How do you survive being shot and left for dead in the Chihuahuan Desert? By being found by a beautiful wildlife photographer willing to risk her life to save yours.
A bitter ex-cop fights for his life after he runs to the sound of gunfire on the Ri...
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An uneventful month passed. Mendocino was fast walking half a mile each morning. Jogging was still too jolting on his shoulder and back. The walks were more than physical recuperation. They gave him time to think. Maybe the men who tried to kill him left the country before the newspaper story came out. If they were coming for him, what was stopping them? What were they waiting on?
Still, he remained vigilant in altering his routes and routine.
Amos brought books of mugshots, wondering if Mendocino might identify any as the men at Santa Elena Canyon. No known offenders jarred any memory.
One by one, Amos convinced different investigators to share their files on the unidentified murder victim cases. In Dallas, they called unidentified victims John Does or Jane Does. Amos called these cases "José Does," since each victim was a Hispanic male between the ages of twenty-five and forty. All suffered multiple gunshot wounds to the head and torso. None of the victims were killed where their bodies were found. Each body was dumped from a moving vehicle.
Whoever discarded these men's bodies knew the lay of the land. No houses or barns for miles around any of the crime scenes. But, having been dropped from a vehicle onto county roads, the killers had to be certain, sooner or later, each would be discovered.
He was surprised at how minimal the case files were, especially compared to how he'd worked. The folders contained only basics like the cause of death, the initial officer's report, and witness statements. Surprisingly, none included forensic evidence. No toxicology screens or ballistics. Were the victims drunk when they were shot and killed? High? Poisoned? Impossible to know.
The first body had been discovered six months earlier. Nothing linked the cases other than the similarity of circumstances.
Amos came over about once a week when he got off duty, pontificating about life and law enforcement. It didn't take Mendocino long to realize his new friend was if nothing else, bullheaded, strongly opinionated, and hilarious after the third or fourth drink.
Mendocino had not been invited to Amos's house, he figured for the same reason they kept Tillie away. To protect Amos's family. Both were careful men.
"How's your drug-doll case?" Mendocino asked one spring evening, the air turning cool.
"Not worth a shit." Amos rubbed his face, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers and thumb. "Only thing we know for sure, is it's pure heroin. I'm thinking, because of the quetzal, they're coming out of Guatemala. Maybe the dolls are made in China, but they're getting stuffed in Guatemala." He walked to the cooler. "It's so generic. Hell, you can buy similar dolls on Amazon, but we haven't found an exact match yet. I'm a long way from giving up." He glanced at Mendocino. "By the way, nothing in any of the José Doe cases indicates drugs."
Mendocino leaned back, propping his feet on one of two new canvas footstools he'd bought. He held out his beer. "I hate to say it, but it's almost like no one wanted to solve any of those murders. John Doe. Dead of multiple gunshot wounds. No identifying marks. No next of kin. No forensic evidence. Case closed."
