Davidson stretched his arms up over his head, cracked his neck and sighed. “This is my town, my jurisdiction. Without my help, you aren’t going to get anywhere.” The two men glared at each other. Without moving, Davidson gestured to Sam and Xander. “And you’ve brought two civilians along on a murder case. I’m out of patience, Detective. Who the hell is this?”
Xander squared his shoulders. “Sergeant Alexander Whitfield, U.S. Army, retired. Let’s just say I’m here in a consultative position.”
Davidson took a deep breath and blew it out hard, clearly exasperated. Sam noticed he’d put his fingers on his Glock.
Xander cleared his throat.
Fletcher shot him a look, then put his hands up in the air. “Fine. Fine. Here’s the deal. Something hinky is going on down here. We’re taking the samples back to D.C. to be run in an independent lab. If you’ve got a problem with that, then let me hear it now.”
Davidson scratched his neck. “This is what you’re hiding behind? I’m fine with that. I want to work with you, not against you, and solve this case. If—and the lady says it’s so, so I’ll amend that to since—Savage was murdered, we have an open homicide on a case everyone here thought was cut-and-dried. I agree with you, this whole thing with Picker is not right. So you wanna give me the rest, or do you wanna keep wasting my time?”
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
They brought him inside and showed him the shrine. He rocked back on his heels “Shit. How’d we miss this?”
“I assume your people were afraid of the gas and didn’t look thoroughly,” Sam said.
Davidson rolled his eyes. “You think? It was a rhetorical question, Doctor.”
To hell with cooperation. “Don’t be snarky, Detective. Your people never even bothered to remove the victim’s sweater—it doesn’t take a pathologist to see the bruises around his neck. You didn’t think it strange he was wearing a turtleneck in August?”
“Don’t get feisty with me. Savage was a strange dude. We couldn’t get within thirty feet of him for the first day. I didn’t make the call not to autopsy the guy—and I admit, in retrospect, that was a big miss for all of us. So thank you for coming down here and showing us country bumpkins what idiots we are.”
Sam was a patient woman. She really was. But she’d about had it with Detective June Davidson.
“Listen, Detective, I’m the one he was obsessed with. Now the man’s dead, murdered, an event he was clearly aware was coming, and prepared for. Which tells me he knew his murderer. And you knew Mr. Savage. As you said, this is your town. Why don’t you tell us what’s happening instead of hiding behind the country bumpkin crap?”
She heard Xander say, “Sam,” but ignored him and pressed on. “I’ve had some seriously bad things happen in my life recently, Detective, and some odd ones, as well. I’ve never seen anything this convoluted. So if you’re through being facetious, why don’t you do your job? Timothy Savage was murdered. Why don’t you find out why?”
She turned on her heel and walked toward the door. “I’m going back to D.C.”
Davidson called out to her, “Wait. Dr. Owens, wait. Please.”
She stopped, turned around and crossed her arms on her chest. She avoided Xander’s and Fletcher’s eyes, knew both of them were fighting to keep a straight face and not pummel Davidson, or her.
He continued. “I’m sorry. You’re right. This is a bizarre circumstance, and you’ve been pulled into this against your will. You did a hell of a job this morning with Savage’s body. I’ll tell you everything I know, everything Picker told me. I can’t guarantee you’ll like it, and it’s thin, but maybe it will help us get to the bottom of this. But we have to work together. I’ve just had a suicide turn into a murder and I don’t know why. Okay?”
“I thought you said Picker didn’t know anything,” Sam said.
“No, I said there was nothing in their system. Picker’s secretary claims a man who fits Savage’s description came in two weeks ago, asking for Benedict. They had a private meeting, lasted about two hours, and then Savage left. The meeting was scrubbed from the system, the log of visitors for the day doesn’t show Savage’s name. They have a camera on the front door, though, and there’s footage of him coming in. He looks calm and sane and certainly not afraid for his life.”
“Where’s Benedict’s secretary?”
“Denver. At a cousin’s wedding.”
“Convenient timing.” Sam was quiet for a moment. “Savage didn’t die from inhaling the hydrogen sulfide. He was strangled, there’s not a doubt in my mind. Do you think it’s possible he arranged for his own murder?”
Davidson said, “Maybe. Hell, anything’s possible, but there’s one problem with that theory. Who killed Rolph Benedict?”