report to their superiors before further disturbing any potential evidence.
Detective Brown hurried to the car and radioed headquarters. He reported what they'd unearthed and requested backup. City workers and some heavy equipment would be dispatched to the house. It was clear they were going to need more than mere muscle and a couple of shovels to excavate Puente's well-cultivated grounds.
And they were going to need more than a couple of gumshoes and a parole agent—with nary a warrant among them—to handle the technicalities, delicacies, and mechanics of the site. The coroner’s office was notified and both a forensic pathologist and a coroner's deputy promptly headed for F Street. Crime scene investigators were on their way. The district attorney's office was informed, and first one and then two forensic anthropologists were summoned to Sacramento to oversee the exhumation and help identify the skeletal remains.
In a few minutes police cars would start arriving, and the November stillness would be trampled underfoot along with Puente's flower beds. In the midst of this temporary calm, Detective John Cabrera shifted uneasily from foot to foot. They'd found human bones, but they were looking for Bert Montoya , and that tennis shoe seemed much too small for a man. Also, Montoya had been missing only since August—surely not enough time for such extreme decomposition, lime or no lime. Whose skeletal remains had they found?
Cabrera scrutinized the proper-looking landlady, who hovered nearby, distress playing across her porcelain features. Despite her criminal record, it was hard to believe this elderly lady could be involved in something so brutal as murder. Nonetheless, he determined to take her down to police headquarters for questioning.
Parole Agent Jim Wilson watched quietly as Detective Cabrera escorted Mrs. Puente to the unmarked car, put her in the passenger seat, and headed off toward the Hall of Justice. Wilson knew enough about this crafty old con to realize that she wasn't what she seemed, and after the morning's grisly discovery, he was relieved to see that the police had the situation in hand andthat she was being taken into custody. He'd have his report in first thing Monday morning, and by then the legal machinery would be up and humming.
Sitting alone in interview room number 5, Dorothea Puente looked small, old, and vulnerable. Her snow-white hair had been hastily combed, and before leaving the house she'd changed into a small-print dress with lace trim on the sleeves—not the tough sort of person usually positioned at the table in front of the secret video-camera concealed behind the air vent.
Now Detective Cabrera entered and bustled around solicitously, making sure she had water, asking if she were comfortable, speaking clearly so that his voice was easily picked up by the hidden microphone. He went over a few preliminaries for the record, then turned softly to the missing Mr. Montoya. "I need all the truth from you," he coaxed. "Now, his disappearance is very suspicious, I can tell you that." He started mildly, "There are a lot of inconsistencies in your statement."
Mrs. Puente answered each question, never balked or flinched, but she was not going to budge on her story . With elbows propped on the table, she looked straight across at Detective Cabrera and maintained that Bert's brother-in-law had taken him to Utah.
Cabrera turned contentious. "Now, Mr. Sharp says he hasn't seen him for three months. And the social worker hasn't seen him. So who is lying to me? Who is lying to me, Dorothea?"
"Well, I'm not," she insisted. "He [Bert] was here Saturday and Sunday."
Cabrera was not to be deterred. He kept after her, phrasing things this way and that, trying to trick her into a contradiction, and finally stating baldly, "Mr. Montoya's dead."
Puente scoffed, "No he's not," as if this were a ridiculous suggestion.
Cabrera vigorously queried and quizzed, yet Puente maintained her soft-spoken
Detective Brown hurried to the car and radioed headquarters. He reported what they'd unearthed and requested backup. City workers and some heavy equipment would be dispatched to the house. It was clear they were going to need more than mere muscle and a couple of shovels to excavate Puente's well-cultivated grounds.
And they were going to need more than a couple of gumshoes and a parole agent—with nary a warrant among them—to handle the technicalities, delicacies, and mechanics of the site. The coroner’s office was notified and both a forensic pathologist and a coroner's deputy promptly headed for F Street. Crime scene investigators were on their way. The district attorney's office was informed, and first one and then two forensic anthropologists were summoned to Sacramento to oversee the exhumation and help identify the skeletal remains.
In a few minutes police cars would start arriving, and the November stillness would be trampled underfoot along with Puente's flower beds. In the midst of this temporary calm, Detective John Cabrera shifted uneasily from foot to foot. They'd found human bones, but they were looking for Bert Montoya , and that tennis shoe seemed much too small for a man. Also, Montoya had been missing only since August—surely not enough time for such extreme decomposition, lime or no lime. Whose skeletal remains had they found?
Cabrera scrutinized the proper-looking landlady, who hovered nearby, distress playing across her porcelain features. Despite her criminal record, it was hard to believe this elderly lady could be involved in something so brutal as murder. Nonetheless, he determined to take her down to police headquarters for questioning.
Parole Agent Jim Wilson watched quietly as Detective Cabrera escorted Mrs. Puente to the unmarked car, put her in the passenger seat, and headed off toward the Hall of Justice. Wilson knew enough about this crafty old con to realize that she wasn't what she seemed, and after the morning's grisly discovery, he was relieved to see that the police had the situation in hand andthat she was being taken into custody. He'd have his report in first thing Monday morning, and by then the legal machinery would be up and humming.
Sitting alone in interview room number 5, Dorothea Puente looked small, old, and vulnerable. Her snow-white hair had been hastily combed, and before leaving the house she'd changed into a small-print dress with lace trim on the sleeves—not the tough sort of person usually positioned at the table in front of the secret video-camera concealed behind the air vent.
Now Detective Cabrera entered and bustled around solicitously, making sure she had water, asking if she were comfortable, speaking clearly so that his voice was easily picked up by the hidden microphone. He went over a few preliminaries for the record, then turned softly to the missing Mr. Montoya. "I need all the truth from you," he coaxed. "Now, his disappearance is very suspicious, I can tell you that." He started mildly, "There are a lot of inconsistencies in your statement."
Mrs. Puente answered each question, never balked or flinched, but she was not going to budge on her story . With elbows propped on the table, she looked straight across at Detective Cabrera and maintained that Bert's brother-in-law had taken him to Utah.
Cabrera turned contentious. "Now, Mr. Sharp says he hasn't seen him for three months. And the social worker hasn't seen him. So who is lying to me? Who is lying to me, Dorothea?"
"Well, I'm not," she insisted. "He [Bert] was here Saturday and Sunday."
Cabrera was not to be deterred. He kept after her, phrasing things this way and that, trying to trick her into a contradiction, and finally stating baldly, "Mr. Montoya's dead."
Puente scoffed, "No he's not," as if this were a ridiculous suggestion.
Cabrera vigorously queried and quizzed, yet Puente maintained her soft-spoken
Similar Books
