Wayne Buckwald and Steve Linders showed their TBI badges to the uniformed police officer at the front door before entering the modest blue-paneled home. Wayne spotted a police detective standing in the middle of the living room typing on his phone. “Hi. We’re TBI. I’m Wayne, and this is my partner, Steve.”
The detective shook hands with both. “Barry. Nice to meet you. You beat the ME.”
Wayne asked, “What do we have?”
The detective led them to the bathroom. “Watch your step. Floor’s slippery.”
The warning came too late for Wayne, who slipped on wet tile but was kept from falling by his partner’s sturdy grip and quick reflexes. With a sneer toward the detective, he grunted his thanks to his partner.
Wayne’s eyes went from the nude body of a young woman on the floor to the water in the tub. On the bathroom counter were three red puddles of hardened wax – the remnants of candles allowed to burn themselves out. The mirror bore the phrase, “Tired of even trying,” in rose-colored lipstick.
Barry explained the scene. “Lynn Pinter, 23. Her best friend came by when she hadn’t heard from her, pulled her out of the water and tried to resuscitate her. There’s an empty bottle of Percocet on her nightstand.”
“Suicide?” asked Steve. “Why’d you call the TBI?”
“She worked for the state parole board.”
Wayne glanced at Steve while heading for the bathroom door. “I’ll check out the bedroom while you get the details from the detective.” He proceeded to the next room and found the pill bottle as described, but a framed picture behind a lamp stole his attention. It was a shot of the smiling victim with a scenic view of the Smoky Mountains behind her. He stared at the photo for a moment before Steve entered.
“Everything okay, Wayne?”
“Yeah. It’s just… She looks like my daughter. Little bit older. What would’ve made her do this?”
“Maybe she suffered from clinical depression. I got the parents’ information. We can ask them.”
“The parents. I don’t know what I’d do…” Wayne headed for the door. “Do me a favor. Catalog the scene. I have to make a phone call.”
Once outside on the front lawn, Wayne pulled his phone from his shirt pocket and dialed.
Sheriff Rome opened the door to the Barter Ridge Sheriff Station, but he didn’t enter alone. A bird flew in over his head, prompting him to duck. “What the devil!”
Deputy Harris grinned at him from behind his desk. “Morning Sheriff. Who’s your friend?”
“Very funny.” The sheriff watched the gray bird with a red-tufted head flutter around the station. “Help me get this pigeon out of here.” He removed his hat and waved it at the bird.
The young deputy with the farm-boy face scooted back from his desk. “That’s not a pigeon. It’s a pileated woodpecker. Your phone’s ringing.”
“Dang!” The sheriff hurried to answer his office line. “Get that bird out of here before he starts putting holes in the wall.” He pushed open the glass door to his office. “I’m coming. I’m coming.” He picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Sheriff, this is Wayne Buckwald.”
“Wayne?” Sheriff Rome’s tone did little to conceal his contempt. “What do you want?”
“I wanted to apologize to you, first off. I had some major differences with Emory, and I took it out on you and your wife. I’m sorry about that.”
Sheriff Rome sat at his desk. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
Wayne paced around the lawn. “I have children too, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep them safe, so I know where you’re coming from. I want to help.”
“For real?”
“For real.” Wayne spotted his partner exiting the suicide victim’s house. “I’ll call you later to get all the details.”
“That’d be great.”
“One more thing. My help is conditional.”
The sheriff sighed and rested his elbows on his desk. “On what?”
“Don’t tell Emory I’m helping you.”