“Make sure the computer equipment and phone systems don’t get wet.”
“Got it covered, Chief.” She grins. “Literally.”
Ten minutes later, my computer is booted and I’ve got the technician from the crime lab on the phone. “The coroner says Dale Michaels sustained a through-and-through gunshot wound,” I tell him. “Did you guys find a slug at the scene?”
“Metal detector found one that had penetrated the soil,” he tells me.
“Caliber?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Intact?”
“Enough for us to analyze striations, which we’re working on now. If we’ve got matching striations in the database, we’ll know by tomorrow.”
“Anything else?”
“We found a long hair on the victim’s clothing that doesn’t belong to the victim.”
I think of Belinda Harrington. “The daughter found the body. It could be hers.”
“Interestingly, this hair was naturally blond, but dyed brown.”
“That’s a switch.” And it rules out Harrington as the donor, since her hair is red. “You get enough root for DNA?”
“Working on it. Again, it’s going to be a few days. We’re a little jammed up here.”
“Keep me posted.”
“You know it.”
After thanking the technician, I end the call. I grab a yellow legal pad from my drawer and take a few minutes to write down everything I know about the cases, which isn’t much—at least in terms of concrete information. I have no viable suspects. No motive. No murder weapon. In terms of physical evidence, I have two Amish peg dolls, that link Dale Michaels’s murder to the murder of Julia Rutledge—and may or may not tie both murders to a thirty-five-year-old unsolved cold case. I have the notes, which tie the Rutledge case to Norm Johnston. I also have the data from Dale Michaels’s iPhone—the list of incoming and outgoing calls he made before his murder. And the text to Blue Branson. But how does it all tie together?
I go to a second page and write down what I remember from my conversation with a dying Julia Rutledge: When I asked, “Who did this to you?” she replied with: “We didn’t mean to.” I pressed and she responded with: “Kill her.” When I asked who, she said, “Ghost.”
I’m staring down at my notes, trying to decide how to put all of it into meaningful order when Lois peeks her head in. “Everyone’s here, Chief.”
“Thanks.” Gathering the three files and my legal pad, I start toward the meeting room to find that my small department has already converged at the rectangular table, including my third-shift dispatcher, Mona, who should be home sleeping. My chest swells a little when I notice everyone’s in uniform. T.J. and Skid are embroiled in a conversation. Glock is thumbing something into his phone. Pickles is nursing a mug of coffee, a legal pad and pen in front of him.
I take my place behind the half podium at the head of the table. “I want to give everyone a quick briefing on what we’ve got so far on the Michaels and Rutledge murders,” I begin. “Doc Coblentz just completed the Michaels autopsy. Cause of death was strangulation from hanging. In addition to being hanged, the victim sustained two gunshot wounds. One to the abdomen. The other to the genital area, which was a through and through.”
“Ouch,” Skid interjects.
That earns him a few nods from the other men in the room.
“The lab retrieved a slug. We’re looking at a .22 caliber. They’re working on matching striations now.” I look around the room. “At this point, no one knows if the gunshot wound to the genitals was on purpose or by chance. I think you know that if it’s the former, we could be looking at the work of a gang or revenge for a sex crime.
“Regarding Michaels’s iPhone: We’ve run all the names through LEADS and we’re working our way through the list. So far I’ve interviewed three of the individuals he made his final calls to: Blue Branson, Jerrold McCullough, and Julia Rutledge. As you know, Rutledge was murdered last night, which I’ll touch on in a moment. All three individuals have alibis and claim no knowledge of the victim or the crime.
“Interestingly, Michaels sent a text to Blue Branson shortly before his murder.” I look down at my notes and read: “‘Meet is on. Will call 2 let you know outcome.’” I turn my attention back to my team. “Blue Branson says he doesn’t know anything about the meeting and he doesn’t recall receiving the text.”
“You believe him?” Glock asks.
“He showed me his phone,” I tell him. “He wasn’t lying about having not read the text. But I don’t believe him one hundred percent.”
“Is he a suspect?” Skid asks.
“He’s a person of interest.”