Forensics found nothing of worth in Preacher’s place. Not at first blush. The state police forensics team lifted prints, but found no signs of struggle, no sign of forced entry, no stray hair that might belong to anyone but Preacher. Not a trace of a footprint in all that blood.
Rath was searching Preacher’s bedroom, looking through the clothes in the closet—six white button-up shirts, six pairs of black jeans, one black belt, two skinny black ties—when Test came to the doorway and said, “You need to see this.”
Rath followed her back to the living room where a forensics technician from the state police held a cell phone in his gloved hand. Test went to him and took the phone. “Look,” she said to Rath.
Rath stood near Test and looked at the phone’s screen display of typical icons.
“How’d you access it without a password?” he said.
“Didn’t have a password set up.”
“Where was it?”
“Between the couch cushions.”
“Is it his?” Rath said.
“You tell me.”
Test pointed at an app icon that looked like the face of an old radio.
“So?” Rath said.
Test tapped a gloved finger on the app.
As soon as the app opened, even before the audio started playing, Rath understood.
“Simple Wi-Fi app,” Test said.
“A scanner,” Rath said. “A fucking scanner?” His mind tripped. “He knew Jamie was hanged because he heard it on a fucking police scanner? He told me: ‘I hear things.’”
“That’s why he was so smug. While we were at his house with the warrant he was at the station, phone in his pocket. He—”
“What?” Rath said.
“He was reaching for his phone as I told him he had to come to the station. I told him to put it away. I think he was going to show me, then saw a chance to toy further with us. He was probably hoping we’d charge him, let us get as far along as he could stand before rubbing it in our faces how he knew about her being hanged.”
“He was never involved,” Rath said.
“What?” Test said.
“Sheldon acted alone in killing Dana Clark.”
“Then who did this? Why does Preacher have Sheldon’s truck?” Test said.
Rath looked around at the nearly empty drawers and cupboards. The junk mail on the table.
The mail.
He looked through the stack of mail again.
“What is it?” Test said.
Rath checked the garbage can under the kitchen sink. Nothing.
“What is it?” Test said.
“Nothing,” Rath said.
But it wasn’t.
He walked out to the living room to find the state police detective. “You find a letter. On pink stationery?”
The detective called an underling over and asked the question of the woman. “No,” she said.
Rath peered out the window. Several scene workers were outside. There was no way to get to the camera. Where is that pink letter I saw you read that day I watched you get the mail on your porch? Rath thought. What was on it?
“The trash outside in the bin,” he said. “Has it been hauled for the week or—”
“Hauled yesterday.”
“What’s this about?” Test said.
“Nothing,” Rath said.