Exit Wounds - J. A. Jance [69]
Opening the front door, Joanna stepped out onto the shaded veranda where a shorts-clad blonde with short-cropped hair was speaking earnestly to Kevin Dawson. Kevin, the Bisbee Bee’s ace reporter and photographer, was also, by some strange coincidence, the son of the newspaper’s publisher and editor in chief.
As the door closed behind Joanna, one of the nearest sign-wielding demonstrators spotted her. “There she is,” he shouted to the others, pointing in her direction. “That’s Sheriff Brady.”
Interviewer and interviewee turned to face Joanna while a series of boos and catcalls erupted from the group of demonstrators gradually coalescing at the foot of the stairs. As they moved closer, Joanna managed to catch a glimpse of some of the signs. SHAME ON SHERIFF BRADY, said one. CCSD UNFAIR TO ANIMALS, announced several others.
Animals? Joanna wondered in confusion. What animals?
Considering the events of the night before, she more than half expected the demonstrators outside to be human rights activists protesting the maze of conflicting international policies that had resulted in the terrible human carnage at Silver Creek. In fact, considering the dead boy whose bloodied body Joanna had held in her arms, Sheriff Brady herself might have been sorely tempted to join such a protest.
Then she saw another sign that clinched it. SEVENTEEN TOO MANY.
That’s when Joanna tumbled. The people in the parking lot weren’t the least bit concerned about dead and injured illegal immigrants. Callous about human casualties, the jeering group of protesters on the doorstep of the Cochise Justice Center had come to express their outrage over the heat-related deaths of Carol Mossman’s dogs.
Joanna stifled an inward groan. “Who’s in charge here?” she asked.
The woman with the short-cropped blond hair who looked to be about Joanna’s age gave Sheriff Brady a scathing look. “I am,” she announced crisply.
A man with a video camera on his shoulder shoved his way through the crowd and pushed a microphone in Joanna’s face.
“And you are?” Joanna asked, ignoring the cameraman.
“Tamara Haynes,” the woman replied. “That’s H-A-Y, not H-A-I,” she added for the reporter’s benefit as he dutifully took notes.
“May I help you?” Joanna asked.
Her question was drowned out by a new series of jeering catcalls. Despite her best intentions, Joanna felt her temper revving up.
Her second question was far less welcoming. “Who exactly are you?” she demanded. “And what are you doing here?”
“I already told you,” the woman replied. “My name is Tamara Haynes.” A diamond tongue-stud glittered as she spoke. Her ears were pierced a dozen times over. Her belly button, visible on a bare midriff, sported its own set of piercings, and her upper arms and shoulders were covered with a series of tattoos.
“I’m the local chapter president for AWE.”
“Which is?” Joanna prodded.
“A-W-E,” Tamara said. When Joanna exhibited no sign of recognition, the woman added, “Animal Welfare Experience.”
“And you’re here because…?”
“You’re in charge of Cochise Animal Control, are you not?” Tamara Haynes asked.
“Yes,” Joanna said, “I am at the moment. Why?”
“Well,” Tamara returned, her voice dripping contempt, “we’re here to serve notice that the members of AWE hold you personally responsible for the deaths of all those poor animals out by the San Pedro. If you and your department had simply responded to the situation in a more efficient and timely fashion, none of those unfortunate dogs would have died.”
With great effort Joanna kept her response reasonably civil. “Those dogs died in their owner’s overheated mobile home—a home with no electricity and no air-conditioning,” she added. “They died after their owner was murdered, shot to death by an unknown assailant through a locked back door. If anyone is responsible for the deaths of those animals, it’s Carol Mossman’s killer. And that’s what my department is doing right now—searching for her murderer.”
But Tamara Haynes wasn’t someone whose opinion could