The Little Grave

by Carolyn Arnold

  There was a gash on his forehead, which could be consistent with a fall. She looked to the carpet and followed along the floor, stopping her scan at the end of the bed. She put on the gloves that Becky had given her. What no one knew wouldn’t hurt them. She lifted the comforter marginally and ducked down. Metal bedframe. But with the cushioning of the bedding it was unlikely to have cut flesh and there was no blood.

  She resumed her full height and studied the room from where she was standing. Nothing within sight would explain the cut on his forehead. It could have happened elsewhere in the room or at another location altogether. For now, she’d look at the lost shoe and the gash as separate and unrelated incidents. She made a note of her observations.

  Amanda carried on through the room, ignoring the form on the bed and went into the small bathroom. Green sink and tub. Ring on the floor around the base of the toilet. Rust marks in the sink and tub. There was a toothbrush, a tube of paste, a razor and shaving gel, but that was it as far as personal hygiene products. A motel-provided and now-lathered bar of soap sat on the corners of the tub and small counter.

  On her return through the room, she stopped in front of a closet with bifold doors. She’d already broken Malone’s direction not to touch anything so she slowly opened one side and peeked in. Empty. She eased the door back the way she’d found it.

  Palmer could have items in the dresser, but maybe she should draw a line with her snooping, just in case Malone returned.

  The only personal effects she could see in the main room were a jacket and wallet on the table. But what more could she expect when Palmer had only been released from prison a few days ago? He’d only have the clothes on his back and whatever had been taken from him at the time of his arrest.

  She made a note to find out what that was.

  She reached for the wallet. Had Palmer left it there or had Becky or her sergeant pulled it out to look for identification? Another possibility was a robbery gone wrong, but she dismissed the theory quickly. Palmer probably didn’t have anything worth stealing. Also, if it was a robbery, she’d likely be looking at a stabbing, shooting, or beating. Not to mention she’d expect to see evidence of an altercation, but there was nothing to indicate that aside from the shoe and the gash on his forehead.

  Amanda thumbed through the wallet. A ten-dollar bill and two credit cards. She extracted each, one at a time—both long expired—and slipped them back where she’d found them just as shadows darkened the room. She returned the wallet to the table and turned to see two female investigators from Forensics and a blond man she recognized as Trent Stenson.

  The CSIs made their way into the room, booties on their shoes and evidence collection cases in hand. The older of the two, a slender woman in her fifties, acknowledged her with a bob of her head. The other woman flashed her a beautiful smile.

  “Hi, Detective Steele,” Trent said. He looked older and more mature than she remembered, but there was something else different about him. His hair. He used to have long bangs that fell over his eyes, but now his blond hair was groomed short. She didn’t reply to his greeting but went to leave the room, pausing only to take off the booties.

  “I hope I’m not being presumptuous to assume you remember me.” He thrust out his hand. “I’m Trent. Stenson. Malone briefed me on the phone, but I was at Becky’s barbecue that time and we—”

  “I know who you are.” She wondered just how much Malone had told him, and if Trent had been told to keep an eye on her.

  “Oh, good.” Her refusal to shake didn’t seem to have any effect on his enthusiasm, but he lowered his hand. “How’s it looking in there?”

  “You should look for yourself. As the primary,” she added, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  “I’ll need—” Trent looked around and his gaze landed on the booties in her hand.

  “Here.” She handed them to him. “You should come prepared.” She felt a twinge of guilt at her hypocrisy.

  “Sorry, yes, I know. Thanks.” He went into the motel room without touching her dig about him being the primary. Spunky or spineless? Too soon to tell.

  She bundled into her coat. It had stopped snowing, but it was cold. Guess she’d just wait outside while Junior looked at the crime scene. Becky was coming toward her, holding a steaming takeout cup.

  “I come with coffee,” she said, giving it to Amanda.

  “How—”

  “I had a fellow officer bring it to me.”

  Amanda looked at the cup. “It’s not from Hannah’s, but…” Hannah’s Diner had the best coffee in Dumfries—in the county if you asked Amanda—but they closed at nine.

  “Hey, if you don’t want it…” Becky smiled and reached to take the coffee back.

  Amanda held the cup out of reach. “Now, there’s no need to do that. And thank you.”

  “I’m sorry about before. I shouldn’t have implied—”

  “Just forget it.” Amanda flipped back the tab on the lid and took a sip. Perfect drinking temperature.

  “So what way are you leaning? Do you think he was murdered?” Becky nodded toward the motel room.

  “Too soon to say, but there are things standing out to me. Speaking of, did you put Palmer’s wallet on the table or was it there?”

  “Sergeant Greer took it out to confirm identity. I didn’t need it to.”

  Amanda nodded.

  “I see that Trent’s arrived,” Becky said.

  “Yep.” She took another drink of her coffee. It was exactly what she needed right now. “Should be fun,” she added, with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

  “Trent’s a good guy. He’ll—”

  “Did I just hear ‘Trent’s a good guy’?” He came out of the room.

  Amanda regarded him. “That was quick.”

  “I’ll revisit. I like to take it in, process it in my mind for a bit, then revisit.”

  “Huh. First day out and you’ve already got a method.” Snarky and uncalled for, and it failed to garner any reaction. Disappointing.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Becky gave Amanda a pleading look to give Trent a chance.

  “So, what were your first impressions?” Trent extended the booties to Amanda and she dismissed him with a wave.

  “Keep ’em.” She started walking toward the motel office. “We’ll chat later. Right now, we’re going to speak to Ronnie Flynn. He’s the manager here and who found Palmer.”

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  Amanda stopped walking and spun. He was still moving, and she bumped her cup against his chest, spilling some coffee on his coat.

  He pulled a tissue from a pocket and wiped at the mess. She’d apologize but it would weaken her position.

  “You say ‘sounds good’ like this is an exciting evening out for you. Someone died,” she ground out. It was hypocritical given how little she felt for the deceased, and she remembered how at the start of her career in Homicide, murder cases had got her blood pumping and her adrenaline rushing.

  “I-I know that,” Trent stuttered and stuffed the tissues back in a pocket.

  She clamped her mouth shut. She’d been prepared for Trent to spout off something smart-ass, maybe bring up her connection with Palmer; as a local he had to know the history there. She resumed walking.

  “I didn’t mean anything by what I said.” Trent sounded apologetic, but there was also a note of confusion in his tone. He likely didn’t understand her strong reaction.

  But unless a person had suffered the loss she had, how could anyone appreciate what she had gone through—was going through? The man who had birthed her living nightmare was back. Dead, but no less real. And as much as she looked to this case to help her heal, it just may take her down if she wasn’t careful. That’s why she had to stay focused and serious.

  “Let’s just talk to the manager.” She got the door for the motel office for herself and didn’t bother holding it for Trent. It wasn’t personal—at least not yet—but partnerships had a way of morphing int
o that territory if the boundaries weren’t clearly defined from the start. And she wasn’t about to let her wall down for one second.

  Five

  Amanda stepped into the motel office, noticing the security camera mounted outside next to the door. A chime sounded and Officer Deacon got up from where he’d been seated next to a forty-something male with greasy dark hair and a pockmarked face.

  The fluorescent lights were harsh and assaulting, as was the dilapidated Christmas tree drooping in the corner; its fake branches finished with the season and some of its baubles reaching the floor. The lights were also unplugged, making it look that much more depressing.

  “Mr. Flynn?” she asked the stranger.

  “Yes.” The man’s eyes shifted to Deacon, almost as if asking permission to speak.

  “I’m Detective Steele,” she said, wresting back his attention.

  “And I’m Detective Stenson,” Trent offered after a couple of beats.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Amanda said.

  “I just told him everything I know.” He flicked a finger toward Deacon.

  “We appreciate that the officer here has taken your statement, but we have some questions of our own.” Amanda glanced at Deacon, who dipped his head and left in receipt of her silent message for him to leave them alone. “Let’s start with how you came to find the man in room ten.”

  Flynn scowled and clenched his jaw. “Why must I keep reliving it?”

  “We understand this may be difficult for you—”

  “May be? I found a man. Dead.”

  It was strange how someone else died and people could still make it about themselves. “Yes. Sadly, it happens all the time.”

  “Maybe for you,” Flynn spat.

  She took a long, deliberate sip of her coffee. When she lowered the cup, she met Trent’s gaze. Was he judging her, waiting for her to slip up so he could report her? “You’re right, I’ve seen a lot of death.” Her voice cracked ever so slightly on death. She refused to look at either Trent or Flynn for a few seconds. “You have the chance to help us figure out what happened to your guest.”

  “Was he murdered? I mean, I suppose so given you guys are here.”

  “It’s an open investigation at this time,” she said. “All I can tell you is his death is deemed suspicious, which simply means for his age he shouldn’t have—” She almost said kicked the bucket.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll rehash it all,” he whined. He went on to relay exactly what Becky had told her. He’d gone for ice, saw the flickering TV, looked in, and spotted Palmer on the bed.

  “Then you entered his room?” she asked, remembering clearly from the account he’d told Becky he hadn’t gone inside.

  “I knocked on the window and called out. He didn’t respond, and as I said, something about him just didn’t look right. So, yes, I went in his room.”

  So he’d lied to Becky. It was creepy to think of the motel manager watching his guests through the windows but not the end of the world. “Did you touch anything in the room?”

  “Nope.”

  She noted how quickly he’d replied—the honest truth or was he hiding something? “You told our fellow officer you never went into the room.”

  Flynn’s eyes darted to Trent, then back to Amanda. “Just must have slipped my mind. Not every day I find a dead body.”

  Amanda wasn’t sure she believed that was all it was. “Did you check the man for a pulse?”

  “No need. He had—” Flynn pointed to his mouth and traced a finger around it, clearly indicating the vomit. “And I could tell his chest wasn’t moving.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “Called the police.”

  Amanda nodded. She’d get to the tidbits about when Palmer checked in and if Flynn had any other interactions with him, but first she wanted to be clear on something. Flynn’s wasn’t a face she recognized, but it was very possible Flynn was aware of Palmer’s past and her own. “Did you know the man who died?”

  “Nah. Well, not really.” Flynn shook his head.

  “I’m not sure what you mean by ‘not really.’ Can you clarify that?”

  “I just know his name was Chad Palmer because I checked him in. That’s all.”

  “How long have you been working here?” Amanda was tiptoeing around what she really wanted to know. If he knew of her connection with Palmer, the entire investigation could blow up in her face before it really got started.

  “For a few months.”

  “I see, and where were you before that?” Amanda could feel Trent watching her, but she refused to acknowledge his gaze and kept hers on Flynn.

  “Florida.” Flynn narrowed his eyes and glanced at Trent, then back at her. “Not sure what that matters, but I followed my college girlfriend there and finally, after marrying her, then divorcing her, I had the good sense to part ways and come home last year.”

  So he would have still been in Florida at the time of the accident. She felt herself relax. “When did Mr. Palmer check in?” It seemed strange referring to Chad so formally.

  Trent coughed, probably to get her attention, to remind her that he was the primary detective, but when she looked at him, he mouthed an apology. That surprised her. He certainly wasn’t anything she had expected so far. She leveled her gaze at Flynn.

  “Friday night,” he said.

  That was the day Palmer had been released from prison. “Three nights ago. You’re certain?”

  He scrunched up his forehead. “Yeah. The wee hours always mess with my sense of time.”

  “So he checked in at night; what time?” she asked.

  “Around eleven? Should be in the logbook.” Flynn pointed to an open book on the reception counter.

  Trent beat her to it. “Ten fifty-five,” he said.

  Palmer would have been released from prison in the afternoon, so she was curious how he had spent the time between then and checking in. One thought crossed her mind, and it had her clenching her right hand into a fist and sinking her nails into her palm.

  “Was he drunk when you checked him in, or intoxicated?” She didn’t need to look at Trent to know he was watching her closely.

  Flynn didn’t respond.

  “Was he drunk?” she pushed.

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” she shot back.

  “Hey, wait, am I in trouble here?” Flynn’s cheeks flushed red.

  Amanda tilted out her chin. “We’re just trying to figure everything out.”

  Flynn shrugged. “He might have had something to drink before coming here. His words were a little slurred.”

  Amanda squeezed her fist tighter. The bastard had the audacity to waltz out of prison and pick up a bottle like no time had passed—as if his doing so years ago hadn’t met with any consequences. Just like he’d walked away from the accident scene, unscathed. Meanwhile everything she loved the most had been—

  “When he checked in did he have anything with him?” Trent asked, giving her a moment to get her temper in check.

  She released her fist and downed some coffee, trying to calm herself.

  “Heck, I dunno.” Flynn mussed his hair, dropped his hand. “A duffel bag.”

  That got her attention. There’d been no sign of one when she’d worked through the room, so, unless it was stuffed into a dresser drawer, it was unaccounted for. She pulled out her cell phone, and, after trying to balance it and her coffee, surrendered the cup to the counter. She tapped duffel bag into the app.

  “He paid cash, in advance,” Flynn volunteered.

  That wasn’t unusual if Palmer had wanted to stay under the radar, but he’d provided his name so that didn’t jibe. It also begged an answer for where Palmer had gotten the cash. It was entirely possibly he’d had some when he was booked, but this tidbit seemed worthy of note enough for Flynn to mention it. “For the night or was he planning to stay longer?”

  “It’s in the book.” Trent traced a fingertip across the page. “Until the end of
the month.”

  Palmer must not have had a place to call home to wind up here. It also seemed he’d had immediate plans to stick around Dumfries, so that was a point against suicide. That manner of death also didn’t fit a man who’d just regained his freedom, though some ex-cons had a terrible time adapting to life on the outside again. So, really, it was too soon to conclude anything. She keyed into her app Suicide? then looked up at Flynn. “How much money are we talking here?”

  “Fifteen hundred.”

  She whistled. “Never would have expected that.”

  Flynn glared. “I know it’s not the Ritz, but we’ve got bills to pay.”

  She held up a hand in surrender to calm Flynn, but she was more interested in how Palmer had that much cash. It was more walking-around money than most people had, but Palmer had been a part-owner of a pawnshop, so maybe it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. Still, she added Source of cash? into her app.

  “And he, what, had this cash in his jacket pocket or…?” she asked.

  “His bag.”

  With that admission, something flicked across Flynn’s eyes and his mouth twitched like he couldn’t quite settle on an expression. The topic of the bag made him uncomfortable, possibly fearful. A weapon inside it, perhaps?

  “Did he make you feel threatened?”

  His gaze snapped to hers. “No.”

  A bald-faced lie. “No weapon in his bag then, or anything else that had you spooked?”

  “I didn’t really get a good look,” he rushed out.

  “Okay,” she said, backing off just a tad, but his lack of a denial confirmed that Palmer’s presence had caused him anxiety. “You do realize, though, that we’re trained to read people and tell when they’re lying to us?”

  Flynn worried his bottom lip.

  “You’re not going to tell us,” she concluded. “But it’s not like he can hurt you.”

  Flynn’s gaze hardened and he ground his teeth. “There was nothing else in the bag, okay. Just the cash he paid with.”