Page 41 of Finding Silence
She slides a file folder she has open in front of her out of the way, folds her arms on the desk and drops her head down.
I get a flash of Savvy as a teenager, overwhelmed or frustrated by some homework assignment, doing the exact same thing. I reach out and stroke her hair, like I used to do then.
“Have you eaten?” I ask gently.
“Not since breakfast,” she grumbles.
“Can’t think on an empty stomach, Toots,” I remind her.
I grab the phone on her desk and dial one for reception, where Brenda Silvari, our office manager, answers right away.
“Sheriff?”
“It’s Colter senior, Brenda. Could you order a large Hawaiian pizza and a Greek side salad from Pie Central?”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
After twenty years working for me, I don’t think Brenda will ever stop calling me that, so I don’t even bother correcting her.
“And Brenda? If you plan on staying any longer, order yourself something and maybe add a couple of pies for the break room as well.”
“Will do.”
As soon as I hang up, Savvy lifts her head, looking at me through bleary eyes.
“You hate pineapple on pizza,” she reminds me.
“I’ll live. Now, what’s next on your list?”
She slides the open folder across the desk at me. A handwritten note is on top. I quickly scan the items she jotted down before moving it aside. There is no particular rhyme or reason to her notes. Then I reach for the notepad on her desk and grab a pen from the collection of writing instruments tucked into an old coffee mug from the Bread and Butter diner that somehow ended up on her desk.
“Talk me through it,” I urge her. “What do you know, what do you have, and what do you need?”
“Dad…” she groans. “We don’t have time for this.”
“Honey, if your mind is as scattered as your notes are, you’re going to miss things. It’ll help when you talk it through. Make time.”
She sighs deep, but leans back in her chair and folds her arms behind her head, letting her eyes drift out the window as she starts recounting events chronologically, while I take notes. When she’s done, I look over the list I made and start asking questions.
“Fingerprints?”
“Yes, all over the instruments and furniture in the music room. We’re still processing them and trying to eliminate people we know have had access, like Phil, her manager, the movers, her cleaning lady in Portland, and even the other band members. Those guys were over at her place in Portland before they did a charity concert last year.”
“So, working from the theory it was this Duncan guy, if his fingerprints show up, they are easily explained,” I point out.
“Correct. Except on the nightstand, the crack pipe, and the baggie which, by the way, held a combination of meth and fentanyl,” she informs me. “Just like in Angus’s stomach contents. Buck called me when I was on my way back to the office. I’m still waiting for a call from the lab on the whiskey and the blood samples we took from you and Phil.”
“That’s disturbing,” I observe.
Meth laced with fentanyl is a lethal combination and the cause of many an unfortunate overdose. It’s not difficult to see what the possible objective could have been here. There was a clear attempt to plant the seed Phil is an addict, so that a later overdose might have been ruled accidental. If I hadn’t taken her home, things might have ended very differently. That tiny sip of whiskey we shared, before things got heated between us, could easily have been a full tumbler, maybe two, Phil would’ve had by herself in her own house.
“I know,” Savvy confirms. “Anyway, back to fingerprints, we did find some on the bottle, but those belonged to Phil, you, and Grace, who helped Phil move in. Those are all accounted for. I don’t think we’ll find any that are useful to us, the lack of fingerprints on the crack pipe and baggie would indicate he was wearing gloves.”
“Right. Next would be the biological material, but it’ll take months before the lab can get DNA extracted.”
“Besides, it may not even be his own shit,” Savvy points out.
Disgusting.
