One is a key. I make a note to check whether Jolene’s apartment key was on her. I’m guessing this is it, but it’d be damn embarrassing to realize the killer dropped their key in the hole and I ignored it.
The next item is the one Sebastian probably thought was odd. It’s a Saint Christopher’s medal. While it’s possible Sebastian just didn’t recognize it, I’m guessing he actually did. I know from childhood friends that Saint Christopher is the patron saint of travelers, which makes sense for someone here. He’s also the patron saint of luck, and yes, there’s irony finding that in the grave of someone whose luck clearly ran out.
For me, the third item is the odd one. A three-inch length of scratched and dented thin copper pipe. Scrap metal. To Sebastian—and even Petra—it would be debris. We find that sort of stuff whenever we need to dig.
These days, Rockton is as close to zero waste as we can get. When we buy products down south, we’re always looking at how the packaging can be recycled and, when possible, discarding extra waste there.
This certainly isn’t the way Rockton used to work. Our town is a microcosm of the greater world. In the past, people looked at this vast wilderness—or planet—and saw endless resources for use and endless room for waste. After a few decades of townhood, Rockton began to realize they were running out of easy dumping space and polluting the land and waterways.
While some of the old dumps have been dug up and disposed of properly, the surrounding land is riddled with crap that was either tossed away or buried. Finding a piece of old copper piping is hardly a surprise.
And yet …
I show it to Dalton.
“Looks like piping used when we rebuilt the canteen maybe seven, eight years back. There’s a box of scrap in the workshop. Kenny uses it whenever it comes in handy.”
“So some could have been tossed into the woods during construction.”
“Yeah. We tell people not to do that shit, but some still do.”
“Okay, random trash is one explanation. However, maybe I’m overthinking it but…” I sit back on my haunches, bag in hand. “I can’t figure out why Jolene’s murderer buried her alive, rather than use a more reliable way of killing her. It’s possible they thought it actually seemed like a good idea after Brandon tried it, but then why dig Jolene up and cut her throat?”
I shake my head. “I can come up with explanations. Or fall back on the classic: criminals don’t always make sense. But…” I lift the bag. “I want to see whether April can test this for saliva.”
“Saliva?” His brow furrows, but before I can explain, his eyes widen. “You think that was in Jolene’s mouth. A breathing tube.”
“I want to measure the burial hole—how far down the soil was disturbed. Using that and her size, I can tell whether it’s feasible, but I think it is.”
“Bury her alive with a tube in her mouth to breathe through.” He shakes his head. “Fucking stupid, if you ask me. How long can you hold that tube before you gasp or cough or pass out. As soon as it falls, you aren’t going to be able to breathe anymore.”
“Precisely.”
* * *
I measure the hole, which is shallow enough that this tube would have allowed Jolene to breathe. Then I consult with April, who informs me that there is no easy way to test for saliva on the pipe. I figured that, but I hoped she’d know some workaround. She doesn’t, and I can no longer say I’ll send it south for DNA testing.
I think back at how many times I said that since I arrived. At least a half dozen. How often did I actually do it? Never. We always caught the perpetrator before I could send the sample out. I could be proud of that track record, but I must also remind myself that if the cases had taken place elsewhere, I’d have still needed the testing as evidence for trial.
I’ll check the pipe for fingerprints, but my theory will doubtless always remain a theory. A plausible one, though. There is dirt clogging the end of the pipe, which is consistent with it slipping and cutting off her air. There’s also a scratch inside the back of Jolene’s throat that could have come from the pipe falling in.
Time to take another shot at talking to Marissa. That’s when I remember I promised to stop by Gloria’s. It’s almost nine, and I can’t expect Gloria to wait for me. Is it possible I’m postponing that conversation? Fearing she’ll ask about Jolene, questions I can’t answer? Yep, but I won’t let it go until tomorrow. I agreed to stop by after dinner, and so I’ll go there tonight.
Right after Marissa.
Except Marissa is not home. Or she is, and she’s not answering her door. This interview I will tackle tomorrow. First thing in the morning.
I’m turning from her door when I spot a pair of boots tucked off to the side. Rubber boots. That’s not unusual. The Yukon is quite dry, but we still get enough summer rain—usually in short bursts—that everyone makes use of their rain boots. Between thaw and freeze, it’s not unusual to just keep them on your front porch.
What catches my eye here is that I know these weren’t here a few days ago. It hasn’t rained. No need to bring them out if she was keeping them indoors. Yet here they are, and there’s dirt on the porch, where it’s fallen off the bottom of the boots.
I walk over and crouch beside them.
Definite dirt, suggesting recent wear. I pull a glove from my pocket and lift a boot to note the size. Eight. Men’s boots, too, which doesn’t mean they aren’t Marissa’s—the men’s are wider and some women find them more comfortable. As I’m setting the boot down, I notice a hair inside. I pluck it out. Dark brown. I have evidence bags in my pocket from earlier, and I tuck it into one.
I eyeball-measure the width of the boot’s toe and compare it to my notes. I haven’t gotten around to seeing exactly what size footprint I found, but this is a reasonable match. I rise and turn toward the general store. I should get the key from Dalton and measure sample boots.
No, I need to speak to Gloria first. Get that over with, and then I can measure boots.
Gloria lives in the next building. I rap on her door, and there’s a click before it swings open at my touch. It’d been closed, but not pulled completely shut.
I hold the knob so the door won’t open as I knock again, louder now. When she doesn’t answer, I push the door a few inches and call, “Gloria?”
No answer. I glance around, considering. My first reaction is to find someone who can confirm that I am only entering Gloria’s apartment for a welfare check. Then I remember our mantra. Does it matter? Nope.
Right now, no one cares what we do, short of hurting residents. Even if they did, what’s the council going to do? Fire me for violating a resident’s privacy? Yes, they’ve made their threat about exposing me, but they’ll save that in their hip pocket for a real emergency. A resident accusing me of breaking and entering hardly qualifies.
“Gloria?” I call. “I’m coming in. Your door was ajar and I’m concerned. We were supposed to talk tonight.”