to keep our heads clear. Unmuddled.”
“Of course.”
“There’s no telling what Blackwell would do if he found out. Probably suspend us on the spot.”
“Quite possible.”
“But most important—I can’t afford to let the word get out about this. Not after what happened in Oklahoma City.”
Mike had no problem placing that reference, either. She’d had an inopportune affair with the OKC chief of police—a man much older than she was and married to boot—and once it was known in the department, she was hopelessly compromised. Not to mention the butt of scurrilous jokes and sexist remarks.
“I understand entirely,” Mike said. “So what are you thinking? We should ask Blackwell to split us up?”
“I’m just thinking there can’t be any more smooching. Can you handle that?”
Sure, he thought. I’d rather skip ahead to third base anyway. “Not a problem.” He kept his eyes dead ahead.
“Good. Well, I just thought we needed to get that established.”
“Right you were.” He turned the wheel hard to the left. “Break out the barf bags. We’ve arrived.”
When Mike opened the door to the toolshed behind the house, he uncovered a grisly tableau that defied his powers of description. He had never seen anything like this before. And he’d seen a lot of homicide in his time.
After an initial glance, he excused himself, stepped outside, covered his mouth with a handkerchief, and did his level best to keep from being sick. When he returned, Baxter had already begun gathering some preliminary information. She seemed remarkably undisturbed by the scene around her. In fact—was he imagining it?—there was a tiny smirk on her face.
“You okay?” she asked.
“No, I’m not okay. If anybody can see this and be okay, they’ve got serious problems.”
“I can cover if you want to wait outside.”
“Thank you, Sergeant, but I think I’ll do my job myself, just the same.”
What had he expected anyway? A power drill inserted into the cranium—no way that was going to create a pretty picture. Like a firecracker tossed inside a jack-o’-lantern. Now the shattered shell lay at his feet, and the seeds and stuffing covered the walls.
Mike closed his eyes. “Philip Larkin was right. ‘Man hands on misery to man / It deepens like a coastal shelf.’ ”
“God, not with the poetry again. I feel like I’m going to hurl as it is. Don’t push me over the edge.”
Happily, Mike didn’t hear her. His eyes were fixed and all his other senses were focused on the tiny toolshed that surrounded him.
“Are you doing something?” Baxter asked, after enduring a minute or so of this.
“I’m listening.”
“To what?”
“The room.”
“Oh, cool. I love this part.”
He stood in one place by the door, absorbing everything around him. “The best way to get a grip on what happened. Even better than forensics. Open your eyes and ears and drink it all in.”
“Sure. So what are you drinking?”
Mike paused before answering, giving every syllable slow and deliberate emphasis. “This . . . is the victim’s toolshed.”
“That much I got.”
“He loved this place. It was his favorite room. His retreat.” Mike moved through the small space. “He came here to be alone. For peace of mind. To calm himself.” Mike smiled. “He knew his killer.”
“I’m glad to hear it wasn’t a random drilling.”
“It had to be someone he knew well.” He paused a moment, lost in thought. “The killer let himself in, came back here, and found the guy working on his shelves.”
“So it was a close friend.”
“I doubt it.”
Baxter frowned, arms akimbo. “You’ve lost me.”
“I don’t think it was a friend. I don’t think it was someone he wanted to see at all.”
“Given how it turned out, I don’t blame him.”
“Something bad was going on. Something that got him killed.”
“And the room told you all this?”
“Yup.” Mike did a small pirouette in the center of the room.
“Of course.”
“There’s no telling what Blackwell would do if he found out. Probably suspend us on the spot.”
“Quite possible.”
“But most important—I can’t afford to let the word get out about this. Not after what happened in Oklahoma City.”
Mike had no problem placing that reference, either. She’d had an inopportune affair with the OKC chief of police—a man much older than she was and married to boot—and once it was known in the department, she was hopelessly compromised. Not to mention the butt of scurrilous jokes and sexist remarks.
“I understand entirely,” Mike said. “So what are you thinking? We should ask Blackwell to split us up?”
“I’m just thinking there can’t be any more smooching. Can you handle that?”
Sure, he thought. I’d rather skip ahead to third base anyway. “Not a problem.” He kept his eyes dead ahead.
“Good. Well, I just thought we needed to get that established.”
“Right you were.” He turned the wheel hard to the left. “Break out the barf bags. We’ve arrived.”
When Mike opened the door to the toolshed behind the house, he uncovered a grisly tableau that defied his powers of description. He had never seen anything like this before. And he’d seen a lot of homicide in his time.
After an initial glance, he excused himself, stepped outside, covered his mouth with a handkerchief, and did his level best to keep from being sick. When he returned, Baxter had already begun gathering some preliminary information. She seemed remarkably undisturbed by the scene around her. In fact—was he imagining it?—there was a tiny smirk on her face.
“You okay?” she asked.
“No, I’m not okay. If anybody can see this and be okay, they’ve got serious problems.”
“I can cover if you want to wait outside.”
“Thank you, Sergeant, but I think I’ll do my job myself, just the same.”
What had he expected anyway? A power drill inserted into the cranium—no way that was going to create a pretty picture. Like a firecracker tossed inside a jack-o’-lantern. Now the shattered shell lay at his feet, and the seeds and stuffing covered the walls.
Mike closed his eyes. “Philip Larkin was right. ‘Man hands on misery to man / It deepens like a coastal shelf.’ ”
“God, not with the poetry again. I feel like I’m going to hurl as it is. Don’t push me over the edge.”
Happily, Mike didn’t hear her. His eyes were fixed and all his other senses were focused on the tiny toolshed that surrounded him.
“Are you doing something?” Baxter asked, after enduring a minute or so of this.
“I’m listening.”
“To what?”
“The room.”
“Oh, cool. I love this part.”
He stood in one place by the door, absorbing everything around him. “The best way to get a grip on what happened. Even better than forensics. Open your eyes and ears and drink it all in.”
“Sure. So what are you drinking?”
Mike paused before answering, giving every syllable slow and deliberate emphasis. “This . . . is the victim’s toolshed.”
“That much I got.”
“He loved this place. It was his favorite room. His retreat.” Mike moved through the small space. “He came here to be alone. For peace of mind. To calm himself.” Mike smiled. “He knew his killer.”
“I’m glad to hear it wasn’t a random drilling.”
“It had to be someone he knew well.” He paused a moment, lost in thought. “The killer let himself in, came back here, and found the guy working on his shelves.”
“So it was a close friend.”
“I doubt it.”
Baxter frowned, arms akimbo. “You’ve lost me.”
“I don’t think it was a friend. I don’t think it was someone he wanted to see at all.”
“Given how it turned out, I don’t blame him.”
“Something bad was going on. Something that got him killed.”
“And the room told you all this?”
“Yup.” Mike did a small pirouette in the center of the room.
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