Coop began flipping through drawers while Rick pulled out the file drawers.
"Records go back ten years. If this is only ten years I'd hate to see all of the records."
"I've got a pile of oil bills from Tiger Fuel. A picture of the wife and kids." She stopped. Who would get that awful job, telling them? She opened the long middle drawer. "Pencils, pens, a tiny light, paper clips. Ah . . ." She pulled the drawer out even farther. A few envelopes, lying flat, were at the rear. "Winter basketball league schedule. Repair bill for his car. A new alternator. Three hundred forty-nine dollars with labor. That hurts. And . . ." She turned. "You getting anything?"
"It will take half the force to go through these file cabinets and we'll do it, too, but no, nothing is jumping right out at me except the mouse droppings."
"Need Mrs. Murphy."
"You're getting as bad about that cat as Harry."
Coop opened the last letter; the end of the envelope had been slit. She took out the letter. "Sister Sophonisba will bring you good fortune." She laughed a low laugh. "Guess not." She glanced up at the date. "Guess he didn't make the twenty copies in time."
"What in the hell are you talking about?"
"A chain letter. Mail out twenty copies in three days. Well, it's past the three days."
Rick came over, snatched the chain letter, and read it. "'Ignore this letter at your peril.' Under the circumstances it's like a sick joke." He handed the letter back to Coop, who replaced it inside the envelope. "All right, let's find Sam Mahanes."
"Saturday night."
"H-m-m. I'll find Sam. You find out who's the head honcho Saturday night."
"Boss, when are we going to notify people?"
"Not until I talk to Sam and you talk to whoever. I think we're already too late. The killer's flown the coop."
"Or he's over our head." She looked up at the ceiling.
"There is that. I'll send Petey over to Lisa Brevard. He's going to have to learn to deliver the bad news. Might as well start now. I'll keep Bobby Minifee with me-for now."
"Rick, think Bobby could have done it?"
"I don't know. Right now I don't know much except that our killer is strong, very strong, and he knows where to cut."
6
Face as white as the snow that remained in the crevices and cracks of the county, Bobby Minifee clung to the Jesus strap above the window on the passenger side of the squad car.
Rick lit up a Camel, unfiltered, opening the window a crack. "Mind?"
"You're the sheriff," Bobby said.
"You need me to pull over?"
"No. Why?"
"You look like you're going to be sick."
A jagged intake of breath and Bobby shook his head no. At twenty-one, Minifee was good-looking. He worked nights at the hospital to make ends meet. During the day he studied at Piedmont Community College. A poor boy, he had hopes of going on to Virginia Tech at Blacksburg. He was bright and he wanted a degree in mechanical engineering. The more he studied the more he realized he liked fluid dynamics, waves, water, anything that flowed. He wasn't sure where this would lead him but right now he was considering a different kind of flow.
"Sheriff, you must see stuff like that all the time. Blood and all."
"Enough. Car wrecks mostly. Well, and the occasional murder."
"I had no idea blood could shoot like that. It was all over the wall."
"When the jugular is cut, the heart, which is close to the throat, remember, pumps it out like a straight jet. It's amazing-the human body. Amazing. Was he still bleeding like that when you found him?" Rick slowly worked his way into more questions. When he arrived on the crime scene he had gone easy on Bobby because the kid was shaking like a leaf.
"No, oozing."
"Do you think he was still alive when you found him?"
"No. I felt for his pulse."
"How warm was his wrist or his hand when you touched him?"
"Warm. Not clammy or anything. Like he just died."
"The blood was bright red?" Bobby nodded yes, so Rick continued. "Sure? Not caked around the edges, or clumping up on his neck?"
"No, Sheriff. The reddest red I've ever seen, and I could smell it." He shook his head as if to clear his brain.
"It's the smell that gets you." Rick slowed down for a stoplight. "I'd say you were a lucky man."
"Me?"
"You, Minifee, could be lying there with Hank. I'd guess you were within five minutes of seeing the killer. Did you hear a footfall?"
"No. The boiler is pretty noisy."
"Freight train. Those old cast-iron babies go forever, though. Our ancestors expected what they built to last. Now we tear stuff down and build structures and systems that decay in seven years' time." He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Didn't mean to lecture."
"Takes my mind off-"
"When I drive you home I'll give you a few names of people you can talk to, people who specialize in this kind of shock. It is a shock, Bobby, and don't do the stupid testosterone thing and go it alone."
"Okay." His voice faded.
"Did you like Hank Brevard?"
"He was a hardass. You know what I mean? One of those guys who likes to make you feel stupid. He always knew more than I did or anybody did. A real negative kind of guy."
"So you didn't like him?"
Bobby turned to directly stare at Rick. "Funny, but I did. I figured here's a real loser. In his fifties, mad about young guys coming up. Used to shit on me all the time about my studies. 'An ounce of experience is worth a pound of book learning,'" Bobby imitated Hank. "I kind of felt sorry for him because he really knew his stuff. He kept on top of everything and he could fix just about anything. Even computers and he's not a computer guy. He had a gift."
"Being plant manager of a hospital isn't a small job."
"No, but he couldn't rise any higher." Bobby sighed.
"Maybe he didn't want to."
"He did. You should have heard him gripe about baseball player salaries or basketball. He felt plenty trapped."
"Insightful for a young man."
"What's age got to do with it?" Bobby turned back to gaze out the window. The night seemed blacker than when they had driven away from the hospital.
"Oh, probably nothing. I'm just used to young people being self-absorbed. But then think of what I see every day."
"Yeah, I guess."
"The other men who worked under Hank, feel the same way you did?"
"I'm night shift. I don't know those guys."
"Can you think of anyone who might want to kill Hank?"
"He could really piss people off." Bobby paused. "But enough to kill him-" He shrugged. "No. I'd feel better if I could."
"Listen to me. When you return to work, stuff will fly through your head, when you first go back to that boiler room. Sometimes there's a telling detail. Call me. The other thing is, you might be scared for yourself. I know I would be. From my experience this doesn't look like a sicko killer. Sickos have signatures. Part of their game. Hank either crossed the wrong man or he surprised somebody."
"What could be down in the boiler room worth killing for?"
"That's my job." Rick coasted to a stop at Sam Mahanes' large, impressive home in Ednam Forest, a well-to-do subdivision off Route 250. "Bobby, come on in with me."
The two men walked to the red door, a graceful brass knocker in the middle. Rick knocked, then heard kids yelling, laughing in the background.
"I'll get it," a young voice declared, running feet heading toward the door.
"My turn," another voice, feet also running, called out.
The door swung open and two boys, aged six and eight, looked up in awe at the sheriff.
"Mommy!" The youngest scurried away.
"Hi. I'm Sheriff Shaw and we're here to see Daddy. Is he home?"
"Yes, sir." The eight-year-old opened the door wider.
Sally Mahanes, a well-groomed, very attractive woman in her middle thirties, appeared. "Kyle, honey, close the door. Hello, Sheriff. Hi, Bobby. What can I do for you?"