A Deep and Dark December(7)

“The coroner and crime techs are on their way over from San Luis Obispo,” Paxton Riggs said, his voice muffled by the hand he had over his mouth, no doubt to block the stench of death. “Might take them awhile to get here with this weather.”

Pax should’ve been elected sheriff. Instead he’d been overlooked in favor of Ham Doran’s son. Small town politics. Pax was older and had been a deputy longer. Graham expected him to be bitter. Instead he got something completely unexpected from Pax—respect and acceptance.

Pax leaned over the woman’s body, his shoes millimeters from the edge of the blood pool, his face going a couple shades paler. “Murder/suicide, ya think?”

“We don’t get to decide. We collect evidence,” Graham replied. He could see how it could’ve gone down that way though. The difficult thing would be determining whether or not Erin’s version of events matched the evidence or if they told a different story altogether. Graham turned to two other sheriff deputies who looked greener than the wallpaper behind them. “Wrap the yard in police tape and keep the crowd to the other side of the street. And whatever you do, don’t talk to them. I don’t care if they’re your sister, your wife or your mother. Got it?”

They mumbled their yes sir’s and practically ran outside.

“Dexter, I want you to stand at the door and keep the log. Everyone who comes inside the house signs it. When the Crime Scene team and Coroner get here, they’ll sign it. Station yourself on the porch. I want a tight record on this one.”

Dexter bobbed his head, clearly grateful to be far away from the kitchen. “Yes, sir.”

Graham turned back to Pax who was doing a good job of holding himself together. “Make sure the team tests both victims’ hands for gunshot residue, then have them come over to the station when they’re done with the house. I have a witness whose clothes will also have to be tested.”

“Erin December? What’d she say happened?”

“She said the woman was already dead when she got here and that Gre— Mr. Lasiter killed himself in front of her.”

“Rough.”

“Where’s my pop?”

Pax jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, his gaze glued to the couple on the floor. “Out back looking for clues. He noticed the backdoor was ajar when we got here.”

“Damn it.” Graham started for the door. “Don’t touch anything and get those other guys out of here. Send a couple of them out to knock on doors. I want to know if anyone left in this neighborhood saw or heard anything. I want the rest of the deputies outside, protecting the scene. Anyone who was off duty is officially on.”

“Don’t be too tough on your old man. It’s been hard on him, giving up his job.”

“I know.”

He did know. Pop had taken the loss of his job hard. Seeing his once strong, able-bodied father angry and frustrated by the betrayal of his body was difficult. Ham had always been larger than life, filling up the room with his presence. The shrunken, defeated man who came home from the hospital just a few short weeks ago was nearly unrecognizable.

Graham found his father studying a spot on the ground near the back of the garage. “If Mom knew you were here, she’d kill me.”

Ham glanced up. “So don’t tell her.” He looked older in the dying light, thinner, frailer.

“I’m sure she, like half the town, already knows.” He came up alongside his dad and stared down at the ground. “Find something?”

“Nah. Just trying to get a picture in my head of what happened.” Ham shoved his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. “Greg was a friend of yours, right?” He continued without waiting for a response. “Heard he’d been through some tough times lately, losing his job and such. Heard his house had been bought up by that new investment company—Calendar something or other.”

“Kavender Investments.”

“Right. Right. I take it that’s why that December girl was here.”

“Her company bought Greg’s house. She came here to make sure he’d moved out.” And found a hell of a lot more than she’d bargained for. Graham frowned over that.

“She say what happened?”

“Only that Mrs. Lasiter was dead when she got here. Why don’t we go in, get out of this rain?”

“Sure. Sure.” Ham led the way to the little covered back porch. He stopped on the top step, peering through the window at the scene in the kitchen. “Murder/suicide. What a shame.”

“Who says it's murder/suicide?”

“From the looks of it, is all. But then I’m guessing you’ve seen more of this than I have.”

“More than I should have.”

“Some might tease that you brought it with you from L.A.” Ham reached for the doorknob.

“Don’t! Damn it, Pop. You shouldn’t touch anything without gloves on. You shouldn’t even be here.”

Ham snatched his hand away. He quickly cloaked his hurt in anger, drawing up to his full size, which wasn’t as intimidating as it used to be. “I may be just a country cop to you, but there were never any murder/suicides on my watch.”

“Pop, I—”

“Stuff it.” Leaning in, Ham lowered his voice. “I know what you think of me, of this town. Five generations of Dorans have been sheriff here.” He jabbed a finger at his chest, right over the heart that had cost him his job, his health. “That means something to me.” He poked his son in the chest, over his healthy heart. “And it should mean something to you, too.”