“Do you know who the man is?” Bree tried to smell the grass and earth, but the foul of decomp clung to the insides of her nostrils, coated her throat, and overrode every competing odor.
“I couldn’t see his face, but it could be her son.” Homer’s use of the present tense sent a spear of sorrow through Bree. “She said he was going to move in with her. I didn’t know exactly when.”
Throat dry, she nodded. Sadness and anger warred inside her as she pictured the table in the kitchen: the silverware in its proper place, the cloth napkins, the home-baked cake. The scene spoke of effort and care and love. Who had prepared dinner for the other? Ms. Brown or her son? It didn’t matter.
Before they could enjoy their meal, someone had murdered them both.
Bree addressed Homer in a gentle but firm tone. “I want you to stay here but not touch anything. I also need to get a statement from you, but there are a few other things I must do first.”
Homer nodded. “Yeah, OK.”
“Also, I’m going to ask you not to make any calls. I don’t want this news getting out before any next of kin is notified. Death is hard enough on a family without them hearing about it on TV.”
“I understand.” Homer’s watery eyes locked on Bree. “She didn’t have much family except for her boy. Just a brother in Scarlet Falls. A few nieces and nephews there too, but she wasn’t real close to them. They live nearby, but they don’t visit.”
“I need to make a few calls.”
Homer nodded toward the barn. “Camilla clearly didn’t pass today.”
Bree knew he used the word pass in respect for the dead, but the word scraped on her nerves. Pass was a gentle word, and Camilla’s death had been anything but. She’d been violently murdered. She’d been tied up, tortured, and terrified. Had she been forced to watch her son being killed?
Bree had taken over raising her niece and nephew after her sister’s murder in January. She’d been thrust into the role of parent only a short time, but she already understood that love for a child overrode all other emotions. Watching your child die would be the worst thing a parent could endure.
For Ms. Brown’s sake, Bree hoped she’d died first.
Homer continued. “It might seem unimportant, but those goats need to be milked. They’ll be mighty uncomfortable.”
“Can you do that?”
“Sure. I’ve helped Camilla in the past. Just like she helped me.”
Bree didn’t want any part of the scene contaminated, but animals could not be left in distress. Plus, Homer had already been in the barn. “All right, but you’ll have to wait until a deputy arrives to supervise. Until then, please wait by your truck.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He turned and walked away. His vigor had evaporated, and his posture slumped as if he’d aged ten years in the last twenty minutes.
Bree used her cell phone to report the murders to dispatch. She requested deputies be summoned and that they bring portable lights. Darkness would fall in the next hour. Then she informed the medical examiner and called for a county forensics team. She did all this via cell phone instead of using her radio. Local media listened to police radio broadcasts via scanner. Bree couldn’t keep the news of the murders from the press, but she could delay their arrival and buy her investigation some time before media presence complicated the situation.
Next Bree called Matt Flynn, a criminal investigator she employed as a consultant on an as-needed basis. Budget constraints prevented her from hiring a full-time detective. Matt was a former sheriff’s department investigator and K-9 handler. He’d retired from the force after being shot in the line of duty in a friendly-fire incident several years before. A bullet to the hand interfered with his ability to fire a handgun accurately and prevented Matt from being employed as a deputy. But the injury had never stopped him from doing his job, and he was a hell of a detective.
He was also, for lack of a better term, her boyfriend.
“Hey,” he answered.
If she hadn’t been standing in front of a murder scene, she would have appreciated the deep, sexy tone of his voice.
“Unfortunately, this is a business call,” she said with regret.
His sigh was audible over the connection.
“Yeah. I’ve got a double homicide.” Bree gave him the address. “It’s ugly.”
“Aren’t they all? I’m on my way.” Matt ended the call.
Bree slid her cell into her pocket. She returned to her vehicle for personal protective equipment. Homer leaned against his pickup, his arms crossed, his hat tipped down to cover his eyes. But his shoulders trembled as if he were crying and reminded Bree that the two victims inside had been real people, with hopes and dreams and loved ones who would mourn their passing.
But again, the term passing hardly applied to this situation.
Bree tamped down her fury. Two people had been violently ripped from their lives.
Grabbing her camera and a pair of booties from the back of her SUV, she returned to the house. She slipped the covers over her shoes on the back porch. On her way inside, she pulled a pair of gloves from her pocket and tugged them on. She went through the kitchen, trying to walk the path she’d previously used and minimize her impact on the scene.
Just inside the doorway, she snapped photos of the overall scene before moving closer and taking more pictures. After she’d captured the entire room, she approached the bodies.
She stopped next to the man, taking care not to step on any dried blood. A few smears at the edges of the blood pools suggested someone had already done so. She had to squat low and crane her head at an awkward angle to see his face. Three facts struck her simultaneously: One, like the female victim, he’d been finished off with a bullet to the forehead, execution style. Two, he’d been beaten. Three, Bree knew him. Even with bloated, bloodied, and bruised features, she recognized her former deputy, Eugene Oscar.
The man she’d recently forced out of the sheriff’s department.
CHAPTER FOUR
The sunset glowed behind the treetops as Matt Flynn slowed his Suburban at the mailbox. His gaze swept over the worn and tired farm. At the top of the driveway, he left his Suburban next to the two sheriff’s department patrol vehicles. Bree’s SUV was parked up by the house, alongside a battered truck. A generator hummed and portable lights had been set up to illuminate the yard as twilight faded.
Matt walked up the drive and headed toward the house. One deputy was securing the perimeter around the yard with crime scene tape and sawhorse barriers. Another stood on the front walkway holding a clipboard. Matt paused next to the second deputy to have his name added to the crime scene log, a record of every person who entered the scene.
He spotted Bree in the side yard, conferring with her chief deputy, Todd Harvey. As always, even under the worst circumstances, his heart did a little skip at the sight of her. But a murder scene was all business.
Matt approached the pair. As usual, Bree looked like professional law enforcement. Not a single dark hair had escaped her neat bun. Her tactical cargoes and uniform shirt were relatively wrinkle-free for the end of the day, and her hazel eyes were locked in a flat cop stare. But something was off about her posture.
Todd stepped backward to make room for him in the conversation. Typically, the chief deputy was fairly unflappable. He was an excellent supervisor and leader, the type of man who would handle situations within his experience and seek advice for those that weren’t. Tonight, his frame was as rigid as the giant old oak tree in the front yard.