Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(7)

The dining room table was empty except for a long-billed cap that looked as if it had been tossed there haphazardly. A jacket hung from the top of one of the chairs.

On the kitchen counter next to the table were assorted hand tools: a hacksaw, a hammer, pliers, and a DeWalt twenty-volt hand drill armed with a dark-stained bit. Joe knew the drill because he had one exactly like it himself.

Joe didn’t go inside because he recognized the scene for what it was and he didn’t want to disturb it. The chair, the tape, the tools. Someone had been bound to the chair and tortured.



* * *



—

Feeling queasy again, Joe backed away from the door and stepped off the porch. The dog backpedaled farther away with Joe’s every step.

In the distance, Daisy barked at the dog from inside the cab. Daisy didn’t like Joe paying attention to any other dogs except Tube, their half-Corgi, half-Labrador at home. The scared dog loped away, and Joe called after it.

When it stopped at his voice, Joe said, “You know what went down here, don’t you? You saw it all. I wish you could talk.”

The dog simply stared back.

Joe walked around the side of the house to the fenced backyard.

This was where it had happened.

Two dented gasoline cans lay on their sides. In the middle of the yard was burned grass and blackened leaves.

Joe dug for his cell phone and called Tibbs. The sheriff answered after one ring.

“I’m at Bert Kizer’s place up the road. It looks like he was tortured here and dumped where you are. I can’t tell if he was alive or dead when they set him on fire.”

“Oh my God,” Tibbs said. He sounded stunned.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t go inside,” Joe said. “And this is just my working theory after about five minutes of looking around. But the house looks to be a wreck inside and they didn’t clean up after themselves. I’m guessing Norwood can find prints and DNA in there.”

“Shit, this is awful,” Tibbs said.

“I’ll stay on the scene until you get here,” Joe said.

“Don’t let anyone go inside until we do.”

Joe punched off. Tibbs was a master of stating the obvious.



* * *



—

Twenty minutes later, Sheriff Tibbs paced in the front yard with his cell phone pressed to his face. He’d seen what Joe had seen and he looked harried. Joe understood. The first hour at a newly discovered crime scene was often the most crucial, and that was when every small procedure or decision that later turned out to be clumsy or wrong could be amplified by a sharp defense attorney to imply the investigation had been botched from the beginning. That was why Tibbs was already requesting assistance from the adjoining Shell County Sheriff’s Department as well the Wyoming Division of Criminal Investigation (DCI). He was covering his butt, and Joe thought it was smart and the correct way to go.

While Tibbs paced and talked, forensics technician Gary Norwood arrived. He looked almost as harried as the sheriff. They’d all parked out on the county road behind Joe’s pickup.

Norwood was in his mid-thirties and was shared by three northern Wyoming counties. He was gangly and balding and Joe noticed he’d taken to wearing glasses full-time. He was already wearing white scrubs and his face mask was pulled down below his chin.

“Processing two crime scenes at once isn’t optimal,” Norwood complained to Joe.

“Did you get an impression of the tire tracks back at the scene?”

Norwood nodded. “Brand-new, they looked like. Sharp clean edges on the tread.”

“Those same tracks might be out on the road to this place,” Joe said, pointing.

“Great. I’ll get to those as soon as I can.”

“That kind of narrows it down to new vehicles in the area—or a new set of tires,” Joe said.

There were fewer than a half-dozen shops that sold new tires around there, Joe knew. And only two auto dealerships.

“Correct,” Norwood said as he pulled on a pair of puffy white paper booties. “I told the sheriff.”

“Any more physical evidence around the body?”

“Not that I could determine. I got called over here before I could do a thorough examination, but I’m pretty sure the body was tossed over the fence by the evidence we located on the top strand. Tossed over like a sack of potatoes, is my guess.”

“So he was already gone?” Joe couldn’t shake his earlier fears.

Norwood shrugged. “Either that, or he wasn’t in any condition to put up much of a struggle.

“I’ll do a quick prelim here before I go back,” he said. “The real work starts later. I’ve got to find what I can find outside before the weather changes in both locations.”

“You’ve got a busy day ahead,” Joe said.

“No shit. A busy day and night,” Norwood said as he handed Joe a pair of booties and Tyvek gloves. “How about you take some notes to save me time?”

Joe glanced at Sheriff Tibbs. The man’s back was turned. He knew Tibbs wouldn’t approve.

“I’ll follow you and stay out of your way,” Joe said.



* * *



—

He shadowed Norwood, entering the home with his digital recorder in one hand and his cell phone in the other. Joe chose to record Norwood’s own words rather than interpret them into his notebook, so he wouldn’t misunderstand anything. Norwood carried his forensics bag and had a Canon EOS digital SLR camera hanging from his neck.