by Claire Booth
An hour later, they pulled up to Jerry’s house, which was technically only five miles away from Fin’s place. It was in a much newer part of Columbia, with big stone-fronted houses that had high ceilings and tiny backyards and HOAs. Jerry had moved here after the most recent divorce.
‘Yeah, Denver was great – I mean really great – but it was her town, you know? So I wanted to come back to someplace that was mine. And my IT can operate from wherever.’
That was certainly true. Jerry owned an information technology company that provided support services to restaurants and retail. It had started in the basement of a rental he had with his first wife. It began so slowly, Hank and Maggie would bring them over crock-pots full of food so they wouldn’t starve. He finally landed a big client and celebrated by buying a boat instead of paying off the credit cards. He said it was fine and the debt could wait. She said it wasn’t, and walked out. That had been the end of marriage number one.
But his boundless faith in the concept hadn’t been misplaced. He knew what he was doing, and now it was a multi-million-dollar company. Hank had hoped that his spending hadn’t increased along with his success, but based on what he was sitting in, that was not the case. Jerry hit a button and the garage door rolled up.
Definitely not the case.
Two of the spots in the garage were taken by a BMW coupe and an old VW bug with only three wheels that Hank hoped Jerry was restoring. He turned to his friend.
‘You said I’d be able to borrow your crappy little commuter car.’
‘Yeah,’ Jerry said. ‘That’s it.’
He pointed at the BMW.
‘You commute in the BMW?’
‘No. I commute in this.’ He pointed at what they were sitting in. ‘But dude, you know me. You didn’t think I’d have, like, a Prius sitting around, did you?’
Hank started laughing, and a weight he’d carried long enough that it had become a perpetual ache started to lift off his chest.
‘No, I guess not,’ he said. ‘So what’s with the Bimmer, then? Is that for when you actually need trunk space?’
Jerry chuckled as he let them into the house. ‘Nah. That was Cindy’s. She wanted the Denver house, so as part of the settlement, I got the car. I don’t drive it.’
There was an edge to that last bit. Hank eyed him. Maybe this latest breakup had hit his friend harder than he was admitting. It was good he came to visit. For both of them.
They were getting dressed for work when Tyrone stopped and pointed at his wife.
‘I almost forgot,’ he said. ‘I wanted to tell you about something. Out in your area.’
Sheila smiled at him as she buckled her duty belt. ‘What’s up?’
‘Out on Nighthawk Lane off Buena Vista. It’s Rodney’s route. He said yesterday that one of his customers hasn’t been collecting his mail. The box is packed full, and he hasn’t seen any activity at the house.’
‘How old is the resident?’ Sheila asked.
‘It sounded like he was older.’
‘We’ll definitely do a welfare check. Send me his address when you get in.’
With a flourish, he pulled a paper out of the pocket of his mail carrier pants. ‘All ready for you, baby.’
She raised an impressed eyebrow. ‘Very nice. I’ll get Sammy on it first thing. Tell Rodney thanks.’
‘Oh, hell no. He’ll go off thinking he should start reporting every twitch his residents make. Or be calling himself a reserve deputy or something. No. Rodney doesn’t need encouragement.’
She laughed and leaned in for her hug. It was their morning ritual, and she looked forward to every time he wrapped his arms around her. With the overtime uproar that awaited her at the office, this was definitely going to be the best part of her day.
Clyde Timmons. Nighthawk Lane. Not a bad way to start a patrol shift. Sam grabbed a latte at the new coffee place in downtown Branson and pointed the squad car north. He covered the five and a half miles pretty quickly and parked right next to the mailbox, which was fair about to burst with letters. The nice mailman had rubber-banded the door to the rest of the box to keep it from hanging open, but it still bulged out. He could see the White River Valley Electric bill on top.
He walked up the gravel path to the little frame house. It was square with a wrap-around porch that was in pretty good shape, sagging only on the corners. He stepped up, pulled open the glass storm door and rapped authoritatively on the wood one. No response. He tried twice more before he let the storm door swing shut with a squeak. He walked around, peering in windows. When he got to the kitchen, he saw a plate of what looked like fried chicken and congealed collard greens on the table. Not your typical breakfast food.
He went around the house trying to peek in windows, but all the blinds were drawn tight. Banging on the back door met with the same silence. He scratched at his ear for a moment and then headed decisively back to the front. Based on the totality of the circumstances, he felt it reasonable to fear for the old guy’s safety. At least, that was what he was going to tell Sheila. The gentleman could have slipped in the shower and broken a hip. Or had a heart attack. Not much else should keep a man away from a dinner of fried chicken like that.
He knelt down so he was at eye level with the front doorknob. This was excellent. He hadn’t yet had a chance to use his lock-picking skills in real life. He’d been practicing a lot – broadening his skill set, Hank called it – but this was the first time he would do it officially. He rubbed his suddenly sweaty hands on his pants and got the little tools out of his belt. It took him less than five minutes, which wasn’t great but not terrible, either.
Sam twisted the unlocked knob and pushed the door open, announcing that he was with the sheriff’s department. All he got in return was a waft of cold air that was stale and ripe at the same time. Which didn’t bode well for Mr Timmons. He stepped into the little front room, the wood floor creaking under his feet. There was a recliner across from a small TV, and an end table with a half-full glass of something sitting on a paper towel coaster. Sam took a few more steps and was able to see into the kitchen, with the meal on the table. One lonely fly buzzed above the drumsticks. He turned. The smell wasn’t coming from there.
The first bedroom was obviously for guests. A double bed with a dark wood headboard, neatly made, with one of those bumpy chenille bedspreads like his grandmother had. No personal items at all. The bathroom was next. He yanked back the shower curtain and found only a build-up of soap scum. There was just one door left, at the end of the hallway. It had to be another bedroom. Sam readied his radio to report an old guy dead in bed and pushed open the door.
His hand fell to his side as the door clunked into the blood-spattered wall. A man lay crossways across the floor, one leg bent up against the bed frame and the other underneath it. His arms were flung up, but they’d given no protection. His face was beaten and blood matted the thin hair on the back of his head. The bed covers were crumpled, like he’d fallen there before he hit the floor. The nightstand lamp lay on the carpet, next to the body. The contents of the closet spilled out everywhere. Slivers of light worked their way through the closed window blinds, catching little motes of dust stirred up by Sam’s movement.
He turned as carefully as he could and stepped back out into the hallway. Mr Timmons stared up at him with the eye that hadn’t been beaten shut. The only sound was Sam’s breathing. He reached for his radio, then decided a direct call would be better. He pulled out his phone and was about to punch the Chief’s number when he remembered. He dialed Sheila instead. Then he walked outside and sat down on the porch step, wondering why this poor man had gone from serving up an ordinary dinner to getting attacked in his own bedroom.
SIX
Sheila hung up the phone and slumped back in her chair. A homicide. This certainly hadn’t been part of her plan for the time that Hank was gone. Sam had sounded remarkably composed. Still, she needed to get out there. With resources. She called the crime scene techs and Larry over at EM
S and then headed out.
She hoped that she’d get there and find it was all an overreaction. A natural death, where the guy just collapsed on the floor. Then she scolded herself. Sam deserved more credit than that. He hadn’t even been pretty sure. He’d been absolutely positive. And when she got there, she saw why.
‘Jesus.’ It was hard to tell whether the guy had been ambushed or whether there’d been a fight. Either way, he’d certainly gotten the worst of it.
‘Are you sure it’s Timmons?’ she asked Sam. He had hung back in the narrow hallway to allow her an unimpeded view.
‘Basically. What’s left of his face matches his DL photo. So do his height and weight. I think he’s a veteran, so his prints should be on file somewhere for us to compare with the body.’
She nodded. Her Sammy was doing good. She snapped her nitrile gloves absentmindedly as she looked things over.
‘And nothing else’s been messed with? Just this room?’
‘Near as I can tell. I haven’t gone through stuff. I wanted to wait for Alice and Kurt. But definitely nothing’s been ransacked or anything.’
A heavy tread came toward them, and they both turned around. Kurt Gatz and his equipment took up the width of the hall. They all did a shuffle, with Sheila and Sam stepping into the bathroom so Kurt could get by. He trundled the rest of the way down the hall and they heard a long, slow sigh. Sam rubbed vigorously at the back of his head and looked intently at the bathroom tile. Maybe he wasn’t doing as well as she thought. She started to say something when Alice popped into view. Like Kurt, she also had her camera.
‘Quite a switch from a car theft, isn’t it, Sam?’ she said. He smiled weakly. She hadn’t seen the bedroom yet.
Sheila snapped her gloves again.
‘Why don’t you start in the other rooms? Then we can get to going through things while Kurt works in the bedroom. I think there’s only space for one of you in there, anyway.’
Alice nodded and headed back toward the front room. Sheila pointed.
‘You, too. Go set up a perimeter along the back of the property.’
‘I did. While I was waiting for you,’ he said.
She thought for a moment. ‘Then start on the neighbors. This here in the house will keep. Get talking to them before they all start gossiping together and mixing up their facts.’
He gave her a look she couldn’t figure out and followed Alice down the hall. Sheila turned back and stood on the threshold as Kurt, his little white protective booties rubbing on the floor, squeezed himself into a corner and started photographing. He finished with the section by the door, and Sheila stepped inside, her own booties making the same noise. Had the killer come into the room this way as well? One of the two windows was sealed shut around a window air conditioner. The other was covered by aluminum blinds that looked bent with use, not with forced entry. She’d check that, obviously, but couldn’t get over there until the body was moved.
She knelt down. Now up close she could see that one hand was scraped and would probably be bruised if he’d lived long enough for that process to take place. She touched his left arm, which was flung awkwardly up over his face. The forearm felt broken. Dear God. She leaned farther to get a better look at the back of his head, but couldn’t see much without moving him. She didn’t want to do that yet.
‘Holler when you’re finished,’ she told Kurt, and walked back out. She heard a rig pull up. She stepped outside to find an ambulance parked on the street and lanky Larry Alcoate ducking under the tape. He grinned at her.
‘You requested my services, ma’am?’ Larry was always good for a joke and was about to start with one until he took a closer look at Sheila’s expression. ‘This is more than a suspicious death, isn’t it?’
‘I hadn’t seen the scene yet when I called you,’ she said. ‘It’s definitely a homicide. It’s going to be a while before you can move him.’
‘OK. I’ll move the rig out of the way, then.’
He pulled down the street and the spot was immediately filled by a pair of squad cars. About damn time. She walked out to meet them, taking care not to step on the gravel driveway in case there were tire tracks.
‘Orvan, I need you to monitor the front here. Nobody gets in. Hoch, go find Sam and help with the neighborhood canvassing.’
Neither man moved. Their white-boy faces stared back at her impassively. Finally, Hoch spoke. ‘That’ll take longer than an hour. That’s all I got left on my shift. Then I’m leaving.’
Shit. She turned to Derek Orvan. ‘You’re on days, right?’
He nodded. That meant he had hours left on his shift. She sent him out to help Sam and put Hoch on guard duty. For the hour. There was no way she was authorizing overtime for him. Although she knew she’d have to grant it to somebody eventually. There weren’t enough deputies to run this, as well as cover the county patrol. She called the man who was slated to patrol the far eastern reaches of the county and told him to report here instead. He could relieve Hoch.
That ruddy bastard had heard her conversation and was smirking as he stood against the crime scene tape. Fine. As long as he went home without extra wages in his pocket. She put her phone away and took a look around. Neighbors were starting to congregate at the crime scene tape. Not many, but then it was a pretty sparsely populated street. Lots of maybe an acre, left to their natural wooded state. No manicured lawns in sight. She made a wide circle of the house, noting a boot tread in the dirt that had to be Sammy’s. There were no other footprints. Then she climbed to the porch and followed it around. All of the windows were locked and dusty. The one to the kitchen had a smudged sill. She tapped on the glass to get Alice’s attention. The tech looked up from photographing the dining table and nodded as Sheila pointed to the spot.
Hopefully the inside would tell them more. Sheila stepped into the little living room. It was clear that Timmons lived alone. And it appeared he didn’t get many guests either. There was just the recliner, which was comfortably broken in with an afghan thrown over the back and a pillow stuffed just so along the side. The end table was placed so it fit next to the left arm, awkward for the flow of the room but perfect if it was just one man who wanted his remote control and drink glass within easy reach. It looked new.
There was a small love seat against the wall that didn’t look like it got much use. A framed Ansel Adams print hung above it. The only other thing in the room was a secretary, dark-stained oak and tall with drawers on the bottom and glass doors on the top. She pulled at the sloped middle section, and the panel easily dropped down to form the little writing desk. The cubbyholes along the back were packed with paperwork and odds and ends. She smiled. Everything else was so immaculate. This mess showed Timmons was human.
She left it open for Alice to see and continued her slow exploration of the house. He wasn’t a reader – there were no books. He wasn’t a gourmand – the kitchen was fully stocked, but not with anything exotic or flashy. She wandered into the little alcove that led to the back door. A curtain was pushed aside to show the heater – the pilot light was out, which explained why it was so chilly inside the house. Next to it was a stackable washer-dryer that was clearly a do-it-yourself placement. She peeked behind it and laughed. It looked like he’d tapped right into the kitchen plumbing and hadn’t bothered with the specialized electrical outlet. So not a by-the-book kind of fellow. She added that to the picture of him she was starting to form and turned to the back door. It had a standard lock, but no other security. A row of shoes sat on the flowered linoleum – worn work boots, a pair of suede Oxfords, and some funky tennis shoes.
She continued through the house, examining everything and slowly working her way back toward the bedroom where Timmons lay. When she finally got back to that threshold, Kurt was on his hands and knees by the body.
‘I think we’re almost ready for Larry to move him. But if you come over this way …’ He motioned to the lamp near the poor man’s head and shoulder.
Sheila maneuvered around
the body as best she could to see where Kurt was pointing on the lamp. It was heavy and brass. And clean. Kurt rotated it and they both leaned in closer to look.
‘There’s nothing on it,’ Sheila said.
Kurt hefted it higher so she could see the bottom. She shook her head. That was clean, too.
‘Well, then what the hell killed him?’ Kurt said. ‘I thought it was this thing. But it’d be covered with … well, covered with him, that’s what. This kind of beating, blood and tissue’ll be naked-eye visible.’
Sheila swore. She’d also assumed they had the murder weapon. Instead, it must have just toppled over during the struggle. She could see the outline of the base on the faded nightstand surface, which now held only a cheap alarm clock and a cell phone. She glared at the damn lamp, and Kurt gave her a look that was a little too full of pity for her tastes. So she glared at him, too.
‘We’ll be fine. We know it’s a murder, we know he was beat to death. That doesn’t change. So we just keep on.’ She rose to her feet and eyed Kurt’s sweaty face, then pointed at the phone. ‘Let’s make sure we try to get into that after it’s dusted for prints. Now I’m going to go get Larry. It’s about time we moved this poor man.’
Hank hadn’t slept this late in years. There was no office calling him for help. No kids jumping on the bed demanding breakfast. No dog whining to go outside. No Duncan singing along too loudly to Johnny Cash. He figured he’d start missing the first two by tomorrow. The last two … would take a lot longer.
Now he just luxuriated in the quiet of Jerry’s house. He tried three different kinds of gourmet coffee in the Keurig and found a replay of last night’s St Louis Blues hockey game on the satellite TV. It was the perfect background noise for the research he needed to do. He opened the laptop he’d found upstairs in a pile of Jerry’s slightly out-of-date computer equipment. He would have brought his own, but it had disappeared right before he left home. He suspected Maggie had hidden it so he couldn’t bring work with him. He had to give her credit for trying.