“At their trailer, a little while ago.”
“How do you know he’s dead?”
Ren began to shiver. “Somebody, like, smashed his head in.”
“Where’s Charlie?”
“I don’t know. She wasn’t there.” He went on shivering. He couldn’t stop.
“A little while ago, you say. How long?”
“Half an hour.”
Hodder put a large comforting hand on Ren’s shoulder. “You mind going back there with me?”
Ren didn’t like the idea at all, but he said, “I won’t go inside.”
“I won’t make you, I promise.”
“All right.”
Hodder looked at Dina again. “Ren’s aunt, you said. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you here before.”
“My dad’s sister,” Ren put in quickly. “She lives in San Francisco. I never get to see her. She’s visiting us for a few days.”
“Ren’s mom is at work,” Dina went on smoothly. “I didn’t think he should come here alone. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go with you. Be there for Ren, you know?”
Hodder thought it over briefly, finally shrugged. “I guess that would be all right.”
They took the constable’s black Cherokee, which looked to be quite a few miles past warranty. Ren sat huddled in back. He didn’t want to be going where they were going, but he hoped it might help Charlie somehow. Hodder asked him some questions on the way: why he’d been at the trailer, how he’d got inside, if he had any idea where Charlie might be. He pulled into the weedy gravel drive and parked behind the old Toyota pickup that belonged to Charlie’s father. He turned off the engine and said, “Wait here.”
“Constable?”
He turned to Dina.
“Do you ever carry a weapon?” She nodded toward his empty belt.
“Not generally. I keep a shotgun in the trunk, but honestly I’ve never had occasion to use it. I carry a pocketknife that comes in handy once in a while.”
“Uh-huh.” She raised an eyebrow and nodded, as if she found his approach rather quaint. “Have you ever been at a murder scene?”
“How do you know it’s murder?”
“You think he bashed his own head in?”
“I’ve never been at a murder scene,” he admitted.
Hodder got out and approached the trailer with caution, turning his head as he scanned each window in front, looking, Ren supposed, for some movement out of place in a trailer home with only a dead man inside. He mounted the steps and reached for the screen door.
“Constable,” Dina called from the Cherokee. “You might want to put on gloves before you touch anything. At least, that’s what they do in the movies.”
Hodder glanced at his bare hands, then at the door handle. He pulled his pocketknife from the pouch that hung on his belt and unfolded the blade, which he used to open the door. He disappeared inside.
“Andy Griffith,” Dina said with a shake of her head.
“Who?” Ren asked.
“Forget it.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “Have you ever been to a murder scene? I mean in your work and stuff?”
“I’ll let you in on a secret, Ren. I used to be with the FBI.”
“FBI?”
“Yep.”
“But not anymore.”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“Long story.” She’d been staring intently at the trailer, but now her intense green eyes settled on Ren, and he felt himself grow warm under their scrutiny. “Why don’t we talk about it over a beer sometime.”
It took a moment for the smile to grow on her lips, and then he understood it was a joke and he smiled, too.
“I’ll buy,” he said, feeling good, feeling special.
Then he looked back at the trailer and stopped smiling.
“Have you seen people who were murdered?” he asked.
“Yes. And it’s always ugly and upsetting, even for cops.”
Hodder came back out and walked to Dina’s side of the Cherokee. “Ms. Walport, there’s a cell phone in my glove box there. Would you mind handing it to me?” He took it and punched in 911. “This is Constable Hodder in Bodine. I’ve got what appears to be a homicide on my hands.” He gave the address, listened a moment, and said, “I’ll be here.”
Detective Sergeant Terry Olafsson of the Marquette County Sheriff’s office had a wide, ruddy face. He was sandy-haired, not much taller than Dina Willner, but with a broad chest. He wore a red windbreaker with the sleeves pulled up to his elbows. Veins ran across the hard muscles of his forearms like thin ropes against smooth wood.
After the introductions were made, Dina said, “I’d like to stay with Ren while you interview him.”
“You an attorney?”
“Like I said, his aunt. I’m just concerned.”
Olafsson said, “Where’s his folks?”
“My father’s dead,” Ren jumped in, irked that the detective was ignoring him. “And my mother’s a veterinarian. She’s out on a call and we can’t reach her.”
Olafsson looked toward Constable Hodder for confirmation.
Hodder nodded. “Just like Ren says.”
They stood beside the constable’s Cherokee. Marquette Sheriff’s people went in and out of the trailer home. “Crime scene technicians, right?” Ren asked Dina.
She winked at him and gave a nod. Then she added, “See that guy?”
A tall, balding man wearing a white shirt and black slacks and carrying a medical bag stepped from a blue sedan and walked toward the trailer.
“Coroner?” Ren guessed.
“Or medical examiner,” she replied.
Ren was grateful for Dina’s observations. They kept him from thinking too much about what was inside the trailer or what might have become of Charlie.
“Any reason the boy needs an adult with him while we talk?” Olafsson said.
“Any reason he can’t have one?” Dina replied.
With a slight nod, Olafsson gave in. “All right.” He took out a small notepad and focused on Ren. “How’d you find the body, son?”
“I just walked in and there it was.”
“Walked in? The door was open?”
“Yes.”
“Both doors?”
“The inside one was already open. I just opened the screen.”
“Anyone tell you to come in?”
“No.”
“Is it your custom to walk into a house uninvited?”
“I was worried about Charlie.”
“Charlie?”
“Charlene Miller,” Hodder clarified. “The dead man’s daughter.”
“And why were you worried about her, son?”
