Page 50 of Snow Creek

In the row of hammers, I note several with the distinctive claw that the coroner indicated was the cause of death.

One in particular draws me close. As I lean over the bench, an errant nail cuts through my clothing.

“Shit!”

Startled, Copsey looks up from the hovering head of the metal detector.

“You okay, Detective?”

I grimace as I touch the tear in my shirt. Thankfully, it didn’t puncture the skin. My father’s DNA would really confuse this crime scene.

“Okay.”

“Gotcha,” he says.

I fumble with my phone to turn on the flashlight app. Its tiny beam is all that I need to be sure.

Blood.

A few strands of hair too.

“I think we’ve found our murder weapon, Deputy.”

Copsey ambles over as I put on my latex gloves and take the hammer from the pegboard. Davis joins us too.

I turn the hammer in the light. It is unmistakable. The long blond hairs wrapped around the picks of the hammer are the same color as Ida Wheaton’s. There are a million ways to kill someone. At that moment I cannot think of a worse one. I almost say a prayer, but I don’t pray. If I did, it would be simple:

Dear God, let the first blow from that motherfucker be the one that killed his wife.

Copsey holds out a large brown paper bag and I carefully place the hammer inside.

“Holy crap!”

It’s Joshua. He stands in the entrance. He looks like he’s about to crumble.

“He really did it. He beat Mom. Didn’t he?” His eyes are red, and he’s obviously been crying. “He killed our mom here. Right here.”

Bernadine appears and puts her hand on the teen’s shoulder.

“Let’s go back inside, Joshua. Let me help you and your sister.”

I lock eyes with her and nod. Her iridescent lids shutter. I can tell she’s within a beat of crying too.

I tell the deputies to secure the scene. We’ll get a tech over here to see what story Luminol will tell us.

Inside the house, Bernie and the kids are in the living room. Joshua, who’s calmed considerably, moves from a recliner to the sofa. Sarah has pulled herself together too. She’s sitting on the floor, her back leaning against the sofa. Bernie sits across from them, like a sympathy Buddha, if there were such a thing.

My eyes glide over all of them. “I’m really sorry.”

Bernie unfolds her arms. “It’s a terrible tragedy,” she says. She’s about to say more, but Joshua cuts her off.

“You’re going to find him, right?” he asks, his tone more hopeful than angry. “He really needs to pay for what he did.”

“We’ve got a BOLO all along the West Coast. His picture. Everything we have on him. This will likely hit the news tonight and I expect social media will follow suit. Everyone will know he’s out there and we have reason to believe he’s dangerous.”

“What about Mom?” Sarah asks. “We want to bring her home.”

“The funeral home will take care of things.”

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