“Uh-huh.”
“Blamed the flickering lights from the television. Anyway, that’s when he saw Palmer lying on the bed, eyes wide open and unblinking. Called it in.”
“He never went into the room?”
“Claims not.”
“And where is he now?”
“With Officer Deacon.” Becky pointed to the motel office. “He’s giving his statement.”
Two figures were inside, but the colored lights blinked in the window, taking her back to the Dreamcatcher Inn where she’d had her one-night stand. She really needed a shower. She’d speak with Flynn herself, but not yet. She turned back to Becky. “Anyone else staying in the motel tonight?”
“Yep. Five rooms were rented out in addition to Palmer’s. Everyone’s been asked to stay put and told to expect an officer to come by and question them, but that’s about as far as that’s gotten. I called you the minute I saw who it was.”
“I understand. All good anyway, as I like to talk to potential witnesses firsthand.”
Becky licked her lips, her gaze intent on Amanda.
“What?” Amanda asked.
Becky toed the accumulating snow on the ground with her boot. “It’s just that a lot of people aren’t going to be too thrilled you’re on the case. It could cause some problems for you.”
“I’m aware, but I can assure you no one wants this case wrapped up like I do.” As much as she struggled with her personal feelings toward Palmer, investigating his death had to bring her some closure. If not, she was at a loss for what would.
Becky squinted, the snowflakes larger and more plentiful than before. Why it bothered to snow when it would be melted by morning was beyond Amanda.
“You want this case wrapped up?” Her friend put it out there gingerly, but the enclosed implication still stung. “Are you sure there’s not a small part of you that might be happy he’s dead?”
Amanda glanced toward the road. There was no way she could look Becky in the eye and claim that wasn’t true. After the accident, she’d thought about his death a million times over, even contemplated taking his life herself.
“There is,” Becky concluded. “How can you investigate—”
Amanda bristled. “I never said that I was happy about this. You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“Am I though?” Becky punched out and with that turned toward her cruiser.
Tears beaded in Amanda’s eyes as she stared at the back of her friend’s head.
“Here, you’ll need these.” Becky lifted a pair of gloves and plastic booties out of the trunk of the car. “Looks like you could use them,” she said and pointed at Amanda’s now-wet boots.
Amanda took them and offered, “Thanks.”
“Uh-huh.” Becky got in the driver’s seat of the cruiser and shut the door.
Amanda felt her friend’s judgment coming through, despite the nice gesture. But there wasn’t time to dig into that conversation. She had a job to do and she was about finished waiting on Trent Stenson.
Four
Amanda stopped outside the door to the motel room. Malone had said not to touch anything; he hadn’t said she couldn’t look around. She slipped the plastic coverings over her boots and stepped inside.
She made a mental note of the upturned running shoe. The left one. She looked at Palmer to see the right shoe was still on his foot.
Had Palmer been so drunk that he’d tripped and hadn’t noticed or cared that he’d lost a shoe? Had he just taken one off and stumbled to the bed where he’d proceeded to drink two huge bottles of whiskey? Or had there been someone else who had pushed him and caused him to lose his shoe?
But there were no visual signs of an altercation or that Palmer had any visitors. No obvious shoeprints on the carpet, although it had been dry until a bit ago. Two spindle-back chairs were tucked under a small round table under the window—unused or put back? Two drinking glasses with their covers still in place were on the table—untouched.
She reached into her back-right pocket for her notepad, but it wasn’t there. She hadn’t exactly needed it at the Dreamcatcher Inn or the bar where she’d picked up Motel Guy. But surely there was something on her person she could use to make a note. She tapped her pockets and felt her phone in her jacket. She pulled it out and opened the notepad app, pecking in Ask the motel manager and other guests if they saw anyone come to Palmer’s room. One day she’d learn how to text like a teenager, but that day was likely a long way off; she had more important things to do.
Her gaze returned to the unused glasses. Palmer must have just drunk directly from the whiskey bottles. Not unheard of with hardened alcoholics, but Palmer had been sober for years. Albeit a forced sobriety. Had he been making up for lost time or had something specific made him start drinking again? Had it been guilt or had he felt anything at all?
The judge looks over his bench at Chad Palmer. “How do you plead to the charges of drinking and driving?”
“Guilty,” Palmer responds like he’s comatose.
“How do you plead to charges of DUI vehicular involuntary manslaughter times two?”
“Guilty.”
A collective gasp comes from the gallery.
I am cold and barely feel Kristen’s or Mother’s hands squeezing mine.
Mother leans in and whispers in my ear, “God, let there be justice.”
Amanda clenched her jaw, returning to the present, her gaze on Palmer’s dead body. Maybe things had a way of working out and justice had finally been served. It certainly hadn’t been with the measly sentence he’d received.
She walked over to the table and looked out the window that gave a view of the parking lot. The curtains were open, as the manager claimed to have found them. And further inside the room and across from the double bed, the television was flickering on the dresser. Its volume was so low it was hard to hear sober. Intoxicated, there would be no way Palmer could have discerned a word.
She made a note of that in her phone’s app, then proceeded to inch closer to the bed. With each step, her heart pounded harder. As if he could somehow reach out from beyond the grave and hurt her more than he already had. Utterly impossible. In fact, his death, in a way, had lessened her pain.
She inventoried his wardrobe. White socks, one shoe on his right foot, blue jeans with a black belt, and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. The resting state of his face and mouth seemed to testify to some horror he had felt before his death, and her sense of justice warred against a dark part of her that found satisfaction in the hope that he’d suffered.
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.