No communication.
The silence from Mercy was already grating on him. He’d reached for his phone twice that morning to shoot her a quick text. He hadn’t realized what a habit it was to share little things with her throughout his day.
“I didn’t do anything special. Just listened. Helps that I know what she’s been through.” Bolton slowed on the narrow two-lane road. “That must be it.” He turned into the driveway next to a battered mailbox that had clearly been a victim of kids in cars with baseball bats.
They already knew the owner was Darrell Palmer, age forty-five. Both men had studied his driver’s license photo and been unable to confirm he was their victim. But they hadn’t been able to rule him out either.
The Palmer driveway was long and curving, with fields just like Britta’s, but Britta’s road was in better shape. The Palmer drive was full of deep ruts. Bolton drove slowly, cursing under his breath as he heard a scrape along the underside of his vehicle. A small green farmhouse appeared, a large pickup parked on one side. Three big dogs rushed Bolton’s vehicle, barking their heads off.
Bolton turned off the vehicle, and both men sat in the Explorer as the dogs pawed the doors, their angry faces at the windows. Saliva dripped from their mouths. “Now what? A replay of Cujo?” asked Bolton.
A man stepped out from behind the house and called the dogs. They immediately raced to their master, and Truman noticed a tiny fluffy white dog had joined the three big ones. It barked just as much.
“That him?” Truman asked, squinting at the man, who herded the three large animals into a dog run. The white one ran in circles around his legs.
“Can’t tell,” replied Bolton. Once the owner threw the bolt on the run, the men opened the Explorer’s doors. Bolton swore at the scratches on the paint.
“How’s it going?” The man waved as he strode toward them, and Truman breathed a sigh of relief. It was Darrell Palmer.
“Not dead,” Bolton said under his breath.
Britta had been right that Darrell was the same size as the dead body. But the large stomach hanging over his belt was from food or beer. Not the decay of death. His hair was the same salt-and-pepper as their dead body, but his teeth showed in a wide, welcoming smile.
“What can I do for you?” Darrell said as he shook their hands and waved off their IDs. His dark eyes were earnest and showed an eagerness to help. Now silent, the little white dog sniffed at Truman’s boots.
“There’s been an incident on a neighbor’s property, and I’m asking people on this road if they saw or heard anything strange overnight,” Bolton said. Truman took a half step back and to the side. It was Bolton’s interview, so his role was watcher. To watch the interviewee’s hands and reactions.
Darrell’s eyes narrowed, and concern filled his face at Bolton’s words. He hooked two fingers in a belt loop and tugged up his jeans. “Was anyone hurt? Which neighbor?”
“The next property west of here. She’s fine.”
His face cleared. “Glad to hear it. She keeps to herself. Don’t know her that well. Not that I haven’t tried.”
“See any strange vehicles or people in the area?” Bolton pointed at the dogs. “Your dogs quiet overnight?”
“The dogs are never quiet. Always something setting them off. I swear the local wildlife hangs around here just to tease them when they’re locked up.”
“You kennel them at night?” Truman asked.
“Yep. Lots of critters around here that would take a bite out of them.” Darrell bent over and scooped up the white dog, giving it a loving scratch under the chin. It was missing an eye. “This one stays in the house. But to answer your first question, I didn’t see or hear anything overnight.” He glanced from Bolton to Truman and back. “What happened?”
“A man is dead. We haven’t identified him yet, but it appears he was shot.”
“Holy shit!” The little dog yipped as Darrell squeezed it in surprise. “Dead?” His eyes narrowed again, and he lowered his voice. “Did she do it? She kill him? She pulled a gun on me the first—and last—time I stopped by there.”
“Ms. Vale is currently not a suspect,” Bolton answered. He leaned closer to the man and lowered his voice. “Just for your information, if you knew Ms. Vale’s history, you’d understand why she’s jumpy. She wishes to be left alone, and I’d respect that.”
Darrell searched Bolton’s face and slowly nodded. “Got it. Was just being neighborly. Don’t like seeing a woman living alone out here, stuff happens—Well, obviously something happened last night. How are you going to identify him?”
“We have several avenues to start with.”
“Well, I know a lot of people around here. I could take a look, if it’s not too—you know—if the face isn’t . . .” His words trailed off. Truman had glimpsed his eagerness to help, but now the man pulled back when he realized it would be morbid.
Bolton looked at Truman, a question in his eyes.
Should we show him a photo?
Truman shrugged. He would, but it was Bolton’s call.
The detective weighed his choices, indecision in his eyes. He finally pulled out his phone and scrolled through the photos. “Are you sure, Mr. Palmer? The man has been dead for a few days. It’s not pleasant.” Holding his phone so Darrell couldn’t see, Bolton flashed a photo of the dead man at Truman, who nodded his approval. The photo didn’t show the damage to the side of the head from the gunshot.
Darrell raised his chin. “I understand, but if I can help, I’d like to.”
Bolton held out his phone, and Darrell Palmer paled at the sight. He swayed slightly, looking nauseated, and Truman stepped forward in case the man was going down.
“Don’t know him,” Darrell forced out, his eyes wide and unable to look away from the image. “If he’s been dead for a few days, why did you ask about last night?”
“Because we believe the body was moved to Ms. Vale’s property last night.”
“Moved?” Darrell glanced at Bolton but immediately went back to the photo. The pulse at his neck was visible. “You’re saying someone dumped the body a while after he was killed.” Darrell motioned for Bolton to put away his phone and started petting his dog in a way that reminded Truman of Britta and Zara.
“I can’t believe this happened here.” Darrell stared into the distance, his words subdued. “Usually good people in these parts.” He slowly shook his head. “Can’t believe it,” he repeated.
“That’s your truck, right?” Truman asked.
Darrell turned to see where Truman had gestured. “Yes.”
“Mind if I look at it?”
Confusion crossed his face. “Should I mind?”
“Darrell, what about the last three days?” Bolton pulled Darrell’s attention from Truman. “Have you seen anything unusual?”
Truman quietly strode to the truck and studied the tires. He compared them to the photo of the tire treads on his phone. They were similar. Maybe. He took a quick photo of a tire tread and went back to the other two men. Darrell had set the dog down and now stood with his hands crammed in the front pockets of his jeans. He looked defeated.
Truman sympathized. It wasn’t every day you were shown a picture of a dead body. To his surprise, Darrell asked to see it again and planted his feet in preparation as Bolton obliged. This time his face didn’t change, but he held his breath until he looked away.
“That’s enough,” Darrell said, closing his eyes for a long second. He squared himself and looked at both men. “Just wanted to make sure. I was a bit shocked the first time. Don’t know the poor soul.”