Russ peeled his gloves off and shook the medical examiner’s hand. “Thanks for getting out here so promptly.”
“It’s good to work with you. I’m just sorry it had to be under these circumstances. I know Emil Dvorak well. He’s a fine pathologist. Damned shame.”
They exited the small copse, and Russ waved the mortuary boys over to do their job. “We need to extend the tape all along here,” he said to Lyle, his arm swinging wide. “I want this line of brush gone over from the little gate down to the riverbank as soon as it’s daylight. He left one way or the other, dripping blood, maybe shucking gloves. There’s got to be something.” He caught sight of Clare, still sitting beneath a tree with the dogs. “And I need to figure out how to get Reverend Fergusson home.”
“What’s going on with you two?” Lyle asked, his voice neutral.
“Whaddya mean ‘what’s going on’? Nothing. I’m a happily married man.”
“So was I,” Lyle said. “Until I wasn’t anymore.”
Russ’s reply was cut off by a gleeful crow from Sergeant Morin, who emerged from the thicket ahead of the two mortuary attendants. “Take a look at what was under the body,” he said loudly. A damp and bloodstained piece of paper dangled between Morin’s latex-covered fingers. The tungsten lights seared the paper, popping the black lettering off the page so that even from several feet away, Russ could see the boldfaced heading: STOP BWI DEVELOPMENT NOW!
Chapter Eleven
Russ closed his eyes for a moment, but the overly illuminated image of the bloody paper was there, too. “Okay,” he said, “bag it. Maybe we’ll luck out and there will be usable prints.”
Lyle sidled closer. “Your mom is still in the county lockup, right?” When Russ rounded on him, teeth bared, the deputy chief held up both hands in mock surrender. “Just kidding! Just kidding!”
Russ grunted. “You are. Whoever thinks it next won’t be. Christ, this is all I need—someone thinking I have a personal stake in the outcome of a murder investigation.”
“Oh, come on. In the first place, who’s gonna believe one of your mom’s tree-hugging friends slit Ingraham’s throat? And it’s not as if you’ve coddled them. Trust me, slinging your own mother’s butt in jail showed the world you are an incorruptible cop.”
Russ looked at him. “Thank you, Officer Friday. Now, let’s wrap up this scene and get the gawkers out of here.” He shaded his eyes against the glare of the lights and squinted toward the dwindling crowd. “Looks like Durkee has finished taking names. Get him to run the tape down to the water.” He looked at his watch. “Glens Falls Dispatch is taking our calls right now. I’m going to get them to buzz Davies and McCrea at home to let them know to come straight here when their shifts start tomorrow morning. I want you here, too.”
“That’ll put me on—”
“Overtime. I know, I know. Be here anyway.”
The slither of tires on grass and the bounce of a new set of lights made him look away. The Channel 6 news van was pulling up, just in time to get the story taped for the eleven o’clock broadcast. He shook his head. Dealing with the press was his second-least-favorite part of the job, surpassed only by presenting the department’s budget to the Board of Aldermen.
A pretty young blonde who looked more like a kindergarten teacher than a reporter slipped out of the van, followed by a gorilla of a cameraman loaded down with what must have been sixty pounds of equipment. They conferred for a minute. From the way their arms were moving, they were figuring out what he was going to shoot. Then the gorilla caught sight of Russ and Lyle and pointed at them. The reporter ducked under the tape and advanced on their position, trailed by her cameraman.
“You want me to deal with ’em?” Lyle asked. There were only two types of cops who liked talking to the press: ambitious politicians or frustrated performers. Lyle, who once told Russ he had wanted to be Buffalo Bob when he grew up, fell in the latter group. He could spin out a “No comment” into a twenty-minute story without ever letting on it was all puffed air.
“Naw, I’ll handle it. Just button this place up fast, okay? I want to be out of here before Channel Thirteen decides this is newsworthy enough to send over a van, too.” If it were a single news outfit here tonight, he would only have to appear on TV once. After the initial photo op at the crime scene, he could usually get away with commenting to reporters over the phone.
Lyle waved an acknowledgment as he headed off to collect Durkee. The reporter pulled up in front of him and stuck out her hand. “Sheena Bevin, WTYY News. You’re Chief Van Alstyne?” Her voice was that peculiar combination of melodious and strident that all television reporters seemed to have.
He started back toward the police line. “Yep.”
She smoothed her white shirt and tugged on something clipped under her navy windbreaker. It was a microphone in a holster, which she unspooled and extended toward him. Behind and to the left of her shoulder, the camera light blazed on. “Chief, the report we got was that there was a possible homicide here tonight. What can you tell us? Who’s the victim?”
He stopped next to the yellow tape, which was shivering in a barely perceptible wind. He hoped to hell the rain would hold off. Trying to search the stretch of brush in the dark was going to be impossible; finding anything in a downpour in the morning would only be marginally less so. “We’re not releasing the name of the victim until we’ve been able to notify any relatives.”
“So it was a homicide?” Her shining blond hair seemed to gleam in interest.
He held up his hands. “Let me put what information I can give you in the proper order. At approximately nine-thirty tonight, we received a call that one of the spectators at the fireworks here had found a body. Deputy Chief MacAuley and Officer Durkee responded. Upon arriving at the scene, they secured the area and sent for Sergeant Morin, a state police forensics technician, and Dr. Scheeler, our temporary medical examiner. The victim was a middle-aged white male who was killed within an hour or so of the start of the fireworks. We are actively pursuing leads, and if anyone in the vicinity saw anything suspicious, we ask that they report it to the Millers Kill Police Department.”
“How was the victim killed?”
“I can’t release that at this time.”
“Do you have any significant evidence? Any suspects?”
“Dr. Scheeler believes there may be some excellent forensic evidence once he’s had a chance to examine the body.” The doctor hadn’t actually said that, but in Russ’s experience, all pathologists were sure they’d find something if they looked hard enough. “We have no suspects at the moment.”
“Thank you, Chief.” The camera light went out and she said, “Thanks a lot,” in a more natural voice. “We want to get some establishing shots and some reactions from the witnesses. Do you mind?”
It was a pro forma question, since he didn’t have the authority to stop the press, but he appreciated the courtesy. “Just make sure you don’t cross the line. We’re still securing the scene.”
“Will do. Matt, let’s go.” There was a clunk of metal hitting metal as the gorilla shouldered his camera and followed her.
Russ ducked under the tape and jogged to his cruiser, popping open the door to reach the radio. He watched the mortuary assistants leaving the thicket. The bag boys— Lyle’s name for them—picked their way through the brush, careful not to dislodge the contents of their pallet. The mound of shiny black plastic suddenly made Russ think of the fat blood sausages his grandmother Campbell used to urge on him. The image made his stomach churn. The Channel 6 cameraman was following the body’s progress from the brush to the back of the van.