Page 64 of Reading Between the Lines
Diem held the officer’s glare, clearly wanting more information.
Hercules wasn’t forthcoming.
“What kind of dog does he own?” I asked.
“All kinds. His old man runs a kennel on the outskirts of town, and Nicholas has been slowly taking over the business. He runs and walks those dogs at least three or four times a day, usually in groups. Always along the trail. The morning he found the boy, Nick was out with Diago, a sixteen-year-old bloodhound. The old pooch is a great tracker but doesn’t like company in his old age, at least that’s what Nick tells me, so he walks him alone.”
“Where can I find this Nick guy?” Diem asked.
“The kennel is north, out past the trailer park on this side of the river.” Hercules nodded his head at the folder. “I took his statement. It’s all written down. Can’t see why you need to hassle him. Hard enough making a discovery like that, but having to relive it repeatedly…” The constable shook his head.
Diem asked about the man’s theory on the short story Delaney had found, but Hercules summed it up the same way Delaney had the previous day. “I strongly believe that Weston was out there doing research for his newspaper article. His English teacher confirmed Weston wrote the short story and that he wasn’t a strong fiction writer, so it was his opinion that Weston had simply written a mystery plot devised from a topic that was currently on his mind.”
“Doesn’t that seem a tad convenient and coincidental?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Not really. Like I said, I scoured the area. I can’t find proof of foul play, and a fictional story that sadly ends the same way doesn’t mean shit. Do you know how many lives thatriver has stolen over the years? Plenty, and most of them are stupid teens who think they’re invincible.”
But Weston wasn’t a stupid teen. Before I could say as much, the constable added, “I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but you’re wasting your time. Mrs. Mandel is desperate for answers, but the answer is quite simple. She just won’t accept it. Occam’s razor.”
“Did you talk to Weston’s friends? His girlfriend?” Diem asked.
“I did a full investigation.”
“Of course you did.” Diem shoved his chair back and stood. “Thanks for nothing.”
He was out the door before I could get to my feet. “Don’t mind him. He’s having a bad day. So, um, out of curiosity, did you confirm if Weston and his girlfriend were at the library that morning?”
“I did afullinvestigation,” Hercules said more pointedly.
“Awesome. I better run, or he’ll leave without me.” I got to the door and pivoted, catching the constable reviewing his notes with a frown. “Any chance you chatted with the teens in the writing club?”
Hercules pinned me with a familiar expression of warning.
I held up my hands. “Not questioning your thoroughness. You, sir, did a full investigation. Have a great day.”
I aimed for what I thought was the front of the station but ended up turned around and in a hallway I didn’t recognize. With every intent on retracing my steps, I spun, but the soft buzz of voices from a nearby room caught my attention, stilling my feet. Rather, the wordsa third dead bodyperked my ears and drew me up short.
I had Weston on the brain, and since Diem and I were convinced something nefarious had happened to the teen, I couldn’t curb my curiosity. Had they come across more dead teens? Were we right? Regardless, murder and mystery had away of getting under my skin and bringing me life. The itch to know more was insatiable, despite knowing that snooping at the police department was ten kinds of wrong.
I slinked toward the partially open door where the voices emanated and listened, squinting the best I could through the slim crack near the hinge.
“We’re going to need to call in the bigwigs,” one of the officers said.
The other concurred.
A male and a female constable leaned against the edge of a table similar to the one Diem and I had been at moments ago. Their focus was on a whiteboard, where images of several dead bodies in various stages of decay hung. They blocked my view, but I read what I could. Near one set of images was written: Female. Blonde. Mid- to late thirties. COD: Strangulation. The rest of the description was hidden from view thanks to the position of the officers.
Two more sets of images occupied the board, but neither were visible enough to take in.
My scalp prickled. I knew crime scene photos when I saw them, but usually, by the time they hit my desk, the cases were either solved or past their prime. Were these fresh? New? This was golden.
The eager, wannabe detective in me burned with the desire to enter the room and find out what was going on. Where was Woman, blonde, mid- to late thirties found? Was she local? Did she have a name? How long had she been dead? Who were the suspects? What was being done? A thousand more questions tickled my tongue.
I skimmed what I could see beyond the two officers blocking my view. Most of the notes were written in illegible handwriting, but two words had been circled in red marker. Missing fingernails.
I cringed. Eww.
One of the officers shifted, and I squinted at the illegible handwriting. Sculth… something Marsh. I’d never heard of it. That must have been where they found her. Sculth…Dammit.What did it say?
