Page 58 of A Deeper Darkness
He said a very bad word under his breath, then sighed and led the way.
The inside of the cabin was worse than he expected. It was hot, musty and stinking of death. Dust motes floated through the air, accompanying the flies on their perpetual journey. Newspapers were stacked up on the table, along with the remnants of a meal laid out for two. Maggots writhed on the plates. Fletcher made sure to breathe through his mouth.
The cabin wasn’t very big, mostly comprised of a large room off a utilitarian kitchen housing the table, a couch, an armchair and a beat-up television set. A short hallway led to a bathroom, with two doors on either side.
“Let’s find him,” Fletcher said to Hart, who set off down the hall. He turned to the deputy. “Anyone heard from the mom recently?”
“Mrs. Everett was in town beginning of last week, getting supplies. I saw her myself, at the hardware store.”
“But no one saw William?”
“Not that I know of, but we can ask around. Bill doesn’t come home much. Once he got out… Well, who could blame him? His momma is mean as a snake. There was nothing for him here anymore.”
“A dead snake.” Hart appeared, face pinched. “Mrs. Everett’s tucked up in her bed, single gunshot to the head.”
“Aw, shit,” the deputy said, pulling his hat from his oversize head and mopping the sweat off with a red bandanna.
“What’s in the other room?” Fletcher asked.
“Empty.”
“The bath?”
“See for yourself.”
It wasn’t a pretty sight. A man who matched the description of William Everett sprawled in the tub, canted to one side, the water a murky black. A straight razor was on the floor, the blood long crusted. His face was congested with blood, the skin turning a dark puce.
“Suicide?” Fletcher asked, not really as a question. He was merely stating the obvious.
“Could be. Killed his momma, then slit his wrists.”
“Why, though?”
Hart shook his head. The deputy was getting greener by the second. Fletcher barked at him. “Get out of here before you puke all over my crime scene.”
The kid didn’t have to be asked twice. He bolted from the room. Fletcher didn’t blame him. He’d like to, as well. Billy Shakes smelled like hell, and looked ten times worse, to boot.
“Let’s take a quick gander for a note, then let the Roanoke police, or whoever handles their shit around here, deal with the scene. Damn it.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
Fletcher nodded. “This much decomposition? He’s probably been dead too long to have killed Donovan. Definitely too long to have hit Croswell.”
“Yep, that’s what I was thinking. Experts will know for sure, but he’s been gone for a while.”
They backed out of the bathroom, took a cursory glance around the house, but didn’t see anything that smacked of a suicide note. Fletcher didn’t feel like digging through the mess himself. He left that job to the techs.
The deputy was sitting on the front porch with his head between his knees. Fletcher patted him on the shoulder as he walked down the stairs.
“You okay, kid?”
“My name’s Brendan.” A little bite to him still. He’d make it eventually. The scene inside the Everett house could have been worse, but it was none too pleasant. Fletcher took pity on him.
“Ah. Brendan. Sorry, I’m a little preoccupied at the moment. When you’re feeling up to it, let’s call in your crime scene folks, have them take a look. Apparent murder-suicide. Warn them about the decomp. They’ll want to bring extra suits.”
“Yes, sir,” the deputy said, misery making his shoulders droop.
“Brendan. Seriously, you okay?”
