looks down at me with a hint of annoyance. “You probably shouldn’t be in here,” he says, avoiding my question. “You could be contaminating evidence.”
“No more than you are,” I counter. “I didn’t touch anything and even if I had, I’m wearing gloves. I’m thinking we should probably be wearing booties though, too, don’t you?”
Devo glances at his feet, then mine, clearly annoyed now. He gifts me with an eye roll, and says, “Let’s both get out of here until the others show up.” One arm raises and he points toward the back door wearing a stern expression. “Go.”
I go. When I get outside, I take a moment to study the star-studded sky above us. Out here in the country, without any light pollution to speak of, there are hundreds, maybe thousands more stars visible than I typically can see in town. It’s beautiful, and a stark contrast to the ugliness inside. There is a light breeze and the mid-May temperature is in the mid-fifties—jacket weather, though many Wisconsinites find these temps more in the range of sweatshirt or sweater weather. Or even just a long-sleeved shirt. Cold tends to be a relative term around here.
“Did you see a suicide note in there anywhere?” I ask Devo after a minute or two of silence goes by.
He shoots me a look and shakes his head. “Didn’t look hard for one, though.”
I give half a nod, letting him have the point for now, but also making it clear that I don’t think he’ll find one. Danny’s words had been very explicit. He didn’t just say he saw the man die, he said he saw them kill him. Thoughts of Danny make me want to see how he’s doing. “I’m going to check in with the hospital,” I tell Devo.
He nods, and I step off the stoop and walk a few feet away as I take out my cell phone and dial the hospital ER. It takes a minute or so to get Dr. Finnegan on the phone, and when I finally ask her how Danny is doing, she informs me that he’s still sleeping off the medication she gave him earlier.
“Is his sister there by any chance?” I ask.
“No, she hasn’t come back yet,” Dr. Finnegan says.
“When she does come back, would you have her call me?”
“Sure.” I give the doctor my number even though I’m certain Allie has it.
By the time I hang up, there are headlights coming up the drive. The first people to arrive, one right behind the other, are a county sheriff—a fireplug of a man with a name badge that says P. Carson—and Christopher Malone, the medicolegal death investigator for the ME’s office.
Sheriff Pete Carson doesn’t look happy to be here and he has a deep scowl on his face as he climbs out of his police cruiser and marches over to Devo.
“What the heck,” he says, looking accusingly at Devo, as if he thinks he’s the one who killed the man in the house. “I for sure could have done without something like this. Our department is stretched thinner than a tanning deer skin right now.”
“Sorry,” Devo says. “We’ll help as much as we can.”
Christopher Malone stands by holding a giant tackle box and listening to this exchange before he says, “Exactly what is this?”
Devo sets about explaining why we’re here, what we found, and what we’ve surmised so far. As he’s doing so, two more vehicles come up the drive, a car containing Dr. Otto Morton, the medical examiner on duty, and a white evidence van driven by Laura Kingston, a part-time evidence technician who splits her hours between the police department and the ME’s office. I realize things could get interesting if the rumors I’ve heard can be believed, because I heard one that has Laura Kingston dating Devo.
A minute later, a cop car from Sorenson arrives with not one but two uniformed officers: Brenda Joiner and Al Whitman, a twelve-year veteran of the Sorenson PD and, if the PD rumor mill can be believed, something of an enigma. Al has been a uniformed officer since his first day on the job and has never shown any interest in advancing his career. He seems content doing what he does, and he is well known in town as a reasonable, kind, and friendly officer. He and his wife, Karen, who is a stay-at-home mom, have five kids ranging in age from eleven to two. This makes it even more puzzling that Al has never tried to advance his career and, presumably, his paycheck, but their income is augmented by Karen operating a day care out of their home—five kids apparently isn’t enough to have underfoot. Between the two of them they seem to manage nicely. It helps that they live in a house they own free and clear, a huge old Victorian that Karen inherited from her grandmother.
I know all this about the Whitmans in part because of town and PD gossips, and in part because Karen’s kids have been in the ER lots of times with the usual litany of childhood illnesses and accidents. I got involved a couple of years ago when one of the nurses in the ER was worried that an injury incurred by one of the Whitman kids didn’t fit the story the kid told. The nurse was concerned about potential child abuse and called me after reporting the case to Child Protective Services.
It turned out that the kid’s injury—a spiral fracture of the bones in his forearm, a classic abuse injury—really didn’t fit the story, but his parents weren’t the guilty parties. A neighborhood kid who was known to be a bully was the culprit and his victim made up a story about his arm injury out of fear that the bully in question would come after him again if he told the truth.
The investigation conducted by both me and CPS was a thorough one, though it took a while to get to the truth. In the process, Karen nearly lost her childcare business, Al was put on probation and nearly lost his job, and I made friends with the family because I sensed all along that the injured kid was lying not out of fear of his parents, but of someone else. Thanks to my years in the foster system, I understand the dynamics of childhood better than most adults, particularly those who had privileged, protected upbringings. I’m also good at sniffing out lies.
Both Al and Brenda acknowledge me as they join the group at the base of the back stairs, all of them gloving and suiting up in preparation for going inside. In a matter of minutes, the scene has gone from one of quiet isolation to one of controlled chaos. I want to go inside and watch, so I don one of the paper biohazard suits that Laura has in her van—suits designed to protect the investigators as well as the integrity of the crime scene—surprised that she has one that fits me reasonably well.
“Your build is similar to that of Dr. Rybar-ceski’s,” she tells me as she hands me a packaged suit. “So, we have a lot of these in that size.”
I take my jacket off and put my suit on, suspecting that I now resemble the Poppin’ Fresh Doughboy. No one pays me much attention as we all head inside the house, and I feel a little trill of excitement, knowing that I’m about to see my first official processing of a death scene. It’s not exactly what I was hired to do, but I’m sure it will be interesting and educational. One of these days, I’m hoping to be able to solve my mother’s murder, and this scenario should be good practice for honing my investigative skills.
If there were family members here, someone grieving, or someone who perhaps might have been involved in the death, then my area of expertise would get called into action. But there doesn’t seem to be anyone else living in the farmhouse other than the farmer who owns it and he is, presumably, the dead man. For the moment, I’m little more than an observer.
There is a wallet in the man’s overalls that Devo pulls out and, when he opens it, he finds a driver’s license. The name on it is Arthur Fletcher, though it’s impossible at this point to tell if the picture matches the dead man at the table. However, there is one telling characteristic: a large mole on the right cheek
