River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(47)

The man had been sweating, his face a putrid white. “The motherfucker stabbed me,” he’d said.

“Don’t say anything more,” his father had said, working frantically to stop the bleeding. “I don’t want to know.” In another hour, his father had had him stitched up, and then he’d left the examination room where the man had lain resting, waiting for his ride.

His father had returned to the house and poured himself a shot of whiskey.

Parker had stepped out of the shadows. His father had jumped. His hand had been shaking.

“Why do you help them?” Parker had asked, wondering why his father had bothered to help men like the Scions.

“Everybody deserves care,” his father had said. “Even criminals,” he’d added.

Parker’s father had never reported the incidents to the local police. He’d treated the members of the club without questions whenever they’d appeared on their doorstep, sometimes at all hours of the day and night, with open wounds, busted-up faces, gashes on their heads, swollen knuckles, and broken fingers. Parker believed his father had been afraid to turn the men away, to turn them in out of fear of what they might have done to him if he had, when all Parker had wanted to do was put them behind bars.

“Tell me about your case,” Rick said.

Parker didn’t see any reason why not. He’d stick to the facts. “The victim was a young guy from Jersey. He had some priors, the biggest being a felony for armed robbery. There are rumors he was involved with a motorcycle gang in Jersey. It’s not clear what his connection to them might be. Nothing in the system to confirm one way or the other.”

Rick drank from the mug. “And what about the body?” he asked.

“Shot and gutted and dumped in the river.”

“And washed up on our side.”

“Don’t they always,” Parker said.

“Any problems with the Jersey State Police wanting to take it over?”

“They won’t touch it. We found some of the victim’s blood on our side of the river a few miles upstream from where the body washed up. No question it’s ours.” He thought about the clearing in the woods, the spot along the river where the dogs had picked up the scent, the blood where the guts had been discarded. They believed an animal had come along and devoured them, an animal that had gorged itself, had a taste for human flesh.

“What else have we got?” Rick asked.

We? Parker thought, but he let it go. He’d answer Rick’s questions, expecting Rick to hold up his end of the bargain and divulge the information he had on the first case, information that wasn’t in the original file.

“The victim was shot with a .30-06 rifle, same make and model as the first case but different gun, according to ballistics. The knife was a common hunting knife that any number of hunters in the entire Slate Belt area carries. We’re dragging the river for both.” They’d searched every inch of the crime scene and surrounding woods. Maybe they’d get lucky in the river. Ever since he’d been a young boy, Parker had believed the river had her own kind of intelligence and that she’d held secrets, and all a person had to do to hear them was listen.

He was listening.

“We dragged the river too,” Rick said. “What felt like every inch of it at the time. Never found the rifle or the knife. But it was the knife that interested me the most. The field dressing was his signature. If we would’ve found the knife, we would’ve had him.”

Parker had the same thoughts.

Rick continued. “We knew the Scions were involved. We had our suspect, the enforcer at the time, a guy by the name of Russell Jackson. We searched his place. We even tore apart his barn. I was so sure we’d find something.” He shrugged. “But we didn’t.”

Parker nodded. Rick wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know.

“I don’t suppose you have any witnesses?” Rick asked.

“None yet.” Parker stared at his glass. Condensation dripped down the sides, making a small puddle on the bar. He’d talked to a few potential witnesses, made a full sweep of the town, but so far no one had given him anything to go on. He was waiting for the local news media to move on and forget about his case before he tried again, knocking door-to-door. Only then would he have any chance of getting some information out of the locals. But Rick was right; people were scared.

Rick finished his beer and signaled Benny for another. He waited until his mug was refilled. When Benny stepped away, Rick picked up the mug and asked, “Do you know Clint Kingsley?”

“Yes.” Parker cleared his throat. “He was the chief of police until about five years ago.”

“Yeah, well, he was the first cop at the scene on the first case. He handled the investigation for the first seventy-two hours before we got wind of it, of the implications of what the case entailed. You know how important those first forty-eight hours are, so you can imagine my partner and I weren’t too thrilled about taking it on after seventy-two hours.”

Parker didn’t reply. Something told him the bad feeling he’d had earlier was about to get worse.

Rick continued. “He was annoyed. He didn’t seem to want us involved, and at the same time, it was like he didn’t want any part of it either. I thought it was a little strange, but like I said, the people in your town were a little peculiar around that time. No offense.”