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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Wednesday, Mendocino rolled up his sleeves, beginning his investigation into the murder of John David Watson in earnest. He was familiar with the material from the district clerk's files. But Lisa had so much more.
While Tillie processed yesterday's family portrait session, Mendocino sorted hundreds of pages of documents into stacks: Witness statements, officer reports, forensics, two CDs of photographs, courtroom transcripts, fingerprints, mugshots, and Miranda warnings. He had transcripts of all the exchanges between Lisa and Hector with an interpreter present as well as interrogations by detectives.
He re-read Bobby's statement of finding his cousin's body and statements from others who were with John David the day he died, refreshing his memory.
Next, he wanted to see the coroner's report, photographs of the crime scene, and photographs of the victim's wounds.
He began clicking through digital photos on his laptop, studying each closely. The victim lay on his back on the tile floor in the center of the living room. His head was rolled to one side, his mouth and eyes open as if staring in shock at the wall. His neck gaped wide. Like a watermelon sliced with a machete.
Watson's abdomen was ripped open from his groin to his sternum, his internal organs exposed but still inside the body cavity. That was telling.
Mendocino's scalp tingled. News reports said he was stabbed multiple times. No. His throat was slit, and he'd been gutted. Two quick slices. He'd never seen wounds like those. Almost surgical.
He found photographs of the room. The investigators did a good job of capturing the crime scene. Whitewashed stucco walls. Clean. No blood splatters or bloody handprints on any wall or item of furniture. Big leather couch and love seat, both pristine. No lamps or furniture were overturned or shoved around. No bloody footprints or blood trail on the red Spanish tile floor. The only blood was on and immediately around the victim's body.
He riffled through papers. A flat-screen TV was missing, along with a DVR, Watson's Rolex watch, and food from the kitchen. There was no blood in the kitchen, on the refrigerator or cabinets, or floor.
He clicked back to the photos of the victim's body, studying his arms and hands. People try to fend off a knife attack. No defensive wounds. John David Watson was a muscular six-foot-four and yet there was no evidence he tried to defend himself against a group of burglars. No scratches on his arms, no defensive wounds, no blood, or bruises on his hands.
It didn't add up.
Mendocino found the coroner's report. Watson suffered three wounds: One slice severed his throat, cutting through everything but the spinal column. Another slice started in the lower abdomen, ripped up to his sternum.
There was a third wound, not mentioned in the clerk's files or in news reports. A blow to the back of the head. That explained it. He was knocked unconscious first. That's why he didn't fight.
