Firebreak (Josie Gray Mysteries #4)(17)
“What about evidence collection?” Josie asked.
He pointed a finger at her. “That’s what we need to talk about. It’s completely different at the scene of a fire. I don’t want to insult your intelligence, but this is usually what the state fire marshal would take care of.”
Josie waved his concern away and he continued.
“Here’s my worry about you going in to take care of the body,” Doug said, tilting his head toward Cowan. “We may have evidence around the body that’s extremely fragile. Possibly unrecognizable.”
Josie watched Cowan process the information.
“What do you suggest?” he said.
“I would like to limit foot traffic as much as possible.”
Josie put a hand up to interrupt him. “My first priority is identification of the body and finding the Nixes. Can you and Otto take care of processing the scene in the living room so Cowan can get in there and hopefully find identification?”
Doug nodded. “What are you thinking?”
“For now, this is an unidentified body,” she said. “Lou hasn’t made contact with the Nixes. She would have let me know if they had returned her calls. I know they’re good friends with Hank Wild, the owner of the Hell-Bent. I’d like to start there first. I’ll talk to Hank about how to track them down.”
“That makes sense,” Otto said.
Doug faced Otto. “I’d like you and me to take the video camera and walk together. We’ll start outside the house, then through the point of origin. We can make our way back through the dining room where the fire burned out. I want very minimal foot traffic on our first walk-through. Just observations. Then you can take it slower. Just be extremely careful when you reach for anything to pick it up and catalog it. It may look solid, and then disintegrate in your hands.” He turned to Otto. “It’s critical that you check for evidence before Cowan walks around the body. It’s a different kind of investigation when everything you look at is charred gray and black and evaporates when you touch it.”
SEVEN
The Hell-Bent Honky-Tonk drew well over a hundred people every Friday and Saturday night for live music, cold draft beer, and a packed dance floor. Located off Highway 67 in the midst of rolling ranch country, it drew people from all over far-west Texas. The owner, Hank Wild, had a knack for discovering talent and developing singers and bands into local celebrities. Over the past five years, two different local bands had been signed by Nashville labels, all because Hank had enough clout with the industry to get the scouts to make the long trip west.
It was hard not only to bring big-name acts to such a remote area, but also for the locals to travel several hours to see an out-of-town show: the band had better be worth the drive. The Hell-Bent was the solution. With its success, Hank became a local celebrity in his own right. Country singers in the area knew that if they wanted an audience, they had to develop a performance Hank would buy. If he didn’t like your act, you might as well pack up and move elsewhere, because the Hell-Bent was where it was at.
No billboards advertised the dance hall; they weren’t necessary. A metal sign hung between two massive poles at the entrance to the lane that read HELL-BENT HONKY-TONK, but an out-of-towner could easily mistake it for one of the surrounding ranches and drive on by. From the road, the building appeared to be a large hay barn, but a trip down the long drive revealed a gravel parking area large enough for several hundred people, with spillover parking in the desert beyond. At night, there was little doubt what the Hell-Bent was about: outdoor pole lighting and lanterns strung along the roofline lit up the building, and the bands and the rowdy crowd could be heard for miles.
At a little before noon Josie pulled into the parking lot and counted about fifteen cars, most likely people searching for solace among friends until information could be discovered about the status of their homes and their property. Josie knew they would be frustrated with her when she wasn’t able to provide information. She grabbed her steno pad from the passenger seat and locked the jeep.
The barn was weathered gray and covered in handmade signs that local performers were invited to display to advertise their acts. The band signs had become more artistic, and more outrageous, as the years had progressed. Hank strategically moved the signs to keep the front-runners near the entrance. Josie noticed that Billy Nix’s sign hung on the porch, just a few feet from the front door—a prime location. Billy’s three-foot-wide sign was a carved replica of a rugged cowboy hat with the words “Outlaw Billy Nix” carved into the hat brim. Josie thought of how sad it would be if his life ended before he received the big break he’d worked so hard to achieve.
The barn’s substantial wooden door opened onto a dance hall the size of a basketball court. After driving into the bright afternoon sun, Josie had to allow her eyes to adjust for a moment. The shiny wooden dance floor was empty and swept clean. A few overhead lights were turned on, but otherwise the space was barely lit. Hank served sandwiches and other greasy bar food, but it was secondary to the music. No one cared if the fries were cold as long as the bands were hot.
Opposite the front entrance, on the far side of the dance floor, was a raised stage where Josie and Dillon had last watched Billy Nix perform almost a year ago. She remembered having a conversation with Dillon about how there was often a fine line between the great local bands and the stars who played on the radio. They had agreed that night that Billy and the Outlaws sounded as good as any band they’d ever heard at a larger venue.