Chances are Leland Dull wasn’t involved in this particular accident. But considering his history of drinking and driving, his proximity to the scene on the night in question—and the fact that he drives a truck—I’m obliged to check him out.
I find the house with no problem and park in the driveway, behind an old Dodge pickup. I can’t see the front end of the truck from where I’m sitting. I hail dispatch, let them know I’m 10-23, get out and start toward the vehicle. A quick walk around reveals no damage.
“Ain’t you going to kick the tires?”
I glance up to see Leland Dull standing a few feet away, glaring at me as if I’m about to steal his truck.
“Or maybe you ought to whip out one of them CSI Q-tips and swab the hood for blood. Hell, break out the shovel. Maybe I got a fuckin’ body buried in the backyard.”
He’s sixty years old with a full head of white hair that’s gone yellow and hasn’t seen a decent cut in a couple of decades. The stubble on his chin tells me he hasn’t shaved for a few days, and I’m pretty sure the smell wafting over to me isn’t from the aging mutt at his feet.
I pull out my badge and show it to him. “You’re not confessing to anything, are you, Leland?”
“What are you doing on my property?”
“I just want to ask you a few questions.”
He’s looking at me as if he’s thinking about traversing the space between us and slugging me in the mouth. Leland Dull is a vicious drunk and a woman-beating son of a bitch. There’s a small, angry part of me that wishes he’d take his best shot.
I gesture toward the Dodge. “That your truck?”
“It’s parked in my driveway. Who the hell else would it belong to?”
“You got any other vehicles?”
“I got a Corolla. Wife drives it.”
“Any other trucks?”
“Nope.”
“Where were you last night?”
“Here.”
“You make any stops on your way home from work?”
“Nope.”
“Leland.” My lips curve, but the smile feels nasty on my face. “You know it’s against the law to lie to the police, don’t you?”
“I swung by the Brass Rail after work.”
“What time was that?”
“A little after five.”
“What time did you leave the bar?”
“I ain’t sure. Seven thirty or so.” His eyes narrow. “What’s this all about, anyway?”
“What route did you take home?”
“Same route I always—” He cuts the words short. “Oh, for shit’s sake. You don’t think I’m the one killed them Amish, do you?”
“I’m asking you a simple question.”
“You’re looking for an escape goat is what you’re doing. Well, you’re sniffing up the wrong ass.”
I puzzle over both of those statements a moment and make an effort not to laugh. “I’d appreciate it if you just answered the question.”
“I took CR 14 to the highway, damn it.”
I walk to his truck, make a show of looking at the front end. “Were you drunk?”
“On fuckin’ apple juice.”
I turn my back and walk to the detached garage, peer through the window. The glass is grimy, but I can see there’s no vehicle inside. Just an old washer and dryer. A table saw against the wall. A couple of fifty-gallon drums.
I hear him behind me. “Why are you snooping around my garage, anyway?”
“The official term for it is taking a look around.” I turn, make eye contact with him. “What’s in those fifty gallon drums, Leland?”
I hear a sound like chalk against slate. It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s grinding his teeth. I walk over to him, stop a scant foot away. I’m so close I can smell the dead-animal stench of his breath. The odors of filth and rage coming off him in waves. He’s only a few inches taller than me, older and slower, but he’s got eighty pounds on me. I suspect that beneath all that wrinkled, stinking skin is a reserve of muscle I’d be wise not to underestimate.
“Do you know anything about that hit-and-run?” I ask.
His lips curl, like two worms exposed to flame. “I think it’s time you hit the fuckin’ road.”
I turn away and start toward the Explorer. “Thanks for your cooperation,” I tell him and slide in without looking back.
CHAPTER 11
Ten minutes later I’m on my way to Pomerene Hospital to talk to Mattie, not as a friend this time, but a cop. I’m not convinced the deaths of Paul Borntrager and his two children were acts of premeditated murder, but with the evidence leaning in that direction, the possibility must be explored. That means I need to ask the hard questions I’ve been putting off, and delve more deeply into Paul’s life. I need to know if he’d had any recent disagreements or disputes. If he had any enemies or if there’d been any threats against him or his family.