For the span of a full minute, neither man spoke. The only sound came from the jiggle of Kinnamon’s foot against the chair. Tomasetti could feel the other man’s curiosity, his misery, his desperation.
“Official word is he got off on a technicality,” Tomasetti said. “But I heard Joey Ferguson walked because he turned over on you. He ratted you out. Fucked you over.” He leaned back in his chair and contemplated Kinnamon. “That means he gets the house on the lake. A pretty wife. The kids. And a boat. You get life in a six-by-six-foot cell.”
The other man said nothing. But Tomasetti didn’t miss the color that climbed up his neck or the way the muscles in his jaws quivered with tension. “Who the fuck are you? And why would you come in here and tell me that shit? You got some beef with Ferguson?”
Tomasetti closed the file and got to his feet. “Good luck with your trial.”
Kinnamon hissed something, but Tomasetti pressed the call button, shutting him out. When the door opened, he left the room without looking back.
CHAPTER 21
Half an hour later, I’m standing twenty feet from the bank of a raging Painters Creek, watching a volunteer firefighter retrieve McCullough’s body from the water. Next to me, Skid slurps at an extra-large McDonald’s coffee, watching the scene as if he’s sitting cross-legged in front of the television watching an old episode of Jonny Quest. Behind us, two paramedics from Pomerene Hospital stand beneath the branches of a black walnut tree that does little to shield them from the rain.
“Chief?”
I glance behind me to see the coroner approach, sliding a little in the mud as he comes down the slope from the front of the house. He’s eyeing me as if it’s my fault he’s out tromping around in such inhospitable weather and he’s holding me personally responsible. His eyes slide toward the life preserver–clad firefighters as he starts toward us.
“I wish people would choose better weather in which to die,” he grumbles as he reaches us.
Skid chuckles into his coffee.
The doc doesn’t smile. “Any idea who it is?”
“I think it’s the homeowner, Jerrold McCullough,” I tell him.
“Chief!” The nearest firefighter looks over his shoulder at me. “You might want to see this.”
Skid lowers the cup from his mouth and looks at me. “You want me to go, Chief?”
“I got it.” I cross to the water’s edge, where the two firefighters, both of whom have safety tethers attached to their life vests, are standing in hip-deep water. “What is it?”
“This guy didn’t just fall off the deck and get tangled in that rope,” he shouts to be heard above the roar of the water. “His hands are bound.”
In light of the other two murders, I shouldn’t be surprised, but there’s always something intrinsically shocking about murder. “He’s tied to the deck?”
“Looks like.”
The deck seems to be shielding them from the worst of the current. Still, it’s a dangerous retrieval. Without those tethers, one slip could send a man into the water, where even the strongest swimmer would be swept downstream.
A third rescuer approaches me with an orange life vest. “Here you go, Chief.”
All I can think as I put my arms through the straps is that I don’t want to go into that swirling, dark water. The firefighter doesn’t seem to notice my trepidation as he produces a black nylon tether strap and clips it to my vest with a carabiner.
The firefighter in the water looks over his shoulder at me. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
At the bank, I look back at Skid. “Grab the camera, will you?”
Nodding, he starts up the incline toward his cruiser.
Trying not to slip in the mud, I enter the water. Cold creeps over the tops of my boots and grips my feet with icy hands that streak up my legs with enough force to chill my entire body. No one had any spare wader boots, so I’m destined to go through the day with wet feet. Another step takes me into a foot of swirling brown water. Even though it’s shallow, the current tugs at me, like a child pulling on my pant leg to get my attention.
I’m about four feet downstream from the deck. Tea-colored water rushes around the wood piers. The two firefighters are taking the brunt of the current; I can see it washing around their legs. One of the men has looped a rope around the nearest pier and is using it to hold on to.
Water inches over my knees and slaps against my thighs as I wade closer to the deck. When the farthest firefighter steps aside, I get my first good look at the body. I see a blue-white face with cloudy eyes. A gray strip of what looks like duct tape over the mouth. Hair flowing like some exotic fish fin just below the surface. The victim is wearing a white tank undershirt and blue jeans that have been nearly pulled from his body by the force of the water. Bare feet. My eyes seek out his hands, but they’re bound behind his back, cotton rope whipping with the current.
“See that?” The firefighter points. “Hands are tied. Looks like duct tape over his mouth and wrapped around his head. I thought you might want to see it before we cut him loose.”