a scar, a white gash that traces the arc of the eye socket on the left side of the man’s face. This, too, is present in the license picture.
“I don’t suppose we can call it official until you guys do your thing and get fingerprints or dental records,” Devo says to Dr. Morton. Then he looks at the dead man and grimaces. “Though I don’t suppose dental records are going to be of much use here. It looks like he shot out half his teeth.”
“You mean they shot out,” I say, and everyone in the room turns to look at me. “There’s no suicide note, and he had a toddy heating in the microwave,” I explain. I nod my head toward the appliance, and everyone looks there instead.
After a moment, Otto looks at Devo. “Is she right? There’s no suicide note?”
“Not that I found,” Devo admits. “But I haven’t done an extensive search. I think it’s too early to be jumping to conclusions.” He shoots me a warning look, but I shrug it off. “Maybe it would be best if you waited outside,” he says then. “We don’t want to risk contaminating the scene if you happen to be right.”
I have to give the guy credit. He’s come up with a way to punish me while also acknowledging that my powers of observation might well be spot on. Not wanting to ruffle too many feathers this early in my job, I decide to let it go. I need to let Roscoe out for a walk and a pee anyway.
Outside, I strip off my bio-suit and toss it over a barrel by the back door for now. Roscoe is delighted to be released from his pen, though being a good-natured pup, he tolerates it without complaint when he’s confined. He makes it clear that it isn’t his favorite place to be, however, by skulking into and bolting out of the cage. I’m hoping that in time he’ll get more used to it and find it less of an onus.
I decide to let him off leash so he can run off some energy. We are far enough away from the road that it poses no danger, and to keep him from going near the house I walk toward the barn and the other outbuildings, knowing Roscoe will stay close to me. He sniffs happily, wagging his tail, occasionally snorting some dust when he smells something interesting. But as I close in on the barn, he stops dead in his tracks, staring at the building. A low, rumbling growl emanates from him and it makes the hair on both of our necks rise.
“What is it, boy?” I reach down and run a hand over his neck, feeling the tension in his fur. He raises his nose in the air and sniffs several times; then moves forward again. I’m a bit reluctant to follow him, but he no longer seems to be on alert, so I trail a few feet behind him.
A minute later we are standing at the entrance to the barn, a large, sliding wooden door that is open wide enough for at least two side-by-side cars to fit through. I peer inside, making out odd-shaped shadows in the dark. After a moment my eyes settle on an odd glow of light about fifty feet away that seems to be coming from the floor.
Roscoe looks up at me as if to ask if it’s okay to go inside. I glance back toward the house and see light emanating from several windows. The others are clearly busy doing their thing and I can see little to gain in disrupting that process to have them come and check out some unknown bit of light that might be nothing at all. I don’t want them to start thinking I’m a scaredy-cat, or that I have an overactive imagination, though the latter is likely a reasonable descriptor for me.
I wish I had a flashlight, and then realize that I do. After digging into my jacket pocket, I take out my cell phone and activate the flashlight app on it. It’s not as powerful as a real flashlight, but it’s strong enough that it creates a five- or six-foot circle of light around me. Holding it aloft, I cross the threshold, Roscoe at my side. The first thing I look for is a light switch. I turn and shine the light on the wall around the door and find a bank of six switches connected to a web of conduit to the left. I walk over to it and flip the first three switches. A bank of long, fluorescent lights suspended from the ceiling come to life with a few random, sizzling blinks.
The shadows I saw before now take on form. There are hay bales stacked along the wall to my left, tucked beneath a second-floor loft that is accessed by a ladder about twenty feet away. I venture forward several feet and to my right I see four small stalls, each one empty except for a smattering of straw on the floor. Straight ahead is a combine with an attachment that has rows of big, circular blades. Something about it bothers me, but I can’t quite put a finger on what it is.
Up beyond the combine the barn extends a good distance and more shadows loom. I go back and flip the other three wall switches, lighting up the rest of the building. I see more machinery, more stalls, and more equipment. And then there’s that thin crack of light just beneath that attachment on the first combine that appears to be coming up from below. I approach it, but the crack is too far under those circular blades for me to examine it up close. Still, it’s easy to see that there is a cellar beneath the barn, apparently with the lights on. Could someone be down there? I look around for a way to access it but don’t see anything.
I listen for sounds of movement or life beneath me, but the cavernous barn is utterly quiet except for the rustle of some small critter in the hay bales that piques Roscoe’s interest. I do a slow revolution, taking in the sights and smells, idly wondering what the various tractor and combine attachments are meant to do, and that’s when I realize what’s bothering me about the equipment. It’s clean. Every surface I can see is polished, shining, and lacking so much as a speck of a dirt. They are showroom ready. It’s May, prime planting time, and there are fields all around us. I would think there’d be some evidence of this stuff being used.
Roscoe, tail wagging, nose sniffing, is staring at the hay bales and whimpering.
“Leave it,” I tell him. “It’s probably a mouse, or maybe a barn cat and they can be mean. You don’t want to tangle with one of those.” Roscoe looks back at me as I speak but he stays put.
I hear a loud thud then from the other end of the barn, a noise like a door closing, followed by the sound of running feet pounding on the barn’s wood floor. Frightened and ready to bolt back the way I came, I’m about to slap a hand on my thigh in a come-on gesture to Roscoe when the world goes dark. I stand frozen to the spot, waiting for my eyes to adjust, thinking the lights must be on a timer, or maybe a motion sensor. There is a period of silence and then I hear a car door slam and an engine come to life. All of this seems to be coming from the far end of the barn, though it’s hard to be sure because of the weird acoustics. The hairs on my arms and along the back of my neck rise to attention and, showing he is in sync with my emotions, Roscoe lets out a low, menacing growl, a ruff of fur rising along the back of his neck.
I turn around and squint, trying to see out the open barn door. There is a pole light down by the house and I can see all the vehicles parked there, none of them running, none of them moving. My eyes have adjusted enough to the dark that I can now see the vague outline of the barn door and I walk toward it as fast as I can, eager to escape the building’s confines. As soon as I step outside, I breathe a sigh of relief. That’s when I hear the crunch of tires on gravel coming from somewhere behind me. I scurry around to the back side of the barn and look toward the sound in time to see the red glow of taillights disappearing across what appears to be a field.
Somebody was out here, I realize, and it might be the someone who killed the farmer.
Time to interrupt the others.
Chapter 5
I make my way to the back door of the house as fast as I can, looking over my shoulder several times. I hesitate at the back stoop, unsure if I should put Roscoe in the car or let him follow me into the house. Neither answer seems right, so I tell him to sit and stay, and I enter the house alone.
The kitchen is brightly
