Instinct, Jason Hough [acx book reading TXT] 📗

evidence locker. She navigates her chair in that direction without another word. Watching her go, I wonder if we have the budget to hire her. Doubtful. Greg warned me when he hired me that, because of the diminished size of Silvertown, the county sheriff has been pushing every year to close our department and let them handle the “minimal needs” of this place. They have a point, too, Greg admitted, but for some reason every year the state has declined to make the change.

“Instead they just keep cutting the budget, which is worse if you ask me,” the chief had said.

“Hey, Clara?” I call out. I can at least float the idea, and then browbeat Greg into putting in a request for staffing.

She glances back at me, an eyebrow raised.

“If you want, I could put in a word with Greg. See if we can’t bring you on part-time.”

“Would I have to handle the front desk?”

“Well, yeah. But I’m sure—”

She’s already shaking her head. “Thanks for the offer, but the idea of dealing with everyone who walks in here isn’t for me.”

“You work at the one diner in town. Wouldn’t it be the same people?”

“That’s why I work the grill. I could never wait tables. Or front desks.”

I frown. “Sorry, I didn’t know it would bother you. I can get another volunteer until Greg’s back.”

Again a shake of the head, this time more emphatic. “A few hours here and there is fine, I just couldn’t make a career out of it.”

“Okay. Fair enough.”

She gives me an apologetic smile and returns to her task. Letting Clara get her curious hands on some genuine police evidence seems a small price to pay to keep her volunteering. Besides, it’s not like the items are from a crime scene. So I let it go and turn my attention to the phone.

After navigating the county’s government-grade phone menu for several billion years, my call finally reaches the coroner’s desk.

“Shipman,” the man says by way of introduction. I write the name down on my pad of useful contacts as I reply.

“Hi. It’s Mary Whittaker, Silvertown PD.”

“Silvertown? Usually it’s Gorman who calls us.”

“It’s a team effort up here now.”

He doesn’t respond to that.

“Listen, about the victim in the bear attack—”

“That request just came in, and you’re already on my case? We haven’t even collected the body yet.”

“I know. I mean, I figured. When you do look at him, though, could you do a full toxicology screen and send me the results?”

“Bears aren’t poisonous.”

I say, “But they could be diseased.”

Silence again.

“Look, truth is I’m interested in the, er, pharmaceutical aspects of the report.”

“Of the legal or illegal variety?”

“Both, and quickly if possible.”

“Well, I surely will try, boss!” he says with a mock hick accent. Then he adds, “It is Friday, you know.” The call ends abruptly.

Somehow, I come away from this call with the impression I’m not going to get answers until Monday at the earliest. On the pad of paper beside my phone, below the name Shipman, I jot down: Don’t boss, does not react well, and underline it. The pad is close to full with such observations, and despite the chat with the coroner going a little poorly, this little nugget of wisdom will aid me next time.

I yawn and lean back in my chair, considering other options. Maybe drive back up to Old Mine Road and poke through the Subaru. Look for what the media love to call “drug paraphernalia.” Or, I suppose I could just ask Ms. Pascoe in the next room. She’s warming up to me, as long as I prompt her with constant questions. Plus she doesn’t seem to be especially attached to the deceased. Maybe she’ll come clean if there’s evidence that drugs are involved.

No, I think. She really has been through enough. It can wait until morning.

The phone rings. Clara glances at me from the table by the evidence locker and I hold up a hand. “I got it,” I add, suppressing another yawn. Then, into the handset, “Silvertown police, Officer Whittaker.”

“May I speak with Chief Gorman, please?”

My heart sinks, and not just because they’ve asked for Greg. This is a voice I know. Barbara Rogers, bereaved mother of the late Johnny.

“Sorry, Mrs. Rogers, Greg’s still on leave.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. I’d forgotten.” After the slightest hesitation, there’s a renewed confidence in her voice. “You’re going to ask me if this is an emergency, and the answer is no. I just… I need to speak with him. I’d hoped he might come by.”

“Is this something I can help you with?” I ask with a little trepidation. I want to help her, more than anything. But there’s the hiker to consider, and his girlfriend in the cell. You can’t be everywhere, my old boss once told me, so stop trying. I guess I can’t help it.

She says, “You’re familiar with Johnny’s case?”

The death of Johnny Rogers is practically all Greg and I talked about before he left. I wasn’t there when Greg found the body, but I’ve read his report. Studied the photographs. Tried to drink those images away. “Greg has briefed me, yes.”

“Perhaps you could come by, then.”

Not a question. Not that I’d refuse if it was. “Sure, of course. I’ll be right over. Do you need me to bring anything?”

“No,” she says firmly. Then, completely monotone, “I mean that. Please do not bring any more flowers. We have more than we know what to do with. I’ve had to ask Rachel to stop accepting orders if they’re intended for our doorstep.”

I’d delivered a bouquet myself. Just about everyone has. “I, well, we all just want to… we’re all mourning with you, Barbara. It’s the least we can do.”

“Well,” she says, “you might be able to do something that will actually help. Please come by and I’ll explain.”

This doesn’t fill me with eagerness, but I agree all the same. Her son is dead. She’s entitled to special access, to favors. Until Greg’s back, anyway.