Exit Wounds - J. A. Jance [106]
“Sure,” Joanna said. “Put him on.” She waited while Frank handed the phone over to Ernie. “So what does Dr. Lawrence have to say for himself?” she asked.
“It’s all pretty interesting,” Ernie answered. “Insect larval evidence would indicate that the two New Mexico victims died a week ago tomorrow.”
Joanna didn’t like to think about how succeeding generations of teeming maggots could be used to estimate the shelf life of corpses that had been left outside to rot in the elements, but she appreciated the fact that the process worked with uncanny accuracy.
“A week ago?” she asked. “On Tuesday, you mean?”
“That’s right,” Ernie replied. “The same day as Carol Mossman’s murder. What’s even more interesting is this: Both victims were evidently fully clothed when they were shot. The doc found microscopic fabric fibers in the entrance wounds on both victims.”
“You’re saying they were stripped of their clothing after they were killed?” Joanna asked.
“Yes, ma’am, and, considering the extent of the entrance and exit wounds, whoever did that job must have had an iron-clad stomach,” Ernie told her. “First they were moved—carried, most likely, rather than dragged—from where they were killed to where they were found. Then they were stripped and finally tied up.”
“How weird,” Joanna said.
“You’ve got that right,” Ernie agreed. “But Doc Lawrence says that the rope-burn chafing on both victims’ ankles and wrists is definitely indicative of postmortem injury rather than pre.”
“And if they were carried as opposed to dragged…” Joanna began.
“Then the killer is one strong dude who wants us to think we’re dealing with a sexual predator when we’re really not.”
Joanna thought about this last piece of information. “So we’re not out of line in thinking they were murdered because they were interfering where they weren’t wanted.”
“Which takes us right back to The Brethren,” Ernie agreed.
“I want you to get on the horn to the Mojave County Sheriff’s Department,” Joanna said after a moment’s consideration. “Talk directly to Sheriff Blake if you can. Let him know what we’re up against, and see if he’ll have his people send us everything they have on The Brethren.”
“I doubt they’ll have much,” Ernie said.
“Maybe you’re right, but we want whatever they do have,” Joanna told him.
When she finished with the phone call, she turned back to the table where she had left Irma Mahilich, only to find it empty. Irma had returned to the puzzle table and her magnifying glass, having left behind a set of four completed office drawings. The last one contained seven or eight desks, but without Irma’s commentary, the names meant little.
Joanna approached the puzzle table, carrying the drawings. “Oh, there you are,” Irma Mahilich said. “I’m glad you’re finally off the phone.”
“Could you tell me a little about the people on the last drawing?” Joanna asked.
“No,” Irma said. “I can’t, not today, anyway. Thinking about all those people’s names and what they did has worn me out completely. I need to go take a nap, but I didn’t want to leave without telling you good-bye. Now if you’ll be good enough to tell the receptionist that I’m ready to go back to my room, she’ll call for one of the aides to come get me.”
“I can help you,” Joanna said. “I don’t mind.”
“It’s not that,” Irma said. “I’m a little slow and I can walk just fine, but I can’t always remember what room I’m in. My neighbors get cranky when I go up and down the halls trying my key in all the doors until I find my own place. Short-term memory loss, they call it. Drives me batty sometimes.”
Joanna looked down at the sheets of paper in her hand and at all the desk-placement arrangements and at the co-workers’ names Irma Mahilich had summoned from that long-ago time. The old woman had been able to recall all kinds of pertinent details concerning her work life and her office mates from thirty and forty years ago, but in the present she was unable to remember the number of her own room.
“It’s room one forty-one,” Joanna said. “And I don