The front of the home was split by a staircase, living room on one side, dining room on the other. The living area was filled with a mismatch of comfortable furniture in no particular style: leather recliner, short sofa, two easy chairs now toppled over; they had been, it seemed, situated around a fireplace with a raised hearth, one corner of which was still stained with blood.
Cahill’s blood, he presumed.
Lab tests would prove it out.
The house was just the way the police had left it, swept by the crime-scene team, fingerprints taken, electronics removed, trace evidence collected, digital photos snapped, blood samples already sent to the lab and currently being checked for DNA. A faint odor of ash from the last fire hung in the air.
“Man, you guys really know how to trash a place,” Bobby said, surveying the disheveled shelves and layer of fine fingerprint dust. “Don’t you all ever clean up after yourselves? James is gonna be pissed.”
A messy house was the least of James Cahill’s problems.
Knowlton adjusted his hat on his balding head. “Isn’t all this overkill? I mean it’s not like anyone’s dead, right?”
“We hope not.” But Rivers had learned long ago to be thorough. No one was known dead, that was true, but this had been their one chance, before Cahill returned from the hospital, to search his house top to bottom. Better safe than sorry.
“I kinda feel like I’m steppin’ on someone’s grave. I mean, I know nobody’s dead—er, we think not—but still, seems a little weird, if ya know what I mean.” Knowlton glanced back through the open door, and Rivers followed his gaze to the yard. The shepherd was still racing through the snow, tail tucked, tongue lolling. “He’s just showin’ off. Probably lonely. I’ll take him back to my place till James gets back.”
Rivers turned back to the mess that was the living room. “Let’s go over what happened again.”
“All right.” Then in a louder voice over his shoulder, “Come on in, Ralph! The party’s over!”
Rivers and Mendoza stepped away from the entry as the dog bolted back inside and Knowlton slammed the door shut, sealing out the cold.
“It was just like I said in my statement,” he said. “After a beer or two, I’d picked up the feed and was on my way over here to look in on the livestock; that’s my job here, y’know. I’m like the foreman of the ranch, though I don’t have no official title. I worked here before Cahill bought the place five—no, six—years ago, and he kept me on. Good of him.” He yanked off his gloves and glanced out the window. “I was about a quarter of a mile north, headin’ this way—south, y’know—when I saw a car pull out of the lane.” He pointed through the window to the snow-covered drive. “Whoever was behind the wheel was driving like a bat outta hell, nearly hit the damned snowplow that was taking care of the snow in front of me, and let me tell ya, you don’t want to be messin’ with a rig that size. But that’s what happened; the car tore out and swung around in front of the plow, then headed north, toward town.” He hitched a thumb in the general direction.
“You recognize the vehicle?” Mendoza asked.
“I can’t be sure. It was snowing hard, a near blizzard, and already dark. All I can say for sure was that the car was dark. Blue. Or black. Maybe charcoal gray.”
“Megan Travers’s car.”
“I’d guess. Wouldn’t swear to it, though, and I didn’t see the driver. The windows were fogged, and I was too busy trying to get out of the way and not hit the damned plow that had put on his brakes to avoid a collision.” He shook his head and whistled softly. “It was close. The driver swerved like a son of a bitch, then hit the gas and passed me on the fly. For a second, I thought we might hit head-on.”
“You’re sure it was a car, though, not an SUV or truck?” Mendoza said.
“Oh, yeah.” Knowlton, bushy eyebrows slammed together, shook his head. “Crazy shit. Anyway, I followed the plow until I got to the drive leading up here, drove to the house, came in, and found James right over there.” He pointed to the corner of the fireplace hearth. “He was out cold. Had a pulse—I checked—and was breathing, but there was a lot of blood, and I thought . . . well, hell, I didn’t really think, y’know, just called nine-one-one, and the ambulance came and the fire department, and all you all, and . . . and that’s it. All I know.”
“What time was that?”
“Hard to say. But maybe seven or so. Seven-thirty? Yeah, around then. Everything was real late that day, real late, on account of the storm. That’s why I stopped in for a brewskie or two.”
Mendoza changed the subject. “Did James have any enemies?”
“Oh, sure.” Then he heard himself and amended. “Well, not the kind that would want to kill ya.”
“Who?”
“Well, mainly girlfriends, I guess.” Knowlton glanced again at the fireplace and the brownish-red stain.
“More than one?” Rivers asked.
“Oh, yeah.” He was nodding, rubbing the gray stubble on his chin, his eyebrows elevated a fraction. “Trouble is, y’know, women, they don’t like to share.”
Mendoza said, “So he might have more than one girlfriend at a time?”
“Sure.”
She pressed. “And his girlfriends didn’t like each other?”
“I’m guessin’. I mean it’s not like that sister-wife thing on TV. You know the one where several wives all get along.” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, like that would ever happen.”
“Did James say as much?”
“Not to me.” He looked from one cop to the other. “But it’s a problem, ya know, not breaking it
