The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(51)

“Whitmyer said specifically for you to leave him be.”

“Fuck,” he barks, followed by the sound of a fist hitting a wall.

I hear him stomp away.

Palmer steps inside. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?” She’s polite and sweet. The contrast is jarring.

I don’t know the politics of this place, so I’m afraid to say anything, but I can’t help it. “Do I have to talk to him again?”

She steals a glance down the hall, then turns back. “We’ve all been under a lot of pressure lately.”

“I’ve heard.”

She lowers her voice. “Chelsea was his cousin.”

Holy shit. Those four little words change the context of everything that just happened. Gunther is still an asshole and a bully, but I understand him a little more. I think.

Palmer motions for me to follow her. “Let’s go back up front. I have to watch the station. Everyone is out at the scene.”

I take a seat next to a desk filled with mug books.

“Whitmyer says he’s bringing in state forensics in the morning. Right now they’re trying to lock down the scene.”

“Is it her? Chelsea?”

“I don’t know. I doubt they’ve even attempted to disturb the grave any more than necessary. They’ll want a forensics team to come do a thorough excavation.”

That makes sense. I’m used to the Hollywood notion that every police station has a whole forensic department ready at all hours of the day.

“So you’re some kind of bear expert?” she asks.

“No. I’m a biologist, but bears aren’t my specialty.” Not even close.

“Oh. I’m sure you explained it to Gunny, but how did you know where to look?”

“Amber’s account and looking for some unusual vegetation.”

“Oh.” She blinks at me, then drops the topic and goes back to her work. I don’t have the nerve to ask what happens next, so I just sit there.

About an hour later a clean-cut man in his early forties wearing a thick coat comes walking into the station.

He nods to Palmer, then addresses me. “I’m Whitmyer, the acting police chief. Are you the gentleman who found the body?”

I stand up. “Yes, sir.”

“Good work. Gunny told me that you’re a biologist and you looked for some special plants that grow over bodies.”

Christ already. I should just write a book on the subject. “Basically,” I say, too tired to explain.

He walks over and shakes my hand. “Well, thank you. We haven’t confirmed it’s Chelsea yet. But I’m guessing it is.” He nods to the garbage bag on the counter containing her coat. “This hers?”

“Yes.”

He throws a glance at Palmer. “Did anyone think to put this in evidence?”

“Sorry. McKenna just left it.”

Whitmyer takes a pair of gloves from his pocket and slides a mask over his face. He was probably using them at the burial scene.

He carefully unties McKenna’s knot and peers inside, then quickly seals it back up. “Carole, can you see to it that this gets locked up?”

Palmer takes the bag down the hall.

“Looks like Amber and Devon skipped out,” he says.

“Why would they do that?”

Whitmyer points to my bruised face. “Devon?”

“It was a miscommunication. I wanted to talk to Amber about what happened to Chelsea. They thought it was something else.”

He gives me a knowing nod. “Do you want to press charges?”

“No. I’m just here to find out what happened to Chelsea and the connection to Juniper Parsons.”

“The girl that was killed in Filmount? Bear, right?”

“I don’t think so. That’s why I came here.”

“Well, we’ll let the state police do the forensics on that. Where are you staying?”

“The Creekside Inn.”

“Gus’s place? He’s a good guy. Are you going to be here tomorrow?”

“Yes. I have to get back to Austin at some point. But I can stick around a few more days.”

“All right. We’ll get a formal statement tomorrow. In the meantime, go get some rest.”

Whitmyer’s calm and professional demeanor is a relief. A sane voice in all this insanity.

He walks me to the front door. “Thank you again. I’ve got to get on the horn to Sheriff Tyson and find out what she knows.” He pauses. “Did you speak to her back in Filmount?”

Cold water runs through my veins at the thought. “Yeah . . . they weren’t too interested in what I had to say.”

“I’m sure this will pique their interest.”

I get the feeling that could be a bad thing.





CHAPTER FORTY-ONE


STASIS

There’s a knock on my motel room door at 11 a.m. I didn’t sleep much, even as exhausted as I am. I spent part of the night gathering all of my notes and putting everything together on a thumb drive for the investigators.

I treated it like a report for a science journal. I want them to have a clear understanding of my thought process and the sequence of events that led to discovering Chelsea’s body—this could be vital to my freedom.