with his brother-in-law, and her boarders could verify this. In fact, Bert had phoned her just recently, she told them.
Oddly, Puente also raised the subject of another former tenant, Benjamin Fink. She volunteered that he'd left during the summer and had gone back to Marysville. Cabrera noted this, but saw little connection between Fink and the man he was seeking.
At one point, Jim Wilson let Puente know that she was violating parole by running a boardinghouse and by failing to disclose this source of income. She solemnly acknowledged this, and when he informed her that he would have to revoke parole, she only nodded, offering not a word of protest.
Within her rights, Puente could have balked at any time and expelled her "guests," yet she maintained a calm, cooperative attitude. When the officers said they wished to speak to some of her tenants, she said, "Certainly, yes, by all means," and the officers went off to question those they could find.
Cabrera, who later admitted he had "no idea what we were looking for," also requested permission to search her upstairs residence. Again, Puente consented.
In a bedroom, he spied an empty medicine vial, picked it up, and read the name on the prescription. "Who's Dorothy Miller?" he asked.
"She's a relative," Puente said. "She stayed with me not too long ago."
Cabrera accepted this, took the vial, and went on with his search.
When they'd finished with the house, one large, unexamined area remained: the yard. The group quietly assembled on the back porch, pulled outside as if by some magnetic apprehension. As delicately as one could, Cabrera broached the outlandish subject of possible graves and asked permission to do a little digging.
They had no warrant—Puente could have refused—but she granted permission. With a wave of her hand, this woman who had spent so much time and effort on her garden offered airily, "I don't know what's back there."
With that, the two detectives hurried out to their unmarked car and returned in coveralls, carrying two short-handled shovels. Puente stood by and watched as they selected a likely-looking spot and started to dig. A chilly wind was blowing in with a promise of rain, but the men soon began to sweat from their labor. They took turns with the digging, one hole, then another.
Eventually, they had dug three exploratory holes in the backyard, but had found nothing but dark soil. It began to seem a bit ridiculous, even rude, gouging up this old lady's well-kept garden on the basis of some lame suspicions about "holes" in her yard.
Jim Wilson was having serious second thoughts when, shortly after starting on a fourth hole in a corner of the yard, his shovel found something peculiar. About eighteen inches down, the dirt yielded a white powder. He reached down, touched it, then sniffed his white fingertips. Lime.
If the digging had begun to seem routine, this broke the spell. Wilson began to dig with fresh intensity. Then he hit something. Calling over Brown and Cabrera, he prodded the thing with his shovel, pushing earth away from a dirty cloth object, steadily scooping out dirt until they could make out…what looked like material wrapped around a tree root.
They exchanged looks. Wilson scraped away more dirt, trying to dislodge it, but it wouldn't budge.
Finally Cabrera climbed down into the hole, wrapped his hands around the root, braced his feet, and yanked. It suddenly broke loose, and he pulled out what they all recognized as a leg bone.
CHAPTER 11
With the discovery of human remain in her yard, Dorothea Puente's impassivity yielded to apparent shock. "Oh my Lord!" she said, unlocking her crossed arms and pressing her palms to her milky-white cheeks.
The grim-faced officers meanwhile stood around the gaping hole, assessing the situation. Besides the bone, they'd identified a small, white tennis shoe, with the remains of a foot inside. Having discovered a grave site, they concurred that they should cease digging and
Oddly, Puente also raised the subject of another former tenant, Benjamin Fink. She volunteered that he'd left during the summer and had gone back to Marysville. Cabrera noted this, but saw little connection between Fink and the man he was seeking.
At one point, Jim Wilson let Puente know that she was violating parole by running a boardinghouse and by failing to disclose this source of income. She solemnly acknowledged this, and when he informed her that he would have to revoke parole, she only nodded, offering not a word of protest.
Within her rights, Puente could have balked at any time and expelled her "guests," yet she maintained a calm, cooperative attitude. When the officers said they wished to speak to some of her tenants, she said, "Certainly, yes, by all means," and the officers went off to question those they could find.
Cabrera, who later admitted he had "no idea what we were looking for," also requested permission to search her upstairs residence. Again, Puente consented.
In a bedroom, he spied an empty medicine vial, picked it up, and read the name on the prescription. "Who's Dorothy Miller?" he asked.
"She's a relative," Puente said. "She stayed with me not too long ago."
Cabrera accepted this, took the vial, and went on with his search.
When they'd finished with the house, one large, unexamined area remained: the yard. The group quietly assembled on the back porch, pulled outside as if by some magnetic apprehension. As delicately as one could, Cabrera broached the outlandish subject of possible graves and asked permission to do a little digging.
They had no warrant—Puente could have refused—but she granted permission. With a wave of her hand, this woman who had spent so much time and effort on her garden offered airily, "I don't know what's back there."
With that, the two detectives hurried out to their unmarked car and returned in coveralls, carrying two short-handled shovels. Puente stood by and watched as they selected a likely-looking spot and started to dig. A chilly wind was blowing in with a promise of rain, but the men soon began to sweat from their labor. They took turns with the digging, one hole, then another.
Eventually, they had dug three exploratory holes in the backyard, but had found nothing but dark soil. It began to seem a bit ridiculous, even rude, gouging up this old lady's well-kept garden on the basis of some lame suspicions about "holes" in her yard.
Jim Wilson was having serious second thoughts when, shortly after starting on a fourth hole in a corner of the yard, his shovel found something peculiar. About eighteen inches down, the dirt yielded a white powder. He reached down, touched it, then sniffed his white fingertips. Lime.
If the digging had begun to seem routine, this broke the spell. Wilson began to dig with fresh intensity. Then he hit something. Calling over Brown and Cabrera, he prodded the thing with his shovel, pushing earth away from a dirty cloth object, steadily scooping out dirt until they could make out…what looked like material wrapped around a tree root.
They exchanged looks. Wilson scraped away more dirt, trying to dislodge it, but it wouldn't budge.
Finally Cabrera climbed down into the hole, wrapped his hands around the root, braced his feet, and yanked. It suddenly broke loose, and he pulled out what they all recognized as a leg bone.
CHAPTER 11
With the discovery of human remain in her yard, Dorothea Puente's impassivity yielded to apparent shock. "Oh my Lord!" she said, unlocking her crossed arms and pressing her palms to her milky-white cheeks.
The grim-faced officers meanwhile stood around the gaping hole, assessing the situation. Besides the bone, they'd identified a small, white tennis shoe, with the remains of a foot inside. Having discovered a grave site, they concurred that they should cease digging and
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