“Usually they go in threes, not twos,” the kid was saying, “but number three turned out to be all the way out here and it would have taken Kim an extra couple of hours to finish up there before she could get out here. Also, somewhat incidentally, that drill sergeant you got working the phones for you didn’t sound like he wanted to wait that long, so Kim called me and here I am.”
Evan was too distracted by trying to speed up his hearing to figure out whether the kid’s use of the term “drill sergeant” referred to Vi or Crenshaw. Paula Trigg cleared her throat and Evan realized he had been staring at the intern for several seconds, and that everyone else was staring at him.
Paula said, “Lieutenant Caldwell, this is Danny Coyle, one of the medical examiner’s assistants. I’ve worked a few cases with him. I think you’ll find him as competent on a scene as Dr. Grundy would be. If he were here.”
Danny smiled, might even have blushed just a tad, then stepped forward and extended a hand to Evan.
Evan found his internal balance, centered by Paula’s professionalism and his own distaste for M.E. Mitch Grundy’s lack of it. He pushed all thoughts of Sunset Bay out of his mind and refocused.
“Mr. Coyle,” Evan said, accepting the young man’s hand. “This case is going to receive a lot of attention in the media. That means everything we do here will be scrutinized more than usual. Thank you for getting here quickly. But, now that you are here, I need you to take all the time you should. Dot all your I’s and cross all your T’s.”
“Yeah, of course,” Danny said. “That’s the sheriff. No way am I going to miss anything on this one.”
Evan grimaced at the implication that the kid might be in the habit of missing things on less important cases, but decided this was not the time, nor was it his place, to address that. The day was moving forward, fast, and Evan felt compelled to do the same. An initial survey of a murder scene was as much about collecting questions as it was about collecting evidence. Evan had just about bagged his limit of questions. It was time to get some answers, and to go speak to his boss’s widow.
As Coyle returned to his van to gather his gear, Evan leaned close to Paula and said in a low voice, “Keep an eye on this kid., just help him out a little, okay? I’ve got to get back to Wewa and do next of kin before Mrs. Hutchins hears about this from someone else.”
“I got it, Evan. Do what you need to do,” she said. “But don’t worry about Danny. He’s pretty sharp.”
“A little heavy-handed with the 5-Hour Energy, maybe,” Evan said.
“Probably,” Trigg answered. “Med school does that to you.”
He patted her shoulder, then looked over at Goff. The sergeant wore enormous headphones connected by a black spiral cord to the metal detector. Evan got an image of Goff blasting old Hank Williams songs through the phones, and the thought would have made him smile under other circumstances. He did wonder just how he had gotten here, as far from Cocoa Beach and Miami as was culturally possible. An impossibly convoluted trajectory had brought him across the state, but it felt like he’d crossed the planet, and he wondered how long he’d have to stay. Then he felt guilty for wondering.
Paula saw Evan looking at Goff and said, “I’ll let him know.”
“Thanks,” Evan said, bringing his mind back to the task at hand. “I’ll talk to Crenshaw on my way out.”
“You need to come back here after?”
“No, I think I have all I need to get started. Just please make sure the body and anything remotely like evidence gets processed properly. Once he’s been transported to the hospital, see what you can get off the truck, then have it towed back to the station. I’ll ask Crenshaw to stick around until the truck has been towed.”
“Got it,” Paula said.
Evan thought about his phrasing for a moment before he spoke again. “Listen, I know this is a small town, in a close-knit county, but we need to do everything we can to make sure this doesn’t get out before we want it to, okay? Nobody on their cells, nobody running back to the Shell station to grab a Mello Yello, nothing. Okay?”
“Got it,” Trigg said, and Evan was grateful she didn’t look offended. “We’re really more of an RC Cola/Mountain Dew crowd around here, anyway.”
Evan nodded to her, then headed for his car. Danny Coyle passed him, hurrying the other way. He had a duffle slung over one shoulder that looked like it weighed more than he did. Evan cringed at the gleaming, twelve-inch long needle he carried, the thermometer probe he’d use to take the temperature of Sheriff Hutchins’s liver.
As Evan walked in the direction of Deputy Crenshaw and his car, he again wondered about the paths people’s lives take. He would never have imagined himself investigating an execution in backwater Florida, where the M.E. was too hungover to show up for a murdered sheriff so he sent a spazzed out intern instead. He wondered if Hutchins had ever imagined his own end in this way. He doubted it had crossed his mind when he’d hired Evan.
FIVE
EVAN HAD A CIGARETTE in his mouth before he reached his car, and had it smoked a disturbingly short time later. He was barely back on the county road before he pulled out his cell and called Sunset Bay to make sure everything was okay. Once he knew it was, he smoked two more cigarettes out of relief. And a fair amount of dread.
He’d made his share of notifications to next of kin, and every one of them had made him anxious, uncomfortable, and slightly nauseous. Once he introduced himself, he always looked into the person’s eyes and wished he could delay for just a minute the unwinding of their world. But no one wanted to talk about the weather when a cop showed up on their doorstep.
The further Evan went into Wewa, the less he understood its existence. There were several residential neighborhoods, some working class and some not as fortunate. Homes ranged from modest but well-kept brick ranch houses to dilapidated trailers to shotgun cabins, enough to fill at least a few square miles, so clearly plenty of people lived in Wewa. Evan just couldn’t figure out why.
Aside from a few gas stations, a school, a fire department and a couple of forlorn-looking stores, Evan saw no real business district. He wondered if most of Wewa’s residents worked in Port St. Joe or even Mexico Beach. But then why on earth were they living back here? He got claustrophobic once he couldn’t smell the water, and he never understood why anyone lived in inland Florida.
Evan passed the Wewa Police Department on his way. It was a low-slung, clay-colored structure with a laundromat on one side and a lawnmower repair place on the other. Two patrol cars were parked in the small lot. Beckett’s Monte Carlo wasn’t in attendance.
Sheriff Hutchins’ home was off of Red Bull Island Drive. Evan wondered momentarily if the founder of the drink was from Wewa, or if the residents just admired it so much they named a street after it. He had Google Maps up on his phone, and he could see that the Chipola River ran in something of a “U” shape around Red Bull Island Drive. The side streets on both sides of the road all ended at one bend of the river or the other.
Sheriff Hutchins’ house turned out to be a pale-yellow ranch at the end of Palm Street, which made it waterfront property. There were only half a dozen houses on the street, all of them at least as modest as Hutchins’. These included two well-kept trailers. He caught a glimpse of the river just past the Sheriff’s property. Evan didn’t understand or trust fresh water, but he figured a river was better than nothing.
As he pulled into the sand and gravel driveway between two huge azaleas, he noted that there were lights on in the windows. He didn’t have to wonder why; Chief Beckett’s Monte Carlo was parked right in front of him. Evan’s eyes narrowed through the smoke as he took one last drag, then doused the butt in the Coke can full of water he used as an ashtray.
He was halfway to the front door when it opened. Beckett stood there holding it like he was the one who paid the mortgage. He didn’t look defiant about being there, but he didn’t bother looking apologetic, either. He came down the two front steps from the porch and met Evan o
n the walkway.
“What the hell are you doing, Beckett?” Evan asked quietly.
“Look, I went all through school with Marlene,” Beckett answered, his voice low. “She didn’t need to hear this from someone she’s never even met.”
“You know as well as I do that seeing a spouse’s first reaction is crucial to an investigator.”
“Listen, it’s not my case, so I don’t give a crap about your investigation,” Beckett said. “But since you’re curious, her first reaction was to throw up on the carport. She didn’t have anything to do with this, Caldwell.”
“Because she threw up, or because you went to school with her? Which I appreciate you mentioning a long time ago, by the way.”
“Mainly because she’s got six Girl Scouts in her den,” Beckett answered. “They had a sleepover, only nobody slept. They stayed up watching movies until a little after four. Unless you figure they all did it together as a Scout project, Marlene has a solid alibi.”
Evan let a frustrated breath hiss out through his teeth as he looked around the yard. There wasn’t much to see; it was just an excuse to look away from Beckett so he didn’t have to say anything before he was ready. After a moment, he collected himself and looked back at the other man, who was standing there with his hands on his hips like Evan was the one who was someplace he shouldn’t be.
“I suppose the Girl Scouts all know the Sheriff’s dead and they’re posting on Facebook as we speak,” Evan said.
“No, slick, they don’t and they aren’t,” Beckett answered. “I told them there’d been an accident, then called their parents and told them the same thing and asked them to come get their kids.”
“I need to talk to the girls before they leave,” Evan said shortly.
“I told them that, too,” Beckett said. “I might be a cracker, but I’ve got twenty-four years in this game and I’m not feeble.”
Evan propped his fists on his hips and sighed. “Where’s Mrs. Hutchins?”
“Kitchen. The girls are all in back, in the den.”
Evan looked past Beckett at the front door. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye on the girls and deal with the parents while I talk to her for a minute,” he said. “Then I’ll speak with the girls so the parents can get them out of here.”
“I’ll try to manage that,” Beckett said, and turned to lead Evan into the house.
Evan followed Beckett into a small, square foyer. The hardwood floor was scuffed and dull, but it was clean. In the dim light from a small table lamp, Evan saw several photos on the walls, scenes from an evidently happy life.
A wedding picture, with a much younger and thinner Sheriff in a mullet and a cheap tux, and a small, pretty blonde woman smiling like she’d just been crowned. Several pictures that chronicled the life thus far of an equally pretty blonde girl; as a newborn, in a Brownie uniform with no front teeth, in a softball uniform with all of her teeth and a nice stance. In a graduation gown, looking relieved. Another wedding picture, this time with the daughter and a triumphant looking young man in a better tux.
To Evan’s left was a living room that looked like it didn’t get used much. To his right was a closed door. Straight ahead, at the end of the dark hall, Evan saw part of a well-lit room. All he could see of it was a fieldstone fireplace and the end of a couch with a blanket thrown over the back. He assumed that was the den.
“Which way is the kitchen?” Evan asked Beckett.
Beckett pointed at the living room. “Through there and on back,” he answered. “I’m gonna go out front and have a smoke, wait on the parents.”
“Good enough,” Evan said, and he heard the front door open and close as he made his way through the formal living room, with the too matchy-matchy couches and chairs and the type of paintings you see at the Holiday Inn.
At the back of the room was an archway that led into a dark dining room elaborately over-furnished in well-kept 1970s oak. Evan wondered, a bit sadly, if the newlyweds had saved their pennies to purchase it, or if it had been a wedding present. On the opposite side of the room, a doorway opened into the bright kitchen. Evan smelled fresh coffee, and he wondered if Beckett had made it.
He stepped through the doorway into a kitchen that looked like it had been remodeled in the 90s or so. It was spotless and cheerful, though there were too many flowers and cookbooks and knick-knacks for Evan’s comfort. At the back of the kitchen, in front of a sliding glass door, was a glass-top table for four. Sitting at it was an older version of Hutchins’ bride.
Evan guessed she was in her early fifties or so, but even in a worn blue robe, with no makeup and her hair in a ponytail, she was still a pretty woman. Or would be, if her eyes didn’t look so stunned and defeated. They were red, but dry, and she looked up at Evan without surprise.
“I made you some coffee,” she said quietly. Her voice was more delicate than he’d expected.
“Thank you,” he said, sad somehow that she’d thought she should be doing something for him. He had met her once before, when he’d been a guest for dinner the week he was hired, but he couldn’t tell if she recognized him at the moment. “Mrs. Hutchins, do you remember me? I’m Evan Caldwell.”
She nodded. “I remember you. Nathan—Chief Beckett—said you were on your way.” She picked up a couple of balls of tissue as though she might throw them away, but she didn’t get up.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Evan said.
She swallowed hard and nodded.
“Is there someone I can call for you, someone you’d like to come be with you?”
“No,” she answered, shaking her head. “Not right—not yet.”
“Okay.”
She opened her mouth to say something else, then closed it and looked out the window for a second. Then she turned back to Evan. “Let me get you a cup of coffee,” she said, starting to rise.
Evan held up a hand. “Please,” he said gently. “Let me get it.”
She lowered herself again, looking at him hesitantly. Maybe it was that Southern compulsion to be the hostess, or maybe she just wanted something to do. “The cups are in the cupboard next to the fridge,” she said anyway.
Evan turned around. The coffee pot, an older Mr. Coffee, was on the counter next to the refrigerator. He went to it, pulled two Corning Ware mugs from the cabinet, and poured two cups of coffee. He didn’t like American coffee, but he’d drink it anyway. Next to the coffee maker were a sugar dish and a pint of Half n’ Half. She’d set out a folded paper towel with a teaspoon on it, and that made him sad, too.
“How do you take your coffee, ma’am?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.
She blinked a few times, like she’d forgotten. “Just one sugar,” she said finally.
Evan added one spoonful of sugar to each of the coffees, put some cream in his, and carried them over to the table. He set the cups down, then pulled out the chair next to her and sat. She didn’t bother looking at her cup, just watched him pull a small notebook and a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket.
A lot of cops preferred taking notes on tablets now. Evan didn’t. He used small, spiralbound books of graph paper, and rollerball pens. Pilot P-700s, blue. He couldn’t think clearly without one or the other, so he ordered each of them by the dozen from Amazon.
He opened the notebook, a fresh one, and uncapped his pen. He looked up at Mrs. Hutchins.
“Ma’am, when did you last see or speak to your husband?” he asked gently.
She blinked a few times, and Evan saw a thin line of clear fluid drip from her nose to her upper lip. She wiped it away with one of the used tissues. “He left here about midnight, maybe a little later than that,” she said. “He watched a movie with us, then he went into his study for a little while, and came and said he needed to go out for a little bit, for work.”
“What movie did you watch?” he asked her as he wrote.
“We watched three,” she said, sounding confused.
“Which one did he watch with you?”
“Oh. Interstellar. Then we put Joy on and he went into the study.” She looked out the window, seeing nothing. “I wanted the girls to see movies with strong women in them.”
“You’re a Girl Scout leader?” Evan asked her.
She looked back at him and nodded. “Yes, ever since Amanda joined the Brownies.” She started blinking again, but a tear still escaped from each eye.
“That’s your daughter?” Evan asked.
She nodded.
“Have you spoken to her yet, ma’am?”
She shook her head quickly, and wiped at her cheeks.
“You’ll want to let her know before it hits the news,” Evan said. “And I imagine that’ll happen very soon.”
She nodded again. “I will. As soon as we’re through talking,” she said. “I’ll call Brian and ask him to tell her. I just can’t.”
“Do they live here?”
“No, they’re in Pensacola,” she answered. “Brian’s in dental school there.”
Evan nodded as he wrote that down, then he looked back up at Mrs. Hutchins. “Ma’am, did your husband say where he was going so late at night?”
“No,” she answered quietly. “He just said he had to meet with someone who had some information for him. He said it might take a while.”
“Did he do that often? Meet with people that late in the evening?”
“Sometimes. Not often, no,” she said. “But it wasn’t unusual enough for me to think anything of it. Randy was never really off duty. He was very committed to his job.”
“I got that impression,” Evan said gently.
“He’s four years from retirement, you know. We’ve been talking about getting a fifth-wheel, doing some traveling,” she said, her voice breaking.
Evan didn’t have a suitable response, so he just watched her with what he hoped was a sympathetic expression.
“That’s one of the reasons he hired you, you know,” she said. “He thought you might be a good replacement for him.”
Dead Reckoning (The Still Waters Suspense Series Book 1) Page 4