“I don’t know about you,” Jaime Carbajal said, “but I’m on my way home. Whatever we’re going to do next will have to wait until tomorrow. If I don’t get home in time to see at least the last couple innings of Pepe’s game, Delcia is going to kill me.”
“Your wife isn’t going to kill you over missing a Little League game,” Joanna said. “But if she does, we’ll see to it that Delcia doesn’t get any less of a sentence for knocking you off than Sandra Ridder did for shooting her husband.”
“Thanks, boss,” Jaime Carbajal said. “You’re all heart.”
CHAPTER 19
Over dinner, Butch turned serious. “What’s this I hear about Reba Singleton making a scene at Clayton’s funeral?”
Joanna glowered at Jenny. “It wasn’t a big deal,” Joanna said. “She didn’t mean anything by it.”
“She did too,” Jenny insisted. “She said you wouldn’t get away with it. She sounded so mean when she said it, that it scared me. It really did.”
“And now that I’ve heard about that,” Butch said, “there’s something worrying me as well. When I came home, there was a car pulling out of the drive onto High Lonesome Road, but Jenny tells me there was no one here but the two of you.”
“What kind of car?” Joanna asked.
“I couldn’t tell,” Butch replied. “All I saw were headlights. Still, if someone came to the ranch without coming up to the house and talking to you . . .”
“It was probably somebody using the facilities,” Joanna said. “People do it all the time, especially regulars who are stuck driving Highway Eighty on a weekly or monthly basis. It’s a long pit-stop-free zone from Benson to, say, Rodeo, New Mexico. People will pull off the highway and then come up High Lonesome Road until they hit the dips. Figuring they’re out of sight, they’ll stop there to relieve themselves.”
“Mom!” Jenny objected. “That’s gross.”
“It may be gross, but it happens,” Joanna said. “I’ve seen them myself.”
Butch shook his head. “In other words, I’m not supposed to worry about whether or not a crazed Reba Singleton was parked down by the mailbox because you think it was probably just some weak-bladdered guy who couldn’t make it all the way from Bisbee to Douglas.”
“Right,” Joanna said, while Butch shook his head and rolled his eyes. Forty-five minutes later, dinner was over and cleared away. While Jenny and Butch settled down to play a game of dominoes in the breakfast nook, Joanna opened her briefcase and spread the contents out across the dining room table. Digging through the bale of paper, Joanna located Frank Montoya’s file folder labeled “Ridder, Thomas Dawson.”
The poor print quality on the faxed material made it difficult to read. There was no way for Joanna to tell which end of the process had the dying printer problem, but she suspected that if it was on the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department’s side of the equation, Frank Montoya probably had repaired it by now or was in the process of doing so.
Joanna read through the file’s contents one page at a time. True to his nature, Frank had arranged the material in meticulous chronological order. The first item—a single piece of paper—contained a copy of Thomas Dawson Ridder’s general discharge from the army. A separate document indicated he was being dismissed for cause, for behavior ill befitting an officer and a gentleman. Nowhere in the verbiage could Joanna find any indication that Ridder’s ill behavior had to do with assaulting a superior officer. Joanna made a note to herself: “Ask Frank where he picked up info on the alleged assault.”
Turning to a sheaf of copied newspaper clippings, Joanna discovered that the first newspaper account of the Thomas Ridder shooting incident was a small three-inch article in the Tucson Daily Sun that reported an unidentified male had been shot to death in his home on East Seventeenth Street in Tucson’s downtown area. It added that detectives from the Tucson Police Department were investigating the shooting as either the interruption of a robbery in progress or possibly as a domestic-violence incident.
That kind of surface-only reporting was typical of newspaper accounts that are written immediately after fatality incidents and before officials have an opportunity to notify next of kin. The second article was a more in-depth piece in which the reporter revealed the full names of both victim and alleged assailant.
The article recounted that at the time of Sandra Christina Ridder’s surrender and subsequent arrest, she had made a complete confession to investigators, saying that she had shot her husband in an effort to ward off another violent attack. Afterward, she had picked up her young daughter from a ballet class downtown and then had driven around for hours trying to come to terms with what she had done and also trying to decide what to do next. After disposing of the murder weapon at an undisclosed location, Sandra Ridder had finally contacted a friend, an attorney, who convinced her she should turn herself in to the authorities.