Miss Tucson
She looks familiar," Sheriff Robertson said, spitting a big chunk of the chewing tobacco onto the desert ground. "How long do you suppose she's been here?"
"I don't know," Deputy Hernandez said. "We received a phone call at headquarters. The dispatcher said a jogger, who wishes to remain anonymous, discovered her at five o'clock this morning, at sunrise."
"A damn shame," Sheriff Robertson replied. And it sure was. The Tucson Arizona Strangler had struck again. The woman lay in a field near a walking path, her eyes wide open, her tongue sticking out. A gang of flies buzzed around the young woman's head. Sheriff Robertson bent down, and inspected the woman's body carefully: No bullet holes. No knife wounds. It would take several weeks for the medical examiner to determine the exact cause of death, but everyone in Tucson — including the press — would have a pretty good idea who was behind this beautiful young woman's untimely demise.
"Any idea what her name was?" Sheriff Robertson asked, still hunched over.
"No, sir," Deputy Hernandez responded. "I didn't think it would be a good idea for me to touch anything at the crime scene. I mean, with what happened the last time, at old lady Bach's apartment and all." Deputy Hernandez looked meekly down at his shoes, and then he bashfully dragged his feet in the scorching-hot desert sand.
Sheriff Robertson chuckled. Good old Michael Hernandez. The man was a royal screw-up, that's for sure. But there was something lovable, one might say even endearing, about the goofy bugger. He had spent five years of his life working as a deputy in Williams, Arizona — a small, nothing town that barely shows up on most road maps. The worst thing Deputy Hernandez had to contend with there were wayward shoplifters: Punk teenagers and, every once in awhile, a belligerent and intoxicated husband, who had gotten a little too rowdy. But Deputy Hernandez never had to contend with anything like this, out there in the sticks. There, the closest Hernandez had ever come to the Tucson Strangler was reading pulp fiction novels, and watching Hollywood movies.
An ivory-colored purse was strewn on the dirt, not far from the young woman's body. The contents from the purse scattered all over the desert ground.
"Let me have a look here." Sheriff Robertson hunched down near the purse, fumbling inside for something. Deputy Michael Hernandez looked behind him. Quite a crowd of gawkers had already assembled at the proximity of the crime scene. "Get the hell out of here, you rubberneckers. This is official police business. This young woman is dead. There's nothing to see here. Please, move along."
Sheriff Robertson stood upright now, peeking down at a card — the dead woman's identification card. "Jody Hampton, nineteen years old. Huh."
"Say, Sheriff," Deputy Hernandez jumped in, breaking Sheriff Robertson's train of thought. Sheriff Robertson looked at the deputy, his dimwitted second in command. "Yes, Hernandez?"
"Isn't this young lady," Hernandez stuttered, clearly unsettled. "I mean, isn't she Miss Tucson. You know, this year's beauty queen pageant winner?"
Sheriff Robertson looked at the already decomposing body; the flies buzzing around it multiplying, a hundred fold. "I believe you're right, Michael,” he said, finally.
"She sure don't look so pretty anymore. Does she, sir?"
Robertson sharply rebuked his underling, Deputy Hernandez. "Watch your mouth, Hernandez. This woman was someone's daughter."
The deputy looked down at his feet, contritely. Once again, he shuffled them into the oven-hot Arizona desert sand.
After his shame wore off, Deputy Hernandez asked the Sheriff, "How do we know this is the Tucson Strangler's handiwork? I mean, this could be the work of the copycat killer, right?"
Sheriff Robertson stood there, his hands inside his pants pockets. "I suppose you're right, Michael."
Sheriff Robertson hunched down to the ground again. This time, he was standing on his knees, browsing the sand for clues. Finally, and for the first time of the day, he picked the purse up, elevating it entirely from the ground. He grabbed something. "Except for this," the Sheriff said, standing up again, holding the card of Saint Peter aloft. This was, after all, the Tucson Strangler's trademark: A card of Saint Peter, lying beside his newest victim. The Saint's face was, as always, circled out with erratic pen jottings. Inside, the card read the same English Burial Service quote the Stangler had attributed to all his victims: "Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust."
Standing up, Sheriff Robertson dusted the sand off his kneecaps. "Hernandez, do me a favor: Call for a press conference. Invite everyone: The channel Eleven news, CNN, FOX, ABC. Tell them the Tucson Strangler has struck again.” Hernandez stared at his higher-up, blanky. “Come on, Hernandez. Chop, chop!"
Deputy Hernandez, like an obedient lap dog, rushed off, eagerly wanting to please his master.
***
Sheriff Robertson made the way to his cruiser. He sighed heavily as he walked. There was a lot to do that day: Press conferences; contacting families and breaking the terrible —unimaginable — news; filling out authorization forms for coroner inquests.
But first, he was going to have to go home and take a long, warm shower and think about what he was going to tell all those reporters. They would be expecting a lot of information, when the police department barely knew anything.
Once inside the cruiser, the Sheriff nearly freaked when he saw a mountain of religious cards on the seat beside him. They were all pictures of Saint Peter.
Immediately, more from instinct than anything else, Sheriff Robertson grabbed all the cards and then shoved them inside the glove compartment, thinking all the while: I'm going to have to be more careful the next time.
If anyone ever stumbled across those cards in his front seat, the Tucson Strangler's cover might finally be blown.
About the author: When he's not working on his yet-to-be-titled novel, and blogging for the Huffington Post, Jack Bristow is writing short stories. Most recently, his work has appeared in The Saturday Evening Post, Mystery Weekly Magazine and Out of the Gutter Online. Follow Mr. Bristow @RealJackBristow
