Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(98)

“Huh.” Dalton looks down at Roy, naked, hair on end, beard half-shaven. “You think?”

Anders suppresses a snicker.

“I’ll go search his rooms,” I say. “See what he took.”

Dalton nods, “I’ll meet you there. After I lug this idiot to the clinic. We may drop him a few times. He’s kinda heavy.”

“Drop him on his head, and we might knock some sense into him,” Anders says.

“That is not possible,” April says. “A head injury would only exacerbate his condition and make it difficult to tell the effects of the intoxicants from that of the fall.”

I shake my head and take off.

*

I’m walking to the station for my crime-scene kit when Sebastian catches up.

“I’m not tagging along,” he says before I can speak. “I just didn’t want it to seem like I was taking advantage of the distraction by walking away. Am I free to go?”

“No,” I say as I keep walking. “You’re free to go to Mathias. Tell him you’re working for him now.”

“I, uh, don’t think he’ll like that.”

“Too bad. You can apprentice under him, run errands for him, look after his damned dog. Whatever he wants. You’re working for him, and you’re under his care, and he is responsible for you.”

“He’s really not going to like that.”

“He’ll survive,” I say. “Hopefully, so will you. Now go find him and give him the good news.”

I grab my kit from the station and then continue on to Roy’s place. As soon as I pull open his apartment door, I smell . . . bacon? I follow the scent into the kitchen. On the counter is a jar of grease. While we don’t raise pigs here, Mathias cures other meats into a bacon-like product, heavy on the smoke and spices. Roy has been collecting leftover grease in a jar. For cooking, I guess. It’s on the counter now—not just the jar, but the smears and clumps of grease, and as I get a better whiff, I realize that’s what he put in his hair.

His razor is also in the kitchen, smeared with more of grease, as if he used it to lubricate the blade. I’m no expert in male grooming, but I think that explains the cuts. There are scissors and hair clippings, too, as if he trimmed his beard first. It’s a weird blend of logic and madness—that he knew enough to cut it shorter before shaving, but when he did shave, he used no mirror, no water, just . . . bacon fat.

I take a sample of the grease, in case there’s something in it that caused his state. Considering that he started cutting his beard in here, though, I’m guessing he was already in that state before the lid came off that grease jar.

Other than the shaving mess, his kitchen is spotless. I open the icebox under the floor. It’s full, everything neatly packaged and labeled. I empty it, find nothing suspicious and repack it for now—I’ll come back if I don’t find anything.

Onto the bathroom. There’s something in the sink, specks of a dried material that looks plantlike. I open the medicine cabinet. Tylenol. Benadryl. I open both and find only what the labels proclaim. All Roy’s toiletries are as neatly arranged as his food. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then, on the top shelf, I notice the edge of a baggie. I tug it down to find dried mushrooms. They match the color and consistency of the specks in the sink.

I lift the bag and consider the contents. Then I use tweezers to put a few sink specks into a vial. I label both and tuck them into my kit. I search the rest of the bathroom but find nothing.

Back to the main room. On my way to track the bacon smell, I’d passed Roy’s clothing. I return now and consider the story it tells. It’s in a heap, like someone might leave before getting into bed, letting his clothing fall as he shed it. That heap sits in the middle of the floor.

I look around and see nothing—

No, that’s wrong. The living room is otherwise so tidy that anything out of place stands out. On the coffee table sits a book of word searches, a pen and a glass of red wine. I’d seen the bottle in the kitchen. While liquor is strictly regulated, we allow demi—or half-size—bottles of wine to be taken home, and that’s what I’d found in the kitchen—an empty bottle in the recycling bin. I return to the kitchen and check it. Drops linger in the bottom and when I lift it to the light, I see dampness along one side, where the contents were recently poured out. I tuck the bottle into a paper bag.

Back to the living room. The wine glass has been drained to the dregs. I pour those last drops into a vial and take the glass. I’m lifting the puzzle book when Dalton comes in. He raises his hands to show that he’s already wearing gloves, like me.

“Do I need to watch where I step?” he asks, looking around.

“Only in the kitchen, though I haven’t checked the bedroom.”

“You want me to do that?”

I shake my head. “I’ll be done soon, and I’d rather just keep going.”

“You want me to take notes?”

I smile. “Sure, though I know you’re offering only as a roundabout way of asking me what I’ve found so far. But since you offered, you are now my secretary. First, while watching your step, go into the kitchen and tell me what you see?”

He steps through the door. “Shit.”

“Incorrect.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m glad it’s not shit, considering this is the stuff he put into his hair.”