Chapter 11

After a bit I saw three deputies coming our way, two in the tan uniforms that seem to be a requirement for sheriff's departments everywhere, and one in a flight suit – he would be the pilot. They all had hats on, which was what I'd hoped. But I could see that none of them was carrying a canteen, and only the pilot's flight suit had long sleeves. I suspected there would be a couple of sunburned deputies before the day was over. Cops don't usually spend hours out in the middle of nowhere under the desert's summer sun, and don't come prepared for it.

As they came up to us I held out my hand. "I'm Darvin Carpenter, and this is my wife Cecelia and our daughter Darlia. You can see from the tracks in the sand how close I got." I gestured down into the gully, though "tracks" seemed a pretentious word for amorphous indentations in the sand. "None of us has gotten closer than that."

The sergeant – I could tell because he had more stripes on his sleeve than the other two – nodded. "I don't suppose we're in a hurry here. Did you see anything that might be the cause of death?"

"No, but the condition of the body made that difficult – probably it'll take an autopsy, unless it's something obvious like a bashed-in skull."

"Even an autopsy might not help here. Who knows what's happened to the blood, and the organs, and any chemical traces there might have been?" As he spoke I realized that the sergeant hadn't introduced himself or his companions, but they all of them had names on their uniforms – the pilot on a strip sewn on his flight suit, and the other two on name badges above their right shirt pockets.

"Yeah. I expect, Sergeant Castro, that most of the evidence y'all find will be underneath the body."

"Probably. It's going to be a pain getting a crime scene team out here."

"Ain't that the truth?" Cecelia didn't criticize my pronunciation that time. She's got more wisdom about how to handle situations than I do. "I hate to think about packing equipment in."

"You're actually only about a mile north of the road here."

"Have you done much walking out here, Sarge?"

"No, I haven't."

I grinned mirthlessly. "It's only a mile, and it looks pretty smooth from the air. But there are gullies, and cholla thickets, and clumps of brush, and you've got to watch your footing so you don't step on a cholla joint or a rock that's ready to roll, and it's high summer out here. It's going to be work getting any kind of gear out here. Was I you, I'd see if the OX Ranch could loan you some pack horses."

"Or we could just use ATVs."

"Yeah, you could at that. But you know the National Park Service is gonna get involved, right?" Of course they would – this was part of the Mojave National Preserve. "They might take it unkindly if you tear up their land."

"I've got a crime scene to investigate here," he said, and I heard the hardness in his voice. I suspected he'd been a good street cop before he ever moved into supervision.

"I know that, and the Park Service does too – but they've got a federal job to do here, and it involves protecting this place. Your best bet will be the ranch."

He nodded. "I suppose you're right." He glanced at me, and then back to the body. "I know my authority, but I also know when someone knows more about something than I do. You're the desert expert here, aren't you?"

I grinned again, and this time there was genuine amusement in it. "You checked up on me, didn't you?"

He smiled too. "I'm a good cop, even if I did ride in on a whirlybird. I like to know what I'm dealing with. You've been a cop, and you're a private detective, and you've owned a place here in Lanfair Valley for 14 years. You grew up here – on the place you now own, if I got that right." I nodded. "I didn't have time to check beyond that, but from what I hear you're the best chance we've got of finding out how this body got here. They tell me you can track a ghost through a fog."

"I ain't quite that good. But yeah, I've been reading sign all my life."

"Then we're going to use you."

"Sure," I said. "But if that body's been there any time at all there probably won't be much sign to read."

"But if there is, you'll have a better chance of finding it than any of my people. Patrolling in a car doesn't teach you to look for tracks."

"No, it don't."

He looked around him. "Gunnison, you brought the crime scene tape, right?"

"Yes, Sergeant." Gunnison was a tall rangy man, who looked so young that I figured this had to be his first job in law enforcement.

"String it, then. Give us a good 20 yards on every side." Castro looked at me. "I know that if there's a trail to backtrack it'll lead further than that, but I doubt that the scene itself is going to be even that big."

"You're probably right."

"Okay, it's time to get statements. You want to go first, or let me talk to your family?"

I looked over at Cecelia. "I'll be happy to give my statement," she said, "and be with Darlia while she gives hers. Then I can become a courier as necessary; I'm sure that I can make myself useful bringing water, if in no other way."

I looked back at Castro, who was already pulling out a notebook and pen and stepping toward Cecelia. The machinery of the law was in operation, and we were going to be there for a while.

Sometime later – I didn't know how long, since I wear my watch in the desert only out of habit and hadn't checked it once during all this – I found myself standing on the bluff watching the deputy who'd come in the helicopter, and two others who'd driven their cruisers to the closest point and walked in, do what they could to locate and bag evidence. The crime scene team would be a while – they had indeed run into Park Service reluctance regarding ATVs, and had to get themselves together and drive out anyway. I hadn't asked whether they were coming from Needles or Apple Valley or Victorville, or even from San Bernardino. Ordinarily that kind of thing would have interested me, but I come to the desert to get away from all that sort of jazz.