The Darkness of Evil (Karen Vail #7)(45)

“That,” Curtis said, “is a barn. It’s also our crime scene.”

Vail lifted her brow. “Really. Let’s go check it out.”

“Already seen it,” Hurdle said. “Want me to tell you what I think?”

“Actually, no. You’re not a homicide investigator.”

“Neither are you.”

“I was,” Vail said. “Been there, done that. So, yeah. I know my way around a crime scene.” She snapped on gloves and struggled to pull booties over her wet shoes.

Hurdle squared his shoulders. “So do I.”

“Let me back up,” she said, straightening and stamping her foot to reseat her boot. “I want to walk into that barn and see it for myself, without your biases.”

“My biases?”

Vail scratched a phantom itch along her right temple. “I don’t want you to interpret things for me. Nothing against you or your investigative skills.”

Hurdle held up his hands. “Fine. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

As Vail and Curtis approached the barn, Leslie Johnson emerged, pulling off her rubber gloves as she exited.

“Hey,” Vail said.

Johnson gave her a nod. “You might be disappointed.”

“Is there a dead body in there?”

“Matter of fact, no.”

“No?”

“Like I said, you might be disappointed.”

“Do we have a body?”

“We do,” Hurdle said. “Neighbor’s dog dug it up. That’s why Fairfax County PD got called.”

Johnson handed Vail a flashlight and Vail entered, Curtis right behind her.

A couple of bare bulbs hanging from the canted ceiling gave off inadequate illumination, but Vail could make out a puddle of what looked like dried blood pooled on the cement, a few feet from a workbench where dozens of tools were mounted on a pegboard.

Vail shone her beam from left to right, sweeping the area. She stopped and focused on a spot ahead of her, then stepped closer. “Uh, what the hell?”

Curtis came up beside her. “What?”

“Blood smear. See?” Vail directed the light to the middle of a crosscut hand saw, its metal surface pocked with rust—and the remnants of dried maroon bodily fluid. She shifted her light a bit farther along the workbench and stopped on a long, round tool. “That’s one nasty gizmo. What the heck is it?”

It had sharp, saw-like teeth but it was shaped like a screwdriver.

Curtis tilted his head, sizing it up. “Looks like something you stick into a hole to make it larger, like a reaming tool—but with a lot more teeth. Not sure what it is, but it makes for one wicked weapon.”

She examined it and then turned to Hurdle. “Let’s get the crime scene tech back in here, make sure she got some good photos of these bloody tools.”

He nodded and whistled.

“Time of death?”

“Sometime this morning.”

Vail turned and looked at the blood stain on the ground. “So I’m thinking he stabbed the victim with that long—whatever the hell it is—and killed him here. Then he moved the body.”

“Who lived here?” Curtis asked. “Do we know who the vic is?”

“William Reynolds, seventy-three,” Johnson said, reentering the barn. “Wife died last year. Lived alone.”

“And why were we called?” Vail asked. “I mean, why did they assume Marcks is the offender?”

“Simple,” Hurdle said. “We’re notified of any violent crime in the region. With an escaped fugitive on the loose, let alone a murderer, the first assumption is it’s related to our case.”

Makes sense.

“There was also a report of someone matching his description here last night.”

Vail drew her chin back. “Wasn’t it checked out?”

“Cruiser came by.” Hurdle chuckled. “But the officer didn’t look in the barn.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“What can I say? He knocked on the door of the house, looked around, didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, walked the grounds, then left. They screwed up.”

You think? Vail sighed. “I’ve seen it before. It happens. But it’s always a head shaker.”

“Did he take Reynolds’s car?” Curtis asked.

“There’s an old ’69 Dodge registered to him and it’s still in the driveway.”

“That’s interesting,” Hurdle said.

“Maybe.” Vail gave a glance around the barn interior. “I was Marcks, I’d think twice about taking Reynolds’s car because it’s a unique year and model and people in these parts know it’s his. If they see a strange person driving it, they call Reynolds, don’t get an answer, maybe stop by and see the blood.”

“Riskier to flag down a hitchhiker,” Johnson said.

Probably true.

Vail gave a final look around, her gaze settling on the pooled blood. So he stabbed Reynolds right here. She glanced back at the saw, then let her gaze drift a few feet to the left where a shovel leaned against the back wall. Oh, shit. Don’t tell me. “Where’s the body?”

“Well,” Hurdle said, “I used the term ‘body’ loosely because—”