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“His name is Phoenix.” Sandra’s voice cracked on his name and she envied Slaughter’s stoicism. Though Phoenix had never seemed animated to begin with, Sandra found his current stillness deeply disturbing. She looked at Chip. “At least, that’s what he said his name was. Does he have a driver’s license on him?”
“Huh. We didn’t think to look for that,” Slaughter snarled.
“No wallet. Did Phoenix give you a last name?”
Sandra stared at Chip. “How do you not know who this is? I watched police chase him into these same woods on Tuesday.”
“What?” Slaughter cried. Not so stoical all of a sudden.
Sandra looked at Slaughter’s open mouth, then at Chip, and then back to Slaughter. They appeared to be telepathically communicating. Slaughter’s surprise morphed into anger. Chip just looked embarrassed. Finally, Slaughter looked at her. “Was it the Sheriff’s Department?”
Sandra shook her head. “Town police.”
Slaughter put her hands on her hips. “Of course. Those imbeciles.”
Chip stepped closer to Sandra. “Would you do me a huge favor?”
She didn’t need him to elaborate. She was embarrassed for them. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“Thank you.” He took his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through a list of numbers before hitting the call button. Sandra held her breath as he talked to someone at Plainfield PD. She was impressed by his ability to get the information he needed without letting on that the State Police had been completely clueless as to Phoenix’s identity two minutes ago.
“I take it they don’t know much?” Slaughter asked after he hung up. She dragged the toe of her black Dansko through the soft earth, like a bull pawing at the ground before charging. Sandra shuffled away from her and closer to Chip.
He slid his phone back into his pocket. “No, but his name is indeed Phoenix, and we even have a last name now. Haynes. He’s got a record, but he’s managed to stay out of trouble for the last several years. Someone called them and said Bill Jackson was on the property. Then when they got here, this guy took off running, so they pursued. But obviously, he’s not Bill Jackson.” He stared down at Phoenix’s motionless body.
“Who’s Bill Jackson?”
Slaughter curled a lip. “Bad news, that’s who. So, someone just called in a false tip? How helpful. Bet they’d like to know who that was.”
Chip nodded, his jaw tight.
“Are they going to trace the number?”
“Already did. Burner.”
Sandra made a mental note that they were called burners, not fire phones. At least, that’s what Chip called them.
“Doesn’t explain why he ran.” Chip turned his attention to Sandra. “Did Phoenix go to your church?”
“I don’t think so. Actually, no, he didn’t. I would remember if I’d seen him in church. I never saw him until the softball game.”
“What softball game?” Slaughter asked.
“Right here.” Sandra pointed her chin in the direction of the softball field, which they couldn’t see through the trees. “We have a church team, and we played a game against Grace Evangelical from Livermore Falls on Tuesday.”
Slaughter looked irritated at the idea of a church softball team. Sandra found herself caring less and less about Slaughter’s irritation levels.
“Did he play for Livermore Falls?” Chip asked.
“No. He played for us for a little bit. We had someone get hurt, and we didn’t have enough people—”
“You didn’t have enough people?” Chip glanced toward the church building. “Your church is huge. You can’t field a softball team?”
“Would you please focus?” Slaughter said, her voice tight.
“Yes, a lot of people do come to church on Sunday morning, and yes, we do have trouble fielding a team.” She didn’t think she needed to tell him that Brendan Barney continued to scare off potential roster fillers. “So, someone got hurt, and my husband invited Phoenix to play. He was in the bleachers.”
“Bleachers? Why was he in the bleachers?”
How was she supposed to know? Although, in the past she had known things that Chip thought she shouldn’t have known, so maybe his expectations weren’t unwarranted. “I don’t know. He was alone. I mean he was sitting with a bunch of people, but it seemed like he’d come to the game alone. And he was certainly all alone when he ran away from the police.”
Slaughter’s thin eyebrow perked up. “Does your husband know him? Why did he pick him?”
She shook her head, maybe a little too emphatically. “He didn’t know him. We were desperate, and he was a man wearing sneakers. If he had said no, my husband would have asked the pastor’s wife next.”
Without smiling, Chip chuckled. He knew the pastor’s wife well enough to know how ridiculous that would be. She was far too mild-mannered to be handling a bat. If given one, she would probably polish it.
“Did he talk to anyone at the game?”
Sandra thought. “I don’t think so.”
“No one talked to him?”
“Not that I saw. And I think I would have noticed. He was the most interesting thing about the game.”
“Well, thank you for your help.” Chip swung his arm back toward the church. “You’d better get back inside before the service starts.”
Sandra didn’t want to go back to church. Her mind scrambled to think of something else to say, something to ask so that she could remain a part of this. “How did he die?” she spat out.
Chip paused. “We don’t have an official cause of death yet,” he said slowly.
Too late, Sandra realized the stupidity of what she had just asked. It was obvious from the scene that Phoenix had suffered a terrific head injury. The cause of death was that someone had clobbered him. “What I meant to say,” she hurried to save face, “is what did they hit him with?” She looked around the forest floor as if she were going to spot a crowbar that all these cops had missed.
“Something big—”
Slaughter interrupted him, “We’re not ready to share details of an open investigation. I’m sure you understand.”
Much to Sandra’s delight, Chip completely ignored Slaughter’s redirection. “We haven’t found the weapon yet.”