by Tim Waggoner
Dale listened as Tyrone talked, but he continued watching what was happening across the street. Ronnie put the damaged camera back in his cruiser and removed the evidence kit from the trunk. As the deputy started to work on gathering evidence from the vandalized Ford, Marshall climbed into his Hummer, started the engine, and pulled out of the parking lot. Marshall gave Ronnie a last look before driving away, but the deputy ignored him and continued with his work. Dale wondered how much effort it had cost Ronnie to do that.
When Tyrone finished, Dale turned to him and said, “And that was the last time you saw the person who broke in?”
“It was a quiet night after that. Until the paramedics left the county building and headed out for the murder site, that is.”
Dale thought about Tyrone’s description of the person he’d seen break into the Caffeine Café. Medium height, slender build, dressed in a gray hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and running shoes. Head and face obscured by the hood and the night’s shadows. It didn’t occur to Dale to question any of the details Tyrone supplied. He knew the man’s attention to specifics was scrupulous, and his memory unimpeachable. If any human on the planet had a brain that was the equivalent of a security camera, it was Tyrone Gantz.
The description wasn’t especially helpful, but it was something to start with. Beyond the fact that it wasn’t someone tall or fat, there wasn’t a lot to go on. Even the person’s gender was indeterminate. And of course there was no guarantee the person in the hoody was the same one who’d later killed that boy out on a country road. Though whoever it was would’ve had ample time after scaring Debbie to commit the murder. A couple of hours, at least.
A thought occurred to Dale then. Maybe whoever it was had wanted to do more than simply frighten Debbie. Maybe he or she had intended to kill Debbie and had muffed the job. In which case, maybe the boy had been only a substitute, someone on whom the killer could take out the frustration of botching the attempt on Debbie. But if the boy had been simply a target of opportunity, why had the killer taken his wallet? To pick up a few extra bucks or to delay having the boy identified? Dale was certain Joanne would find out who the boy was eventually, but if the killer wanted to keep the boy’s identity a secret, then the sooner they discovered who he was, the better. If there was only some way to speed up the process …
There might be one way, he realized. It was something of a longshot, especially since all he had to go on was a physical description of the victim, but it might be enough.
“I can hear the wheels turning in your head,” Tyrone said. “Care to share?”
“Not yet. It might be nothing, but if it turns about to be important, I promise I’ll let you know.”
“Fair enough.”
The two men were silent for a several minutes after that. They watched Ronnie spread fingerprint powder on the door handles of Debbie’s Ford, and even from across the street, Dale could see the deputy’s hands were still shaking from his encounter with Marshall Cross.
“Looks like the fun’s over,” Tyrone said. “I think I’ll be moving along to see what else might be transpiring in Rhine this morning. You?”
“I’m a reporter, aren’t I? I suppose it’s time I went to work.”
Tyrone gave Dale a final nod before turning around and heading down the alley. Dale walked out onto the sidewalk, stepped off the curb, and headed across the street to the Caffeine Café.
• • •
Joanne drove down Route 33, past fields of dry cornstalks swaying in the wind. Though the cruiser’s windows were up, Joanne could imagine the rustling sound the stalks made as they rubbed against each other, a chorus of whispers, as if the fields were trying to tell her something but she couldn’t quite make out their words. It wouldn’t be much longer before the stalks were cut down and used to make Mummers for the Harvest Festival. The cornstalk men were a tradition in Cross County, but while most folks found the Mummers quaint and charming, Joanne thought they were creepy as hell. She’d never made one as a kid, and every year she’d begged her parents not to buy one, though her dad usually had. Wouldn’t be Harvest Festival without one, he’d say.
“I’m trying to think of a word to describe your expression right now. I’m torn between pensive and brooding.”
Joanne glanced over at Dale and smiled. “Just thinking.”
“I don’t suppose you’re about to have a dazzlingly brilliant insight that will solve both the murder and the break-in.”
“I wish.”
Dale smiled at her and Joanne had a memory flash of the first time she’d seen that smile. She’d been nine years old …
• • •
She must’ve been asleep or something, because one moment there had been only darkness, and the next she was looking up at a kind face smiling down at her through a neatly trimmed black beard flecked with gray. The face was so close that at first she thought the man was leaning down over her, but then she realized she wasn’t lying down. The face was so close because the man it belonged to was carrying her. His smile was gentle and reassuring, and she was cold, so she nestled her head in the crook of his shoulder. He was warm and smelled of aftershave and deodorant. Comforting male scents that made her feel cared for, protected.
“How are you feeling?” The man’s voice was rough, but his tone held only concern.
“Okay, I guess. Sleepy.” She yawned then as if saying the word reminded her of how weary she was. Her body felt heavy, and it was all she could do to keep her eyes open. She was glad the nice man was carrying her, for she was certain she was far too tired to walk.
“I’m not surprised. You’ve been through a lot these last few days. But it’s over now, and I’m going to take you home.”
Home … it seemed like so long since she’d been there. She tried to picture it, but no image came into her mind. Just a feeling of longing, a need to be there as soon as possible. Once there, she would be able to sleep … finally.
The man was wearing a suit and tie, and Joanne thought of another man she’d seen at the bank once, when Mommy and Daddy had taken her with them when they’d applied for a loan. She almost asked the nice man if worked at the same bank, but then she gazed upward and saw the canopy of lush green leaves above them. She heard them whisper softly n the breeze, heard birdsong, and the cracking of twigs as small animals moved through the undergrowth.
“Where” — she yawned again — “are we?”
“In the woods. This is where I found you.”
Joanne had a child’s awareness of when adults were lying to her, and she thought this man was doing so now. Maybe he thought it was for her own good. Wasn’t that why adults usually lied? But he was nice, so she decided not to hold this lie against him.
“Who are you?” she asked.
His smile widened. “My name’s Dale. And don’t worry, Joanne. I’m a friend.”
She knew he wasn’t lying this time, and she smiled back.
• • •
“Either you’re putting your vast powers of deductive reasoning to work, or you’re simply ignoring me. Which is it?”
Joanne turned to look at Dale. “What?”
He grinned. “I’ve asked you the same question twice, and you didn’t answer either time.”
She faced forward again. “Sorry. Guess my mind wandered for a moment.”
“Apology accepted. But not that I’ve finally managed to snag your attention, I’ll try again. What now? Back to town?”
After Dale had hooked up with Joanne at the Caffeine Café, she’d decided to go take a look at the murder scene in daylight. Dale had asked if he could ride along, and she’d said sure. Not only was she grateful for his reassuring presence — for part of her was still the nine-year-old girl he had rescued years ago — but he made an effective sounding board for ideas. She always seemed to think better when he was around.
Their stop at the murder scene had been a bust, though. The location looked no different in the light of day, and they’d found no evidence that had been over
looked last night. Joanne hadn’t really expected to find anything, but it had been worth a try, for the sake of being thorough, if nothing else. But Dale’s question was a good one: what next?
“I would like to get an official statement from Tyrone Gantz,” she said.
“As much as I sympathize with you desire to cross your t’s and dot your i’s, you know you won’t be able to find Tyrone unless he wants you to.”
Dale had a tendency to exaggerate and over-dramatize, and he sometimes acted as if Tyrone had almost preternatural skill at remaining hidden. Still, he was right. Finding Tyrone wouldn’t be easy, and she could put her time to better use than running all over the county looking for him. She’d ask one of her deputies to track down Tyrone and take his statement. Maybe Ronnie, although he wouldn’t be thrilled to talk to Tyrone, not with that ratty trench coat he always wore.
Thinking of Ronnie reminded her of something she’d noticed before she and Dale had left town.
“Back at the café, did Ronnie seem normal to you?”
Dale smiled. “You’re talking about a man whose lower face I’ve rarely seen. I’m not sure he’s ever seemed normal to me.”
“When he came into the café to process the scene, he seemed … I don’t know. Distant, somehow. Guarded. He avoided looking me in the eye, and he hardly said a word. Didn’t you notice?”
Dale hesitated a moment before answering. Not long, but long enough for Joanne to notice. “No, but like I said, Ronnie’s behavior has always struck me as a little off. I wouldn’t read too much into it if I were you.”
“Maybe you’re right.” But she couldn’t escape the feeling that something had been bothering Ronnie, and she wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Marshall Cross had something to do with it.
She thought of Dale’s hesitation, and she wondered if once again he was lying to her for her own good.
“There’s something else I’ve been wondering about,” she said. “It seemed as if Marshall and Debbie knew each other. Not like they were old friends exactly, but definitely more than acquaintances.”
“Now that’s interesting. You know, in the weeks after Carl Coulter was arrested, it was rumored that Marshall paid several visits to Debbie. I heard he did the same again during Carl’s trial. I figured it was simply a case of the local lord looking after one of his vassals. But now that I think of it, I’ve never known Marshall — or any of the Crosses, for that matter — to take such an ongoing personal interest in a townsfolk problem.”
“It was a high-profile case,” Joanne said. “There was a lot of media attention, right?”
“A goddamned circus is what it was.”
“So maybe Marshall just wanted to make sure the situation was handled in such a way that it didn’t make the family look bad.” Just like he wants to do now.
“Is that what you really think?” Dale asked.
“Honestly, I don’t know what the hell to think right now.”
Dale glanced out the windshield. “Well, your conscious mind might be spinning its wheels at the moment, but it looks like your subconscious has an idea or two.” He pointed.
Joanne looked and saw the less than a quarter mile ahead of them was the dirt road turn-off that led to the Deveraux Farm.
She supposed on some level she had been heading this way on purpose. Both of the crimes that had taken place last night had connections to the murders committed by Carl Coulter. It only made sense to check out the location where Debbie’s “baby” had slaughtered four people.
“Got your digital camera on you?” she asked.
Dale patted the right pocket of his suit jacket. “Always.”
“Then let’s go take a look.” And though there were no other vehicles in sight, Joanne put on her signal before slowing and turning onto the dirt road. As she did, the first stirrings cold nausea blossomed in her gut, and she knew she’d made the right choice.
Her face must’ve shown how she felt, for Dale asked, “Feeling sick?”
“Yep.”
He grinned. “Good.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Joanne parked the cruiser at the edge of an overgrown field. The gravel driveway that had once led to the farm had long ago disappeared beneath grass and weeds, but the teenagers who came out here to make out had worn this alternate path. The farm was on the usual patrol route for the sheriff’s department as well. Joanne wasn’t the type to leave all the scut work to her deputies, and she put in her fair share of patrol hours. But though she made sure to check on the Deveraux Farm whenever she was on patrol, she never lingered. The fact that four people had been killed and mutilated here was bad enough, but whenever she came here her stomach clenched and her head started to ache. Not as bad as when she had one of her Feelings, but bad enough to be uncomfortable, and the physical effects would last for a couple hours after she left. Her stomach was already bugging her, and she could feel the beginnings of a headache behind her eyes.
She turned off the cruiser’s engine and she and Dale just sat for a moment looking out the windshield at the abandoned farmhouse. Kids in Cross County — and more than a few adults — thought this place was haunted. Joanne was too sensible to believe such crap, but every time she visited the farm, she understood a little better why some folks did believe.
“Don’t get any ideas about making a move on me,” Dale said. “I’m not that kind of guy.”
Joanne grinned. “Duly noted.”
They got out of the cruiser and started walking toward the Deveraux place. Dale took his camera out of his jacket pocket and held it ready at his side, as if it were a weapon and he a soldier heading into battle. The thought reminded Joanne to undo the snap on the side holster that held her 9 mm. They knew there was a murderer on the loose, and while she didn’t expect some masked backwoods maniac to come rushing at them with a roaring chainsaw, she was too much a professional to take any unnecessary chances.
The weeds were nearly waist high, and though Joanne looked closely, she saw no sign that anyone had been through here recently — no stems bent or broken, no plants flattened. Of course, that didn’t mean much. There were any number of ways to approach the farm. Just because there were no visible signs of trespass didn’t mean someone hadn’t been here. Someone who even now might be lurking in the house or hiding crouched inside the barn, listening intently as they approached.
But the morning refused to cooperate with Joanne’s sinister imaginings. The sky was a cloudless robin’s egg blue, and a gentle breeze wafted across the fields. The breeze carried a hint of not-so-far-off winter, but the slight chill was offset by the warming rays of the sun. It was a pleasant, almost cheerful day, wholly inappropriate for a setting where people had died in agony and terror. It seemed almost an affront somehow, as if the world had forgotten what had happened here or — if it did remember — refused to acknowledge the events by providing a cloudy gloom-enshrouded atmosphere.
“Been a long time since I’ve been out here,” Dale said as they continued making their way across the field. “Can’t say I’ve missed it. But I suppose it’s useful to refamiliarize myself with the place — the sights, sounds, smells …”
“Spoken like a true reporter.” Joanne remembered then what Marshall had told her in the parking lot of the Caffeine Café. Dale’s been stuck in Cross County for a long time. It would be tempting to make the most out of a story like this, use it as a ticket back to the big time.
“You ever miss working for a big city paper?” As soon as she asked the question, she wished she could take it back. Partly because she was ashamed at the lack of faith in Dale that it implied, and partly because she was angry at herself for allowing Marshall to get to her.
If Dale though her question odd, he gave no sign as he answered. “It would be nice not having to worry about printing the bridge scores from the nursing home in the sports section every week. Those old folks get testy as hell if I’m even a single point off.”
Joanne smiled at the joke, but she noticed Dale
avoided directly answering her question. She wanted to leave it at that, but Marshall’s insinuations — damn him, anyway! — had gotten her to thinking. She was about to press Dale further when her cell phone rang.
“I hope it’s Terry,” she said as she removed the phone from her belt carrier. Maybe he’d already finished his autopsy of the murdered boy and had the preliminary results for her. Better yet, maybe he’d somehow learned the boy’s identity.
“Sheriff Talon.”
“I’m finished with the diner, Sheriff.”
Ronnie, and his voice was oddly toneless, almost as if he were reading from a script and his heart wasn’t in his performance.
“Find anything of interest?”
“Not really. Got some prints, but it’s hard to say if they’ll come to anything. I printed Mrs. Coulter for comparison, too.”
Joanne knew there was no way to print all of Debbie’s customers, especially since some of them just stopped in as they were passing through. Any prints Ronnie got might well prove useless when it came to either identifying or eliminating suspects. Still, they had to try.
“Anything else you’d like me to do?” Ronnie asked, tone still flat and mechanical.
She was starting to worry about him. What if his neurosis was getting worse and he had the beginnings of a full-blown psychotic breakdown? She hated to think so selfishly, but she couldn’t afford to lose him, not right now with a murder case on their hands.
“Why don’t you head back to the office and get the prints ready to travel to the state crime lab? I want them to go out ASAP.”
One of them — Ronnie or Joanne herself — would drive the prints to Columbus and deliver them personally to maintain the chain of evidence. Not for the first time she wished Cross County had its own crime lab. The state lab usually had a backlog of evidence to process, and it could well be some time before they got any results back to her. She’d make a few calls, see if she could get them to expedite her material, but she doubted it would help speed things up significantly. She supposed she could ask Marshall to see what he could do. Rumor had it that the Crosses had connections in the statehouse. She didn’t like the idea of asking Marshall for help, and she sure as hell didn’t like the idea of being beholden to him for a favor. Still, she’d consider it.
