He’s wearing a captain’s uniform with pretty gold bars on the collar that somehow complement the perspiration stains. His shirt has to be at least size 4X, and even with the extra yardage of shirt fabric, his buttons are straining at their threads—dangerously straining.
Captain Mudge’s momentum nearly carries him past us, but he manages to stop at the last minute, his face splotchy red either from the ten-yard dash he just completed or because he’s yelling at us about his crime scene and his investigation.
As he spews on, his finger jabbing first at Jimmy, then at me, then at the house, the sky, the road, a tree, and Sergeant Cooper’s left ear, Jimmy calmly pulls out his phone, looks up a number, and dials. This elevates Captain Mudge into an even higher realm of hysterics. Spewing words that would make a rap artist blush, he manages to somehow jump into the air, though I use the word loosely, since the jump looks more like a mountain hiccupping.
My mouth hangs half open as I stare at him in a surreal daze.
“What’s your problem?” I finally bark in horror and disgust.
Big mistake.
Mudge turns every ounce of his ire on me, solely on me. Spit flies as he gets in my face and vomits a stream of words I’ve never heard before; I swear he’s making them up as he goes. I really don’t know what we did to piss this guy off, but I’m starting to worry that he’s going to have a coronary right here, right now … and I’m not doing mouth-to-mouth.
“Hi, Chief,” I hear Jimmy say. He’s got this index finger poised with authority in front of Mudge’s face, but is otherwise ignoring the captain, his gaze directed at the house, the yard, the street; anyplace but Mudge’s puffing red face and sweating forehead.
“This is Special Agent James Donovan, we talked a little while ago. Yes, sir. I appreciate that, Chief. Yes, we just got to the house, but there seems to be a misunderstanding. Captain…” He pauses long and intentionally as he reads the name on the sweaty shirt. “Captain Mudge is upset at our presence and has ordered us off his crime scene.” There’s a pause as Jimmy nods. “Of course, sir, he’s right here.”
Handing the phone to Mudge, Jimmy says, “Your boss wants to clear up this little misunderstanding.”
I don’t know what the chief of police says, but Mudge’s face goes as white as a powdered donut and he stammers, “Yes, sir,” then “No, sir,” then “Perfectly clear, sir.” He hands the phone back to Jimmy with a stunned look on his face and without a word walks to a silver Crown Victoria parked on the street. He fumbles for his keys, drops them, and finally manages to unlock the car.
As he gets in, I throw him an olive branch. “Buckle up for safety,” I say, bringing my hands together in front of me to demonstrate the proper way to fasten a seat belt. It was a small olive branch.
Mudge ignores me and starts the car.
Turning to Sergeant Cooper, Jimmy says, “How ’bout we take a look at the backyard now?”
“Yeah, sounds good,” Cooper says, watching the car go. “Sorry about that.” He gives a little shrug. “I won’t make excuses for Mudge, he’s always been … difficult. But he’s going through a divorce and has some other issues going on; and he doesn’t like the FBI, hasn’t for about ten years now. Says you stole a homicide case from him. Lots of press that he thought he deserved.”
“Well, that wasn’t us,” Jimmy says. “We try to avoid the press when we can; it only muddies the relationship with local law enforcement. We help where we can, then go home. Serial killers are a bit different, though.”
“I can only imagine,” Cooper says.
The backyard of Susan Ault’s home is more cluttered and less attractive than the front but still nice by most standards. A large deck sprouts from the back of the house, complete with railings, benches, a built-in grill, and a steel-and-glass table surrounded by six chairs and covered by a large green umbrella that pokes out from the center of the table.
The deck drops off to a patio, which in turn gives way to thick grass that was due for a mowing two weeks ago. There’s no fence, just the neighboring yards on each side and a transition point between the grass and a wooded area in the very back.
I see it as soon as I come around the side of the house: brilliant rust-textured amaranth glaring at me defiantly, taunting me. The footsteps come in from the woods, cross the yard, and I see handprints where he peered through two windows before going to the sliding glass door.
The prints are fresh, only hours old, and they leave the same way they came, though joined by a second set of prints the color of bone marbled with violet: Susan Ault. Her footsteps are nearly sideways next to those of Sad Face, the way one would walk if struggling or looking back.
I kneel next to one of the prints and place my hand on the bent grass. “She has a daughter … how old?”
“Two.” Sergeant Cooper pulls a notepad from his breast pocket and flips through several pages. “Her name’s Sarah, Sarah Grace Ault.”
Jimmy reads my face, knows what I’ve seen. “We’ve got to get inside,” he says, pulling his Glock in one smooth motion. He fast-walks to the nearest window, but the curtain blocks his view. Moving to the sliding glass door with me and Sergeant Cooper close behind him, he tries the door.
It’s unlocked.
I pull my Walther P22, check the chamber, and flip the switch from safe to fire. The trail tells me that Sad Face is long gone, so I don’t expect a gun battle, but Jimmy and I have walked into too many surprises together to take any chances.