He put the tape measure down.
"It can't be anything more than speculation, but from what I've seen, I'd say this young woman was of mixed race, Hispano Indian probably from the southern part of Mexico or Central America. She suffered from poor nutrition, vitamin deficiency, and woefully inadequate medical care."
"That's very helpful, doctor," Melody said.
"Please, it's Campbell."
"Are you and your family enjoying your time in Santa Fe›" Melody asked as she repacked the bones.
"I'm divorced."
Melody tried to look sympathetic.
"Oh, I didn't know."
"I'm fully recovered from it."
She turned her attention to gathering up the evidence and repacking it.
"Have you gotten out to see the sights since you've been here?"
"Not as much as I'd hoped to. Do you have any suggestions?"
"I can give you a year's worth of ideas. If you're free, we could discuss it over dinner tonight. I'm a fairly decent cook."
"I'd like that very much," Campbell said.
Melody gave him her address, directions to her house, and a thousand-watt smile.
Post office records showed that a second individual, Isaac Medina, received mail at Santistevan's rural delivery address. Gabe stopped at the first occupied house in San Geronimo and asked the elderly woman who came to the door for directions. The woman pointed out a dwelling on a small hill behind her house. A pickup truck was parked in front of the house and smoke drifted from the chimney.
"Isaac lives there," she said.
"Butjoaquin Santistevan moved away some time ago. You have to go through the village to get to Isaac's driveway. Turn right at the old store. You'll see his gate halfway up the hill."
Gabe called in his location before he entered Medina's driveway and drove toward the house slowly, scanning it as he approached. No one was in sight.
He parked and waited a minute before getting out of his vehicle. The dwelling had a slanted tin roof that covered an enclosed porch with a row of waist-high windows.
Through the windows, Gabe could see a line of upright freezers and refrigerators, all different shapes and sizes. On the ground in front of the house were a dozen or more old washing machines, clothes dryers, and dishwashers, some scavenged for parts and some intact.
He knocked hard at the porch door and called out. A stocky, unshaven man with gray hair stepped out of the house and opened the porch door.
"What do you want?" the man said.
"Isaac Medina?" Gabe asked.
The man nodded.
Gabe showed his shield and ID.
"I'm looking for Joaquin."
"He doesn't live with me anymore."
"Can you tell me where to find him?"
"Is he in trouble?"
"No."
"What do you want to ask him?"
"I want to talk to him about his truck," Gabe said.
"You mean the accident?"
"That's right," Gabe said.
"Come," Medina said as he pointed to the side of the house.
"I'll show you. He told me he wasn't going to report it to the police because his insurance rates would go up."
Gabe followed Medina to the back of the house where a three-quarter-ton Chevy truck with a caved-in front end and smashed windshield was parked.
"What did Joaquin tell you about the accident?" Gabe asked as he walked around the vehicle. No winch, no hydraulic lift in the bed, no wrought-iron side rails, and the truck was gray in color, not dark blue.
"He didn't have to tell me nothing; I was with him.
We hit a deer. See for yourself. There's still blood, skin, and fur on the grille and bumper. It happened a mile from the house. We walked home, got my truck, towed the Chevy here, and then we butchered and dressed the deer. I still have some venison steaks in the freezer."
Gabe looked and saw blood splatter, flakes of hide, and small strands of fur embedded in the grille.
"When did the accident occur?"
"Late October, last year."
"Where's the license plate?"
"Joaquin took it on" the truck."
"How can I contact Joaquin?"
"You're not here about the accident," Medina said.
"His license plate was reported by a witness to a crime."