Page 50 of Badlands (Nora Kelly #5)
T HE EVIDENCE ROOM at the Rio Arriba County Sheriff’s Department was hardly, Watts thought to himself, a high-tech affair.
It was more like a dusty and abandoned library, with shelf after metal shelf covered with identical cardboard boxes, most of which hadn’t been opened in a decade.
For a small county, he had to admit, it seemed like a lot of stored evidence.
At least nobody could claim it was disorganized; on the contrary, every box was labeled and recorded and in its proper place, with its own three-by-five card stored in a big oaken antique card catalog.
The sheriff’s department had received a grant to computerize the evidence room files, but the project was not yet completed.
In a way, this was a good thing: Watts knew the old filing system like the back of his hand, and he felt more than a little apprehension about the new system working—or, as he fully expected, not working.
He went to the catalog and looked up the John Doe homicide of the body found by some hikers at the confluence of the Gallina and Chama Rivers in July twelve years ago.
He already knew the victim was not Oskarbi—the body couldn’t be Oskarbi’s, because one glance at the autopsy indicated it was a good five inches shorter than the tall professor.
And nothing else about the victim matched Oskarbi: age, hair color, eye color, body type, and so forth.
It had been a savage murder.
The autopsy Watts reviewed indicated the victim had been tortured, a spiral carved into his torso in vivo, and the man garroted so violently that his neck had been partially severed.
For all these reasons, Watts was pretty sure this was a wild-goose chase, with absolutely no connection to the women found in the desert.
But since he’d promised Corrie he would review the evidence, he decided to give it a brief look.
The evidence card revealed the case file was, thankfully, limited to one evidence box.
The mutilated John Doe had been wearing nothing but shorts and carried no ID, and the card indicated the total sum of evidence consisted of a few items of jewelry and some “unidentified items” recovered from the pockets.
Watts looked at his watch.
Christ, it was after eight o’clock—and a Friday night, no less.
About this time, he could normally be found shooting pool with friends.
The things he did for Corrie.
He walked down the main aisle of the evidence room checking number tags; took a turn, another, then another; and finally found the location he was searching for.
The place was like a tomb, dark and silent and smelling of musty paper and cleaning fluids.
The box was on a high shelf, out of reach—naturally—so he was forced to find a ladder, roll it over, and fetch down the files.
The box was light: at least there wouldn’t be much evidence to paw through.
He carried it over to an examination area, set it down, then hit a nearby switch, flooding the nearest tables in bright light.
After filling out the chain-of-custody paperwork, he undid the twine holding the box lid in place, took it off, and peered inside.
The box was practically empty.
First to come out were the man’s shorts, sealed in a plastic bag.
Then the underwear. Then came a silver-and-turquoise ring, a man’s woven parachute-cord bracelet, a silver neck cable, and two small plastic bags.
The labels said only two unidentified quartz minerals, found in victim’s pockets.
He picked up one of the two bags.
It held a smooth, water-worn pebble about the size of a golf ball.
Raising the bag up to hold the stone against the light, he was suddenly stunned: the pebble inside glowed a rich grass-green color.
He picked up the other bag: the same.
Prasiolite lightning stones.
Jesus . Just like that, the twelve-year-old unsolved John Doe murder was suddenly connected to Corrie’s active case.
He pushed his chair back from the table, the facts and near facts aligning themselves in his mind almost faster than he could recall them.
Oskarbi bringing back some drug-fueled wannabe-Indian ritual from Mexico.
Oskarbi collecting his groupies.
Oskarbi’s “archaeological” field trips into Gallina Canyon.
Oskarbi’s disappearance.
The John Doe murder in Gallina Canyon…
and then, more recently, the string of suicides.
There was no longer any question in his mind they were dealing with a cult—a highly unusual and dangerous one—and the locus of its activities was Gallina Canyon.
He suddenly felt uneasy.
When Corrie had asked him to look into the John Doe, she’d mentioned Nora was worried about Skip, fearing he and Edison had gone camping in Gallina Canyon.
They were, she said, more than a day late in returning.
He sat frowning for a moment, staring at the two prasiolites glowing under the lights.
This was something Corrie needed to know about immediately.
He took out his phone and called her cell.
It immediately went to voice mail.
He tried her FBI number: same thing.
Now he was genuinely alarmed.
He called Nora’s number, and that too went straight to voice mail.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
He tried Skip Kelly: also voice mail.
What the hell? He didn’t have Edison Nash’s cell, but he quickly located the man’s home number and called it.
“Hallo?” a female voice answered.
“Nash house, who calling?”
Watts identified himself as the sheriff and asked for Edison.
“He not here,” she said, in an irritated voice.
“Why more questions?”
“More questions?” Watts echoed.
“What do you mean?”
“Two were here earlier. A woman FBI agent and another. And now you.”
This gave Watts further pause.
“Do you know where Edison is?”
“The FBI lady talk about camping in Gallina Canyon,” the woman’s voice said.
“Muchas gracias, senora.”
Watts hung up, his feeling of alarm now increased exponentially.
Skip and Edison had gone camping in Gallina Canyon, and he had little doubt Nora and Corrie had gone in earlier that day looking for them.
All four were deep in the wilderness, cut off from the world.
He looked at his watch.
Half past eight… and they were evidently still in Gallina Canyon, out of range.
After a moment’s hesitation, he placed a call to Special Agent Sharp.