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Ann pulled the gloves on and collected the tooth. In the bathroom, she grabbed a couple of cotton swabs from a glass jar on the counter. She used them to collect a few samples of the stain in the carpet, specifically a chunk Pinky had missed. Ann didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but it resembled subcutaneous fat.
The dog whined and pawed at the door. Ann examined the cotton swab samples. It could be blood. Blood mixed with dog saliva.
A guttural lurching sound came from the other side of the door. Ann opened it just as Pinky threw up the contents of her stomach. Swimming among the pieces of bloated kibble and clumps of undigested grass were more teeth and gobs of other unrecognizable substances.
Ann put her hand over her mouth and turned away. The task at hand required some assistance. She pulled the radio from her belt and pressed the talk button.
“George. I need backup at Brent Winter’s address. Bring a kit.” She waited. “George, do you copy?”
“Oh, hey, Ann. Yeah, I copy. I’ll be right over after I beat this game of Solitaire.”
“No. You’ll be here immediately. When I request backup, drop what you’re doing and get over here.”
George arrived minutes later in the station vehicle. Ann was on the front porch. She’d pushed Pinky into the back yard and barricaded the door with some chairs. She knew dogs sometimes liked to recycle their food—or owner—if that’s what they vomited up. She closed her eyes and took a breath. No speculating.
“There’s a pile of dog vomit in the hallway,” Ann said. “I need it for analysis.”
“You want me to collect vom—” George gulped. “—it?”
Ann snatched the kit from his hands, dropped to one knee, and opened it up. She sorted through the supplies inside, found a mask, and put it on. Hopefully it would block the smell. After giving George a disparaging look, she went inside and got to work on the puke.
After they’d taken photos and collected everything worth collecting, including more of the like-human-umbilical-cord substance, they returned to the station with Pinky panting in the back seat. Ann parked and cleared her throat, dispelling George’s disquieting silence.
“I’m assuming what we found belongs to Brent in some capacity.” She opened the door. “I’d like you to drive the evidence to the Pine Valley Hospital and drop it off with a lab tech named Melissa. Tell her I sent you. Ask her to check for DNA against this.” She handed him a hair sample she’d taken from Brent’s brush in the bathroom. “If the DNA matches Brent’s, we’ll need to contact his parents to inform them he’s . . . missing.”
“You hesitated. You don’t think he’s missing, do you?”
Ann didn’t answer.
“His dog . . .” He gulped. “Did she eat him?”
Ann stared straight ahead.
George turned in his seat and looked directly at Ann. She glanced side-long at him.
“Tell me Pinky didn’t eat Brent.” Tears wet his eyes. “Please. Even if you don’t think it’s true, just say it. I need to hear those words right now, out of your mouth.” He glanced over his shoulder at the dog in question, who grinned the way only pit bulls could.
“She didn’t eat him.” Ann got out and opened the back door to let Pinky out and grabbed the box of non-bio evidence. She waved an ashen-faced George off to Pine Valley.
Ann went inside and set the box on her desk. She filled a bowl with water and set it on the floor by the kitchenette. Pinky ran to it and lapped frantically. She lifted her head, and liquid dribbled from the corners of her substantial mouth.
“You’re with me until I figure out what to do with you,” she told the dog. Pinky cocked her head to the side.
Marcie’s copy of The Local Inquirer with the note from Brent sat on her desk. Inside were pictures of two suspects, clear as day, but they seemed too obvious. Louise and Teresa Hart. Motive? Libel, of course. Brent couldn’t expect to do a false write-up without consequences, especially when those people being written about were both, well, crazy.
Suspect number three. Ann sighed. George Riley. He had motive for Marcie and Brent. He also had a set of keys to Sheriff McMichael’s house.
She wondered how often Brent published The Local Inquirer and what it usually contained. Perhaps an earlier edition had more clues. She found the number in the phone book and dialed.
An elderly male voice answered.
“Hello, this is Ann Logan. I’m helping out on a local case. Can you tell me how often Brent Winter publishes The Local Inquirer?”
“Annie Logan, the little girl who grew up to be a hero?”
She didn’t say anything. Instead she cleared her throat and sniffed.
“It’s random. He’ll call me about a week before to let me know when he has enough content. Then we coordinate,” Mr. Newspaper said. “That Brent Winter. What a character. He comes up with some pretty funny stuff, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, sure.” She didn’t agree. “When was the previous one printed?”
“Let me check.” The sound of movement and a drawer opening and closing came through the line. “Before the latest edition . . . looks like it was about four months ago.”
“Did it include any pictures?”
“There’s one of Louise Marga, but he’s always got pictures of her.” The rustling of a page flipping. “There’s a picture from a town hall meeting—haven’t had one of those in a while, until this week that is.” He paused. “Caption calls ’em a local cult discussing how to take over Castle County.” He laughed too loud.
“Anyone in particular stand out in that photo?” Ann asked.
“Louise Marga, again, but she’s kind of all over the place around town, you know.”
“How often does Louise feature in Brent’s paper?”
“Every issue has a picture of her, I’d say.”
“What about Teresa Hart? Is she in the town hall photo?”
“Teresa Hart?” He sounded confused. “Oh, you mean the doctor’s wife. Let me see.”
She could almost see his eyes scanning the picture. Maybe he held the page close to his nose for a better look.
“No, the Harts aren’t present.”
“Do you happen to recall what the actual town meeting was about?” Ann asked.
“It came out in June so probably upcoming summer events.”
“Thank you so much for your time,” Ann said.
“My pleasure. You stay safe.”
“I will.” She hung up and tucked the bagged copy of The Local Inquirer out of sight.
Louise shot to the top of Ann’s suspect list. Another visit to the old loon’s house would definitely be in order. But until she had solid proof, she was at a loss. How and where could she find more proof?
Right on cue, the phone rang. Pinky barked and ran to the door. Ann jumped, startled by both the phone ringing and Pinky’s reaction.
She picked up the phone on her desk.
“Castle County Sheriff’s Department, Ann Logan speaking.”
“Are you a detective or a receptionist?” Joey’s voice came over the line.
“Short-staffed. What do you have?”
“Fingerprints. Let’s see . . . I’d email you my findings, but they are way too big, and you just have to see everything.”
“Whose fingerprints were on the window?” That was all Ann needed to know.
“You’re gonna love this,” Joey said. His voice held a note of accomplishment. “After I ran the print, I did some extra digging. Found even more gold. You have to read the entire dirty write-up.”
“Tell me who it was, and I promise I’ll read the whole file.”
“Let me give you some highlights.”
Ann grumbled. “Fine. But you know you’re obstructing justice by not telling me.”
“Yes. But I don’t care. Let me have this moment.” He cleared his throat. “The perpetrator is a woman.”
Check for both Teresa and Louise.
“She has had an extended stay in a loony bin twice in her life.”
Ann didn’t know about Louise, but she knew Teresa had been in Mountain View at least once.
“Those places were easy to hack. You’d think with confidential patient info they’d have better internet security systems in place, or at least have a firewall that’s water tight like a frog’s ass.” She heard the shrug in his voice. “Their ignorance is my gain.”
“Tell me more,” Ann said through her teeth.
“Here we go—you ready for this?” He cleared his throat again. “The first time she went to the funny farm was after her mother died. The possible suspect was fifteen years old at the time. Mummy took too many lorazepams with too much whiskey. Maybe on purpose, maybe on accident. Maybe the fifteen-year-old daughter did it.”
“Go on,” Ann said.
“The second time she went was after her baby died.”
Ann hit the top of her desk with her flat palm. “Teresa fucking Hart.”
“Come on. You stole my thunder.”
Joey sent her the files via file transfer. While she waited, she made another pot of coffee, played four games of Solitaire on the dispatch computer, checked the time every two minutes, and finally, a folder called, “You Can’t Make This Shit Up” appeared.
Inside were the files Joey hacked right out of Mountain View. Teresa’s haunted past. Every single piece of it, complete with news articles from reputable newspapers, stories from gossip rags, police records, and photographs of her family. Joey had also included the fingerprint analysis.
Ann didn’t know if a hacker’s work would hold up in court, but for now, Ann needed Teresa in custody. She selected every file and hit print. Then she pulled on her jacket and grabbed the keys to the station vehicle.
When she stepped outside, her skin ached from the cold. No, not her skin. Ann pulled up her sleeve. Her veins glowed. Her blood tingled.
Maggie was in trouble.