Читать книгу Night Shift - Annelise Ryan - Страница 11

Chapter 4

The little dinosaur cookie jar distracts Devo enough to get him back on track. He radios dispatch and asks to have the sheriff’s department send someone out to the site. He also requests the medical examiner’s office, at least one more uniformed police officer, and an evidence technician.

When he’s done with that, Devo tells me to stay put so he can do a quick check of the rest of the house to make sure it’s empty. I do as I’m told, resisting an urge to go back outside where the air is fresh. After Devo returns and declares the house secure, the two of us stand there at the entry to the kitchen, staring at the scene.

“I’m not convinced it’s a homicide,” Devo says after a moment. “It looks like a suicide.”

“It does,” I agree.

“Maybe Danny saw the guy shoot himself,” Devo suggests. “With as twisted as his thought processes are, he could segue that into a murder in his mind, couldn’t he?”

I shrug. It’s possible, except I don’t think that’s what happened here, though I can’t support my theory. Yet.

“I suppose that could be the case,” I admit reluctantly. “I’ll have to talk to his sister and see if Danny had anything to do with this man, or this farm. Why would he even be here?”

“Maybe he’s the one who killed him,” Devo tosses out in a slightly mocking tone that tells me he doesn’t favor this theory. He looks at the victim for a moment and his color pales. Wanting to distract him, I glance around the room.

“What’s that?” I say, pointing toward the counter on the far right.

Devo dutifully looks where I’ve pointed and then the two of us venture slowly around the perimeter of the room, taking care not to step in any blood spatter. The thing I pointed to is on the counter between the stove and the sink. It’s a torn square of paper towel with a spoon on top of it, and there is a carton of milk and a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels behind it. There is a microwave mounted above the stove, and when I stand on tiptoe, I see through the glass that there is something inside.

“Hey, Devo,” I say. “There’s a mug in this microwave and judging from the spoon and paper towel, it looks like our victim was preparing himself a hot toddy. Maybe some warm milk to help him sleep? He is in his pajamas. That seems like odd behavior for someone who’s about to kill themselves, doesn’t it?”

Devo looks down at me with a hint of annoyance. “You probably shouldn’t be in here,” he says, avoiding my question. “You could be contaminating evidence.”

“No more than you are,” I counter. “I didn’t touch anything and even if I had, I’m wearing gloves. I’m thinking we should probably be wearing booties though, too, don’t you?”

Devo glances at his feet, then mine, clearly annoyed now. He gifts me with an eye roll, and says, “Let’s both get out of here until the others show up.” One arm raises and he points toward the back door wearing a stern expression. “Go.”

I go. When I get outside, I take a moment to study the star-studded sky above us. Out here in the country, without any light pollution to speak of, there are hundreds, maybe thousands more stars visible than I typically can see in town. It’s beautiful, and a stark contrast to the ugliness inside. There is a light breeze and the mid-May temperature is in the mid-fifties—jacket weather, though many Wisconsinites find these temps more in the range of sweatshirt or sweater weather. Or even just a long-sleeved shirt. Cold tends to be a relative term around here.

“Did you see a suicide note in there anywhere?” I ask Devo after a minute or two of silence goes by.

He shoots me a look and shakes his head. “Didn’t look hard for one, though.”

I give half a nod, letting him have the point for now, but also making it clear that I don’t think he’ll find one. Danny’s words had been very explicit. He didn’t just say he saw the man die, he said he saw them kill him. Thoughts of Danny make me want to see how he’s doing. “I’m going to check in with the hospital,” I tell Devo.

He nods, and I step off the stoop and walk a few feet away as I take out my cell phone and dial the hospital ER. It takes a minute or so to get Dr. Finnegan on the phone, and when I finally ask her how Danny is doing, she informs me that he’s still sleeping off the medication she gave him earlier.

“Is his sister there by any chance?” I ask.

“No, she hasn’t come back yet,” Dr. Finnegan says.

“When she does come back, would you have her call me?”

“Sure.” I give the doctor my number even though I’m certain Allie has it.

By the time I hang up, there are headlights coming up the drive. The first people to arrive, one right behind the other, are a county sheriff—a fireplug of a man with a name badge that says P. Carson—and Christopher Malone, the medicolegal death investigator for the ME’s office.

Sheriff Pete Carson doesn’t look happy to be here and he has a deep scowl on his face as he climbs out of his police cruiser and marches over to Devo.

“What the heck,” he says, looking accusingly at Devo, as if he thinks he’s the one who killed the man in the house. “I for sure could have done without something like this. Our department is stretched thinner than a tanning deer skin right now.”

“Sorry,” Devo says. “We’ll help as much as we can.”

Christopher Malone stands by holding a giant tackle box and listening to this exchange before he says, “Exactly what is this?”

Devo sets about explaining why we’re here, what we found, and what we’ve surmised so far. As he’s doing so, two more vehicles come up the drive, a car containing Dr. Otto Morton, the medical examiner on duty, and a white evidence van driven by Laura Kingston, a part-time evidence technician who splits her hours between the police department and the ME’s office. I realize things could get interesting if the rumors I’ve heard can be believed, because I heard one that has Laura Kingston dating Devo.

A minute later, a cop car from Sorenson arrives with not one but two uniformed officers: Brenda Joiner and Al Whitman, a twelve-year veteran of the Sorenson PD and, if the PD rumor mill can be believed, something of an enigma. Al has been a uniformed officer since his first day on the job and has never shown any interest in advancing his career. He seems content doing what he does, and he is well known in town as a reasonable, kind, and friendly officer. He and his wife, Karen, who is a stay-at-home mom, have five kids ranging in age from eleven to two. This makes it even more puzzling that Al has never tried to advance his career and, presumably, his paycheck, but their income is augmented by Karen operating a day care out of their home—five kids apparently isn’t enough to have underfoot. Between the two of them they seem to manage nicely. It helps that they live in a house they own free and clear, a huge old Victorian that Karen inherited from her grandmother.

I know all this about the Whitmans in part because of town and PD gossips, and in part because Karen’s kids have been in the ER lots of times with the usual litany of childhood illnesses and accidents. I got involved a couple of years ago when one of the nurses in the ER was worried that an injury incurred by one of the Whitman kids didn’t fit the story the kid told. The nurse was concerned about potential child abuse and called me after reporting the case to Child Protective Services.

It turned out that the kid’s injury—a spiral fracture of the bones in his forearm, a classic abuse injury—really didn’t fit the story, but his parents weren’t the guilty parties. A neighborhood kid who was known to be a bully was the culprit and his victim made up a story about his arm injury out of fear that the bully in question would come after him again if he told the truth.

The investigation conducted by both me and CPS was a thorough one, though it took a while to get to the truth. In the process, Karen nearly lost her childcare business, Al was put on probation and nearly lost his job, and I made friends with the family because I sensed all along that the injured kid was lying not out of fear of his parents, but of someone else. Thanks to my years in the foster system, I understand the dynamics of childhood better than most adults, particularly those who had privileged, protected upbringings. I’m also good at sniffing out lies.

Both Al and Brenda acknowledge me as they join the group at the base of the back stairs, all of them gloving and suiting up in preparation for going inside. In a matter of minutes, the scene has gone from one of quiet isolation to one of controlled chaos. I want to go inside and watch, so I don one of the paper biohazard suits that Laura has in her van—suits designed to protect the investigators as well as the integrity of the crime scene—surprised that she has one that fits me reasonably well.

“Your build is similar to that of Dr. Rybar-ceski’s,” she tells me as she hands me a packaged suit. “So, we have a lot of these in that size.”

I take my jacket off and put my suit on, suspecting that I now resemble the Poppin’ Fresh Doughboy. No one pays me much attention as we all head inside the house, and I feel a little trill of excitement, knowing that I’m about to see my first official processing of a death scene. It’s not exactly what I was hired to do, but I’m sure it will be interesting and educational. One of these days, I’m hoping to be able to solve my mother’s murder, and this scenario should be good practice for honing my investigative skills.

If there were family members here, someone grieving, or someone who perhaps might have been involved in the death, then my area of expertise would get called into action. But there doesn’t seem to be anyone else living in the farmhouse other than the farmer who owns it and he is, presumably, the dead man. For the moment, I’m little more than an observer.

There is a wallet in the man’s overalls that Devo pulls out and, when he opens it, he finds a driver’s license. The name on it is Arthur Fletcher, though it’s impossible at this point to tell if the picture matches the dead man at the table. However, there is one telling characteristic: a large mole on the right cheek just below the eye. It is present in both the license picture and on the man before us. Another distinguishing mark is a scar, a white gash that traces the arc of the eye socket on the left side of the man’s face. This, too, is present in the license picture.

“I don’t suppose we can call it official until you guys do your thing and get fingerprints or dental records,” Devo says to Dr. Morton. Then he looks at the dead man and grimaces. “Though I don’t suppose dental records are going to be of much use here. It looks like he shot out half his teeth.”

“You mean they shot out,” I say, and everyone in the room turns to look at me. “There’s no suicide note, and he had a toddy heating in the microwave,” I explain. I nod my head toward the appliance, and everyone looks there instead.

After a moment, Otto looks at Devo. “Is she right? There’s no suicide note?”

“Not that I found,” Devo admits. “But I haven’t done an extensive search. I think it’s too early to be jumping to conclusions.” He shoots me a warning look, but I shrug it off. “Maybe it would be best if you waited outside,” he says then. “We don’t want to risk contaminating the scene if you happen to be right.”

I have to give the guy credit. He’s come up with a way to punish me while also acknowledging that my powers of observation might well be spot on. Not wanting to ruffle too many feathers this early in my job, I decide to let it go. I need to let Roscoe out for a walk and a pee anyway.

Outside, I strip off my bio-suit and toss it over a barrel by the back door for now. Roscoe is delighted to be released from his pen, though being a good-natured pup, he tolerates it without complaint when he’s confined. He makes it clear that it isn’t his favorite place to be, however, by skulking into and bolting out of the cage. I’m hoping that in time he’ll get more used to it and find it less of an onus.

I decide to let him off leash so he can run off some energy. We are far enough away from the road that it poses no danger, and to keep him from going near the house I walk toward the barn and the other outbuildings, knowing Roscoe will stay close to me. He sniffs happily, wagging his tail, occasionally snorting some dust when he smells something interesting. But as I close in on the barn, he stops dead in his tracks, staring at the building. A low, rumbling growl emanates from him and it makes the hair on both of our necks rise.

“What is it, boy?” I reach down and run a hand over his neck, feeling the tension in his fur. He raises his nose in the air and sniffs several times; then moves forward again. I’m a bit reluctant to follow him, but he no longer seems to be on alert, so I trail a few feet behind him.

A minute later we are standing at the entrance to the barn, a large, sliding wooden door that is open wide enough for at least two side-by-side cars to fit through. I peer inside, making out odd-shaped shadows in the dark. After a moment my eyes settle on an odd glow of light about fifty feet away that seems to be coming from the floor.

Roscoe looks up at me as if to ask if it’s okay to go inside. I glance back toward the house and see light emanating from several windows. The others are clearly busy doing their thing and I can see little to gain in disrupting that process to have them come and check out some unknown bit of light that might be nothing at all. I don’t want them to start thinking I’m a scaredy-cat, or that I have an overactive imagination, though the latter is likely a reasonable descriptor for me.

I wish I had a flashlight, and then realize that I do. After digging into my jacket pocket, I take out my cell phone and activate the flashlight app on it. It’s not as powerful as a real flashlight, but it’s strong enough that it creates a five- or six-foot circle of light around me. Holding it aloft, I cross the threshold, Roscoe at my side. The first thing I look for is a light switch. I turn and shine the light on the wall around the door and find a bank of six switches connected to a web of conduit to the left. I walk over to it and flip the first three switches. A bank of long, fluorescent lights suspended from the ceiling come to life with a few random, sizzling blinks.

The shadows I saw before now take on form. There are hay bales stacked along the wall to my left, tucked beneath a second-floor loft that is accessed by a ladder about twenty feet away. I venture forward several feet and to my right I see four small stalls, each one empty except for a smattering of straw on the floor. Straight ahead is a combine with an attachment that has rows of big, circular blades. Something about it bothers me, but I can’t quite put a finger on what it is.

Up beyond the combine the barn extends a good distance and more shadows loom. I go back and flip the other three wall switches, lighting up the rest of the building. I see more machinery, more stalls, and more equipment. And then there’s that thin crack of light just beneath that attachment on the first combine that appears to be coming up from below. I approach it, but the crack is too far under those circular blades for me to examine it up close. Still, it’s easy to see that there is a cellar beneath the barn, apparently with the lights on. Could someone be down there? I look around for a way to access it but don’t see anything.

I listen for sounds of movement or life beneath me, but the cavernous barn is utterly quiet except for the rustle of some small critter in the hay bales that piques Roscoe’s interest. I do a slow revolution, taking in the sights and smells, idly wondering what the various tractor and combine attachments are meant to do, and that’s when I realize what’s bothering me about the equipment. It’s clean. Every surface I can see is polished, shining, and lacking so much as a speck of a dirt. They are showroom ready. It’s May, prime planting time, and there are fields all around us. I would think there’d be some evidence of this stuff being used.

Roscoe, tail wagging, nose sniffing, is staring at the hay bales and whimpering.

“Leave it,” I tell him. “It’s probably a mouse, or maybe a barn cat and they can be mean. You don’t want to tangle with one of those.” Roscoe looks back at me as I speak but he stays put.

I hear a loud thud then from the other end of the barn, a noise like a door closing, followed by the sound of running feet pounding on the barn’s wood floor. Frightened and ready to bolt back the way I came, I’m about to slap a hand on my thigh in a come-on gesture to Roscoe when the world goes dark. I stand frozen to the spot, waiting for my eyes to adjust, thinking the lights must be on a timer, or maybe a motion sensor. There is a period of silence and then I hear a car door slam and an engine come to life. All of this seems to be coming from the far end of the barn, though it’s hard to be sure because of the weird acoustics. The hairs on my arms and along the back of my neck rise to attention and, showing he is in sync with my emotions, Roscoe lets out a low, menacing growl, a ruff of fur rising along the back of his neck.

I turn around and squint, trying to see out the open barn door. There is a pole light down by the house and I can see all the vehicles parked there, none of them running, none of them moving. My eyes have adjusted enough to the dark that I can now see the vague outline of the barn door and I walk toward it as fast as I can, eager to escape the building’s confines. As soon as I step outside, I breathe a sigh of relief. That’s when I hear the crunch of tires on gravel coming from somewhere behind me. I scurry around to the back side of the barn and look toward the sound in time to see the red glow of taillights disappearing across what appears to be a field.

Somebody was out here, I realize, and it might be the someone who killed the farmer.

Time to interrupt the others.