I made my way to Memorial Park. With each pedal stroke, my plan became clearer. The success of it depended on how unobtrusive I could be. While stealth wasn’t exactly my middle name, I could be sneaky when circumstances required it.
That was usually under the cover of darkness, though.
Now, it was early afternoon on a Friday. In the middle of summer. Which was why I had put on a plain gray T-shirt. I’d tossed a blue Visit Brown County baseball cap in one of my saddle bags. Practically everyone in town had one, which would help me blend in.
At a cross street a block from the park, I slowed to a stop. I was probably being overly cautious, but I didn’t want my bike to be noticed. I locked it to a telephone pole, swapped my helmet for the cap, and walked the rest of the way.
The yellow police tape had been removed. Folks milled around in the vicinity of the Memory Tree. A small shrine of photos, stuffed toys, and flowers had accumulated at its base. Despite my desire to pay my respects to Ollie by reading the notes folks had left, I kept my distance.
I’d return to the tree after I caught his murderer.
Now that I knew what I was looking for, it was easy to identify the spot where the bullet slammed into the tree. Once I had that figured out, I closed my eyes and envisioned the scene from the previous Sunday night. In my mind’s eye, I placed Ollie and Brent in front of the tree. Then, I overlayed that scene with my view of the tree today. The combined images gave me a good sense of which direction the bullet came from.
With the picture complete, I opened my eyes and used the mental image to guide me a half dozen steps to the left. And into what I hoped was the path of the bullet. Then I turned around.
My shoulders sagged. Within my field of vision, even staring straight ahead, there were two trash cans within the park but outside the area that had been cordoned off. And three homes across the street.
“Welp, a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.” I made for the first trash can.
It was absurd to think a shooter would take the time to deposit a bullet casing in the garbage during their exit from the park, but it was a strange world. Besides, the police had probably already hauled away any trash that had been in the receptacles in their search for evidence. One couldn’t be too careful, though. Evidence could get overlooked. Though, to be fair, Ollie was the only one on the Rushing Creek PD who’d made that mistake.
That I knew of.
The first trash can was stationed next to a towering red maple. After a quick look around to make sure nobody was paying any attention to me, I peered inside the fifty-five-gallon steel barrel. A few empty soda cans lay at the bottom. Shoot. The parks staff put in new trash can liners every Friday morning to get ready for the weekend. So much for double-checking the Rushing Creek PD’s work. Still, to make sure, I removed the liner and peered inside again.
Still nothing.
That was okay. A little voice inside of me said I was on the right track. I replaced the liner, tipped up the can to look underneath, then repeated the process at the next receptacle. And got the same result. Which was what I expected, but at least I could put a check mark in those boxes.
The next part was going to be a little more challenging. Like the rest of the homes in the area, the three houses I was interested in had wheeled, ninety-six-gallon trash containers at the ends of their driveways. It was trash day in Rushing Creek. If I was going to do mini versions of dumpster diving, I needed to get to them before the truck arrived.
“Eenie, meenie, miney, moe . . .” I recited the mantra from my childhood to choose which of the blue receptacles to attack first. It was the one on the left. If memory served, the owners of the relevant property were a retired couple, the Martins. Patrick, the husband, was a plumber. Janice had practiced law. They were friendly enough. From time to time, I ran into Patrick as he perused the aisles at Renee’s bookstore, always laden with a stack of historical fiction.
Given Janice’s profession, I didn’t want to risk getting sued for going through their trash. I marched up to the front door and knocked. After waiting a reasonable amount of time, I pushed the doorbell. Again, no answer.
It was decision time. As I pondered my next move, a song by the Clash debating whether to stay or to go wormed its way into my head. I despised that song. To make it stop, I decided. I was staying.
“Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.”
Striding toward the trash bin, doubts about the veracity of that cliché crept into my mind. It had served me well in the past, though. There was no reason to change tactics now.
As I drew near the receptacle, I was assaulted by the ripe stench of refuse that had been exposed to the heat for days. With a yucky whiff of cat urine on the side. Good times.
I took a deep breath and pulled the lid back. The smell was way worse, but the situation wasn’t as bad as it could have been. It was filled to the brim, but as far as I could tell, everything was contained in plastic kitchen bags.
Working as quickly as possible in the hope I didn’t attract attention, I removed the bags, one by one, until the bin was empty. I took a deep breath and scanned the bottom. There were no shell casings to be seen.
Despair at the thought of doing this at the other houses was building up inside me as I tossed the bags back in. There was one left when a voice stopped me cold.
“What in the world are you doing?”
It was a man’s voice. One I recognized, but only vaguely. If it had been a voice I recognized, I had no doubt I could talk my way out of my predicament. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
I turned around to face my inquisitor.
And broke into a wide smile. Even as my cheeks started burning, relief coursed through me. The shaved head and ginger Van Dyke facial hair was unmistakable. I was standing before Galen Adama, the owner of a studio that specialized in blown-glass art. Given his last name, the sci-fi and fantasy nerds in town called him the Admiral, after the character William Adama, played by the brilliant Edward James Olmos in the show Battlestar Galactica.
“Galen, how are you?” I wiped my hands on my shorts and tried to look casual by leaning against the still open trash container.
“I’m fine, Allie. I am curious why you’re going through the Martins’ trash.” He put his hands behind his back and started tapping one of his boots against the driveway.
Luck was with me. I had purchased some of his artwork and put it on display in Marinara’s, the pizza restaurant Rachel owned. When customers asked about the artwork, staff directed them to Galen’s studio. He’d been appreciative of the support when I made the purchases. I crossed my fingers that he would be supportive now.
“It’s funny you should ask. I’m trying to help the police find Officer Watson’s murderer, and—”
“You think the murderer left his calling card in the Martins’ trash? Or, better yet, that they had something to do with the murder?”
“No, nothing like that at all.” Galen’s attitude had me on the defensive. To give me a chance to regroup, I returned the remaining trash bag to the bin and closed the lid. By the time I did that, I had decided on telling it straight.
“We know Officer Watson died from a gunshot wound.” I pointed in the direction of the Memory Tree. “Given the position of the victim and where the bullet embedded itself in the tree, the police believe the shot came from somewhere in this vicinity. They’ve searched the park but haven’t located any evidence to help identify the shooter.”
“Then why are you going through my neighbors’ trash?”
“Because I believe the shot was taken from either the Martins’ house, your house, or the Pinkstons’, next door to you.” I explained the methodology I used to narrow down my search to the three homes.
“Interesting theory. I assume you’re conducting one of your Kickboxing Crusader investigations?”
His expression was neutral. There was no way to tell if he was joking or not. It was understandable that someone might be friendly but turn on you when you started messing with their property.
“The police have asked for the community’s help. I’m helping in the way I know how to. Besides, the bullet almost hit my fiancé. So, this is even more personal to me than usual.”
“I hear you.” He picked at the collar of his polo shirt. “And, as it turns out, I can save you some time. The Martins aren’t home. They left for vacation on Monday morning. I was with them Sunday evening. A big group of us from the neighborhood got together to watch the fireworks from their front yard. We do it every year.”
“That explains all the trash.”
“Yep.” He shook his head. “We were all seated, ready for the show, when we heard the news. God, it was awful. A few of us helped clean up and then everyone went home.”
“How many people were there?” A scenario was forming in my head. I needed more information, though.
“Fifteen? Maybe twenty? I don’t know for sure. Why?”
I ignored the question, deciding to answer it later. “Can you tell me their names?”
He stared off into the distance for a moment, then rattled off a list of names. Most, like Ozzy Metcalf, Shirley Price, and Jax Michaels, I was familiar with. A few I didn’t recognize. Even in a town of three thousand or so, it was tough to know everybody.
“Can you show me where you were seated among the group?”
He raised an eyebrow. “What are you getting at?”
It was time to go all in. I couldn’t take the chance of the conversation preventing me from checking the other two bins.
“Here’s what I think might have happened. What if the shooter knew that the Martins always had people over to watch the fireworks? And what if the shooter used the festivities to sneak in from behind one of the houses and take the shot? They could have dropped the bullet casing in the trash can to dispose of evidence and then fade back into the dark of night. It’s possible, right?”
“Sure, I guess.” He shrugged. “But you just looked through the trash and didn’t find anything, right?”
“No, I didn’t. That’s why I need to check the other two bins. It’s possible the shot came from one of those houses. Especially yours, since you were busy having a good time next door.”
“Holy smokes.” He looked at his home, his face ashen. It was a brick bungalow with an attractive wooden wraparound porch. “No. It couldn’t be.”
I sensed his hesitation. The fear of being part of a murder investigation through no fault of his own. I was all too familiar with that feeling.
“Look. You were with a bunch of people who can verify where you were. I’m not trying to get you, or the Martins, or the Pinkstons in trouble. I’m trying to catch a murderer. I need your help. Please let me take a look in your bin.”
That was the strangest request I think I’d made in my life. And I’d made some odd ones. Fortunately, he nodded.
I grabbed his hand and practically yanked him toward his trash bin. Without waiting for his approval, I threw back the lid. There was only one bag. As I began to pull it out, something metallic caught my attention.
“Holy cats!” I grabbed Galen by the arm as I pointed inside the container. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Good God. It’s a brass cylinder.”