Page 85 of High Density

I jerk my thumb at the trash can in the corner next to the cabinet. He immediately pokes his head in.

“Did someone clear out the trash?”

“One of us usually does at the end of the day.”

“Who did it yesterday?”

I shrug. “I’m not sure. I spent a lot of the afternoon in my office, so I didn’t see.”

“Where does the trash go?”

I’m not sure what his fascination with my trash is, but I walk him through the clinic and out the back door. There’s a green, steel box with a bear-proof lid installed against the back wall of the clinic.

“I have a garbage collection service come by once every two weeks to collect what’s in there.”

“When was your last pick up?” Ewing asks as he opens the box and peeks inside.

“Usually on a Thursday. I’m pretty sure they were here last week, but Frankie could probably tell you that when she gets in.”

“Only three small bags in there now, so that would make sense.”

The sheriff reaches into the bin and pulls out one of the bags.

“What are you looking for?” I ask, when he pulls a pair of gloves from his back pocket, snaps them on, and tears open the plastic.

“The empty vial. Agent Kramer took the one we collected at JD’s trailer, but I memorized the lot number. It matches the number on the vials in your cabinet.”

“You think someone took it from my garbage and left it there?”

He shrugs. “If someone was intent on framing JD…”

He reaches into the bag and comes up with the empty vial I dropped in there.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath, at the same time Frankie’s car pulls around the back of the barn.

“Morning,” she greets us a bit hesitantly, as she exits the car and walks over to us.

“Morning, Frankie,” I return.

The sheriff just nods at her.

“Did something happen?” she asks him, looking concerned.

“I have a few questions for you,” he replies, before dropping the bag back in the bin and taking off his gloves.

He motions for us to go ahead and follows us inside. There he asks Frankie mostly the same questions he asked me. I know it’s his job and he’s being thorough, but I still breathe a sigh of relief when she confirms everything I told him.

That is, until she brings up my veterinary kit.

“Yes, I put the order through yesterday. We always order when we get down to two,” she explains, before adding. “Although I guess technically it’s four, since Dr. Richards always carries two in her medical bag for emergencies.”

My mouth falls open, I’d totally blanked on those.

“I’m so sorry. I forgot about those. I rarely use ketamine outside of the clinic.”

Ewing looks at me sharply. “Where do you keep the bag?”

“Locked in the back of my truck.”

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