‘Yes, yes,’ Suzanne said, then put a hand on Elliot’s arm. ‘This is my husband. What’s happened? Is this about Michael?’
‘I was just calling the police,’ Elliot said. ‘Our son—’
‘There’s been an incident,’ the officer said. ‘Michael Vaughn is your son?’
‘Oh God,’ Suzanne said.
‘What’s he done?’ Elliot asked. ‘Has he done something?’
He was obviously hoping so. Right now, the idea that his son had caused some trouble beat many of the possible other explanations for the police being here.
‘Not that we know of,’ said the cop, who was wearing a name tag that read Osterman. ‘This is a very difficult thing to have to tell you. Someone going for a jog in the woods near Clampett Park found a body a short while ago, and—’
Suzanne started to wilt. Elliot moved to catch her before she hit the floor. He guided her into a nearby living room chair.
Osterman waited until she was safely seated before he continued. ‘This jogger phoned the police and we went to the scene, and based on identification found on the body, well, we were led here.’
Between sobs Suzanne was saying, ‘No, please no, not my baby, not my baby.’
Elliot said, ‘Someone could have stolen his wallet. It might not be him.’
The cop nodded. ‘That’s true, but...’
He turned to me. ‘May I ask who you are, sir?’
‘Cal Weaver,’ I said. ‘Friend of the family. Also, a private investigator. The Vaughns called me because they’ve been worried about Michael. They haven’t seen him since last night.’
I pulled him aside, slightly out of earshot of Suzanne and Elliot. ‘Why’d you hesitate when he said the wallet might have been stolen?’
‘There was a student ID in it. The picture matches the deceased, at least as best we can tell.’
‘What happened to him?’
Osterman looked between the Vaughns and me. ‘Sir, I really should be dealing with—’
Elliot said, ‘Cal, would you go? Find out what’s happened. I’m going to have to stay here and take care of Suzanne.’
‘I’m afraid I have some questions that won’t wait,’ Osterman told them.
‘I’ll go,’ I told Elliot. ‘I’ll call when I know something.’
I left Osterman with them and headed for my car. He’d said the body had been found near Clampett Park, which was all I needed to know.
Half a block away from the park, I started seeing police cars. Marked, and unmarked. I pulled over to the shoulder and walked the rest of the way.
Three people — two men, one woman — in hazmat-type suits were about thirty feet into the woods just beyond the sidewalk, walking around, staring intently at the ground. They were covered head to toe in white, only their faces exposed.
I was walking past an unmarked car when I heard someone say, ‘Cal?’
I stopped, turned, and saw sitting behind the wheel, with the window down, Promise Falls police detective Barry Duckworth.
‘Barry,’ I said.
‘Hey, Cal,’ he said, getting out of the car and shaking my hand. ‘Good to see you.’
‘Good to see you too. How are you?’
‘Not bad, all things considered,’ Duckworth said. ‘It’s gonna be twenty years in another couple of weeks.’
‘Twenty years with the department?’
Duckworth nodded. ‘They’re still talking it over whether to make it a municipal holiday.’
‘At the very least.’
‘I was sorry to hear about what happened.’
I nodded. I never knew what to say, so it seemed easier to say nothing. Duckworth sensed my discomfort and moved on. ‘What brings you out here? I’m guessing you didn’t just chance by.’
‘I was at the Vaughns’ when one of your people showed up.’ I looked into the woods, where I presumed the body still was. ‘The officer said they’d taken an ID for Michael Vaughn off the body.’
Duckworth nodded slowly.
‘And that the photo on it looked a lot like the deceased.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘What’s your connection to the Vaughns?’
‘We were friends back when Donna and I lived here. They called me a little while ago. They haven’t seen Mike since last night. Suzanne — that’s the wife — broke down, and her husband Elliot asked me to come out and see what was going on.’
Duckworth nodded again.
‘So what is going on?’ I asked.
‘We’re in the early stages of the investigation,’ he said.
‘Can I have a look?’
He shook his head. ‘Nope. Already been enough people wandering around in there messing up the scene. Maybe later, after we move the body.’
‘What happened to him? He climb up a tree and fall down and break his neck? Trip on a tree root and knock himself out?’
Duckworth said nothing.
‘Come on, Barry. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t eaten by a bear.’
‘Somebody had a go at the kid,’ he said.
‘It’s a homicide?’
‘I see you still have your keen investigative instincts.’
‘Shit,’ I said.
‘Look, Cal, leave me your card or something, and if there’s anything I can share with you later, I will. And listen, we should grab a drink some time. Maybe you’d like to come over, have dinner with me and Maureen.’
‘We’ll have to set something up,’ I said, even though I knew it would never happen.
‘She’d love to—’
‘Found something!’
It was the woman in the hazmat suit. She had something in her hands that she was holding up for all to see. She was grasping it gingerly, careful not to smear the surface of it in any way.
It was a baseball bat, and even from thirty feet away, I could see it was smeared covered with blood.
‘Well,’ said Duckworth. ‘Looks like we got ourselves a murder weapon.’
I must have done a poor job of hiding my shock at what I was seeing, because Duckworth asked, ‘Something on your mind, Cal?’
I said no. But I was thinking of that phrase, the one about life imitating art. Or maybe it was the other way around.
Four
I got back into my car and drove straight to the Carson house. The first time I’d come here, there’d been a silver BMW in the driveway, but now there was a blue Lincoln SUV parked alongside it.
Greta Carson looked taken aback when she opened the door and found me standing there.
‘Oh, you’re back,’ she said. ‘So you’ve decided to take the case after all.’
‘May I come in?’ I said.
She opened the door wider. ‘Let me guess. You already found something we can use against them. I hope it’s someone high up, like the principal. If you’ve got something on her, we can nip this thing right in the bud.’
‘Is Chandler here?’
‘He’s up in his room,’ she said. ‘But you should tell me first what you’ve found out.’
‘I need to speak to Chandler,’ I told her.
She sighed with disappointment. ‘Fine, then. My husband just popped in. He was in the garage, but I think he’s back in the house. You might as well meet him while you’re here. Malcolm!’
A door to the left of the stairs opened, and I caught a glimpse of oak paneling and bookshelves. A ground-floor study. A tall, thin man emerged. Nearly six feet, but he’d have been closer to six-two if it weren’t for the fact that he was slightly stoop-shouldered. He wore a dark suit, white shirt and blue and red striped tie.
‘Malcolm, this is Mr Weaver,’ she said.
‘You’re the one she called?’
I admitted it. ‘Yes.’
‘When I heard you’d turned Greta down, I thought you had some sense, but I guess I came to that conclusion a little too soon.’