The cat hightailed it into the woods.”
Beck took up the story from there. “The next morning I cleaned and oiled the shotgun and put it back in the rack above the door.”
“Did you reload it?” Sheriff Harper asked.
“No.”
“Well, somebody did,” Scott said.
“Have you checked it for fingerprints?”
He replied to Sayre’s question with a polite “Yes, ma’am. Your brother’s—Danny’s—are all over it, along with some others. One of the latent prints will probably turn out to be yours,” he said to Beck.
“So you know that Danny handled the shotgun,” Sayre said.
“Yes, ma’am. I just don’t know when.”
“Is his fingerprint on the trigger?”
“We didn’t lift any distinct prints off the trigger,” Red Harper said. “Which is also a bit confounding. I mean, if Danny was the last one to touch it…” He left the thought unfinished.
Huff seemed to reach the limit of his patience. He came out of his recliner, rounded it, and took a bead on Wayne Scott. But he addressed Red Harper. “Why in hell are you letting this new detective of yours drag us through all this? To earn his crisp new uniform? Is that it? If so, let me give him something better to do, like patrolling the shop floor at my foundry and knocking heads with anybody who starts talking about unionizing. Now that would be putting his duty time to good use.
“As it is, he’s wasting my time and keeping me thinking about things I don’t want to think about anymore. Danny is dead. We buried him. That’s the end of it.” He shook a fresh cigarette from the pack.
“Excuse me, Mr. Hoyle, but that’s not the end of it.”
Huff glared at Scott as he lit the cigarette.
Bravely, the young man continued. “It’s not just the position of the shotgun on Mr. Hoyle’s body that raises questions. Or the contortions he’d have had to go through to pull the trigger with his finger while the barrels were in his mouth. There’s more to it that puzzles me.”
The new detective’s face had turned red, whether with embarrassment or with fervor, Sayre didn’t know. But he was standing up for himself before the mighty Huff Hoyle, and she commended him for that, even though she guessed that, after tonight, his days in the sheriff’s employ were numbered.
“Well, let’s hear what’s got you bumfuzzled,” Huff said.
“It was your son’s newfound religion.”
The surprises just kept coming. Sayre glanced at Chris and then at Huff to see if they were laughing over the bizarre notion of a Hoyle with religion. But they remained stone-faced. If anything, Huff’s frown deepened.
She turned toward Beck, who evidently sensed her bewilderment. “Danny had recently joined a congregation of—”
“Bible thumpers,” Huff snarled.
“He had embraced their beliefs and became very devout,” Beck continued.
“How recently?”
“For about a year. He never missed a Sunday service or Wednesday night prayer meeting.”
“He became a real bore,” Chris added. “He stopped drinking. Got upset if we took the Lord’s name in vain. He’d become a real Jesus freak.”
“What brought it on?”
Chris shrugged.
“You never asked?”
“Yes, Sayre, we asked,” he replied snidely. “Danny refused to discuss it.”
Beck said, “We couldn’t trace his sudden involvement back to a particular incident, like a near-death experience or anything like that. Suffice it to say, he became a different person the last few months of his life. He changed completely.”
“For better or worse?”
In answer to her question, Huff said, “That’s a matter of opinion.” His scowl expressed his opinion of Danny’s religious conversion.
She turned back to the young deputy. “How do you think this relates to his suicide?”
“I’ve questioned his pastor and members of the congregation who talked to Danny Sunday morning. Without exception, everybody said he was upbeat and happy. Left the services on fire for God and telling everybody he
Beck took up the story from there. “The next morning I cleaned and oiled the shotgun and put it back in the rack above the door.”
“Did you reload it?” Sheriff Harper asked.
“No.”
“Well, somebody did,” Scott said.
“Have you checked it for fingerprints?”
He replied to Sayre’s question with a polite “Yes, ma’am. Your brother’s—Danny’s—are all over it, along with some others. One of the latent prints will probably turn out to be yours,” he said to Beck.
“So you know that Danny handled the shotgun,” Sayre said.
“Yes, ma’am. I just don’t know when.”
“Is his fingerprint on the trigger?”
“We didn’t lift any distinct prints off the trigger,” Red Harper said. “Which is also a bit confounding. I mean, if Danny was the last one to touch it…” He left the thought unfinished.
Huff seemed to reach the limit of his patience. He came out of his recliner, rounded it, and took a bead on Wayne Scott. But he addressed Red Harper. “Why in hell are you letting this new detective of yours drag us through all this? To earn his crisp new uniform? Is that it? If so, let me give him something better to do, like patrolling the shop floor at my foundry and knocking heads with anybody who starts talking about unionizing. Now that would be putting his duty time to good use.
“As it is, he’s wasting my time and keeping me thinking about things I don’t want to think about anymore. Danny is dead. We buried him. That’s the end of it.” He shook a fresh cigarette from the pack.
“Excuse me, Mr. Hoyle, but that’s not the end of it.”
Huff glared at Scott as he lit the cigarette.
Bravely, the young man continued. “It’s not just the position of the shotgun on Mr. Hoyle’s body that raises questions. Or the contortions he’d have had to go through to pull the trigger with his finger while the barrels were in his mouth. There’s more to it that puzzles me.”
The new detective’s face had turned red, whether with embarrassment or with fervor, Sayre didn’t know. But he was standing up for himself before the mighty Huff Hoyle, and she commended him for that, even though she guessed that, after tonight, his days in the sheriff’s employ were numbered.
“Well, let’s hear what’s got you bumfuzzled,” Huff said.
“It was your son’s newfound religion.”
The surprises just kept coming. Sayre glanced at Chris and then at Huff to see if they were laughing over the bizarre notion of a Hoyle with religion. But they remained stone-faced. If anything, Huff’s frown deepened.
She turned toward Beck, who evidently sensed her bewilderment. “Danny had recently joined a congregation of—”
“Bible thumpers,” Huff snarled.
“He had embraced their beliefs and became very devout,” Beck continued.
“How recently?”
“For about a year. He never missed a Sunday service or Wednesday night prayer meeting.”
“He became a real bore,” Chris added. “He stopped drinking. Got upset if we took the Lord’s name in vain. He’d become a real Jesus freak.”
“What brought it on?”
Chris shrugged.
“You never asked?”
“Yes, Sayre, we asked,” he replied snidely. “Danny refused to discuss it.”
Beck said, “We couldn’t trace his sudden involvement back to a particular incident, like a near-death experience or anything like that. Suffice it to say, he became a different person the last few months of his life. He changed completely.”
“For better or worse?”
In answer to her question, Huff said, “That’s a matter of opinion.” His scowl expressed his opinion of Danny’s religious conversion.
She turned back to the young deputy. “How do you think this relates to his suicide?”
“I’ve questioned his pastor and members of the congregation who talked to Danny Sunday morning. Without exception, everybody said he was upbeat and happy. Left the services on fire for God and telling everybody he
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