The front steps of the courthouse were already packed with reporters. Since I worked for the only local newspaper in Tuttle County, I knew that everyone there was from someplace else. Then again, I could tell that just by looking at them. As I scanned the hordes of people buzzing around, holding camera equipment, phones, and notebooks, I didn’t see a single familiar face. That simply didn’t happen in Tuttle. If there was a gathering of more than five people in one spot in town, it was a guarantee I’d know at least two of them—if not by name, then certainly by sight. I was born and raised here, as were my parents and my grandparents, and while I didn’t know everyone in town personally, there weren’t that many faces I hadn’t seen before. Besides, the preponderance of coffee cups from McDonald’s was a dead giveaway, as the closest McDonald’s was seven miles up I-95. The locals got their coffee at Landry’s.
The big tell, however, was the need for a press conference at all. Normally, the sheriff would just talk to someone from the paper on the phone or have us come by the station. The fact that Greer Mountbatten was a big deal from the city, combined with the salacious details of the case, had attracted the attention of the national media. I’ll admit I wasn’t loving it.
“Excuse me,” I said as I attempted to push my way up to the front of the crowd. “I just need to get in here…”
“Nuh-uh. No preferential treatment, little lady.” I heard a whiny nasal voice cut through the din of the crowd. Toby Lancett, the mayor’s nephew, stood in front of the steps like a bouncer.
“Hey, Toby,” I said, forcing a laugh to indicate I knew he was joking—or to warn him that he’d better be. “Your aunt has you doing crowd control, huh?”
“Mayor Lancett asked me to make sure things remain orderly.” He lifted his chin into the air. “So yes, in a manner of speaking, I suppose so.” Toby, barely topping out at five-foot-seven, suffered from a severe case of short-man’s syndrome, which manifested itself in part through his holier-than-thou attitude and in part through his policy of wearing athletic clothing exclusively, no matter where he was or what he was doing. He must have thought this made him seem macho somehow, like he might have to dash to the gym on a moment’s notice to pump some iron. The problem was that Toby didn’t actually work out, a fact that was painfully obvious by looking at him. Especially in spandex.
He stood before the crowd of reporters in gray sweats and a navy blue long-sleeved technical T-shirt stretched tight across the expanse of his belly emblazoned with the phrase “My game is sick. Too bad it ain’t contagious.” He had not one but two fitness trackers on his right wrist, and donned bright neon green high-top basketball shoes that I would have bet good money had been fitted with lifts. The whole thing would have been laughable if Toby wasn’t such an unpleasant little fellow.
“Do you know if Carl’s planning on giving out any new information today?” I asked, looking around.
Toby ignored me and pulled out his mini-bullhorn and pointed it toward a leather-jacketed reporter who had placed his foot up on the third step to tie his shoe. “PLEASE STAY OFF OF THE COURTHOUSE STEPS!”
The reporter didn’t so much as turn his head in Toby’s direction.
“Hey, have you seen Flick around?”
This seemed to distract Toby from the shoe-tier for a moment. He pointed a stubby finger toward the large Bower Glory tree at the far side of the courthouse. “I saw him skulking over there about ten minutes ago.” He looked in the direction of the tree. “Don’t know where he got to now….”
I followed Toby’s gaze but didn’t see any sign of Flick.
“PLEASE DISPERSE! I REPEAT, PLEASE DISPERSE. THIS AREA IS FOR OFFICIAL PERSONNEL ONLY!” Toby was now pointing the bullhorn directly at the poor reporter, who stumbled backward, causing a domino effect. The woman behind him wobbled and spilled her coffee down the front of her jacket.
“What’s your problem, man?” the guy said as he stood up.
“Yeah, who are you anyway?” the coffee-stained woman snapped.
“I’ll leave you to deal with your adoring fans,” I whispered and walked off to look for Flick.
Five minutes later, there was still no sign of him, so I texted again. No response. Sheriff Carl Haight was walking out of the courthouse flanked by Deputy Chip Churner (whom everyone just called Butter) and Deputy Ted Wilmore. Carl was an old friend of mine who had been promoted to acting-sheriff a few months ago after Holman and I busted the then-sheriff, Joe Tackett, for corruption and conspiracy to commit murder. Carl was a good guy, as honest as they come, but maybe in a bit over his head. I felt a pang of empathy thinking of him having to give a press briefing to all these big-city reporters.
Carl approached the makeshift podium and turned on the mic. A crackling sound curled out from the speakers, alerting the crowd that the show was about to begin. He cleared his throat before speaking. “Thank y’all for coming out today. We have a few updates on the Mountbatten investigation, but first I’d like to thank the men and women of the Tuttle County Sheriff’s Department for their hard work on these investigations. We’re a small office, and this level of criminal activity means all hands on deck. These folks,” he gestured to Butter and Ted, “and all the rest of the employees back at the office have really risen to the occasion.”
I had moved up closer, just off to the left of the steps. I held up my phone and opened the recording app so I’d be sure to get it right. Knowing that several other newspapers would be running this story made me even more freaked out than usual about accuracy.
Carl’s eyes scanned the crowd from under the brim of his hat, and he paused for a millisecond when they landed on me. I was probably the only friendly face out here.
After a beat he continued. “I’m going to read a brief statement that will bring y’all up to date with where we are in the investigation. After the statement, I’ll take questions.
“As you know, the Tuttle County Sheriff’s Department responded to a call at Riverside Park on November seventh at 6:14 a.m. from a jogger who had found the body of a deceased female who was later positively identified as Greer Mountbatten of McLean, VA. Initial findings of the forensic autopsy conducted by Dr. Mendez of the Richmond, Virginia, Medical Office show Ms. Mountbatten died after being struck several times in the back of the head with a heavy object. We believe this was most certainly a homicide and are investigating it as such. We further believe Ms. Mountbatten had been dead for several hours before her body was discovered. It was clear from our findings at the scene that Ms. Mountbatten had not been killed at Riverside Park. We believe her body was brought to that location after she died.”
This was new information, and you could hear the indistinct sounds of surprise ripple through the crowd.
“Prior to the discovery of Ms. Mountbatten’s body, a Mercedes S Class registered to Greer Mountbatten was found abandoned on the side of Interstate 95. The interior of the car was covered in blood, and while it is still undergoing extensive testing, we know that at least some of the blood found in the car matches Ms. Mountbatten’s blood type. Further testing will be needed to make a positive identification, but we believe there is a high degree of probability that Ms. Mountbatten may have been killed inside that automobile.”
Another titter of anonymous chatter and the click of photos being taken fluttered through the pack of reporters. Carl waited before continuing. “A second homicide victim was discovered at the entrance to the Sterns cemetery on November ninth at 7:30 a.m. The victim was later positively identified as thirty-one-year-old Justin Fenwick Balzichek of West Bay. We are asking for the public’s help with any information about anyone seen in the area, anything out of place, anything at all that might provide us with some additional insight into this crime.”
Reporters began shouting out questions.
“How was Balzichek killed?”
“Was his body found in the same condition as Greer’s?”
“Is Dale Mountbatten a suspect?”
Carl decided to address only the last question. “Dale Mountbatten is cooperating fully with the authorities and is not considered a suspect at this time.”
“How about Rosalee Belanger? Was she having an affair with Greer’s husband? Would that be considered motive for murder?”
Carl’s face darkened, which might have gone unnoticed by anyone other than someone who’d known him his whole life. His voice was calm and even when he said, “Ms. Belanger is considered a person of interest at this point. I want to be clear, she is not an official suspect. We haven’t been able to locate Ms. Belanger, and we’d very much like to speak with her.” He paused and cleared his throat before continuing. “If you’re out there, Rosalee, please call or come in as soon as you can. We just want to talk.”