Page 121 of Secrets Along the Shore
“And March is set on the death penalty,” I add.
“True,” Tasha says, “but I really think if it means avoiding the expense and uncertainty of another trial, March might reconsider. It’s at least worth trying to gather enough proof before Monday.”
“So let’s gather it and keep this from turning into another six-month circus.” As the words issue from my mouth, all the other things on my overloaded plate run through my head. “I’ll have to work around some other commitments?—”
“No problem. I get it,” Sheriff Vickers says. “We’ve monopolized you for weeks now. Just do the best you can.” The Sheriff has always been more than understanding about my multiple obligations and the reality that I’m not exclusively employed by Mitchell County. He’s had a bit of a soft spot for me since I came here with Daniel as a newlywed. His department was my first client after Daniel passed, and he’s made sure I’ve never wanted for work. Though I’m completely self-sustaining now, I’ve never forgotten his kindness.
I never will.
“I can give you the weekend, Sheriff. It’s not a problem. Let’s seewhere we are after that.” I pull out my phone. “For starters, I might be able to help you get a jump start on the identification—if I can have a photo of that trinket around the neck.”
Sheriff Vickers pivots toward the crime scene tech standing beneath a pop-up tent inside the cordon. “Gold, you mind giving us a second?”
Keith Gold looks over from whatever he’s doing at a plastic utility table, sets something down, and makes his way over.
“Hey, Sophie.” Keith’s freckled face is the only thing not covered by his Tyvek suit or sheathed in gloves or booties. Like most of the people working in the sheriff’s department and district attorney’s office, I know him. Keith worked every one of the Perfect Princess cases. We’ve had many discussions I wish I could forget about the revolting evidence in the case and the horrific nature of Fogerty’s crimes.
“Hey, Keith. I hate that you have to be out here again,” I say.
“You and me both.”
His face is haggard, his pallor unnaturally sallow. Keith’s a forensic veteran, so this scene can’t be the cause. “You all right?”
Keith shrugs. “I’ve caught some kind of something—summer cold, probably. But I wasn’t letting it keep me away from this. I started this case, and I’m finishing it. I’m gonna put the nail in the coffin of that psycho predator.”
I point at the body. “Is that a necklace around her neck?”
“Yeah, I think so. I’m not opening the tarp out here, but hold on a minute.” Keith goes back to the table to retrieve his Nikon, then holds the screen up to me. After he taps on the controls a few times, the display shows a zoomed-in photo of the necklace—a copper-colored metal owl attached by a metal ring to a thin leather cord.
I tap the screen. “Do you think you could send me a copy of this when you get back to the office?”
“I can do you one better.” Keith extends his hand. “Your phone?”
I hand my iPhone over and he marches over to the body, takes a photo, and comes back. It’s almost the exact same shot as the one on his camera.
“Great, thanks,” I say, making a mental note to wipe the phone down. I know he’s suited up, but between the decomposed corpse and whatever’s got a hold of Keith…
“Technically, that’s part of the official file on the case. Send it to me when you have a chance,” Keith says, before heading back to the tent.
“And…done,” I say, as my phone issues a whooshing sound indicating the photo has been sent to Keith’s work email. Better now than later, I’ve learned. I can be absent-minded when I’m narrowly focused, and I’m guessing I’ll be pretty myopic over the next few days.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Tasha, then turn toward the line of patrol vehicles parked along the dirt drive into the area. I walk without purpose, pacing really, as I tell Siri to place a call. The phone rings three times before he answers.
“S’up?”
I imagine the thin face of the twenty-two-year-old who goes by “Goat”—but whose legal name is John David Ellison—with his stringy hair on either side of his face, and theMandalorianT-shirt I’ve seen him wear more often than a shirt should be without falling apart.
Goat rents the office next to mine in MillWorks, the community work-share space housed in a renovated mill near Huntsville’s downtown. He’s an IT genius who’s been working freelance since he was eighteen. He drives a silver Tesla Model S Plaid and I’m fairly certain he’s a multi-millionaire.
A multi-millionaire who eats Fruit Loops for breakfast.
When we first met, I asked why he’d name himself after a farm animal. He stared at me like I was an idiot, explaining it wasn’t “Goat,” but “G.O.A.T.”—Greatest of All Time.
I knew the reference. I just never imagined someone would call themselves that.
I engage Goat’s services whenever a difficult IT issue pops up in a case. I did him a favor once and ever since he’s given me the friends-and-family discount. Otherwise, I could never afford him.
“Morning, Goat. I’m surprised you’re up. Thought I’d get voicemail.”
