On the porch, the tongue-lashing from Bruce was severe and brief. “Follow orders, is that clear?” His blue eyes were ice daggers. “You could have been killed. Another fatality. One more transgression and you’re banned.”
She stepped backwards, against the rail, ashamed. It wasn’t the time to bring up his move to Auckland. She’d most likely sabotaged their nascent relationship anyway.
Bruce turned sharply and entered the station, pulling the door shut.
A closed door was a punch to her stomach. She preferred to be the one who shut the doors—years of men like Jeb floating in her wake testified to this preference. Being left behind made her feel like a powerless kid. Like someone was never coming back.
But hey, her job—for the moment—was intact. The morning air was brisk, and after a moment’s glance at the harbor where the ferry was departing, she squared her shoulders and flung the door wide.
Damn if the talking didn’t cease when she stepped inside.
Bruce was ready. “Let’s go. Case two.” He scribbled Robert King on the right side of the board and waited until the team settled back at the table.
“Robert King, aged forty-four, from Christchurch, went deer hunting with three friends in the Little Hellfire hunting zone in Rakiura National Park last February. On the second day, three February, he left the hut early and never returned. He has not been seen since, despite full-scale searches,” Bruce summarized.
“This was shortly after the massive whale stranding,” Supervisor Lowell said.
That piqued Alexa’s attention. The ranger Stephen had tried to save the whales but ended up shooting them. Euthanasia was more humane than slow suffocation. God, that must have been horrible, she thought.
“Is the whale stranding relevant?” Bruce asked.
“Frame of reference,” Lowell answered. “Myself and a few of my rangers had to deal with the aftermath. It diverted our attention.”
“I see,” Bruce said, scribbling whale beaching in the corner. “Last week King’s body was discovered by bush trampers. One of your rangers stayed with the remains until Ms. Glock arrived. You’ve been busy, Ms. Glock. What can you add?”
She was back on terra firma. “The remains were consistent with ten months of decomp. I used dental records to identify the deceased as Robert King.”
Briscoe knocked a knuckle against his incisors.
“We recovered a Browning A-Bolt next to the body,” she said. “The diameter of the entrance wound in the cheek is consistent with a greater firing distance than self-infliction. We need that shotgun in a ballistics lab—to see if it’s the same weapon used to kill King.” She looked at Wallace.
“It’s bagged, tagged, ready,” Wallace said.
At least he responded, she thought.
“I’ll handle the rifle,” Bruce said. He wrote motive under King’s name and looked at the team. “Round two. Motive?”
“Life insurance for the wife,” Constable Briscoe said.
“There’s no policy,” Bruce said. “I checked.”
“Maybe nobody planned to kill him,” Wallace said. “It was probably an accident, and the shooter panicked. Main suspects would be his hunting buds.”
“I agree with Sergeant Wallace,” Constable Kopae said. “Accident and cover-up.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I interviewed the two from Rotorua yesterday. They claim they’ve been close friends since uni and were devastated by King’s disappearance. They were willing to be fingerprinted. The third man is from Dunedin. Get him to the local station. Any other motives?”
No one said anything.
Bruce studied his team. The room went hushed, nothing but the wall clock ticking away the time, and a growl from someone’s stomach.
“Here’s what I’ve been wondering,” Bruce said. “Is there anything to link Robert King and Andrew Gray? Could the deaths be related?”
The team stared back, silent.
Supervisor Lowell broke it. “I believe we’re looking at unrelated incidents.”
“’Course we are,” Constable Briscoe chimed. “The deaths are months apart.”
Nonetheless, Bruce drew a line connecting the names. “I don’t see it that way. Two victims, both shot, on a remote—I emphasize remote—island that hasn’t had a murder since 1927.” His voice went low and grave. “Occam’s razor.”
“Eh?” Constable Briscoe asked.
“He means go with the simplest solution,” Constable Kopae said.
Bruce nodded. “The simplest explanation is that this is the work of one man.”