Phil’s job isn’t real. Rockton doesn’t exist, and so the council doesn’t exist, and so his job—the one he’s had since being headhunted in university—doesn’t exist. He hasn’t said he’ll go with us to a new Rockton. He’s made it clear that he probably won’t. So if he pisses off the council, where does that leave him? Thirty-one years old with a blank résumé and zero job experience. They promised him a sizable bonus in return for his work here—as if it’s work and not exile—but he can hardly take them to court if they refuse to pay up.
Dalton faces the same issue, having never worked elsewhere. For him, it’s worse. He doesn’t exist himself. The council insists his ID is real, but we don’t trust that they’re telling the truth about that.
The difference is that, for Dalton, the council lacks leverage. Sure, he’d like to be able to hop on a plane to Vancouver for a holiday, but it’ll hardly be the end of his world if he needs to drive instead. Even if we can’t rebuild Rockton, he’ll find a new life. We’d find it together. If we were somehow forced to stay in these woods forever, while it wouldn’t be our first choice, we’d be fine. Phil would not.
Stuck between that rock and hard place, Phil has decided that he understands if there are things we don’t bring to him. He’s not sticking his fingers in his ears, but he won’t complain if we bypass him on matters that don’t concern him.
This is different. We’re telling the council about Jolene. The only sticking point is that we’re asking for his advice on that. If he says we shouldn’t tell them, then we won’t … and he’s in the awkward position of knowing something the council doesn’t.
The easy solution would be for him to insist we inform the council, regardless of whether that’s the right call. We trust he won’t do that, and he doesn’t. He considers the matter. He asks questions. He considers some more.
“What are you suggesting then?” he asks. “That we destroy the sign or quietly take it into evidence?”
“Option two,” I say.
He nods. “It is entered into evidence, but we do not openly admit to that when we communicate Jolene’s death to the residents.”
“Yes.”
“And when residents ask whether it’s connected to her involvement in Conrad’s case? Her support of him?”
I take a deep breath. “That’s where we cross a line, which I’d like to do as nimbly as possible. I will say we are considering the possibility of a connection while reminding them that both Conrad and Brandon have been in custody since Jolene disappeared.”
Isabel wordlessly pivots to Anders, who sighs.
“Yeah,” he says. “The fact that I was at home, fifty feet from where Jolene was found—and I’m the person who found her—is not going to help me here.”
I shake my head. “Conrad exposed you. Gloria helped. Jolene was not involved in any way.”
“Except as one of the loudest voices calling for Will’s head on a pike,” Isabel says. “I know it makes little sense for Will to murder her out of spite, but even one voice raised against Will can incite others. That’s how conspiracy theories start. I would suggest we leave out who found her. No one ever asks about that.”
“Agreed,” I say.
“Someone is still going to raise Will’s name as a suspect.”
“And I’ll assure them that I’m investigating all avenues. Unless you have a better idea.”
“I wish I did,” she says. “I’m merely bringing it up so Will won’t be blindsided.”
Anders shakes his head. “These days, I’m prepared to be blamed for everything from murder to stale muffins.”
“Anything else?” I say. “Angles we’re missing?”
We look at one another.
“Oh, I’m sure there are many,” Isabel says. “This is a hornets’ nest of trouble, and even if we think we’ve gassed all the little pests, one or two are bound to be hiding inside, ready to sting.”
“Ready to bite us in the ass,” Dalton mutters. “All right then. Phil? How do you want to handle telling the council?”
“I will notify them immediately. That will mean leaving an urgent message for Tamara, which she will certainly not bother answering for hours, but the timing of the message will be on record.”
“And then we keep quiet on the murder until we hear back from them?” I say.
“We do.”
* * *
The next step is getting Jolene’s body to the clinic. We’re still a couple of hours from dawn, but that comes quickly at this time of year, and we want Jolene inside by then. Even this late at night, the occasional resident is out and about, usually sneaking home from a lover’s place. Isabel leaves with Phil, and I stand guard just inside the edge of town while the guys transport Jolene to the clinic and in the back door. I meet them there.
Jolene’s body goes on the table. The rear door is relocked and Anders stands guard while I return to the crime scene. Dalton gets the thankless task of waking my sister. In my defense, I am the detective, so I should be the one on crime-scene duty. Also, if there is one person that April will not grumble at for a 3 A.M. wakeup, it’s Dalton. I suspect, though, that she’ll still inform him, as gently as possible, that given the status of the patient’s health, it could have waited for morning.
Once Dalton has delivered April to the clinic, he returns to me while Anders assists April in preparing Jolene for autopsy.
When Dalton arrives, I’m still examining the crime scene. He takes over important tasks such as holding the flashlight.
The first thing I look for is blood. I hadn’t seen any earlier, but now I take a closer look with an ultraviolet light to check whether any of the dark soil might be blood-soaked. I find zero evidence of blood at the scene. Either her throat was slit elsewhere or she’d been dead long enough that slitting it here produced only enough blood to stain her shirtfront.
Next is footprints.
Dalton takes a break from flashlight holding to help with this. He finds where someone walked through the brush—broken branches, etc. Once he points out the path, I’m able to locate two footprints from a standard-issue rubber boot. Both are only partial prints, but I measure them anyway. It’ll be easy to get samples and maybe narrow down a rough size. Right now, I’m going to say it’s a medium men’s, wider than the women’s model.
Now comes the big question. How did Jolene get here? Okay, there are multiple questions in that one. Where was she for the last twenty-four hours? What happened to get her from “missing” to “dead”? Right now, though, I want to know how she got here from wherever she’d been.
It’s possible that someone escorted her here and then killed her. Escorted at knifepoint? All she’d need to do is shout to bring someone running. I’ll need to check for signs of a gag, but I’m reasonably certain she died hours before her throat was cut. While it’s possible she walked here and was murdered—and her killer returned later to cut her throat and try disguising cause of death—that seems overly convoluted.
“Any signs she was dragged?” I say.
Dalton shines the flashlight to crushed vegetation a few feet away.
“You could have pointed that out before I spent the last five minutes pondering how she got here.”
“You’re the detective. I hate to interfere.”