dropped him off up in the Savage Run country and forgot to come back and pick him up so he had to walk out for two days. I’ve had my eye on them for years, but they’re pretty slippery.”
He nodded toward the bodies. “Or they were, anyway. What doesn’t work for me is how the three of them got hooked up. The Mad Archer was too nuts to keep any friends, and the Kellys stayed completely to themselves.”
Two of McLanahan’s deputies bookended him. Both were young, muscle-bound, and menacing, and both wore large campaign buttons that read reelect our sheriff. Deputy Sollis smirked at Joe through heavy-lidded eyes. Sollis wore a uniform shirt that was a size too small, to show off his biceps and pectorals, and a black mock turtleneck underneath that didn’t fully hide the acne rash on his neck from steroid use. Behind the sheriff and his men was Deputy Mike Reed, McLanahan’s opponent in the election, who was older, rounder, and balding. Joe liked Reed, and tipped his hat brim to say hello. Reed nodded back.
The sheriff hadn’t gotten rid of Reed, which had surprised Joe before he learned the strategy behind it. Keeping him in the department showcased the sheriff’s good-guy credentials, but the idea had actually come after McLanahan watched The Godfather II and heard Michael Corleone say, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” Although Reed was the senior investigator, McLanahan steadily undermined him in the eyes of voters and observers by assigning him to the most menial tasks, such as supervising random DUI roadblocks, overseeing county road cleanup crews, and in one case sending his deputy on a meth-house raid to the wrong address.
Joe asked the sheriff, “They were all in the same boat?”
“Literally,” McLanahan guffawed.
Joe shook his head. “Did they get into a tussle and start blasting at each other?”
Deputy Reed said, “We can’t say for sure, but we doubt it.”
The sheriff acted as if Reed hadn’t spoken.
Dulcie Schalk parted her fingers to talk. She was clearly nauseated by the scene in front of her, and likely the enormity of the crime itself. When she spoke, she bit off her words in a tight-mouthed way, as if trying to avoid breathing the fetid air. “Coroner Will Speer is on his way here to take them for autopsies, Joe, but from what we can tell they were all shot to death at the same time. It appears each was killed by a single fatal gunshot. From what the sheriff told me, the firearm used was… huge.”
She attempted to continue but had to look away. Joe had an odd impulse to go over and hug her, but he knew she’d be embarrassed by the gesture in front of the sheriff and his men.
Sollis said, “Huge as in fucking massive. There’s entry wounds as big as most exit wounds. And the exit wounds, well, look at that Connelly guy. Half his head is just gone.” He said it with what sounded like twisted admiration, Joe thought. He refused to look closely at Ron Connelly’s wound, despite Sollis’s prompting. Joe didn’t think he could take it.
“Which means,” McLanahan said, “we may not recover the slugs because they passed right through. Even Stumpy there with a full body shot. It looks like the slug went in under one arm and out under the other.”
Schalk said through her fingers, “That’s why I asked Sheriff McLanahan to call DCI and bring the FBI in. He may not think we need their expertise, but we do need their resources.”
Joe looked over to the sheriff. McLanahan’s gunfighter mustache was trimmed, but it still obscured his mouth. He wore a battered cowboy hat and suspenders over his uniform shirt. He’d traded his departmental Glock for a low-slung Colt. 45. McLanahan was from West Virginia but chose to look, dress, and talk like a frontier rube. Some were fooled. Joe wasn’t. The sheriff’s response to Dulcie Schalk’s suggestion was to roll his eyes.
Joe knew the sheriff well enough to know he hadn’t been called there simply to identify the bodies.
McLanahan rocked back on his boot heels and stabbed his thumbs through his belt loops. To Joe, he said, “Who do we know that is rumored to live upriver from time to time and carry a great big gun?”
Joe was thinking the same thing, but he didn’t reply.
“Tell me,” McLanahan said, “when is the last time you saw your buddy Nate Romanowski? The fugitive?”
Nate was still being sought by the Feds because Joe had arranged a temporary release the year before and Nate had never turned himself back in. Instead, his friend had gone to ground and had managed to elude them. Which is why Joe saw very little of his friend these days and rarely communicated with him. It was protection for the both of them.
Joe felt Schalk’s eyes on him as the sheriff talked.
“It’s been a while,” Joe said.
“What’s a while?” McLanahan asked. “I mean, being that you’re sworn to uphold the law and all? It’s hard to believe you know the location of a wanted man but you don’t find it within yourself to turn him in or arrest him.”
“It’s not that simple,” Joe said. He knew he was flushing. And he knew McLanahan had a point and was making it so the county attorney would hear it.
“Rumor is,” Sollis said, cutting in, “your buddy Nate has a history of violence. Some even say he had something to do with the disappearance of our former sheriff, although we could never get enough evidence to make that case. You wouldn’t know anything about any of this, would you?”
“Not really,” Joe said, grateful the sheriff hadn’t asked him about things he did know about, like Nate’s habit of ripping ears off suspects. In regard to the end of former Sheriff Bud Barnum, Joe had a suspicion about Nate’s involvement, but he’d never voiced it with anyone except Marybeth.
“So,” McLanahan said to Joe, shooting a glance at Dulcie Schalk to make sure she was fully engaged in the implication, “you probably wouldn’t want to go with us in a few minutes when we drive upriver to check out Nate Romanowski’s alleged place of residence? To see if he knows anything about these yahoos that lay before us?”
Joe avoided Schalk’s eyes. He said, “I’ll go.”
McLanahan feigned surprise. “You don’t need to put yourself out. Besides, you’ll probably get in the way. You always do.”
“I said I’m going.”
Behind Joe, he heard a sudden retching sound. He turned to see Luke Brueggemann covering his mouth. His eyes were bulging and wet. He turned and threw up on the concrete floor.
“For Christ’s sake,” McLanahan said to Sollis, “call maintenance and get them to clean that up.” To Joe he said, “Can’t you control your people?”
Joe put his hand under Brueggemann’s arm and led him outside. “It’s okay,” he told his trainee. “It happens.”
“Has it happened to you?”
“Yup.”
“Those guys aren’t going to let me forget about this, are they?”
Joe said, “No, they won’t.”
Brueggemann wiped at his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “I’ve seen plenty of dead things before. You know, deer and elk. And I’m not squeamish when it comes to things like that.”
Joe nodded, walking them toward a strip of grass on the edge of the parking area in case Brueggemann had to get sick again.
“I did a full head mount of an antelope once, and an eight-point buck,” Brueggemann continued, “and I like my venison bloody.”
“You can stop,” Joe said, wondering what it was his trainee had just said that struck an odd note. But before he could follow it up, Deputy Mike Reed called his name.
“Stay here,” Joe said to Brueggemann. He met Reed in the middle of the parking lot.
Reed spoke in low tones that likely couldn’t be overheard by his colleagues inside. “You know what’s going on here, don’t you?”
“What’s that?”
Reed said, “The sheriff needs a big win right now. He thinks he’s slipping with the voters. Bagging a guy like Romanowski and solving a triple murder would put him back on top.”
Joe nodded and looked closely at Reed. “Is this the candidate talking?”
Reed looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
