THE CRIME-SCENE PEOPLE DID the basic search of Slibe's house, Wendy's trailer, and the Deuce's loft, while one cop kept an eye on Wendy and Berni. Three others walked the property and checked the outbuildings.
Virgil idled along with everybody, at one time or another, waiting for something to catch his eye.
The first thing he noticed about Ashbach's house was the neatness: a place for everything, and everything in its place, right down to a tall glass bowl, placed like a spittoon on the floor next to Ashbach's full-sized bed, to hold change-nickels, dimes, and pennies, but no quarters. He pulled out a couple of drawers in the bedroom and found the socks had been rolled; T-shirts were folded, dirty clothes were in a woven-willow hamper under a window; shaving gear, toothpaste, a couple of pill bottles, and a bottle of sunblock lotion were lined up like soldiers on the bathroom counter.
The pill bottles were prescription, and one of the crime-scene people told him they were two different kinds of statin.
VIRGIL REMEMBERED where Slibe kept the key to the gun safe, and they went through it, checked all the guns. They took all of the.223 ammo, which Slibe had said was for the Colt semiauto. The lab could check it all, to see if any might match traces found in McDill's skull; but the ammo was new, so there were no extraction marks to check, and there was no empty brass, no reloads.
'He told me once that they were thinking about going out west for prairie dogs-most of those guys are reloaders,' Virgil said.
'Couldn't afford it otherwise,' a crime-scene guy agreed.
THEY LOOKED through the firewood shed and found nothing but firewood, neatly stacked for the winter. The machine shed held two Bobcats, a front-end loader and a small shovel, and a larger shovel from Caterpillar. All three machines were older, but well tended. Behind the machine shed was a stack of white plastic pipe, of the kind used to build septic fields, and a concrete tank with a crack in it.
Nothing in the tank but long grass.
THEY FOUND a reloading station in Slibe II's loft.
The loft was just that: a wooden-floored second story in the metal kennel building; the dogs were quiet and friendly, looked well kept and well fed, but the place inevitably smelled of dog shit, and that was true up the stairs in the loft. The loft was heated with two 220-volt overhead electric heaters, and a potbellied woodstove at the far end. There was a sink, a bathtub, and a toilet in a walled-off area at the end of the loft, but there was no door.
Like the house, the loft was organized with military precision; everything neatly kept and clean, on the surface; but the insides of the drawers were a jumble of clothes and electrical and mechanical parts, hunting and fishing gear. When a cop opened the cardboard stand-alone closet, he found a tangle of hangers with winter clothes stuck this way and that, half of it hanging, half of it on the floor. Superficially like Slibe's place, but once you dug in, nothing like Slibe at all.
Four metal army-surplus ammo boxes sat on the floor next to the reloading station. Two contained shotgun shells, twelve- and twenty-gauge, and two contained empty brass. The crime-scene tech dumped the brass, and he and Virgil picked through it, found forty.223 cartridges, which they bagged.
Mapes, the head of the crime-scene crew, came up and took a look, and said, 'We need the lab to check it, but I don't see any bolt-action extraction nicks. We need a closer look.'
'All we need is one,' Virgil said. He shook out the shotgun shells, hoping a stray.223 might be hiding in them, but there wasn't.
Virgil looked under the narrow bed and found a stack of old Hustler magazines, a plastic bag with five fading color photographs of a woman with eighties hair, and another plastic bag with perhaps a quarter ounce of marijuana.
He had the crime-scene guy bag the marijuana, then sat on the bed and looked at the photos. In one, the woman leaned on the front of a seventies or eighties Chevy with a much younger Slibe. They were in the driveway, with the road behind them. No garden, just an empty space. Wendy and the Deuce's mother?
Virgil took them to the end window, for the better light: she was a square-built dishwater blonde, busty, like Wendy, attractive in a country way. Slibe was blond. Virgil had noticed that he was blond ish, behind the bald dome, but his hair was cut so short that it hadn't registered. In this old photo, blond hair covered his ears, as long as Virgil's was. Really blond. Rocker blond…
THE CRIME-SCENE GUY SAID, 'Might have something here.'
Virgil turned and saw him sitting on the floor next to the hamper, looking at a pair of denim coveralls, looking at the end of one sleeve.
'What?'
'Can't swear to it, but it looks like blood. Significant blood.'
'Wouldn't he have seen it?' Virgil asked. He went over and peered at the stain, which was about the size of a half-dollar. The stain didn't appear to soak through; it was superficial.
'He picked it up from the outside, so it's probably not his.' The guy held up the coveralls, and the sleeves fell to the side. 'See, it's on the bottom of the sleeve… you know, like when you stick your sleeve in jelly, or something.'
'Get it back to the lab, right now,' Virgil said. This was something. This was good. 'We'll eventually need DNA, but what I really need is to get a blood type, like, this afternoon. Gotta try to get Windrow's blood type. Like now…'
'Let's show it to Ron first. He knows blood.'
THE CRIME-SCENE GUY bagged the coveralls and they carried them down the stairs and back to the house. Sanders saw them coming, asked, 'What?' and Virgil said, 'We might have some blood.'
Mapes came out to take a look, said, 'It's blood,' and the word blood stuttered through the group of deputies.
Virgil got Sanders to send the coveralls to Bemidji with one of the deputies, and Virgil told the deputy, 'Don't kill anybody, but use your lights and get your ass up there, quick as you can. They'll be expecting you.'
'Abso-fucking-lutely,' the deputy said.
Virgil called Bemidji on Slibe's landline phone, and told them what he needed, then called Sandy, the researcher, who was still a little stiff, but agreed to find out what Windrow's blood type was.
Wendy came over, attracted by the buzz. 'What?' she asked.
Virgil: 'Where's your brother?'
22
TWO PEOPLE ARRIVED in the next ten minutes. The first came slouching through the police lines, a redheaded man wearing a rumpled black sport coat over jeans and long sharp-toed black city shoes that he called Jersey Pointers. He and his girlfriend had taught Virgil how to jitterbug-Ruffe Ignace, a reporter for the recently bankrupt Minneapolis Star Tribune.
Virgil waited arms akimbo, and Ignace came up, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, and said, 'That fuckin' Flowers. When I saw your happy face, I went ahead and told the cops that I was here to consult with you.'
'I oughta throw your ass out,' Virgil said.
'That's right. I'm trying to save a bankrupt newspaper and you're piling on,' Ignace said. 'Thanks a lot, old pal. Forget everything you owe me.'
'How you been?' Virgil asked.
'Tired of driving a hundred and fifty miles at the crack of dawn because some asshole twenty-three-year-old editor thinks I should,' Ignace said. 'I'm writing a crime novel.'
'You and every other reporter in the state,' Virgil said.
'Ah, they're writing screenplays. I'm writing a novel. I even got an agent.' Ignace looked around, at the cops coming and going. 'Catch anybody?'
'Just got a break. We're looking at a kid named Slibe Ashbach Junior, also known as the Deuce, son of Slibe Ashbach Senior, who runs this septic construction company, and brother to Wendy Ashbach, a singer in a local country band. We found some blood: it's on its way to Bemidji.'
