The Juan Doe Murders: A Smokey Brandon Thriller by Noreen Ayres Read Free Book Online

hell of a hole. He gave the gun back and said, “Anytime,” then went down the row to see who else needed help or humbling.
    Annoyed at myself, I clipped on a clean target, switched to the Glock, ran a new target out to fifteen yards, and cookie-cut the center so the backstop shone through like a camera lens.
    From there I drove to sheriff’s headquarters, just a couple of blocks from the lab, and sat through a class on audiology, otherwise known as forensic audiology, in a conference room cold as the morgue. I heard about waveform analysis and replication of acoustic events and waited for it to be over so I could warm up. Trudy Kunitz, another lab tech, sat beside me. She did a lot of police sketches of suspects for public release.
    When the class finally broke we talked a while out in the sun. Trudy had confided in me two weeks ago that she had tested positive for HIV. She was the sort to buy into the think-it-away school. I couldn’t let her off without asking if she had the second test, intended to serve as a check.
    She rubbed her arms for warmth, the sleeves of a heavy black sweater traveling up and down. Her glasses winged out thickly at the sides to correct for severe astigmatism. She said, “In my whole life I’ve had seven dates. Seven,” she said, holding up fingers. “I’m thirty-four. Seven dates, two…events…and I get this.” She shook her head. “I was a virgin till I was thirty, Smokey. Nojustice, not in this world. And it wasn’t Katchaturian, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
    “I thought you liked him there for a while,” I said.
    “I had two lunch dates with him. He stiffed me for both. ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me’, right? Shame on me. Shame on me,” she said, and turned to walk back.
    I said, “I hear he’s working for some magazine, writing articles on guns. I didn’t even think he could spell.”
    She said, “Maybe you only need to spell ‘Bang!’ ”
    “You want to do lunch?” I asked.
    “Can’t make it,” she said, her silver-daisy earrings swinging. “I have a post-post. A drive-by, courtesy of the Sixth Street gang. Then I have to take another blood test. Do you know how mortifying it is to even go in? These fascist women, sitting there talking to you like you’re a little kid. The one who told me? She was younger than me! Heartless little Nazi. Tells me while she’s shuffling papers. I had to ask her to repeat it, couldn’t believe what she was saying, like she was saying go pick up a prescription or something. I didn’t even like the sex. One time. That’s all it takes. Shit. Let’s go.”
    I walked over to Civic Center Square, on my way to a hotdog wagon. Office people, lawyers, clerks, and clients, were emptying from the buildings for lunch. I bought a chili dog and a lemonade and sat on a cold bench with a pigeon perched on the other end.
    He hopped down and waddled away but was back soon, with a mate. She was a beauty: black spots on soft white. Rock doves, they’re called. They stood in front of me and sort of purred. Sucker that I am, I plucked bread and tossed it. In a flash, more birds landed. I licked the chili off one end of the bun and tossed more bits to them. Mistake. Half a dozen sailed in this time, dodging between people to head my way.
    When I got back to the lab, I completed log sheets, made sure my lifts and print cards were in order, and was about to go tothe computer when Stu came by. “You need to go out to Turtle Rock,” he said. “We’ve got a dead male Hispanic. Timmins is tied up, King’s at a doctor’s appointment, and Kunitz I can’t get hold of.”
    “Another one? Is it a Doe?”
    “If it’s a Doe, you phone me. I don’t know if it’s a serial or what, but I am not a happy camper here. I want thoroughness here, right?” I was about to come up with an appropriate answer when he asked, “Where were you this morning?”
    “Audiology seminar, headquarters.”
    He frowned, recalling,