Ten minutes later, I’m in the Explorer, heading toward Jerome Rankin’s last known residence. Beside me, Officer Chuck “Skid” Skidmore nurses a Styrofoam cup filled with hazelnut coffee. He works the graveyard shift, which is from midnight to 8:00 A.M., and was the only officer available this early, so I asked him to ride along.
We pulled Rankin’s sheet before leaving and checked for priors and warrants. There’s nothing outstanding, but the guy’s got a colorful history. As we head toward his residence, Skid reads the highlights. “Arrested for domestic violence three years ago. No conviction. There was a stalking incident involving the same woman. No conviction. Got a DUI last year. Get this: He was arrested for sexual assault, but the charges were dropped. Been a busy fuckin’ guy.”
“Who took the call for the domestic?”
“I did. It was one of my first arrests here in Painters Mill when I came down from Ann Arbor.” Skid motions toward the approaching intersection. “Turn right here.” He takes a gulp of coffee. “Let me tell you, Rankin’s one crazy son of a bitch, and I ain’t the only one who thinks so.”
I make the turn onto the township road. “How so?”
“It’s weird, Chief. It’s like when you look at him, he’s not all there. Crazy eyes. You know, like there’s something missing.”
“Any history of mental problems?”
He flicks the paper. “Nothing shows up here, but this is pretty cursory.”
Rankin lives in a small frame house nestled in the woods a few miles from Miller’s Pond. When I was a kid, the old place was vacant; some of the English kids in town used to say it was haunted. A few years ago, it caught fire and sustained a good bit of damage. It stood vacant for another year, open to the elements and forest animals, before the owner decided to replace the roof, put in a new furnace and hot-water heater, and rented the place to Rankin. I figure by now he’s realized Rankin is a lot more destructive than the animals and elements combined.
“Looks like he’s home,” Skid says.
I pull into the narrow gravel driveway and park behind an old Toyota pickup truck. “He work anywhere?” I ask.
“I used to see him every so often down at the gas station off the traffic circle. Ain’t seen him there for a while, though.”
I find myself thinking of the missing money from the mason jar in the Slabaugh basement. “I wonder where he gets his cash.”
“Hard telling with this guy.”
I get out of the Explorer. The sun is fully up now. It’s getting warmer, and I can hear the melting snow dripping off the trees. “Head around back,” I say quietly. “Just in case he decides to take a morning jog.”
Grinning, Skid heads around to the back of the house.
I step onto the porch. Wood creaks beneath my boots as I cross to the front door. I’m keenly aware of my service revolver pressing reassuringly against my hip. Using my baton, I knock. “Jerome Rankin?” I say loudly. “This is the police. Open the door.”
Silence falls all around. From the woods behind me, a crow caws. It’s so quiet, I can hear the wind whispering through the trees. I’m about to knock again, when the door swings open. Rankin appears, looking rumpled and cross. He’s wearing low-slung blue jeans and an unbuttoned flannel shirt, which reveals a bony-looking white chest with a big keloid scar that runs from belly button to nipple. He snarls something unintelligible but distinctly nasty, and I realize I’ve roused him from bed. He doesn’t seem the least bit pleased to find me standing at his door.
“You Rankin?” I ask.
“Who the fuck else would I be?”
Frowning, never taking my eyes from his, I hit my lapel mike, let Skid know I have him. Rankin is one guy I don’t want to be alone with too long. “You’re a real charmer, aren’t you?”
“That’s what all the chick cops say.”
I roll my eyes. “I bet.”
A moment later, Skid comes around the corner, his boots crunching through snow and dry leaves. Rankin glances at Skid, then turns his attention back to me. “What do you guys want?”
He’s standing in the doorway, squinting as if the light hurts his eyes. I’d like to take a look inside the house, but I suspect he’s not going to invite us in. I try anyway. “Can we come in?”
“I’ll come out there.” I have to back up a step to let him out of the house. “I didn’t do anything,” he says as he steps onto the porch.
Rankin isn’t tall and doesn’t have a lot of bulk. But he’s got the rangy look of a street fighter, all wire and sinew, with the reflex speed of a rattlesnake. Part of an intricate-looking tattoo runs up the side of his neck like a serpent tail. Despite his diminutive size, I find myself wanting to avoid any kind of tussle.
I hear Skid coming up the steps behind me. “I understand you were involved in a confrontation in town a couple of days ago,” I begin.
“Who says?”
“A little bird,” Skid puts in.