Matt pointed to the trunk. “How did he even get that up here?”
Bree took out her camera. “I don’t know, but he took some time and care to clean and set up this space.” She began taking pictures.
Matt pulled gloves out of his pocket and tugged them on. He squatted next to the suitcase and opened it. Both sides were full of neatly folded clothes. Matt riffled through brand-name jeans and shirts. “These are not Goodwill finds.”
Leaning over his shoulder, Bree snapped a photo. “No.”
“Sheriff?” Oscar called from the ladder. “Where do you want us to start?”
“In the loft. Bring plenty of evidence bags and boxes. Everything up here needs to be bagged and tagged,” Bree answered.
Matt found underwear and socks in the zippered compartment. He closed the suitcase and moved on to the footlocker. The lock was broken. Matt lifted the lid. The trunk was full of random, odd personal items: a shoebox of baseball cards, a coin collection, a model airplane, a few cartoon character jelly jar glasses, and rocks. He moved aside a stack of graphic novels to reveal two cartons of cigarettes, a handful of matchbooks, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label—and at least twenty white pills in a plastic bag. He called out to Bree, “Found more drugs.”
Matt lifted the lid of another shoebox. Rocks. “Except for the alcohol and cigarettes, he collects things like a ten-year-old.” He replaced the lid and closed the footlocker.
Bree moved to the sleeping bag, which had been neatly zipped over a pillow. She unzipped it and folded back the top layer. “Shit.” She fell back onto her haunches.
“What is it?” Matt leaned over her shoulder.
Nestled on the pillow was another skull.
“Another victim?” Matt asked.
“Seems like it.” Bree pointed to a small, neat hole in the skull. “And that looks like a bullet hole.”
CHAPTER FIVE
It was late afternoon when Bree walked from the fenced-in parking lot through the back door of the sheriff’s station. Several hours at a crime scene in a mid-July heat wave had left her feeling wilted. The anthropologist had brought several grad students with him, so the site assessment, mapping, and other pre-excavation preparatory work were progressing at a rapid clip.
In the squad room, Deputy Oscar worked at a computer. He’d left the scene before she had, but his cheeks were still ruddy from the heat.
She stopped next to his desk. “Where’s Shawn Castillo?”
“In interview room one.”
“Not in holding?”
Oscar looked up, but he didn’t directly meet Bree’s gaze. “Collins is booking a big, bad-tempered suspect. I didn’t want them to mingle.”
Though the interview rooms were normally occupied by witnesses, not arrestees, his reasoning was sound. The sheriff’s station was simply too small—one more reason the department needed better funding.
Oscar added, “FYI, Castillo’s lawyer is on the way anyway.” He handed her the arrest report. “Your copy.”
Bree read through it. Seemed complete.
She folded the report in half. “What about his background?”
“No priors.”
Surprised, Bree asked, “Employed?”
“No.”
Bree plugged his address into her phone’s map application. “He lives in an awfully nice neighborhood for an unemployed man. And why was he camping in a barn? This makes no sense.”
Oscar didn’t comment.
“Let me know if you find anything interesting.” She checked her watch. Matt should be here any minute. He’d been helping to set up the tent over the bones when Bree had left, his height proving useful.
She headed to her office. Once inside, Bree sat behind her desk, a battle-worn and scarred hunk of furniture the size of a Cadillac that she’d inherited from the previous sheriff. It was too large for the room, but Bree liked being able to spread out her files. Leaning back in her chair, she called Todd, who was still at the scene. After he answered, she asked, “Where do we stand on fingerprints on the drug evidence?”
“It all went to the fingerprint tech at county.”
“Thanks.” Bree ended the call, phoned the latent-fingerprint tech, and asked her to rush a comparison with Shawn’s prints. “I’d like to know before I interview him.”
“I can do it right now,” the tech agreed.
“Thank you.” Bree set down her phone.
Her administrative assistant, Marge, entered, a pen and notepad in her hand.
Bree tucked the arrest report into a manila file where she’d put her own notes. “Any messages or news?”
She was readily available through email and voice mail, but a few citizens of Randolph County still insisted on calling the sheriff’s station and leaving a message with a live person.
“Two things. Neither of which are going to make you happy. One, the date and time for your budget meeting was changed again.” Marge lifted the reading glasses that hung from a chain around her neck and placed them on her nose. She squinted at her notepad. “To tomorrow afternoon.”
“It was supposed to be next Tuesday.” Bree swallowed a curse. “I’m scheduled to attend the autopsy on that overdose victim tomorrow.”
“I know.” With her pen poised above the paper, Marge looked over her half glasses. “Do you want me to reschedule the budget meeting?”
“No. They’ve postponed this meeting three times.” Bree huffed. She had already submitted a proposal. Now, two members of the public safety committee, Elias Donovan and Richard Keeler, wanted to discuss her proposal.
Marge went to Bree’s door and closed it. Then she perched on one of the two guest chairs facing Bree’s desk. “They know you want more money. They don’t want to give it to you, but you are very popular right now. So, they are going to drag the process out as long as possible, try to wear you down, hope you’ll cave on some of your requests just to get the process moving.”
Bree knew all this. She’d padded her initial budget to allow room for negotiation. When she’d been appointed sheriff back in February, she’d taken over a department in shambles. After the former sheriff’s death, the department had hemorrhaged deputies. Bree had hired a handful, but every patrol was still short-staffed. Equipment needed replacing. Staff needed training. The station needed to be updated. Female officers—including Bree—didn’t have a locker room. She wanted to replace the K-9 unit the department had lost three years before when Matt and his dog were shot. All those things required money. Bree had to prioritize.
In the year the county hadn’t had a sheriff, some funds allocated to the department had gone unused, and the county had reduced the budget. Bree would have to fight for every nickel.
Marge wrote a note, then looked up and fixed Bree with an unhappy stare.
“Let me guess,” Bree said. “Your second point is worse.”
“Much.” Marge nodded. “The man Oscar just brought in, Shawn Castillo, is the brother of Elias Donovan.”
“Shit.”
Elias also sat on the county board of supervisors. He was a BFD in local politics.
“Yes,” Marge agreed.
“They don’t share a last name.”