Читать книгу Trouble in Abundance - Arlette Lees - Страница 6

CHAPTER 2

“The dog won’t let me approach the body,” says Frack.

Deputy Frank “Frack” Telusky is first on the scene. We stand side by side in the woods at the edge of a dirt road just off the main highway. A big brown dog lies protectively over the form of a tall teenage girl. She looks like a sleeping princess in the crackling autumn grass, her hair the color of the oak leaves drifting from the tree above her head. Beneath a network of angry scratches, her face has a beautiful symmetry even in death.

I observe the dog, his labored breathing and worried eyes. “He’s scared, Frack. I’ll get him some water.”

I’m Deputy Robely Danner, the only female officer on our small force. Mike, Frack and I man the substation while County Sheriff Early Brooker is assigned to the Coroner’s Office at the county seat. Mike Oxenburg and I ride together and Frack, the last to be hired on, usually rides solo.

I walk to the car, return with a cup of water from my thermos and kneel several paces from the dog. He’s a fluffy mix about the size of a refrigerator who’s picked up a few burrs in his double coat. He’s thirsty and stressed and growls low in his throat. He licks the dead girl’s cheek and nudges her hand, but she’s not waking up, now or ever.

“That’s a good boy,” I say. He sizes me up with a worry line between anxious eyes and runs a dry tongue between his teeth. After a moment’s indecision he pulls himself to his feet and empties the cup. I check his worn leather collar but find no tags. He follows me to the car and flops down on the back seat.

My partner Mike, is a big, soft-bellied teddy bear who’s moving an Amish buggy and two boys on bicycles further back from the crime scene. He’s a hard-working nuts-and-bolts cop with three year old triplets, Tommy, Trevor and Travis, a midlife surprise for him and his wife Tammy, who works at the Stop and Go.

Frack, on the other hand, is Mike’s opposite, a whippy chain-smoker with smooth muscles like steel cables. After an honorable stint in the Marines, he worked an oil fracking operation in the Dakotas before returning home. Because he’s explosively powerful in a pinch, we started calling him Frack and it stuck. In last winter’s white-out, he single-handedly lifted the front end of a car while I pulled a hapless passenger from beneath the undercarriage.

We’re all natives of the small farming community of Abundance…one stop sign, two churches and three bars, one owned by my four-times divorced mother, Gladys Calhoun, whose name is all too well-known to law enforcement.

Frack and I look down on the body of the dead girl. Her blue eyes, frosted over in death, stare unblinkingly into the stratosphere. Her broken fingernails indicate a valiant struggle before someone got the best of her.

She wears jeans, a chunky pink sweater with the neck stretched down over her left shoulder and a pink and blue plaid tennis shoe on one foot. It appears to be a soft kill… no stab wounds, bullet holes or blood… but that doesn’t make her any less dead. I snap photos from various angles with my camera phone and put it back in the pocket of my jacket.

“There should be another shoe around here someplace,” I say. I look at my watch. “Forensics should be here by now. Do you know how many people trampled the scene before we got here?”

“None that I know of,” says Frack, bagging the girl’s hands. “The boys waved down the Hochstetler’s who put in the call from the Olsen farm. They never got out of their buggy.

Mike motions me over and introduces me to Ty Behnke and Josh Scheulke, both nine. The local phone book, about the size of a church bulletin, is full of Behnkes and Scheulkes, the Wisconsin equivalent of Smith and Jones. If the Amish had phones we’d see Lapps, Stoltzfuses and Zooks. The boys saw no suspicious activity when they stumbled onto the scene, nor do they know the girl. Mike calls Ralph Behnke to pick them up.

The Hochstetler’s buggy sits on the shoulder of the highway. They’re a young married couple named Samuel and Ruth. “When you first arrived on the scene did you see any vehicles, anything suspicious?” I ask.

“No, just the dead girl and the two boys. Ruth found the girl’s shoe in the ditch,” says Samuel. His wife hands me the shoe. She’s in her early twenties with rosy cheeks and red hair tucked inside a neat black bonnet.

“Where did you find it?”

“About forty feet down the road.”

“Show me. I’ll follow along.”

“Watch Lily’s hooves,” he says, flicking the reins over the rump of the bay mare. “She’s still young and a bit frisky.” After a short walk Ruth points to the side of the road.

“Here?” I say.

“That’s right,” she says. I climb into the ditch.

“If we’re finished here,” says Samuel, “we need to get our groceries home. If you need us, our farm is just the other side of Johnson’s fruit stand.”

“Thanks for your help,” I say. “Drive safely.” He flicks the reins and they clip-clop away.

I find two beer cans in the ditch but they’ve been there a while. Deep in the weeds, a glint of light guides my hand to a tiny two inch long jackknife. I brush away the dust and examine it. Two delicate, and nearly illegible letters, are engraved into the silver-plate… E.B, B.E, or a combination thereof. It may or may not be significant. I put it in my pocket and climb back on the shoulder of the road. Above the ditch I notice where a car has skidded away the gravel.

I motion Mike over and show him. “I think the attack started in earnest here,” I say, “but there’s no way to determine if the girl was on foot or if she’d been a passenger in the car.” I hand him the shoe and hang onto the knife as we walk back to the crime scene.

“There should be a purse somewhere, says Mike. “My wife doesn’t go anywhere without a purse.”

“Good point,” I say.

“If we don’t find it it’s got to be in somebody’s car,” says Frack.

“You’re probably right.”

A vehicle pulls into the dirt road. “Here’s the team,” says Mike, walking over to meet the coroner’s van.

Frack stands at my shoulder and fires up a cigarette. He’s the first man who’s blipped my radar screen since my fiancé was killed during a storm three years ago. It’s taken me a long time to think about moving on. Frack carries with him the scent of leather and smoke and a touch of woody aftershave. Warmth radiates through my limbs…and elsewhere. I step off a few paces and concentrate on the crime scene.

I was five years on the force before Frack signed on. He has a few years on me, but I have seniority on the job. He has extensive experience with fire arms and I concede he’s a superior shot. I’ve only fired my service revolver twice in the line of duty, once when a rabid raccoon got in the mayor’s chicken coop and once to dispatch a wounded buck that was critically injured on the highway. I’ve never shot at a human being, nor had to, nor wanted to.

The forensic team gears up in white coats and rubber gloves. Frack kills his cigarette and we walk over to where Paula Dennison, M. E., is settled on her haunches beside the body.

“Hi Paula.”

“Hi Robely. Frank.” (By the way, it’s pronounced Rowblee, like row, row, row your boat.)

“What can you tell us at first glance?” I ask.

“She’s dead.”

“Come on, Paula. I already figured that part out.”

She moves the girl’s limbs. Mike walks over and joins us.

“You’re blocking my light,” says Paula. We retreat a few steps.

“Rigor has come and gone. She’s been here since sometime last night.” She takes her pen light and examines the girl’s eyes. “There’s petechial hemorrhages in the whites. That’s about all I can tell you with any accuracy until I complete the postmortem.”

“So, she’s been suffocated or strangled,” says Mike.

“That’s a good bet. I expect to find a broken hyoid bone,” says Paula. “Any idea who she is?”

“Nope, not a clue,” says Mike.

“I doubt anyone’s missed her yet.”

“Where’s the sheriff?” asks Frack? “I thought he’d be here by now.”

“Early was admitted to the hospital about an hour ago.”

“What happened?”

“It’s his gall bladder again. This time it comes out. He was in so much pain they took him away on a stretcher. With the sheriff out of commission, that makes you senior officer, Mike. If you need assistance you can always call the State Police.”

The crime photographer circles the body and shoots the scene from every angle using a flash in the shade cast by the trees.

“I’m guessing she’s a high school girl or recent graduate I tell Mike. “You want me to go through the yearbooks when we get back to the station?”

“Good idea,” he says. He turns to Paula. “How soon before we get the autopsy results?”

“Tomorrow I’m turkey-shooting with my husband, so I’m putting this young lady on ice until Monday. As soon as I have postmortem results I’ll call. If you find out who she is, leave a message on my machine. Now get out of my hair so I can do my job.”

That’s what I like about Paula. You never have to wonder what she’s thinking.