Scratchgravel Road A Mystery

SIX



Tuesday morning Otto awoke at six, but before he made the ritual beeline to the kitchen coffeepot, he walked outside through a light rain to check on his small herd of milk goats that roamed freely on his sixty-five acres of pasture. He found them huddled under the stable, but as soon as they caught sight of him they stumbled up off the ground, their skinny legs propelling them forward as one group, their brown eyes concerned, bleating like scared children. Their routine had been interrupted and they were not pleased with the chaotic weather. Otto had raised goats for twenty years and never tired of their quirky personalities and social nature. He stopped to check the rain gauge on the fence post. Six inches in one night, most likely a record breaker. The desert was a place of extremes, but that year they’d experienced drought, record-high temperatures, and now possibly record-high rainfall. Otto tended to blame the weather patterns on nature’s fickle whims, but at times like these he wondered.

After feeding and watering the goats, he sat down with Delores for a breakfast of waffles and milk, and then showered, dressed, and left for work by seven thirty. On the drive to work the rain turned heavy again: from ground to sky was a gray wash. The West Texas monsoon season, when the area received most of its rainfall, typically lasted from July through September, with an average annual rainfall totaling just sixteen inches. Artemis had received eight inches in two days and it was still July. The old-timers at the Hot Tamale were predicting the hundred-year flood this season, and in his experience, the old-timers had a sense for all things weather. The lack of vegetation across the flat land made perfect conditions for flash flooding, and all officers were on alert for emergency calls.

Sitting at his desk in the office he made a few phone calls and answered e-mails while he polished off two cups of coffee. Then he called Mark Harper, Cassidy’s dad, and asked if he could stop by and see him at the shop. Mark owned a bulk food store that he operated out of a small warehouse located by the Arroyo County Jail, several miles east of town. It was a successful business, used by the jail and several restaurants in town to purchase dry goods at a reasonable price. Otto knew Mark from his membership in the Kiwanis Club. He and his wife had moved to Artemis several years ago after Cassidy had landed here. Otto wasn’t sure if they had seized a good business opportunity, or just moved to Texas to support their wayward daughter.

The wooden sign standing in front of the large warehouse read HARPER’S BULK DRY GOODS. The building was a green metal pole barn surrounded by tasteful desert landscaping that curved to the front door.

A buzzer sounded when Otto entered the empty front lobby, and a minute later Mark appeared from a door that led to the storage area beyond. He wore blue jeans and a green polo shirt with the company name embroidered across the breast pocket. He was medium height with a hefty build and thick brown hair. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and gave the impression of a confident, successful small-business man.

They said their hellos and commented on the rains and the flooding that was sure to come before Mark motioned for Otto to have a seat in a small lobby. It was furnished with two leather couches, a coffee table covered with magazines, and a dusty TV that looked as if it had never been turned on.

“What can I do for you?”

“I have some questions about Cassidy.” Otto noticed the change in his expression, from friendly to one of dread. As a police officer, Otto was used to that look when he appeared unannounced, but he thought Mark might have had conversations about his daughter frequently and had learned to anticipate the worst.

“She okay?” he asked.

Otto nodded. “Yes.”

“Is she in trouble?”

Otto put a hand up. “Don’t worry. She’s fine. I just hope you can help shed some light on her situation.”

The tension in his shoulders relaxed slightly and he nodded as if he understood and needed to sit back and listen.

“Did she talk with you about what happened yesterday?” Otto asked.

“No.”

Otto pulled his notebook and pen out of his chest pocket. “Here’s the situation. You know Chief Gray?”

Mark nodded. “Sure. Cassidy worked at the police department for a while.”

“Chief Gray saw Cassidy’s car along the side of the road yesterday and stopped to check. She located her about a quarter mile from the road. Found her passed out in the sand, suffering from heat exhaustion.”

Mark’s eyes widened and his face reddened in anger. “What was she doing in the desert? It was over a hundred degrees yesterday!”

“That’s not so much the issue. We found her lying beside a dead body.”

“What?” His expression was incredulous.

Otto put a hand up again. “We don’t think she had anything to do with the man’s death. Apparently she took a walk at a random location on the side of the road. She smelled something, looked around, and saw a body. She passed out. That’s when Josie found her. We carried her out and got her into an ambulance and to the Trauma Center. She’s fine now.”

He paused, allowing Mark a second to consider what he’d heard.

Mark rested both hands loosely in his lap, and stared at Otto, his eyes not blinking. “This is my punishment. This is God making me pay for the grief I gave my own parents.”

He stared for a moment more and Otto sat quietly waiting for the story he was sure would come.

Mark finally leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, avoiding eye contact with Otto. “Pam and I were young when we met. We had Cassidy right away. We experimented with various things—some drugs, alternative lifestyle. Nothing too bad, just trying to figure out life. My family got this crazy idea we were worshiping the devil. We got tired of the BS so we moved to Florida to start over. We finally grew up and decided we were tired of raising Cassidy in poverty. We wanted a better life. She was eight by then, and she’d lived all over the place.” He looked up, his expression pained. “She didn’t exactly have a stable upbringing. Pam and I blame ourselves. It’s like she floats through life with no grounding.”

“Cassidy’s a good kid. Some just take longer to grow up than others.”

“Point taken.” Mark smiled weakly. “But who hikes in the desert on a hundred-degree day and finds a dead body? It’s like—” He gave up, at a loss for words.

“We had the same thought. What bothered us was that she couldn’t answer that question either. It’s the reason I came here today,” Otto said. “I’ve got some concerns about her boyfriend. Nothing I can put my finger on, but I wanted to get your thoughts.”

Otto did not need an answer. Mark had sat up suddenly, and the look on his face was answer enough. “I hate that kid. I wasn’t going to bring him up. I’ve never blamed Cassidy’s bad behavior on her friends. She’s got her own mind. She needs to use it. But, that kid, that man, is not right.”

“Give me an example of not right.”

“In his own mind, he’s brilliant. I guess he was a science professor at Texas A&M before he got fired for sleeping with his students.”

Otto looked surprised. “Cassidy told Josie he got laid off.”

Mark cocked an eyebrow. “Cassidy can believe what she wants, but I know the truth.”

“What’s he do for money meantime?”

Mark’s face reddened again. “My daughter is supporting him. She works as a cashier at the Family Value Store so he can sit on his lazy butt and watch cartoons.”

“You think he might be involved in something illegal? Organized crime, drug running?”

“Hell no, Otto. He’s too lazy to organize anything. Besides, he’s got a girlfriend paying his bills now. What more does he need?”

* * *

Josie’s morning meeting with Smokey and Sheriff Martínez was canceled. Smokey and the sheriff were helping a tow truck driver pull a stranded pickup truck out of a ditch that was flowing like a river. Martínez told her they had it under control so Josie took the opportunity to stop by the Arroyo County Jail, where Mitchell Cowan’s office was located.

As Josie pulled into the paved parking lot she could barely make out the shape of the brown cinderblock-and-brick building due to the rain pelting her windshield. She parked as close to the entrance as she could and pushed the car door open. She popped her umbrella up, but by the time she reached the awning and pressed the button to be buzzed inside, her uniform pants were soaked.

She walked into a small lobby area furnished with two chairs and a framed picture of the Pledge of Allegiance. A buzzer sounded and a second set of doors opened into a central hub where Maria Santiago, intake officer, smiled warmly and waved hello. The room was octagonal, with Maria in the center surrounded by a bank of desks filled with baskets of paperwork, several phones, and computers—cluttered but organized and neat. The large room was well lit and painted a deep blue with white trim. Several doors led to different areas of the jail such as the booking room, interrogation room, and the prisoner pods. Josie chatted with Maria about the weather for a few minutes before Maria buzzed her through another set of doors to the coroner’s office. Josie walked down a hallway toward the back end of the jail by the basketball court, past several offices and storage rooms to her right.

She knocked on a closed steel door with the words COUNTY CORONER painted in black block letters. She heard Cowan yell, “Enter,” and found him leaning over a body laid out on a stainless steel gurney. Josie stared at the opened head cavity a moment too long and turned her head, forcing herself to keep a passive expression over the revulsion she felt.

The room was constructed similarly to the jail’s kitchen. Both were outfitted with stainless steel cabinets and countertops with the equipment stored neatly away.

Cowan wore a white lab coat, plastic gloves, white mask, and blue surgical cap. He looked up at Josie over his reading glasses. “Stop!”

She stopped and raised her hands.

“No farther until you suit up.”

“What’s this all about?”

“I don’t like what I see.”

“The sores?” she asked.

“I have no idea what this is. It isn’t necrotizing fasciitis. Beyond that, I’m not sure. I’ve never seen sores like this.”

“Are they all over his body?”

“Both arms, and two spots on his head, which would indicate the sores were caused by exposure to something external.”

“Was the blow to the head what killed him?” she asked.

“I’m not ready to say, but it was obviously a brutal blow.”

“Intended to either kill him, or knock him unconscious to die of exposure?”

Cowan shrugged.

“It’s enough to officially rule this a murder investigation?”

“I would agree with that,” he said.

Josie thought about the information while staying twenty feet away from the body. “I came for fingerprints and to get the evidence. It is safe?”

“Suit up.”

Not looking forward to the task ahead of her, and now wishing she had not come, she walked over to a wall of stainless steel cabinets. Cowan asked her to wash up in the sink across the room, then directed her to the correct cabinet where she found gloves, a mask, and a cap and lab coat like the ones Cowan wore. She used her fingers to pull her hair out of her ponytail, then pulled it back up again into a messy bun that would fit under the surgical cap. If he had offered her a full-body hazmat outfit she would have gladly taken it.

As she approached, Cowan was bent over, examining a section of the man’s brain. “The cerebellum and hippocampus. They can clue us in to possible asphyxiation.”

Josie murmured a response and studied the open head cavity, slowly getting accustomed to the sight and antiseptic smell while willing her stomach to settle.

“I’ve cleaned the hands and prepared them for you. Feel free to jump in.” Cowan continued working as he talked. “Preliminary findings are, male, about sixty years old, five feet eleven inches, one hundred sixty-five pounds. No identification present on the body. Identifying marks are a dark brown birthmark on his left calf, approximately two inches long and a half inch wide. He has no hair on his head or his arms. It appears he may have received chemotherapy, although I’ve seen no evidence of any surgeries or cancer. It’s still early.”

“When do you expect to finish?”

“It may be tomorrow. The lesions are a continuing mystery. I’ll have fluid, specimen, and tissue samples ready for toxicology today, but you’re looking at seven to ten days for results.”

Josie had brought a small fingerprint kit with her and opened it on top of the counter next to the body. Cowan could have taken prints for her, but she typically took her own for a homicide. It was a good chance to talk with him about the body.

Trying to warm him up, Josie asked him, “How did you end up here? Weren’t you a family doctor in Presidio?”

Cowan pulled away from the body and rested his hands on the gurney, giving his full attention to the question. “In case you have not noticed, people skills are not my forte. I did not have the bedside manner people wanted. So, I found a way to practice without having to chitchat.”

“Smart move.”

“I am the primary care physician for the dead,” he said, and bent back over his microscope. “It is gratifying work.”

Josie nodded in admiration. Outwardly Cowan didn’t appear to be a happy man, but Josie suspected he led a very content life as a loner.

The body lay prostrate, covered by a blue disposable sheet. The head was uncovered, as were the arms, which were lying on top of the sheet. The open wounds were grotesque and Josie forced herself to focus on the hands, which fortunately were not affected. She held the hand, still cold from the cooler, and rolled each finger on an ink pad, then printed it on a card attached to a small clipboard. The process for both hands took about ten minutes. Cowan talked quietly to himself throughout the process, measuring areas of the brain with calipers, photographing and making notes in a tablet that lay beside him on a rolling table.

“Have his clothing and personal effects been cleared? I want to take them back with me to the evidence locker.”

He looked up and frowned. “Not until I get toxicology back. You’re welcome to pull everything out.” He pointed to a row of six lockers at the end of the wall cabinets. “His effects are in the top locker. Everything is stored in a plastic bag. Just keep your mask and gloves on as a precaution.”

Josie pulled the plastic bag out and laid it on a steel examination table to the right of the table Cowan was using. She pulled out a pair of black work boots, blue jeans, and a blue and white plaid Western-style cotton shirt. She also pulled out several other small plastic bags with evidence inside, and recognized Otto’s angular handwriting. He had written a brief description, the time, and the date on a white rectangular area on the outside of each bag with a black permanent marker.

Josie opened her notebook and wrote down the size of the man’s jeans, noted the brand was Wranglers, and checked them for tear marks or any sign of damage. Finding none, she went through the same process with the shirt. The clothing appeared to be fairly new and in excellent condition. It did not appear that he had experienced any kind of fight, or that he had been dragged through the sand to the spot where Cassidy found him.

Josie looked at his work boots. They were black, made of smooth high-grade leather. They appeared to be the kind of boot purchased for military or law enforcement use, although Josie did not recognize the brand. She jotted down the name, Secure-Wear, size 11 wide. She examined the bottom of the boots and noted that the wear looked typical on the soles, although the red stitching appeared fairly new. It looked as if the shoes had been re-soled.

She took photographs of the clothing before returning it back to the bag. She turned her attention to the items in the small resealable bags, hoping they might lead to some piece of information to help identify him. The Case knife was most interesting. She pulled it out of the bag and snapped a picture of it. The wood grain was stained a deep forest green with silver inlay and caps on the ends. She opened each blade and noticed the heft. The sheen had been worn off the wood, so the knife had been used for some years, but the blades were oiled and had been well cared for. She took a few additional pictures so she could run the knife by Tiny at the Gun Club.

The objects from the man’s left pocket consisted of eighty-seven cents in American currency and a packet of Dentyne cinnamon gum. His right pocket held the knife and a small glass vial that appeared to be empty.

Josie turned toward Cowan and held up the vial. “Can you test a vial like this for drug residue? It appears to be empty, and I don’t see anything in it, but it might be worth a test.”

He looked up from the microscope and squinted. “Yes. I can test it. Leave it out of the bag and put a note on it with instructions. I’ll get to it tomorrow.”

Frustrated that she hadn’t found more to go on, Josie placed the evidence back into the large bag and put it back into the top locker. She threw her cap, mask, and gloves in a waste receptacle marked with a hazardous waste symbol, then took her lab coat off and placed it in a hazardous materials tub for the laundry. She washed her hands and forearms thoroughly with hot water and a medicinal-smelling soap in a large sink, anxious to leave the room and whatever pathogens were floating in the air. After a quick good-bye to Cowan she was walking down the hallway when her cell phone rang in the pocket of her uniform shirt.

She flipped it open and smiled at the number.

“Hey! You on break?” she asked.

“Yep. You busy?”

“I was holding some guy’s hand.”

“Should I be jealous?”

“He was dead. He’s not much of a threat,” she said.

“I don’t think normal people have conversations like these.”

Josie could hear the smile in his voice and laughed. “I never promised you normal. What’s your schedule today?”

“I’m coming home early. I miss you.”

“You’re coming home because you miss me, or because the conference sucks?”

“You should learn to accept a compliment at face value. I’m also coming home because today’s lectures don’t apply to me. It’s corporate accounting. Not exactly my thing.”

She smiled, happy just to hear his voice. “No, Artemis doesn’t really qualify as a corporate kind of town.” Josie waved good-bye to Maria, who buzzed her out into the lobby area of the jail. “Want to meet at the Tamale for supper?” She walked outside, stood under the awning, and saw she wouldn’t need her umbrella.

He groaned. “I was hoping for a home-cooked meal.”

“Ramen soup?”

“Sounds delicious.”

“I’ll see you about six at my place,” she said.

“Perfect.”

“Hey,” she said before they hung up. “I miss you too.”

The downpour that she had walked through upon arriving at the jail had turned into a sprinkle. The sun was still buried in thick gray clouds, but a reprieve from the rain would be nice. She decided it was time to have a talk with Enrico Gomez.