WHEN INNOCENCE IS LOST, ALL IS LOST

Sheriff Joanna Brady must solve two perplexing cases that may be tied together in a thrilling tale of suspense that brings to life Arizona’s Cochise County and the desert Southwest in all its beauty and mystery.

An old woman, a hoarder, is dying of emphysema in Great Barrington, Massachusetts. In cleaning out her house, her daughter, Liza Machett, discovers a fortune in hundred dollar bills hidden in the tall stacks of books and magazines that crowd every corner.

Tracing the money’s origins will take Liza on a journey that will end in Cochise County, where Sheriff Joanna Brady is embroiled in a personal mystery of her own. A man she considers a family friend is found dead at the bottom of a hole in a limestone cavern near Bisbee. And now there is the mystery of Liza and the money. Are the two disparate cases connected? It’s up to Joanna to find out.

I remember Bisbee's Warren business district from my childhood. The grocery stores in that two block area were Phelps Dodge Mercantile and MidTown Market. Warren Drug, complete with a soda fountain, was on the corner of a row of small storefronts. Next to that was Endicott's Barber and Beauty Shop, a husband and wife operation; next to that was the Warren Post Office; and beyond that was Pearl Wilcox's Gift Shop. Across the street, next to MidTown market, was Mrs. Browders--a tiny but beloved general store specializing in afternoon candy and treats for kids walking home from school. And let's not forget Mrs. Haynes's Snow Cone shop.

There was a developmentally disabled man whose widowed mother lived just up the street from Bisbee's Warren business district. I seem to remember that the disabled man's name was Charlie. I could be wrong about that, but what I do remember is that those two blocks were the sum total of his world. He hung out there, day after day, either leaning against the various store fronts or patrolling Arizona Street on his fat-tired bike. He always wore perfectly pressed khaki shirts and pants. There was always a toy Roy Roger's pistol on his hip and a gold sheriff's badge pinned to the pocket of his shirt. Was the badge a real one--in memory of a father or uncle perhaps who had been in law enforcement--or was it, too, just a toy? I don't know. I wish now I had thought to ask someone about that. I couldn't have asked Charlie directly because his movements were jerky and his speech mostly incomprehensible. His mother might have understood what he was saying, but outsiders did not.

When I was young, Charlie seemed harmless--riding up and down the street on his bike and engaging in disjointed conversations with people no one else could see. By the time I was in high school, though, Charlie changed. He became scary, often shouting at people as they hurried past him, looking the other way and trying to avoid eye contact. Eventually Charlie disappeared. He may have died, but I don't remember there being a funeral service of any kind.

It's taken me years to learn that the alarming changes in Charlie's behavior probably resulted from a kind of early onset dementia, an additional burden that plagues many developmentally disabled folks. I wish I had been more understanding about Charlie back then, and I wish I had done something to help his mother. I suspect that writing Junior's story in Remains of Innocence is my way of making good on those wishes.

JAJ