Read Online The Last Death of Jack Harbin by Terry Shames - Free Book Online Page A

confusion.
    â€œJack is dead,” she says before I’m even through the front door. “I just found him. Somebody killed him. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She may be tough, but her voice is trembling.
    â€œKilled him how?” A sudden gust of wind swirls into the house and I catch the door before it slams shut.
    Dottie gestures toward the bedrooms with a shaking hand. “You better go see for yourself.”
    I step into the bedroom and find a nightmare scene of blood and turmoil. The front of Jack’s T-shirt and the tangled sheets are splotched and spattered with blood from several jagged knife wounds in his chest. Jack did not die easily. His face is contorted and his head thrown back with his mouth open like he was trying to scream, and there are bruises at his neck. His sightless eyes are damp at the corners, as if tears leaked out as he struggled. In his death throes he flung the covers off and is lying sprawled sideways on the bed. The stump of his missing leg is a horrible thing to see, festered and raw, poking out from the sheets. The air is dense with stale cigarette smoke and the sickly smell of death.
    Behind me, Dottie says, “I just can’t believe this. I don’t know how it happened.” She’s breathing hard.
    I feel suddenly claustrophobic and I step back awkwardly so that my knee gives way and I have to grab the doorframe to keep from stumbling.
    â€œSteady,” Dottie says.
    â€œI’m all right,” I say. “It’s just my damned knee.” I turn away and step into the living room. We stare at each other for a few seconds.
    â€œHow did you find him? What made you go into his room? Did you hear something?”
    Dottie shakes her head. “I get up a couple of times every night to check on him, in case he needs something.” Her voice is high and tight. “He’s more considerate than you might think. He only calls out if he’s in distress. When I checked this time . . .” Her voice falters. “I wanted you to see him like I found him, before I touched anything.”
    I’m thinking clearer now that the shock has worn off, so I go back into the bedroom to take a closer look at the crime scene. It’s hard to escape the sight of Jack’s twisted face and body, but I want to fix details in my mind, in case the scene gets contaminated.
    I lean over Jack’s body and count about half a dozen slits in the T-shirt where a knife went in. I’ll leave it to the medical examiner to give me details, but I’ve seen enough knife wounds to deduce that whoever did this came at Jack with his right hand.
    The knife is not in plain sight. Likely whoever did this took it with him. The deep bruises on each side of Jack’s Adam’s apple mean that whoever killed him grabbed his throat to make sure he wouldn’t cry out.
    Standing next to me, Dottie reaches for the sheet, as if to cover Jack’s body.
    â€œBetter leave it,” I say. “Have you called Rodell?”
    Dottie shakes her head. “I wanted you here first. I’m sorry I got you out of bed.” It’s surprising the number of people who still call me first when there’s a need for the police. I haven’t been chief of police for a long time, but that time in my life seems imprinted on folks.
    â€œThat’s okay. But we’d better call Rodell now and get the wheels turning.” Neither of us makes a move to the phone.
    â€œYou got a cell phone with a camera on it?”
    â€œSamuel, what would I be doing with something like that?”
    â€œI just know some people have them. Not me.” There’s probably a camera around here somewhere, but I don’t want to go poking around looking for it.
    Jack’s bedroom is small and not particularly tidy. There’s an overflowing ashtray on the bedside stand. “I’m surprised that Jack didn’t die from starting a fire in his bed.”