Not One of Us(8)

I had to get home immediately. It felt like the storm—and trouble—were about to break.





Chapter 3


DEPUTY OFFICER TEGAN BLACKWELL


Yellow crime scene tape wrapped around the small shotgun-style house. The place possessed a tired vibe, with its faded paint peeling off cheap pressboard and drooping shutters missing several slats. A frail-looking older woman with a head full of hair curlers visible underneath a scarf spoke with two police officers, rubbing her hands together. As she talked, her neck kept craning back toward the house as though pulled by an involuntary force. On the drive in, we’d spotted several curious neighbors already striding down the dusty road, drawn to the commotion and the sniff of impending drama.

We pulled into the gravel driveway and stopped a few feet from the threesome. I spilled out of the passenger-side door of the sheriff’s cruiser with my partner, Joe Oliver, Erie County’s head investigator. I still couldn’t believe my luck that Oliver had chosen me to mentor.

Neither could my fellow officers and coworkers, especially the older ones who knew me from high school. Back then, I’d weighed fifty pounds more and had a reputation, both of which led me to the unfortunate nickname “Big Easy.” In the years since, I’d done my best to shrug off the moniker, eventually marrying and losing the extra pounds. For the most part, my contemporaries let bygones be bygones, especially since I’d entered law enforcement.

Although I’d been employed at the sheriff’s office nearly two years as a deputy, I’d finished my field training and probationary status only six months ago. The others still jokingly referred to me as a rookie—and although they said it in jest, I sensed they believed I’d not yet been truly tested.

As I’d been trained, I scanned the area, taking in all the details. Houses in this older neighborhood were spaced far apart, and despite the obvious worn-down and lower socioeconomic level of the place, the house in question was tidy and well maintained. The owner had gone to some lengths to pretty up its faded plainness with colorful hanging flowerpots on the porch. Pink pansies lined the gravel path to the front steps, and the sparse grass was freshly mown. An old motorcycle and an ancient Plymouth Duster were parked in the dirt driveway. The air smelled fresh and clean from last night’s rain.

The few houses we’d passed were mostly occupied by older couples who enjoyed the spring warmth from the comfort of rockers on the porch. There were also a couple of residences where the lawns were littered with tricycles and kids’ toys. The sort of area for old folks on a fixed income and young couples or single moms on a tight budget. I could relate to the whole single-mom-tight-budget scenario. By the thinnest of margins, my bimonthly paycheck separated me from this downtrodden neighborhood.

A sudden gush of gratitude rose in me for my own humble home. It wasn’t often I thanked the stars for the old twelve-hundred-square-foot brick house that sheltered me and my two children, but we had a roof over our heads and plenty of food on the table, thanks to this job. When my ex-husband, Josh, deserted us five years ago for a model-skinny paralegal, I’d worked a string of minimum wage jobs that had left me tense and exhausted. Between my meager earnings and court-ordered child support, we’d barely scraped by. Just months later, Josh sent a few signals that he was tiring of Darlene and willing to return home, but exhausted or not, I’d nixed that straightaway.

Surprisingly, that burst of defiance gave me the confidence to search for a better job. My brother Liam, a cop in Montgomery, learned of an opening in the local sheriff’s office and urged me to apply. I never expected the opportunity to pan out or that I’d actually make it through the required training should they hire me.

The past two years of law enforcement training hadn’t been easy, but to everyone’s surprise, including my own, I’d made it, easily sailing through the police academy curriculum and shooting qualification test. I even enjoyed the job sometimes, though I wouldn’t admit it to my fellow officers. The one time I had, they’d laughed and rolled their eyes, promising that my tune would change after I’d been there long enough to witness the crimes that they had.

I had a feeling that was about to change today.

I swallowed a lump of dread when we approached the house and I recognized one of the cops. Gilbert Dempsey was one of my ex-husband’s closest friends, one that I’d never cared for. Not then and certainly not now. He and Josh had worked together a couple of years after high school in the local fish processing plant. It had surprised us all when Gilbert, a heavy drinker and equally heavy gambler, was hired by the Enigma PD. But Gilbert’s new career never slowed down his dicey extracurricular activities or turned him into a polite gentleman. He always slid me covert, sly glances when he thought no one was watching, even when I was married to Josh.

Oliver immediately took charge of the situation, greeting the uniformed cops and addressing the woman as we approached. “I take it you’re the neighbor who called?” he asked.

She nodded, still rubbing her arms. “Yes, Reba Tankersley.”

Dempsey volunteered more information. “We arrived less than five minutes ago and secured the scene.” He motioned for Oliver and me to follow him as he took a step backward. He nodded at his partner, Leroy Granger. “You stay here and keep everyone away.”

“What’s happening? Is Raymond in there?” Reba asked, her voice thin and reedy.