The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(21)

Twenty minutes later, he turned in to the new development and was met with an impressive display of emergency lights. He parked and hustled to the scene. A deputy, Mancuso, met him at the curb. The sheriff looked at a truck and said, “That’s Mike Dunwoody’s truck.”

“Damned sure is.”

“Where’s Mike?”

“Inside. One of the two.”

“Dead?”

“Oh yes. Cracked skull, I’d say.” Mancuso nodded across the street to another truck. “You know his kid Joey?”

“Sure.”

“That’s him over there. He came out looking for his dad, saw his truck, went to the house but the doors were locked. He got a flashlight and looked through the front window over there, saw the two bodies on the floor. He did not go charging in but had the good sense to call us.”

“I’m sure he’s a mess.”

“And then some.”

They walked up the drive toward the house, passing other deputies and first responders, all waiting for something to do. Mancuso said, “I kicked the kitchen door in, got inside, took a look, but kept everybody else out till now.”

“Nice work.”

They entered the house through the kitchen and flipped on every light switch. They stopped at the entrance to the den and tried to absorb the ghastly crime scene. Two lifeless bodies, faces down, heads covered in blood, dark red pools around them, paint splattered, the ladder on its side.

“Have you touched anything?” Black asked.

“Nothing.”

“I assume that’s Mike,” Black said, nodding.

“Yes.”

“And the painter?”

“Got no idea.”

“Looks like he has a wallet. Get it.”

In the wallet, they found a Mississippi driver’s license issued to one Lanny L. Verno, address in Gulfport. The sheriff and the deputy stared at the scene for a few minutes, saying nothing, until Mancuso asked, “Got any knee-jerk reactions?”

“You mean, theories about what happened?”

“Something like that. Joey said his dad was in the subdivision wrapping up the week, paying his subs.”

Black scratched his chin and said, “So, Verno here got jumped, knocked off his ladder by somebody who really didn’t like him. Cracked his skull, then finished him off with the rope. Then Mike showed up at the wrong time and had to be neutralized. Two killings. The first was well planned and done for a reason. The second was not planned and done to cover up the first. You agree?”

“I got nothing else.”

“More than likely the work of someone who knows what he’s doing.”

“He brought the rope.”

“I say we call in the state boys. There’s no hurry. Let’s protect the scene and let them worry about the forensics.”

“Good idea.”



* * *



—

He had never returned to the scene. He had read countless stories, some fictional, others supposedly true, about killers who got a thrill by going back. And he had never planned to do so, but the moment suddenly seemed right. He had made no mistakes. No one had a clue. His gray pickup looked like a thousand others in the area. Its fake Mississippi license plates seemed perfectly authentic. And if for any reason things appeared threatening, he could always abort and leave the state.

He took his time and zigzagged back to the subdivision. He saw lights before he got to the street. It was blocked by squad cars. As he drove past he nodded at the cop and glanced beyond him. A thousand red and blue lights lit up the street. Something really bad must have happened down there.

He drove on, with a slight rush, but certainly no thrill.



* * *



—

Just before 10:00 p.m., Sheriff Black and Chief Deputy Mancuso approached the town of Neely. In the rear seat was Nic, a twenty-year-old college kid who hung around the police station as the department’s part-time techie. He was staring at his iPad and giving directions.

“We’re getting close,” he said. “Take a right. It appears to be at the post office.”

“The post office?” Mancuso said. “Why would he drop off a stolen cell phone at a post office?”

“Because he had to get rid of it,” Black said.

“Why not throw it in the river?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

“Real close now,” Nic said. “Right here.”

Black pulled into the gravel lot and all three stared at the dark and deserted Neely Post Office. Nic fiddled with his iPad and said, “It’s actually right over there, in that blue drop box.”

“Of course,” Mancuso said. “Makes perfect sense.”

Black asked, “Who’s the damned postmaster around here?”

“Who’d want to be?” asked Mancuso.

Nic pecked away and said, “Herschel Dereford. Here’s his number.”

Herschel was sleeping peacefully in his small home five miles out from Neely when he answered the emergency call from a Sheriff Black. It took a few minutes for things to register, and Herschel was at first reluctant to get involved. He said he didn’t have the authority, under federal guidelines, to open “his” drop box and allow local authorities to pick through “his” mail.