghorns.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you often hike alone?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “Had you been here before?”

  “No.” With that, she realized Lieutenant Lon Raney was interrogating her. A flash of resentment hardened her jaw. Hadn’t he just said the killer was probably a man with a size ten and a half shoe? She saw his eyes widen and the shadow of a smile tighten his lips. He was reading her own expression.

  “I guess that does it for now,” he said. “Thanks for your help.”

  She turned away before it occurred that he had wondered if she knew more than she was saying, which was right on the mark. If he considered no one above suspicion, it was a sign of the detective’s professionalism.

  With a thirty minute hike to the vehicle yet to go and almost an hour drive home, she felt eager to be done with this day and its surprises. She turned back to say goodbye to Detective Raney and started down the slope. Immediately, Deputy Wagner fell in step with her. She turned to give him a quizzical look but said nothing. She was disinterested in the deputy and preoccupied with thoughts of tomorrow. She knew he wouldn’t follow her all the way down because that would leave the Lieutenant without his second in command.

  After twenty or so paces, out of earshot of the others, Wagner stopped. Kim turned, shocked to see a sneer pulling down his flaccid lips and an angry flush stamped on his round face.

  “This must be quite a treat for you,” he said.

  She stopped short. “A treat? What the hell are you talking about?”

  The sneer melted into a mocking grin as he gestured back toward the victim. You work as an EMT. You get paid for grocking the gore, but this was just dessert, wasn’t it?”

  “Grock? What is that, a Star Trek reference? You haven’t outgrown the Trekkie phase yet? And no, I get paid for helping people who are hurt and what we just saw was a damned abomination.”

  He appeared not to have heard her. “But then again, she wasn’t scalped. Quite a head of hair on that one, huh?” He hooked his thumbs in his belt in a studied gesture of confident superiority and stared at her.

  The reference struck her in the pit of the stomach. She wanted to punch him. “You jerk!”

  He continued, “After all, you and your tribe have a reputation for torture and atrocities, don’t you?”

  The knot in her stomach rose into her chest. “Yeah, and you and your tribe have a reputation for lies, greed, and stupidity, don’t you?” She moved closer to him, glad she was an inch taller, her eyes dominant as she glared at him. “So you’ve heard I’m Tonto Apache. You know what Apache means? It means “enemy.” Know what Tonto means? It means “wild and unruly.” Leave me alone, Shit-For-Brains, or I will be your wild enemy!”

  • • •

  Chapter Seven

  Kim turned and strode down the rough hillside. When she was sure Wagner could no longer see her she slowed a little. His racial slur had taken her by surprise, and now in response she heard the internal voices of an antithetical message, “Be proud of your Native heritage.” It had been the habitual refrain of her tribal elders, her parents, and teachers. Even most Whites had forsaken prejudice these days, although largely ignorant of any but a stereotyped understanding of Native culture and psychology.

  Pride in her heritage felt as elusive now, as then. She couldn’t conjure it because it wasn’t pride in being Native that was the issue. It was whether or not she felt proud to be an Apache that had haunted her since the age of reason.

  Her automatic footsteps slowed by degrees until she realized she could go no farther with her mind in turmoil. She sat down in the dirt, willfully inattentive to the danger of scorpions and rattlers.

  In grammar school she had heard, “knowledge is power,” but learning the history of her ancestors taught her that knowledge is sometimes guilt, instead. The story of the Apaches splashed a lurid and bloody pattern on the history of the Old West. Apaches were renowned for strength, tenacity, intelligence, cunning and endurance, especially Cochise and Geronimo, their bands of warriors and tough-as-nails women and children. She could feel proud of those qualities, but her pride warred with her shame at their reported capacity for cruelty and savagery.

  Histories of the tribe told of Apache children given small birds and animals to torture in preparation for an adulthood of torturing human victims. Geronimo himself confessed he had tossed settlers’ babies into the air to hear them giggle then caught them on his knife.

  Kim pushed the grotesque image from her mind and stood to continue her hike to the trail head. But she couldn’t stop the scenes of her tribe’s history from playing through her mind, reel after disturbing reel, as they had in her childhood.

  In the late eighteen-hundreds, when the braves among her ancestors were avidly pursuing or being pursued by soldiers they were unable to dispatch their captured enemies at leisure. They then gave the prisoners to their women to torture. The women were considered even more diabolical, more capable of inventing horrific ways to torture their victims to death.

  Soon the monsters of her childhood nightmares were Kim’s own tribal ancestors. She never spoke of it, but she wondered, and she learned to argue against her growing self-doubt. Wasn’t pain a part of everyday life, especially the lives of nomadic people in harsh, unforgiving environments? And didn’t the Apaches include themselves in their ideas about pain and suffering? They placed bravery and stoicism above all virtues; they were renowned for their apparent immunity to the most severe physical pain.

  And then the doubts wormed their way back into her child’s soul. Was her ancestors’ apparent cruelty dormant within her? Did some remnant of their blood course through her veins? Did she harbor the gene for brutality in her own DNA?

  With fierce vigor, she joined the other boys and girls of the Yavapai-Apache tribe, learning about their heritage, including the atrocities and massacres committed against them by settlers and the United States Army. She learned and spoke bits of the ancient Athabascan-root language, and danced the traditional dances in elaborate costumes. It still wasn’t enough to solidify her amorphous self-image or imbue it w
ith positive self-regard. She read books depicting the culture and customs of other remnants of the scattered Apache blood line, who exist not just throughout Arizona, but into the mid-western states. She longed to be one of those adolescent girls. She had seen pictures of them covered with corn pollen in an elaborate puberty ceremony that was meant to ensure long life.

  Finally, Kim firmly told herself to stop ruminating and watch where she was going. She reached her vehicle for the second time that day and began the drive home, wishing for just a minute she could go the other way, back home to the Verde Valley and her family.

  When she finally pulled into the driveway of her little home on the outskirts of Yuma she sighed as she switched off the ignition. She looked at the brick and stone of the house, and remembered what Allie had said about her determination to live in such a house. Allie called it Kim’s “three-little-pigs-complex.”

  It reminded her that Allie hadn’t called to talk more about her dead friend. Maybe she would call Allie. With that decision, her thoughts reverted to a point-counterpoint debate about guilt. Allie knew all about what had happened at Montezuma Well three years ago and Allie was still her friend. Allie knew her and wouldn’t be her friend if she was bad, deep down.

  At the door, Kim’s Rottweiler/Black Lab mix, Zayd, greeted her with his usual tongue-lolling grin and tail wags. She wondered why his tail swung in a wider arc than usual, wriggling his body like a worm’s, until she realized that somehow he sensed the possibility there would soon be a search.

  She removed her hiking shoes and dropped them in the coat closet, hung her binoculars on a hook, then tore off the band holding her hair in a tight pony-tail. She bent to cup Zayd’s muzzle in her hand and kiss him on the head. Her hair cascaded over his neck, matching his ebony coat in color and sheen. She gave the dog a pat on his hindquarters then hurried to the bathroom, acutely aware she hadn’t relieved her bladder since early morning.

  She was not yet finished when the day pack she had tossed by the bathroom sink began to vibrate and buzz. Whoever it is, they can damn well wait, she thought. Before answering the phone she flushed, lowered the toilet lid and sat down on it.

  Lieutenant Raney’s voice, slow and undemanding, “Hi. Just wanted to ask if you’ll be back tomorrow with the canine team.”

  “Yes, Angelo and his dog, and Terri and her dog. What do you have for Zayd to scent from?”

  “The binoculars. I dusted them for prints before I bagged them. They have no value as evidence but Zayd could turn up something by scenting from them.”

  “You know there’s not much chance of that, don’t you? I mean, scent loves moisture, and there’s precious little moisture out there. And it’s been days.”

  “I know. We have to try.”

  “So how did the footprint cast come out?” She absent-mindedly stroked Zayd’s back. The dog always followed her into the bathroom, intent on being petted any time his owner was not in motion.

  “The cast came out nicely. I don’t need the computer to tell me it’s from mass-produced Nikes, common as dirt, and this one has only two distinguishing marks on the sole. They must have been brand new. Average size, too.”

  “Did you find her ID? Or a gun?”

  “No, nothing in her pockets and we didn’t find a pack, just a plastic water bottle. No gun, and no bullet so far. I hope Jane Doe is local and not from Lower Slobovia, or the coroner will have her in the freezer at the morgue for a very long time. I’m hoping you and your canine team can find something.”

  Kim thought quickly. “Can’t you identify her by her finger prints?”

  “The fingers look too shriveled for prints. Maybe if we soak them in water, they’ll plump up enough. If so, we’ll run them through AFIS. That will only help us if she’s in the data base, and I mean all ten fingers. If she got printed in Arizona, it could be an issue. Arizona’s on their shit list – uh, excuse me – on their list for failing, in so many cases, to get all ten or all ten readable.”

  “Speaking of a list, it appears I’m on Wagner’s black list and right now he tops mine. Whatever’s eating him doesn’t matter to me, but if I have to work with him it could get ugly.”

  There was a pause. “I wondered why he followed you when you left. You had words?”

  “Yes.”

  “Something about the case, about your work, or something personal?”

  “Personal, if you call racism personal. That’s all I want to say about it. So, about our Jane Doe – if you get prints from her fingers why would they be in a data base? I don’t think she’s a criminal, do you?”

  “Maybe not. But people who aren’t criminals get printed, too – insurance agents, the military, teachers, day-care workers. We might have to source some non-traditional avenues for an I.D. And we’ll check the missing persons reports. If she’s not there and finger prints don’t work out, we’ll get the media to ask the public. If that doesn’t produce results, at least we have the teeth.”

  “What?”

  “When I turned her over I found them intact. The bullet exited between her eyes. She had good teeth, but not perfect. I’m sure there are x-rays on file in some dentist’s office somewhere. In Yuma, if we’re lucky.”

  When he paused, Kim found herself wondering why Lon Raney had chosen to share all this information with her. She thought about the search tomorrow and turned the conversation.

  “The cadaver dog won’t have a problem tracking down body parts if there are any left out there, and if there’s anything that belonged to her, Zayd will find it.”

  “Right. About five a.m., then.”

  “Sure. Carpe manana.”

  • • •

  Chapter Eight

  It was the next day but not yet morning when the alarm rang, forcing a yawning, groaning Kim out of bed. She had laid out her clothes the night before, so she didn’t find it difficult, even with eyes closed, to pull on her cotton underwear and then the gray pants and matching gray polo shirt with “Search & Rescue” across the back in large capitals and on the front, the Sheriff’s Department logo.

  Zayd danced around her like a dervish, sure now of the day’s events. “Stop, you’re making me dizzy,” she said, and tried not to step on his feet as they went to the kitchen for breakfast.

  Kim was sure most Rescue dogs, like Zayd, loved their work. The team called on him so often it sometimes conflicted with Kim’s EMT work schedule. Zayd had been cross-trained in both air scenting and trailing/tracking searches. Unlike search dogs at disaster sites, he had been trained to be scent discriminating, able to find one individual among many others when given a scent article for targeting.

  In most searches in an urban environment he worked on lead, but today he would be off lead, deployed from the site where the body was found. Kim would follow as closely as her own speed and stamina allowed while he zigzagged within the bounds of the grid established by defining the search area with the GPS navigator. Angelo’s cadaver dog, Cuddles, would wait until Zayd did his thing. Lon Raney had made it clear that finding a personal article could help identify Jane Doe, which took priority.

  Kim arrived at the trail head first with Zayd. She released him from his crate and the second she opened the door he scrambled out of the Jeep and paused to scent the air, then began to bounce with excitement. “I wish I could be as enthusiastic as you,” she said to the dog, and made him stop prancing long enough to put on his snappy vest with the “Search & Rescue K-9” logo. She would swear he looked proud of himself whenever he wore it.

  Angelo pulled in next and unloaded Cuddles from the crate in the back of the black SUV. The huge Belgian Malinois bounded over, Angelo following him at a slow and somewhat bowlegged swagger. Angelo wore a stud in his lower lip, skull earrings and tattoos on his exposed biceps. His Search and Rescue uniform struggled to counteract the Biker persona but did not succeed. Sheriff’s deputies and other law enforcement staff were not fond of Angelo but he and his dog were too valuable for them to ostracize. They somewhat grudging
ly tolerated him. To Kim, Angelo presented a study in contradictions that only deepened when he spoke. Without preamble, he asked, “Now about that secret connection you have to this case. Do tell, Sister.”

  She said, “When you tell me who the hell you really are, I’ll share that secret with you.”

  “Let’s just say I’m someone who likes to keep people guessing,” he replied, placing a hand on his hip.

  Kim glanced at the back of his SUV. “I see you took off the bumper sticker.”

  “Which one, Sweet-Pea?”

  “The one that said, ‘Support Search and Rescue. Get lost’.”

  “Yes, but I’m replacing it with a new one. It says, ‘I just look illegal’.”

  Kim had to smile. “You can say that again.”

  Cindy and her dog arrived minutes later. After the dogs’ usual ritual of butt sniffing and tail wagging, they were put on leash to wait for Detective Raney. Kim turned toward the highway, and knew he was on his way by the thin plume of dust rising from the dirt access road. On his approach he must have seen that three vehicles already filled the small parking area, and swung his 2010 Crown-Vic around to park on the side of the access road.

  Kim watched him climb out. Something in his deliberate but unself-conscious movements took her breath away. She turned, aware she had been staring.

  After exchanged greetings and a few pleasantries they began the hike up the mountain side. They might have been friends out for a walk together in the coolness of the dawn, except for the excitement of the dogs and the silent tension of the searchers.

  Kim’s mind swam with the knowledge she was withholding a secret from her team members and Raney, that she knew the victim. At the same time she felt glad Cindy was just another Jane Doe to the others. Members of the canine posse didn’t want to know the identities of victims in body recovery cases, didn’t want to know a name or any other detail that might change “victim” into “real person.” A person with a name could be grieved for and team members who grieved, who allowed themselves to feel sad, angry, or outraged didn’t last long on the team.