working toward his jail ministry certification. Once he got out, he asked to work in the Papago Unit down there. Considering his former problems with booze, we thought it would be a good fit. Or at least I thought it would be a good fit. Now I’m not so sure.”
Since Douglas was only thirty miles away from her office, Joanna knew a good deal about the prison complex located there. One of the three units, the Papago, was sometimes referred to as the Arizona State Prison Complex’s dry-out wing. In the mid-eighties the ASPC had decided to separate inmates with DUI offenses from other incarcerated felons. With that in mind, prison officials had negotiated the purchase of a failed Douglas-area motel that now housed over three hundred male prisoners in a space designed for no more than two hundred and fifty.
Four-plus years of being in charge of a jail had taught Joanna a whole lot more than she wanted to know about people involved on the wrong side of incarceration. In her experience, having an ex-con working with and counseling current inmates seemed like a bad idea. And although Ted’s programs did tend to produce good results, there were times when Joanna thought his ideas hopelessly naive. It didn’t surprise her to hear that one ofTed’s protégés had pulled some kind of boner, one that would likely reflect badly on a man who consistently put himself out on a limb for the prisoners he served.
“Poor Ted,” Joanna sympathized. “So now you’re discovering what I learned a long time ago—no good deed goes unpunished. What did he do?”
“He just took off,” Ted answered. “Everything was going fine, right up until yesterday, when he didn’t show up for his counseling sessions. When he didn’t turn up again today, his supervisor called him at home and got no answer. When somebody finally called me and let me know what was going on, I drove straight to his apartment down in Douglas to see if he was all right. He didn’t answer my knock. There were two unopened newspapers in the driveway, mail in the mailbox, and no car. Given Brad’s history with booze, I’m guessing he’s had a relapse and is back on the sauce. I was hoping maybe you could help me find him before things get any worse than they already are.”
Suddenly Joanna’s impatience with Ted Chapman melted away. She was no longer nearly so anxious for him to get to the point so she could head home. Ted’s “guy” happened to be just what her department was looking for—a released, long-term prison inmate with a history of alcohol abuse who had suddenly gone AWOL. Was it possible this Brad guy would turn out to be her department’s Border Road John Doe? Unfortunately, both the Double Cs had already left for the day.
“What’s his name again?” Joanna asked, pulling out a piece of paper and picking up a pen.
“I call him Brad,” Ted replied. “But his real name is Bradley—Bradley Evans.”
“How old is he?” she asked.
Ted shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. Fifty-something, I suppose.”
“And what does he look like?”
“Reddish-blond hair,” Ted answered. “Balding. A little pudgy around the middle.”
“Any tattoos?” Joanna asked.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Ted returned. “Why?”
Without answering, Joanna picked up the phone and speed-dialed George Winfield’s office number. “Are you still there?” she asked when the medical examiner answered.
“Not really,” he returned. “At least I’m not supposed to be. I’m actually standing with my keys in hand and one foot out the door.”
“Put down the keys and wait for me,” Joanna told him. “I can be there in a few minutes.”
“Why? What’s the big hurry?”
“I have someone here in my office. I think he can shed light on this morning’s case.”
“You’d better hurry, then,” George said. “It’s Friday, and your mother is expecting guests for dinner. If you make me late again, Ellie will have my ears.”
“Don’t worry,”
Since Douglas was only thirty miles away from her office, Joanna knew a good deal about the prison complex located there. One of the three units, the Papago, was sometimes referred to as the Arizona State Prison Complex’s dry-out wing. In the mid-eighties the ASPC had decided to separate inmates with DUI offenses from other incarcerated felons. With that in mind, prison officials had negotiated the purchase of a failed Douglas-area motel that now housed over three hundred male prisoners in a space designed for no more than two hundred and fifty.
Four-plus years of being in charge of a jail had taught Joanna a whole lot more than she wanted to know about people involved on the wrong side of incarceration. In her experience, having an ex-con working with and counseling current inmates seemed like a bad idea. And although Ted’s programs did tend to produce good results, there were times when Joanna thought his ideas hopelessly naive. It didn’t surprise her to hear that one ofTed’s protégés had pulled some kind of boner, one that would likely reflect badly on a man who consistently put himself out on a limb for the prisoners he served.
“Poor Ted,” Joanna sympathized. “So now you’re discovering what I learned a long time ago—no good deed goes unpunished. What did he do?”
“He just took off,” Ted answered. “Everything was going fine, right up until yesterday, when he didn’t show up for his counseling sessions. When he didn’t turn up again today, his supervisor called him at home and got no answer. When somebody finally called me and let me know what was going on, I drove straight to his apartment down in Douglas to see if he was all right. He didn’t answer my knock. There were two unopened newspapers in the driveway, mail in the mailbox, and no car. Given Brad’s history with booze, I’m guessing he’s had a relapse and is back on the sauce. I was hoping maybe you could help me find him before things get any worse than they already are.”
Suddenly Joanna’s impatience with Ted Chapman melted away. She was no longer nearly so anxious for him to get to the point so she could head home. Ted’s “guy” happened to be just what her department was looking for—a released, long-term prison inmate with a history of alcohol abuse who had suddenly gone AWOL. Was it possible this Brad guy would turn out to be her department’s Border Road John Doe? Unfortunately, both the Double Cs had already left for the day.
“What’s his name again?” Joanna asked, pulling out a piece of paper and picking up a pen.
“I call him Brad,” Ted replied. “But his real name is Bradley—Bradley Evans.”
“How old is he?” she asked.
Ted shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. Fifty-something, I suppose.”
“And what does he look like?”
“Reddish-blond hair,” Ted answered. “Balding. A little pudgy around the middle.”
“Any tattoos?” Joanna asked.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Ted returned. “Why?”
Without answering, Joanna picked up the phone and speed-dialed George Winfield’s office number. “Are you still there?” she asked when the medical examiner answered.
“Not really,” he returned. “At least I’m not supposed to be. I’m actually standing with my keys in hand and one foot out the door.”
“Put down the keys and wait for me,” Joanna told him. “I can be there in a few minutes.”
“Why? What’s the big hurry?”
“I have someone here in my office. I think he can shed light on this morning’s case.”
“You’d better hurry, then,” George said. “It’s Friday, and your mother is expecting guests for dinner. If you make me late again, Ellie will have my ears.”
“Don’t worry,”
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