Junior, Moe and Daisy Maxwell’s developmentally disabled foster son, had been found abandoned by his paid caregiver at a local arts fair several years earlier. Once his blood relatives were located, they had declined to take him back. That was when the Maxwells had stepped in. They had gone to court and been appointed his legal guardians. Since then they had cared for Junior as their own, giving him purpose in life by teaching him to work as a combination busboy and greeter in the local diner that bore Daisy’s name.
In recent months, though, Junior’s behavior had become increasingly erratic, both at home and in the restaurant. Only a few weeks earlier the family had been given the dreaded but not-so-surprising diagnosis—not so surprising because the doctor had warned the Maxwells a year earlier about the possibility. Now in his early sixties, Junior was suffering from a form of dementia, most likely Alzheimer’s, an affliction that often preyed on the developmentally disabled. Under most circumstances, a missing person report of an adult wouldn’t have merited an immediate all-out response. Because Junior was considered to be at risk, however, all bets were off.
“He’s on foot then?” Joanna asked.
“Unless some Good Samaritan picked him up and gave him a ride,” Alvin answered.
“Okay,” Joanna said. “I’ll give Terry a call and see what, if anything, he and Spike can do about this.”
Terry Gregovich was the human half of Joanna’s departmental K-9 unit. Spike, a seven-year-old German shepherd, was Terry’s aging canine partner.
“You’re sure Junior left through a window?”
“Daisy told me they’ve been concerned about Junior maybe wandering off, so they’ve gotten into the habit of keeping both the front and back doors to the house dead-bolted. It was warm overnight, so Daisy left the window cracked open when Junior went to bed. Had Daisy Maxwell ever raised a teenage son, she would have known she needed to lock the window as well.”
“That’s how he got out?”
“Yup, it looks like Junior raised the window the rest of the way, pushed open the screen, and climbed out.”
“Do you want me to see if I have any additional patrol officers in the neighborhood who could assist with the search?”
“That would be a huge favor,” Alvin said. “We’ll be using the parking lot of St. Dominick’s as a center of operations. Once the neighbors hear about this, there will be plenty of folks willing to help out. From my point of view, the more boots we have on the ground, the better. It’ll make our lives easier if Terry and Spike can point the search crews in the right direction.”
“I’ll have Dispatch get back to you and let you know if anyone else is available.”
She called Terry first, dragging him out of bed, then she called Dispatch to let Tica Romero, her overnight dispatcher, know what was going on. The City of Bisbee and Cochise County had a standing mutual aid agreement in place, but it was better to have everything officially documented in case something went haywire. Mutual aid in the course of a hot pursuit was one matter. For anything else, Joanna had to be sure all the necessary chain-of-command t’s were crossed and i’s were dotted.
Butch came and went through the bathroom while Joanna was in the shower. Once dried off, she got dressed, donning a neatly pressed everyday khaki uniform and a lightweight pair of lace-up hiking boots. Early on in her career as sheriff, she had worn business-style clothing, most of which couldn’t accommodate the Kevlar vest she wore each day right along with her other officers. Then there was the matter of footwear. After going through countless pairs of pantyhose and wrecked pairs of high heels, she had finally conceded defeat, putting practicality ahead of fashion.
Minutes later, with her bright red hair blown dry and her minimally applied makeup in place, she hurried out to the kitchen, where she found Butch brewing coffee and unloading the dishwasher.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I’m on my way to St. Dominick’s,” she explained. “Junior Dowdle took off sometime overnight. Alvin Bernard is using the parking lot at St. Dom’s as a center of operations, and he’s asked for help from my K-9 unit.”
Joanna knew that her husband maintained a personal interest in Junior’s life and welfare. She and Butch hadn’t been married when Junior first came to Bisbee after being abandoned at the Arts and Crafts Fair in Saint David. Bringing him to Bisbee in her patrol car, Joanna had been stumped about where to take him. Her own home was out. The poor man wasn’t a criminal and he wasn’t ill. That meant that neither the jail nor the hospital were possibilities, either. In the end, she had taken him to Butch’s house in Bisbee’s Saginaw neighborhood, where Junior had stayed for several weeks. A restaurant Butch had owned previously, the Roundhouse in Peoria, Arizona, had once fielded a Special Olympics team, and Butch had been one of the team coaches. He had taken charge of Junior with practiced grace and had kept him until more suitable permanent arrangements could be made with the Maxwells.
“You’re going to join the search?” Butch asked, handing Joanna a cup of coffee.
She nodded.