"I didn’t steal it!” Hogan tugged at the jacket, pulling it together over his chest, trying unsuccessfully to make the sides come together.
“But it’s not yours?” Norwich asked.
He teetered on the balls of his feet, and Creed thought he might run. He looked even younger now with this fresh panic. His eyes darted between Bolo and Deputy Greer, who had his weapon unholstered again.
“I found it,” Hogan said too loudly and pointed. “It was right there on the mattress. Nobody else was around. I didn’t see no teenager. And I found the jacket tossed in the middle of that mattress. Somebody threw it away. People throw away really good stuff.”
“Slow down, Hogan. Sheriff,” Sully stepped forward. “I can vouch for this young man.” Despite the gravelly, deep voice and the eyes that didn’t quite focus, the old man sounded like a gentleman diplomat, if you discounted the worn-out cargo pants and the stained T-shirt. “I can tell you, as long as I’ve known him, he’s never taken anything that hasn’t been left behind.”
Left behind. It was an interesting phrase.
Creed glanced at his dog. Bolo seemed content.
As Norwich questioned the two men, Creed couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. He’d asked Bolo to find Caleb Monroe using a sweatshirt the family had given Sheriff Norwich. They started the search from the entrance to the woods behind The Red Roof Inn’s parking lot. Someone at the Waffle House next door claimed to see a teenager matching Caleb’s description walk across the lot and into the woods.
He tried to remember how far they’d walked before Bolo caught the scent and took off. It wasn’t in the parking lot. Not at the edge of the woods. But Bolo led them directly to Hogan. Well, not Hogan, but the jacket he was wearing. Caleb’s jacket.
Now Hogan was repeating himself and over explaining why he’d put it on.
“People throw away some really good stuff,” he told Norwich.
Creed tuned out their conversation. He didn’t care if Hogan was lying or not. Instead, he tried to figure out why Bolo led them to the jacket and stopped. If Caleb took the jacket off and left it on the mattress, where did Caleb go from here?
Creed scanned the woods, then his attention came back to the mattress. Trash spilled out around it. In fact, the mattress itself appeared to be lopsided and seesawing on top of whatever was underneath.
Suddenly, a cold shiver slid down Creed’s back. He turned and examined his dog.
Trust your dog. It was a phrase he drilled into his handlers.
Was it the jacket Bolo had originally alerted to? Or was it the mattress? Had Creed missed it? Was it possible that Caleb Monroe’s body was the lump underneath?
He tamped down his suspicion and tried to keep his pulse from ticking up. Bolo was watching him, concerned that his handler was starting to smell like panic. Or was he simply waiting for him to turn over the mattress?
“Sheriff,” Creed said, interrupting a conversation that had gotten drowned out by his argument with himself.
Norwich looked over and immediately was concerned. “What is it?”
“Probably nothing,” he told her, his hand automatically flattening at his side to tell Bolo everything was fine and to relax. “I’d feel a lot better if we had a look under this mattress.”
The color drained from the sheriff’s face, and instinctively, everyone else stepped back.
“Deputy Greer,” Norwich instructed. “Can you carefully flip that mattress over?”
Creed moved to assist, but the deputy quickly stopped him, purposely stepping in front of Creed as if to make a point. “I’ve got this.”
“Wait!” Hogan became agitated again. “You think that kid is hiding underneath there?”
The others ignored him, all focused on the dirty, ripped mattress, but Creed kept an eye on him. Hogan was either still flying high, knew more than he was telling, or maybe just a little slow. Creed glanced at Bolo. He hadn’t moved. If anything, the dog looked bored.
Deputy Greer stalled, pulling on latex gloves, then planted his feet and squared his shoulders. He looked like he was preparing to deadlift a loaded barbell from his gym floor. The flimsy mattress would be an awkward grab, but not heavy. Creed wondered how many dead bodies the deputy had seen. He wanted to reach around the guy and simply flip the damned thing over just to stop his churning stomach.
“Deputy Greer.” Norwich was getting impatient, too.
He gripped the edge and flung it, upending a cloud of leaves and dirt and garbage. Something small and alive scurried out from the debris pile and into the grass. Bolo’s and Gunner’s ears pitched, but neither dog pursued.
A musty scent filled the air, mixed with a rancid tang. Creed drew in a sigh of relief almost at the same time as Norwich. One thing was certain. The smell didn’t include human decomp.
The garbage dump consisted of fast-food wrappers, bulging plastic bags, bottles, cans and foam takeout containers scrambled together with mounds of decaying leaves and brush. No dead body.
Hogan’s bunched up shoulders finally relaxed. Deputy Greer wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his gloved hand. Norwich nodded to the men.
Creed was relieved his dog had done a good job. But something still bothered him. How did Caleb Monroe come down into these woods, discard his jacket on this mattress, then disappear without leaving a scent?