Day of the Dead - J. A. Jance [65]
“You believe something happened to her while she was in the hospital the first time, for the surgery?” Brandon asked.
Andrea Tashquinth turned so she was looking Brandon square in the face. “I know something happened to her,” she said fiercely. “I think my sister was raped.”
“By whom?”
Andrea’s diffidence returned. “I don’t know. Someone who worked there, maybe? An orderly or a nurse. They had a few male nurses back then. Or maybe it was someone who was at the hospital visiting someone else.”
“You told this to people at the time?”
“Tried to,” Andrea said. “But I was sixteen. No one was interested in my opinions.”
“Especially since they were all convinced that your father was the culprit.”
“Yes,” Andrea agreed.
“Did your parents or anyone else ever ask to see Roseanne’s medical records?”
“I doubt it,” Andrea said. “When I told them that I thought something had happened to Roseanne at the hospital, my parents didn’t listen, either.”
“What made you think that?” Brandon asked. “Did she say anything to you about it—communicate anything?”
“No. It was just a feeling I had. It was probably nothing.”
Maybe not, Brandon Walker thought to himself as he jotted a reminder in his notebook.
That was one thing TLC had taught him. When you were doing cold-case investigations, you had to be willing to follow up on the dead leads everyone else had ignored.
By the time Erik reached Pontotoc Road, he looked as though he’d been through a war. His clothes were a mess. He was dusty, hot, thirsty, bloodied, and sweaty, and his ankle hurt like hell. He was sure now that it wasn’t broken, but it was badly sprained. What he wanted to do was shower and then ice the damned thing, although this late in the game, icing was probably beside the point.
He was surprised to see a cop car with a single occupant parked in front of his house. Erik hobbled up to the vehicle.
“What’s up?” he asked as the officer rolled down the window. “Is something wrong?”
The cop hustled out of the car. “My name’s Detective Brian Fellows,” he said, flashing a badge. “I’m an investigator for the Pima County Sheriff’s Department. And you are?”
Erik glanced at his truck to see if it had been damaged in some way, but the Tacoma was fine and still parked where he’d left it. “I’m Erik LaGrange,” he replied. “I live here. What’s going on?”
“You seem to be hurt,” the officer responded without really answering. “What happened?”
“I fell while I was up on the mountain.”
“When was that?”
“A while ago. I don’t know exactly. I’m on my way inside to shower and ice my ankle. You still haven’t told me what’s up.”
Just then a second sheriff’s department vehicle pulled up and parked. A second plainclothes officer stepped out and hurried over to Erik and Detective Fellows.
“Got it,” the second cop said to the first one, who nodded. The meaningful glance that passed between them gave Erik an uneasy feeling. This wasn’t just a routine neighborhood disturbance call. Something was going on—something out of the ordinary.
“This is my partner, Detective Hector Segura,” Detective Fellows said. “This is Mr. LaGrange.”
Instinctively, Erik held out his hand. Instead of taking it, Detective Segura reached into his jacket pocket and removed a folded paper, which he placed in Erik’s outstretched hand. Erik unfolded the document and examined it. For what seemed like the longest time the words didn’t penetrate, didn’t register.
“A search warrant?