The Territory (Josie Gray Mysteries #1)(13)
After she and Otto finished a quick inventory of Red’s place, they locked the sliding door with a key they had found on Red’s desk and ran crime scene tape around the front of the house. Before they locked up, Josie sketched a picture of Red’s desk and the location of the key. It seemed odd to her that someone as paranoid as Red would leave a key lying in the open on his desk. By the time they walked back down the lane to Winning’s trailer, the county coroner, Mitchell Cowan, had finished his job and was zipping Red Goff’s corpse into a black plastic body bag.
Cowan was a large man who reminded Josie of Eeyore, the sad donkey from Winnie the Pooh. His head drooped low like his gut, as if the weight of the world was dragging him down. He talked slowly, to the point of annoyance, but he was thorough and his findings were well respected in court.
Cowan lifted his balding head and waved to Josie and Otto. “Got a surprise for you.”
Josie and Otto followed Cowan to the shade provided by the cedar trees. When he didn’t elaborate, Josie cleared her throat, prompting him to continue, her tolerance slipping in the heat.
“That bullet exited Red’s skull.”
“Does that mean the shooter was up close?” Josie asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m guessing a pretty high-caliber gun was used. The surprise, though?” He posed the question and waited for Josie to wave him on again before he would finish. “The bullet isn’t in the couch. Somebody shot him elsewhere and then arranged the body on the couch,” Cowan finished with a satisfied smile.
“They either thought the police were inept, or they were telling us something,” Josie said.
“Or the message was for someone else,” Otto said.
With the body removed, Josie took additional pictures of the couch. They searched the trailer, looking for the ejected bullet, but there was no indication a gun was fired inside.
Otto helped Cowan get the body on the stretcher, and Josie stood outside to talk to Danny Delgado, sanitation supervisor, known locally as the Dump Man. Josie had called and asked if he would haul away the bloodstained couch to the evidence locker at the department that evening. Winning stood by the trailer door and watched as Josie and Delgado carried the couch to his pickup truck. Danny and Josie climbed inside the pickup where he helped her cover the couch with a plastic tarp before she took pictures of how it would be transported. She had a feeling the couch might play a major role in the investigation and the trial.
Danny shut the tailgate and headed for Winning like a dog after a bone. He smiled at her and rubbed his hands down the front of his blue jeans, then up and through his hair, then back down to his jeans. He had the nervous tics of a crack addict, and Josie wondered if he was really wound that tight or if drugs were the issue.
“How about I drop your couch off, then come back and take you out for a beer?” Danny ran his hands through his coarse blond hair again.
Winning scowled at him and crossed her arms over her chest but didn’t speak.
“Danny. Leave her alone. A man was murdered in her home today,” Josie said.
“Hey! If anybody in this town needs a beer, it’s her. And I’m offering it to her free!”
Josie pointed to Danny’s truck, and he winked at Winning as he turned to leave. Josie sent Otto to ride with Danny to provide validation the evidence was not tampered with before it was logged into evidence.
*
By the time Josie finished Red Goff’s initial paperwork, she felt as if she had worked a twenty-four-hour shift. She sat in her jeep to clear up a few things before driving home. A call to the night dispatcher confirmed there was no new activity coming from across the border. She had instructed dispatch to make daily phone calls to the Artemis PD contacts in Piedra Labrada until the city calmed down. Next, she called Martínez, who told her that the Mexican prisoner from the shooting at the Trauma Center had stabilized and was ready for questioning. Martínez was working on fingerprints and hopefully a positive identification from NCIC or DACS, the National Crime Information Center or Deportable Alien Control System. Josie thanked him and told him she would be at the jail by noon the next day to interview the prisoner.
Before Josie hung up, she asked, “What’s the story with your deputy, Hack Bloster, and the Gunners?”
“Bloster’s too intense for his own good. He’s a gun nut, but he’s a good cop. He’ll walk into a shit storm without a second thought. He’s good with border issues.”
“He showed up at Red’s tonight, off duty. He threw his weight around. Wanted to know why your department wasn’t conducting the investigation.”
“It doesn’t surprise me. I’ll talk to him.”
“Remind him a little professional courtesy goes a long way.”
THREE
Josie pointed her jeep toward the sun, just a red bump on the darkening horizon, and drove with all four windows down, listening to Johnny Cash sing a live version of “Folsom Prison Blues.” She attempted to focus her thoughts on the winding gravel road that led to her house in the foothills of the Chinati Mountains, but the image of Vie Blessings praying on the hospital floor imprinted like a watermark over everything. The wind would not clear the vision of the young surgeon, still in his blood-splattered scrubs, crying into his hands outside the clinic after it was over. And she could not erase the thought that she knew would invade every nightmare for the next month: We are losing our town to mercenary killers.