when he clutched his chest and keeled over onto the poker table. By all accounts, the senior Mr. Pierce was a stand-up guy. He’d been a mailman, which explained why his mailbox was painted dark blue with an American flag on each side. The front door was a matching blue. There was another American flag hanging from a column that held up the small shed roof over the door. The material was tattered from the elements, which Will was glad Mr. Pierce did not have to see.
Will had planned to knock, but the front door was cracked open. He used the toe of his boot to push it the rest of the way. He had Faith’s Glock tucked into the back of his pants, but he didn’t pull the weapon. Maybe this wasn’t exactly wise. Every minute of Will’s day had been spent underestimating people.
The house smelled musty and closed up. Doug-Ray hadn’t bothered to clear out his father’s furniture or mementos, but he’d availed himself of all the copper in the house. Plaster had been hammered away in chunks. The ceiling looked like the world’s largest rat had bounced its way across the beams. Pipes, electrical wire – anything that could be sold for scrap had been removed long ago.
Which didn’t explain the coppery smell in the air.
Will felt the hairs on the back of his neck go up. He put his hand on the Glock, but didn’t pull it. There was only one thing he could think of that smelled like copper but wasn’t copper, and that was congealed blood. Something about the iron hitting oxygen brought about the scent. Every cop had a different description for it, but what it boiled down to was the smell of metal that hooked into the back of your throat like a fishing lure.
He walked through the front room as quietly as he could. Broken plaster littered the floor. The carpet was wet and moldy. There was a hole in the roof somewhere. Doug-Ray had probably talked to a real estate agent and realized very quickly that no one would be interested in buying his father’s house. According to the tax records, Arthur Pierce’s home was one of only three in the neighborhood that wasn’t in the process of foreclosure.
Will peered into the two bedrooms and a tiny hall bath before making his way tothe kitchen. Something told him this was where he would find Billie, and he was right. Only, he hadn’t anticipated the state in which she would be found.
She was lying on her back in the kitchen doorway. Her bleached blonde hair flowered around her head. Her arms were out, hands open. Her eyes were deep blue. They were also glassy, most likely because of the large kitchen knife sticking out of her chest.
Will stood over the body. He didn’t bother to bend down and check her pulse. He didn’t want to give Maw-Maw the opportunity to jump him.
The old woman was sitting at the table smoking a joint. She blew on the tip, one eye on Will as he stepped over Billie’s body and entered the kitchen.
“She came at me,” Maw-Maw said, her voice raspy from the smoke. “I thought she was gonna kill me.”
Will looked at the scene. There was some evidence to support a struggle. Kitchen utensils were scattered on the floor. Drawers were open where someone had furiously searched them.
Only, it wasn’t just one or two drawers that were open, but every single drawer in the room. In Will’s lengthy experience with stabbings that occurred in the kitchen, he was hard-pressed to think of a case where someone searching for a knife started with the bottom drawers and worked their way up.
Maw-Maw waved at the chair across from her. “Sit down, sonny. Let’s talk.”
Will reached into his pocket. He took out his iPhone. “I’m going to record this.”
“Suit yourself.”
“As a police officer, I have to inform you that you’re entitled to a lawyer. Youhave a right—”
“To remain silent, et cetera, et cetera,” she interrupted. “I’m eighty-four years old. You think I haven’t seen my fair share of Murder, She Wrote ?”
Will didn’t recall
Will had planned to knock, but the front door was cracked open. He used the toe of his boot to push it the rest of the way. He had Faith’s Glock tucked into the back of his pants, but he didn’t pull the weapon. Maybe this wasn’t exactly wise. Every minute of Will’s day had been spent underestimating people.
The house smelled musty and closed up. Doug-Ray hadn’t bothered to clear out his father’s furniture or mementos, but he’d availed himself of all the copper in the house. Plaster had been hammered away in chunks. The ceiling looked like the world’s largest rat had bounced its way across the beams. Pipes, electrical wire – anything that could be sold for scrap had been removed long ago.
Which didn’t explain the coppery smell in the air.
Will felt the hairs on the back of his neck go up. He put his hand on the Glock, but didn’t pull it. There was only one thing he could think of that smelled like copper but wasn’t copper, and that was congealed blood. Something about the iron hitting oxygen brought about the scent. Every cop had a different description for it, but what it boiled down to was the smell of metal that hooked into the back of your throat like a fishing lure.
He walked through the front room as quietly as he could. Broken plaster littered the floor. The carpet was wet and moldy. There was a hole in the roof somewhere. Doug-Ray had probably talked to a real estate agent and realized very quickly that no one would be interested in buying his father’s house. According to the tax records, Arthur Pierce’s home was one of only three in the neighborhood that wasn’t in the process of foreclosure.
Will peered into the two bedrooms and a tiny hall bath before making his way tothe kitchen. Something told him this was where he would find Billie, and he was right. Only, he hadn’t anticipated the state in which she would be found.
She was lying on her back in the kitchen doorway. Her bleached blonde hair flowered around her head. Her arms were out, hands open. Her eyes were deep blue. They were also glassy, most likely because of the large kitchen knife sticking out of her chest.
Will stood over the body. He didn’t bother to bend down and check her pulse. He didn’t want to give Maw-Maw the opportunity to jump him.
The old woman was sitting at the table smoking a joint. She blew on the tip, one eye on Will as he stepped over Billie’s body and entered the kitchen.
“She came at me,” Maw-Maw said, her voice raspy from the smoke. “I thought she was gonna kill me.”
Will looked at the scene. There was some evidence to support a struggle. Kitchen utensils were scattered on the floor. Drawers were open where someone had furiously searched them.
Only, it wasn’t just one or two drawers that were open, but every single drawer in the room. In Will’s lengthy experience with stabbings that occurred in the kitchen, he was hard-pressed to think of a case where someone searching for a knife started with the bottom drawers and worked their way up.
Maw-Maw waved at the chair across from her. “Sit down, sonny. Let’s talk.”
Will reached into his pocket. He took out his iPhone. “I’m going to record this.”
“Suit yourself.”
“As a police officer, I have to inform you that you’re entitled to a lawyer. Youhave a right—”
“To remain silent, et cetera, et cetera,” she interrupted. “I’m eighty-four years old. You think I haven’t seen my fair share of Murder, She Wrote ?”
Will didn’t recall
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