was loose.
On the other side of the piñon grove, between Gausser's state vehicle and Matt's Caprice, a van from the Office of the Medical Investigator pulled up. The deputy M.I. picked his way through the trees. It was his job to make the official pronouncement of death—as if without it Anthony Randall might surprise them all and suddenly walk away—and then to transport the remains to the O.M.I. in Albuquerque. The deputy M.I. walked up to the crime scene perimeter and ducked under the yellow tape.
He said, "Got lost and couldn't find you guys. They gave me directions up at the staging area." He peered closely at the corpse. "That is one sorry crispy critter."
Sylvia stared through the stubby, potbellied man; her thoughts were far away. She envisioned the fire raging up the canyon, and then she tried to imagine Anthony Randall's last few hours of life. Why drive him all the way into the Jemez to kill him? It wasn't likely the killer—or killers—had expected the body to be destroyed in the forest fire. Clearly, they wanted to make a public statement. And they wanted to make sure the "Killers' Doctor" was included in that statement. So much so that they risked a trip to Matt's trailer after the murder.
Sylvia turned to Matt. "I'd like to talk to the firefighter who found the body."
Matt closed his eyes, stretched, then nodded. "I'm going to be a while. If I don't catch up with you, I'll call you at noon. You know your way to the staging area?"
"I'll find it." Sylvia moved with more energy now. She cocked a finger at Gausser. "About those canned tomatoes, Hansi. . . dream on."
D AYS EARLIER, WHEN Santa Fe National Forest officials set up a staging area outside the village of La Cueva, the Dark Canyon fire had been an unknown force. During the last ten hours, the fire had peaked. Now, officials gambled it would burn itself out.
When Sylvia turned off the access road, she saw buses, trailers, and emergency vehicles parked in a meadow that was smaller than a football field. This was where dispatchers communicated with the world, journalists prowled for scoops, and the all-important firefighters slept, ate, and got themselves patched up. At the moment, a dozen people, some in yellow-and-green firefighter uniforms, waited while a helicopter touched down.
Sylvia parked her Volvo next to a school bus. Directly ahead was a trailer with a sign: U.S.F.S. COMMUNICATIONS. She knocked, then entered. Communication equipment lined one wall and maps and aerial charts covered most of another. A man wearing headphones bared one ear.
She said, "I'm looking for the firefighter who found—"
"In first aid." He replaced his headphone. "That big RV next door. You better hurry. They're gonna ship him back to Santa Fe."
Sylvia stepped through the trailer door and collided with a petite, copper-haired woman dressed in a tailored tan shirt and a trim black skirt, silver belt buckle polished to a sheen: Rosie Sanchez, lead investigator at the Penitentiary of New Mexico.
"Hey!" Sylvia's eyes opened in surprise. The helicopter had taken off again and the noise overhead was deafening.
Rosie held her arms wide, and the two friends hugged.
Sylvia mouthed, "What are you doing here?"
As the helicopter moved out of range, Rosie shouted, "I've got inmates on furlough, fighting the fire. What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to the firefighter—"
"—who found the body." Abruptly, Rosie lowered her voice. "Benji Muñoz y Concha."
"He's an inmate?" Sylvia knew that any inquiry related to an inmate on furlough was part of the pen investigator's bailiwick.
"One of my best boys." Rosie's expression was quizzical.
"Let's go see your inmate, and I'll fill you in."
Benji Muñoz y Concha wore the vacant
On the other side of the piñon grove, between Gausser's state vehicle and Matt's Caprice, a van from the Office of the Medical Investigator pulled up. The deputy M.I. picked his way through the trees. It was his job to make the official pronouncement of death—as if without it Anthony Randall might surprise them all and suddenly walk away—and then to transport the remains to the O.M.I. in Albuquerque. The deputy M.I. walked up to the crime scene perimeter and ducked under the yellow tape.
He said, "Got lost and couldn't find you guys. They gave me directions up at the staging area." He peered closely at the corpse. "That is one sorry crispy critter."
Sylvia stared through the stubby, potbellied man; her thoughts were far away. She envisioned the fire raging up the canyon, and then she tried to imagine Anthony Randall's last few hours of life. Why drive him all the way into the Jemez to kill him? It wasn't likely the killer—or killers—had expected the body to be destroyed in the forest fire. Clearly, they wanted to make a public statement. And they wanted to make sure the "Killers' Doctor" was included in that statement. So much so that they risked a trip to Matt's trailer after the murder.
Sylvia turned to Matt. "I'd like to talk to the firefighter who found the body."
Matt closed his eyes, stretched, then nodded. "I'm going to be a while. If I don't catch up with you, I'll call you at noon. You know your way to the staging area?"
"I'll find it." Sylvia moved with more energy now. She cocked a finger at Gausser. "About those canned tomatoes, Hansi. . . dream on."
D AYS EARLIER, WHEN Santa Fe National Forest officials set up a staging area outside the village of La Cueva, the Dark Canyon fire had been an unknown force. During the last ten hours, the fire had peaked. Now, officials gambled it would burn itself out.
When Sylvia turned off the access road, she saw buses, trailers, and emergency vehicles parked in a meadow that was smaller than a football field. This was where dispatchers communicated with the world, journalists prowled for scoops, and the all-important firefighters slept, ate, and got themselves patched up. At the moment, a dozen people, some in yellow-and-green firefighter uniforms, waited while a helicopter touched down.
Sylvia parked her Volvo next to a school bus. Directly ahead was a trailer with a sign: U.S.F.S. COMMUNICATIONS. She knocked, then entered. Communication equipment lined one wall and maps and aerial charts covered most of another. A man wearing headphones bared one ear.
She said, "I'm looking for the firefighter who found—"
"In first aid." He replaced his headphone. "That big RV next door. You better hurry. They're gonna ship him back to Santa Fe."
Sylvia stepped through the trailer door and collided with a petite, copper-haired woman dressed in a tailored tan shirt and a trim black skirt, silver belt buckle polished to a sheen: Rosie Sanchez, lead investigator at the Penitentiary of New Mexico.
"Hey!" Sylvia's eyes opened in surprise. The helicopter had taken off again and the noise overhead was deafening.
Rosie held her arms wide, and the two friends hugged.
Sylvia mouthed, "What are you doing here?"
As the helicopter moved out of range, Rosie shouted, "I've got inmates on furlough, fighting the fire. What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to the firefighter—"
"—who found the body." Abruptly, Rosie lowered her voice. "Benji Muñoz y Concha."
"He's an inmate?" Sylvia knew that any inquiry related to an inmate on furlough was part of the pen investigator's bailiwick.
"One of my best boys." Rosie's expression was quizzical.
"Let's go see your inmate, and I'll fill you in."
Benji Muñoz y Concha wore the vacant
Similar Books
