“No, he should be close around here,” the guy said. “Bodies drop like stones when folks drown. They don’t usually drift until they float. We’ll start here. We can always move if we don’t find him.”
“We have dogs coming?” Max asked Mueller.
The boat guy gave him a sideways glance. “I’d call and tell them not to bother if you do,” he said.
Mueller nodded in agreement. “The water’s cold, Max. There won’t be any decomp going on this soon. No way for them to get a scent. As a matter of fact, the bacteria probably aren’t even growing yet in these water temps.” He turned back to the boatman. “Diver’s on his way.”
“Good. Him we can use,” the guy said. “I’ll get started.”
In Dallas, we would have had our own water recovery unit on the scene with a sonar unit that would have lit up with images of the bottom, a body showing up as bright red bumps. Out here in the sticks, we didn’t have access to such expensive high-tech equipment, and none of us wanted to wait for the state guys to fly or truck some in.
The first thing the boat guy did was set out a grid, to keep track of where he searched. He started at the point nearest the skid marks on the shore. He moved slowly, methodically, the hooks dragging on the rocky river bottom. At times, they snagged something and he backed up, waited, tried to lift whatever it was, but the object broke free. “A rock or something. Not for us,” he’d shout. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
He judged by touch. The rocks didn’t give way. Underwater, bodies were light. If they weren’t weighed down somehow or latched onto anything, just clipping onto clothes often would be enough to bring one up.
The diver arrived, pulled on his wetsuit, and joined the guy in the boat. We waited on the riverbank, anxious and wary. “Do you think we should call Doc Wiley, to be ready?” Max asked.
I shook my head. “Odds are we won’t find anything. This is a real long shot.”
The night grew darker and the temperatures dropped. We kept going, the buoy markers floating on the river, marking off each section as the grid expanded. At times, the boat overlapped areas it had already searched, its skipper intent on feeling what lay submerged in the water.
“This is torture,” I said to Max. He understood that I meant the waiting.
“It’s getting late. They may want to abandon this soon,” he whispered. “We may have to try again in the morning.”
I didn’t want to consider that.
The search continued, and the sky grew darker as the air turned colder. We had a few false alarms; we pulled up a tree limb and an old boot, but no luck. Finally, Max and I were talking about calling it a night when the boatman shouted: “I think we’ve got him!”
The diver disappeared under water that shone like ink in the moonlight. As he broke the surface again, we saw a head emerge with him; dark hair, a pale face with a pilgrim beard. They attached floats to the body, and the boat dragged it to the shore. By then, I’d put in a call for Doc Wiley.
We laid Myles Thompkins out on the brittle grass and turned the lights directly on him. His blue eyes were open. Something in the water had nibbled away at his eyelids and his lips, giving them a ruffled look. Otherwise, the body, as Mueller and the boat guy had predicted, showed no signs of decomp. His skin was wrinkled, especially on his hands. He had a bruise on his forehead.
It didn’t take long for Doc to arrive. He looked tired—had probably been about to head to bed when I called—and he trudged toward us limping. “Bursitis,” he said when I inquired. “My knee acts up off and on.”
He winced when he knelt to give Myles a once-over. There was a bloodless gash among the bruising on his forehead.
“What do you think?” I asked.
Doc shook his head. “Can’t tell. We need to get him to the morgue. I’ll do the autopsy tonight.”
Max pointed above Myles’s eye. “That bruise and the cut, from an altercation, you think?”
“Could be from somebody hitting him,” Doc said. “Or could be from the rocks when he fell in, or those at the bottom. I’ve read that drowned bodies look pretty much like they’re crawling until decomp sets in and they start to rise. I’ll need to take a look.”
“We were lucky to find him,” Mueller said.
“Yes, you were,” Doc agreed. “Cold water like this? He wouldn’t have floated until April.”
“Will you be able to tell if it was suicide?” Max asked Doc. “Or homicide?”
Doc looked wary. “That can be hard with a drowning. Water destroys a lot of evidence,” he admitted. “And I’m not an expert in these types of deaths. I’ve only seen a couple in my career. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Give me a chance to get him on the table.”
“I’m going to follow you to the morgue,” I told Doc. “Max can head back to his office with the CSI crew.”
“No,” Doc said. “I’m going to have a cup of coffee at home first, explain to my wife what’s happening, and then I’ll get on this. I’ll call you when I’m done. I don’t need you looking over my shoulder, distracting me and hurrying me along.”
Thirty-Two
From the river, we headed back to the station, where Max had left his car. We saw the street glowing from a block away. It looked beautiful, sparkling like fallen stars. All along Main Street, folks were lined up holding candles: women, children, men. The signs were still there, and some held a candle in one hand and a placard in the other. Although the scene shimmered, the signs screamed: Apostate Leave! Another: Outsiders Not Wanted Here!
“Clara, they’re—” Max started.
“Voicing their heartfelt appreciation for all I’ve done,” I said, not sparing the sarcasm. “I understand.”
My Suburban with Alber Pd on the side wasn’t hard to spot, and I thought about taking a side road again but decided to hell with it. I pulled up right in front of the station and put on my blinker to turn toward the parking lot. When a sea of the protesters flooded in front of the SUV, I decided I’d probably made a bad choice. But I was tired of backing away. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I resented this. Being as careful as I could, I drove slowly. The sea of faces and flickering lights parted, and eventually I drove past them. As we got out of the SUV, Max said, “I’m going to head home and look in on Brooke. Call me when you hear from Doc.”
There’d been murmurs, but at that point the crowd called out: “Go home! Go home! Go home!”
“Sure, I’ll call,” I said. Max looked worried, and he started to walk toward me as if he was going to guard me as I walked into the office. I mouthed “No.”
I couldn’t have the people in town thinking that I was afraid, that I needed Max, any man, to protect me. He reluctantly turned and walked to his car, glancing back a couple of times to check on me while I made my way to the building. The crowd continued their chant but didn’t approach me. I keyed in the access code, and as the door slammed behind me, something flew in my direction from the crowd. I turned to see something blood red on the glass. I glanced down at the asphalt outside and realized that someone had thrown a tomato.
Inside the station, the night dispatcher had replaced Kellie. Except for her absence, it looked like afternoon in the office; Conroy was at his desk and Stef sat on the couch in the waiting area reading a textbook entitled Death Investigation.
“Stef, haven’t you had enough for today? Shouldn’t you be home?” I looked over at Conroy. “You too. You’re both done for the night. Time to go off duty.”
They shared a glance, and Stef gave me one of her half-apologizing expressions. “We don’t think it’s safe for you to be alone here with just the dispatcher, Chief. The night shift is all out on patrol. Conroy and I are staying until the protesters leave.”
“No,” I said. “There’s no need to—”
“Chief, I’m sorry, but it’s not up for discussion,” he said. “We’re not leaving. Plus, we both have work to do. You don’t have to pay us overtime. Don’t worry.”
I chuckled at the reference t
o overtime. Everyone knew the department’s budget was habitually tight. Maybe I was glad they were staying. I did appreciate the concern. Still, I wasn’t sure it was a good idea for my officers to think they had to protect me. “You should both go home,” I said again. “Really, I’m fine here. You don’t have to worry.”
“Too late,” Stef said. “Mullins is on his way, and he’s bringing all of us dinner.”
“Mullins? He should be home with his family,” I said. “His daughter—”
“He heard about the crowd,” Conroy said. “He didn’t ask. He said he was coming.”
It was at that moment that Detective Jeff Mullins, carrying sacks from the diner, bustled in the front door shouting behind him: “I told you folks to go the hell home. Now get out of here!” He was about to slam the door, but held it open for a moment longer and yelled out: “The chief’s working hard on my daughter’s murder, the others, figuring out who killed them all. Chief Jefferies doesn’t need the distraction of all of you being so ridiculous. So, go the hell home!”
Mullins walked in mad, glowering at no one in particular. “Mullins, you didn’t have to do this,” I said.
“I wanted to be here,” he said, squirreling his cheeks high while he clenched his mouth into a decidedly unhappy frown. “I’m not here because of those folks out there. I want to hear what happened with Myles. Where we stand on the case.”
The crowd outside thinned and then disbanded as we ate our burgers from the diner. Stef and Conroy finally took off for the night, but Mullins and I sat in the station’s meager breakroom at a table with a cracked Formica finish.
“Do you think Myles did it?” Mullins asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Max and I have doubts about the confession. We’re not convinced.”
Mullins looked relieved. “You still have the squad protecting my grandson, right?” he asked. “In case it’s not Myles and the killer comes back?”
“Yes, I do,” I assured him. “We’re not going to leave Jeremy unguarded until we’re sure this is over.”
Apparently satisfied, Mullins began playing with an onion ring he’d peeled off his burger. It was filling the air with a heavy odor. “I can’t get my mind around it, that there’s any chance he did it,” he said. “I’m not going to believe Myles killed Laurel until I see that note myself and read the autopsy that says he committed suicide.”
At that moment, my cell went off. Doc Wiley’s number displayed on the screen, and I considered putting him on speaker so Mullins could hear, but decided not to.
“Doc, you finished the autopsy, I take it?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I’m not going to be able to come up with a determination on manner of death until morning.”
“Doc, I know you’re tired. It’s been a long couple of days for all of us, but we really need to know how Myles died tonight,” I said. “What’s the problem?”
“I think I know what happened here, but I’m not sure,” he said, sounding irritated. “Sometimes I need help. I’m an internist first, not really a pathologist, remember?”
That was true. He had been pressed to take over the medical examiner’s responsibilities for the county when his predecessor retired, but Doc Wiley was more comfortable stitching up a wound, delivering a baby, or prescribing antibiotics for a sinus infection than issuing rulings on cause and manner of death.
“Doc, why not tell me what you do know?” I suggested. “Time is important and waiting until morning—”
At that, my lead detective grabbed my phone and put it on speaker: “Mullins here, Doc. What’s the hang-up? What did you find?”
“I’m not going to go into it tonight, Jeff,” Doc said. He let out an aggravated sigh, as if we were trying his patience. “I’ve contacted a pathologist who specializes in drownings, based in Nebraska of all places. Took forever for me to find such a guy, but he’s agreed to look over the photos and my notes first thing tomorrow, so I’ll have what you’re waiting for then. Right now, I can’t do more for the night. And all of us could use a good night’s sleep.”
Mullins’ shoulders sagged, and he looked beaten. “You know, Doc, this is my girl who got murdered. My Laurel. You should tell me what you’re thinking, not hold anything back.”
Doc didn’t answer.
I looked at Mullins, how fragile he appeared, and I fought two urges—one to help him push Doc so we could both get the answers we were looking for. The other? To tell him to go home and be with his family. He didn’t belong in the investigation. I considered how he’d cornered Carl Shipley, and how easily Mullins’ emotions could tip him over the edge.
“The doc’s right, Jeff,” I said. “We don’t want speculation. We need to hear the truth about how Myles died. The morning will come soon enough.”
“You’re sure you’ll know then?” Mullins asked Doc.
“Tomorrow morning, first thing,” Doc said. “Chief Jefferies will get back to me, and I’ll have answers for her then.”
Thirty-Three
I lay in bed for what felt like hours, awake, going over the evidence, thinking it all through and coming up with no new answers. When I finally closed my eyes, I was in the woods at night, running, from what, I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure who chased me, but as I glanced back, I saw the flames from their torches bright against the darkness, the way the protesters’ candles had rippled in the breeze. Why I was running, that I understood: someone chased me. I had to escape, to flee as fast as I was able. I needed to get away, because if I failed, if they caught me, I would die.
In my dream, I left the woods and fell into the river. The water rushed up around me, pulling me down. I flailed around underwater, unable to breathe, unable to swim back up to the surface. Suddenly, Myles Thompkins floated beside me, his unseeing eyes locked on me. I tried to grab for him, but he slipped through my hands. Then, his head dropped, and when he looked up again, my heart beat like a base drum in my chest. Instead of Myles staring at me, it was Max. I reached out again, and again I couldn’t grab him. Max slipped past my fingers and drifted farther and farther down until he disappeared.
Total darkness. And then I stood at the window in Laurel Johansson’s bedroom. The blue drapes were gone from when we removed them to find the letters. Below me, outside near the clothesline, Anna and the children swirled like dancers on a stage. They appeared happy and playful, but they wore white nightshirts stained with patches of red like the sheet had been. Benjamin saw me in the window and told his mother and sister. Soon, all three stared up at me, their hands waving as if to make sure I saw them. The bison in the field filled the air with mournful groans, and my pulse raced. I shouted that I was trying, that I was doing all I could for them, but they couldn’t hear me. I stepped away from the window and Laurel sat up in the bed, that hideous ring of red surrounding her mouth dripping like fresh blood.
Her eyes opened. She saw me and screamed.
The dream rushed through me the next morning while I pulled on a clean uniform. I thought about Myles, about Max. Our stories were becoming interconnected. In the dream, Max had taken Myles’s place. I wondered if my subconscious was trying to tell me that could have been us. That my fate and Max’s could have been as dark and final. I thought of the day I’d heard that Max had been driven from Alber. Father came into my room to tell me.
“You are never to see him again, ever. And you will make no attempt to ever seek him out. You will keep your thoughts pure. From now until the day you die, Clara, Max Anderson is not to enter your mind,” Father had said, a stern look in his eyes. I’d been on house arrest for months, ever since the river kiss. After school, I went to my room and studied, and I only came out to help prepare dinners or tend to the younger children. My brothers and sisters looked at me warily. They had all understood that our parents were unhappy with me. Mother rarely looked at me, except for those moments when I glanced over and caught her staring at me with a visceral disappointment.
I rarely talked back to Father; none of us c
hildren dared. It wasn’t that he was mean or violent in any way, but that his manner welcomed no dissent. This time, I had no choice. I needed him to understand that Max and I hadn’t sinned, that there was no reason for Max to be forced out of town or banned from my life. “We didn’t do anything wrong, Father. I’ve told you before, nothing happened beyond a kiss,” I’d pleaded. “Max and I, we’re… he’s… you don’t understand, I am…”
Silence, as Father glared at me.
“Was it my fault, Father?” I’d begged. “Please, tell me. Was it because of me that Max was sent away?”
Again, Father didn’t speak. Instead, he’d looked into my eyes, bored deep inside me, working his way into my heart until it ached so that I felt a sharp pain cut through me. Then he turned toward the door. He stopped with one hand on the doorknob and looked back at me. “Pray, Clara,” he said. “Ask God and the prophet for forgiveness for your indiscretion.”
I tried Doc’s number twice before I left the shelter at six that morning. No answer. I decided he was probably not ready to talk and avoiding me, and I headed to the hospital instead of the office, to pin him down. I needed to know what he knew. But when I got there, the morgue door was locked, and no one responded when I rang the bell. I tried Doc’s cell again, and this time he picked up. “I’m at the sheriff’s office,” he said. “Just got here. Come over. I have something to show you and Max.”
The sheriff’s office was on the first floor of the Smith County Courthouse, a short drive from the hospital, so I made it there in ten minutes or less and rushed inside. Max and Doc were in the conference room, autopsy photos of Myles spread across the table. I looked over at Max and again thought of that day with my father.
“Good, Clara, you’re here,” Doc said. “Come take a look.”
There were images of the body, his clothing on in some, in others his clothes removed. Nude, it was easy to see bruising not only on his forehead but other parts of his body, especially his chest. “Is this what you’re showing us, the bruises?” I asked.
Her Final Prayer: A totally gripping and heart-stopping crime thriller (Detective Clara Jefferies Book 2) Page 24