The investigation of Boyd’s death brought an energy to Makah County that Jess couldn’t recall ever feeling before.
“Guess we’re going to have to knuckle down on this, Winslow,” Sheriff Hart told her as they walked out of the county coroner’s office following Boyd’s autopsy. “This part of the world ain’t exactly a murder capital.”
The finding: homicide by gunshot wound, .38 caliber, the toxicology report pending. Bad Boyd had been murdered, and neither the sheriff nor his deputy had any immediate suspects—or, indeed, any idea how he’d come to wash up on Shipwreck Point with the tide.
The coroner’s office sat adjacent to the Indian Health Center in Neah Bay, the Makah County seat. It was a low, modest building, a single story with faded aluminum siding. Neah Bay rostered only about a couple thousand people; the county proper, less than ten thousand. The coroner wasn’t exactly the busiest woman in town, and she rarely had to rule on a homicide.
Today, though, her parking lot was full, mostly TV news reporters dragging producers and panel vans behind them, and beyond them a collection of bystanders and looky-loos gathered from all over the county to hear tell of what had happened to Makah’s brightest star.
Brock Boyd’s story was well told in these parts; even Jess had heard it plenty, and she’d been halfway around the world for most of the really juicy bits. Part Makah and part not, he’d found his way to a pair of skates—legend claimed—before he could walk, was filling the nets at the Neah Bay community ice rink by the time he was four. He’d dragged the Makah Screaming Eagles to consecutive regional championships as a teenager, then bolted for the big time just as soon as he was able.
For a while, Jess remembered, the whole county had shut down whenever Boyd had a game on television, and the people around here weren’t even particularly interested in hockey. They just liked the idea that a person could make it out of here, find fortune and glory despite the odds stacked against them.
And a lot of them, Jess suspected, appreciated how Boyd had made it with his fists.
Bad Boyd was a fighter as much as he was a hockey player, consistently treading the margins between fair play and foul. But that wasn’t such a bad thing to his fans in Makah County or to the coaches who’d scouted him; hockey rewarded toughness, and if Boyd was prone to the occasional cheap shot, so be it. He scored plenty, and scared plenty too.
A reporter stepped out of the scrum as Jess and Hart exited the coroner’s office. Jess didn’t recognize her, surmised she must have come from afar—Seattle, probably, or even farther. Maybe she was even one of those national reporters—ESPN or something. Boyd’s death was getting plenty of coverage, it being the culmination of an epic, drawn-out, tabloid-rag downfall.
“Sheriff Hart,” the reporter called. “Can you give us an update as to the cause of Boyd’s death? Is there any truth to the rumor that this was a murder?”
Hart’s gait hitched a little—not noticeable to the reporter but glaring to Jess, beside him. She realized the sheriff was probably feeling a little overwhelmed himself; this kind of thing didn’t happen much in Clallam County either, and certainly not with this kind of attention.
“No comment,” Hart told the reporter. “We’ll set up a press conference when we have something to share.”
“Do you have any suspects? Could this be connected to Boyd’s earlier legal troubles?”
Hart forced a smile, nudged his way past the reporter. “No comment,” he said again. “Thank you.”
Hart cleared a path through the crowd to where they’d parked; he’d driven his Super Duty three blocks from headquarters, while Jess had taken a county cruiser into Neah Bay from Deception. The reporters followed, and so did some of the gawkers, lingering just within earshot, waiting to hear what the law planned to do.
Hart shooed them away. Then he gave Jess a tired smile. “We’re going to need to put a face to this thing,” he said. “Soon.”
Jess nodded. “Yeah.”
“I guess you never worked a case like this before.”
She smiled; Hart knew she hadn’t. “No, sir.”
“Better let me handle the heavy stuff,” the sheriff said. “You and Gillies just work your connections in town. Ask around about Boyd, figure out what he was into. Who he ran with, that kind of thing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mostly, these things clear up quick. It’s usually pretty obvious from the outset. Usually someone close, someone holding a grudge.”
Jess nodded. “I’ll ask around.”
“Keep me posted,” Hart said. “I’ll do the same. Any luck, we can get this thing cleared in a couple of days.”
They said their goodbyes, climbed into their vehicles, and Jess followed Hart out of the lot and as far as the detachment, where he signaled and pulled into the lot, waving to her out the window, and she continued up toward the highway.
She hadn’t said anything to Hart about the scars on Burke’s hands, she realized, the fight outside Spinnaker’s. She wondered if she’d forgotten, or if she simply hadn’t wanted to tell.
It didn’t matter. The sheriff would find out, sooner or later; there weren’t many secrets in Makah County. And Jess imagined there would be more than a few people in Deception who’d heard of the fight, and Boyd’s murder, and think the outsider from back east with his history of violence must have been the one who pulled the trigger. Heck, she might have thought it herself if she didn’t know Mason Burke like she did.
Jess hoped Hart was right, that they could clear the case quickly. Otherwise, she knew, things were liable to get sticky for Burke, and damn fast.