City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(70)
She starts to close the door. I shove my foot in to stop her.
“If you don’t want to say anything, that’s fine,” I say. “I’ll do the talking. But the people of Rockton need all the reassurance they can get, and having you there will help.”
Her lips curve in what can’t quite be called a smile. “The people of Rockton don’t give a damn whether I’m there. They rely on Sheriff Dalton for all their reassurances.”
“Then just show up and stand beside him. Support him. He needs that right now.”
“Sheriff Dalton doesn’t need anything from anyone, Casey. The sooner you realize that, the easier your six months here will be.” I must react at that, because she says, “You don’t think I know about his little deal with you? As I said, Eric Dalton doesn’t need anything from anyone. Let him run his little Wild West town, keep your head down, and get out of this hellhole as fast as you can. There’s your statement, detective. Take it and go.”
Three
We give our statement at nine. Or I give it, with Dalton standing cross-armed beside me, his look daring anyone to speak when I ask if there are any questions.
I’ve always wondered why there isn’t more dissent in police states. I’m accustomed to a world where people riot after a hockey game. Imagine what they’d do under a totalitarian authority. The answer, at least in Rockton, is “not a hell of a lot.”
I guess that isn’t surprising. Rockton gives them sanctuary and Dalton keeps them safe, and so whatever they might think of him, they don’t seem to doubt his ability to continue doing so.
The next five days pass with frustratingly little progress on the case. I work my ass off, but I feel like I’m searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack … and I’m not even sure there is a needle. I have so little to go on. The autopsy report on Hastings didn’t tell me anything new. There’s no forensic evidence—Irene’s crime scene is a month old, and both Hastings and Powys were found in the forest, which is a hell of a place to get evidence.
We scour the woods for footprints where we found Hastings, but it hasn’t rained in over a week and the rocky ground is too hard to take an impression. We search for anything the killer might have dropped, spending two days combing an ever-increasing circle. We even hunt for the kind of trace evidence—a snagged thread or clump of hair—that you only really find in TV shows. Beth scrapes under the nails of the victims. Hell, we dig up Irene to get samples from hers. No defensive wounds or signs of a struggle on any of them.
I interview everyone remotely connected to the four victims. That count includes Abbygail because, until proved otherwise, I include her as a victim. All that leads to exactly one clue.
In Hastings’s case, Kenny had seen him head toward the forest and told the sheriff, which led to the manhunt. Powys, though, had simply disappeared. With the interviews, I find out that someone had seen Powys walking into the forest. He hadn’t come forward because, well, he’d spotted Powys while sneaking from the house of his long-time girlfriend to the house of someone who was not his long-time girlfriend.
At just past midnight—which the witness knew, because he’d been waiting for his girlfriend to fall asleep—he’d been cutting through the yards and seen Powys, who had paused at the edge of the forest and looked around, making sure he wasn’t seen. Which meant either both Hastings and Powys were lured out or both had randomly decided to take a walk in prohibited territory … and just happened to meet their killer there.
That isn’t exactly a case-breaking revelation, and I still feel like I’m getting nowhere, but the guy who hadn’t wanted me in this job is actually the one who keeps me going. As Dalton points out—with an impatient snap—I’m narrowing down my suspect list. For example, the killer had to be strong enough to get Hastings into that tree, which is no mean feat. Dalton and Anders rig up a pulley system out behind the station. We run some experiments. Anders can raise Hastings’s weight. Dalton can, too, with serious effort. I only get the rock-filled sack two feet off the ground by pulling with everything I have. Then I lose my footing and go flying. Great amusement for the guys. Anders insists I do it three more times—to be sure—and Dalton doesn’t argue. We even add weights to my end, but I lack the upper-body strength to haul that bag into a tree.
What does this tell us? That our killer was male and at least as physically fit as Dalton. Which doesn’t narrow it down as much as it would in an urban environment. Rockton is like prison in some ways, giving guys lots of free time and the chance to get those biceps and pecs they’ve always dreamed of. Plus there’s the added motivation of getting in shape to impress the limited female population. That means a lot of guys like Kenny: former ninety-eight-pound weaklings who can now bench-press triple that much.
The impromptu surgery on Hastings suggests someone with medical knowledge, but the work had been crudely done. According to Beth, anyone with a basic knowledge of anatomy and butchering could do it. She’s right—even with just what I learned from my parents, I could. Out here, people hunt, which gives them those skills. We also may have butchers, veterinarians, and nurses who’ve been smuggled in as something else.
That’s the case, five days later. As for the rest of my life in Rockton, while I haven’t quite adopted the “work hard, play hard” local mentality, I’m closer to it than I’ve ever been. I put in long hours yet rarely spend an evening alone at home. My companions vary—Beth, Petra, Anders. I even manage to get Beth to come along with the others, which Anders says is a feat.