“People built houses for a reason, John: so we don’t have to live in tents anymore.”
Somers’s smile faded as he leaned forward and rocked Krower’s body. The dead man had fallen prone, and by rolling him partially onto his side, Somers could see the wounds that had killed him: one high on the chest, another to the throat. To Somers, they looked like stab wounds—definitely not gunshot. He started to let Krower roll forward, but Hazard said, “Not yet.” The big man leaned over Somers’s shoulder, inspected the injuries more closely, and then grunted and nodded.
After easing Krower’s body back into place, Somers patted him down. He collected the wallet and passed it to Hazard, who had also gloved up. He found Krower’s keys next.
“Jesus Christ, John. There’s over a thousand dollars in cash here.”
Somers raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, something crinkled in Krower’s front pocket. With two fingers, Somers reached in and pulled out a plastic packet containing a dozen small pills in different colors: red, blue, green, orange, yellow, brown. They looked like children’s vitamins.
“MDMA,” Hazard said.
“We’ll have to have it tested.”
“It’s molly, John. I’ve seen it before.”
Somers decided not to press the point. He dug deeper into the pocket and came out with a travel-sized bottle of GLIDE, which was apparently a personal lubricant.
“This guy was planning on a party,” Hazard muttered.
A preliminary search turned up nothing else, and he wasn’t willing to mess any further with Krower’s clothing—he’d leave that until after Dr. Boyer had made her decision about cause and manner of death. Nodding to Hazard, he let the big man take the lead as they reversed course, sticking as closely as possible to their original path as they made their way back to the sheriff.
“You see?” Engels asked.
“A man walks out of his house to go into the woods,” Hazard said. “He’s carrying his wallet, keys, lube, and recreational psychoactive compounds, even though he’s not going far—he’s found dead a few hundred yards from his back door, in fact.”
“Vehicle?” Somers asked.
“He has a truck in the garage,” Engels said. “Nothing else registered in his name.”
“That same man walks down a trail. He stops. Someone stabs him to death. But the only prints in the ground—the only sign that anyone has been out in those woods at all—are Krower’s.”
“Maybe a ghost did it.” When Hazard opened his mouth, Somers shook his head. “I’m joking, Ree. Ok, one possibility: suicide.”
“And what?” Hazard asked. “He threw the knife away while he was geysering blood?”
“It fell. It rolled.”
“We looked for anything that might have caused those wounds,” Engels said. “If it’s there, we couldn’t find it.”
“It wasn’t suicide,” Hazard said.
“It might have been,” Somers said.
Hazard grimaced. “No, John. The angle of the wounds isn’t right. Those were downward blows. It’s not impossible that Krower inflicted them himself, but it wouldn’t have been easy or intuitive. The odds are against it. We’ll have to have Boyer’s measurements to make an estimate, but I think we’re looking for a killer who is Krower’s height or taller. Someone around that height could have inflicted downward stabbing wounds like the ones on the body. That’s the way an inexperienced person would attack with a knife.”
“God damn it. When did you learn that?”
“Some of us don’t spend our time reading fiction.”
Somers rolled his eyes.
“How many books can there be about gay construction workers who accidentally fall in love with gay bookstore owners who are desperately in need of having their bookstores repaired or redecorated or restored?”
“That’s not—”
“Can’t the authors at least be realistic about the problems? Why don’t you ever read about a sexy guy who owns a foundation-piering business? Structural problems with foundations are one of the most common and serious problems for the average homeowner. Or what about a guy who owns those shit-vacuum trucks? The ones who service septic tanks?”
“Nobody wants to read—”
“They make excellent money, John. They’d be good providers.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Somers muttered under his breath. To Engels, he said, “It was one series. Not about the shit-vacuum trucks. About the construction workers. It’s not like that’s all I read.”
“I know, son. It’s all right. Everybody needs their escape.”
“Oh my God,” Somers said under his breath, unable to keep the note of despair out of the words. In a louder voice, he continued, “Ok. If we assume it’s not suicide, what are our options? And just to repeat, I was joking when I said it was a ghost. But someone had to get out there, kill Krower, and get away with the murder weapon—all without leaving tracks of any kind.”
“If what Krower was carrying is any clue,” Hazard said, “it suggests he was expecting some sort of sexual rendezvous or tryst. Possibly with a pro, considering the amount of cash he was also carrying. Of course, he could also have been meeting someone to buy more drugs before heading to his tryst.”
“A tryst,” Somers muttered. “With a pro. Good Lord. What about the branches? Could someone have swung from branch to branch and reached him without touching the ground?”
“And Krower stood there and waited while someone came across the monkey bars and stabbed him in the throat?” Hazard shook his head. “Not a chance. Krower was walking at a normal pace, and there’s no sign that he was startled or tried to run.”
“What if someone was waiting up in the trees and dropped down?”
“Then where are the prints? They would have had to stand somewhere to strike those blows.”
Somers blew out a breath.
“You see why I wanted your help?” Engels asked.
“Yeah,” Somers said as he examined the scene again. The barricade tape fluttered as a breeze rose. The air stirred Krower’s fine dark hair, raking it in front of his face. Winter, Somers’s brain said. It smelled like winter was coming. “How the hell did they do it?”
CHAPTER SIX
NOVEMBER 1
FRIDAY
1:53 PM
IT TOOK TIME TO get the search organized. Most of the Sheriff’s Department had turned out to help, and Somers requested an additional two cars from the Wahredua PD. By the time they had a decent map and a grid laid out, they’d lost almost two hours.
“That leaves this one for us,” Somers said, indicating the section of the grid immediately around Krower’s body.
Sheriff Engels shook his head. He’d removed his hat, and his silvery hair shone with pomade in the mid-afternoon sun. “I’d rather have you boys take a look at the house. I’ll have some deputies process it, but I want you to have the first look.”