C. Box: Back of Beyond

“If an accelerant was used as part of a suicide I doubt there would be any trace of it left. Of course, hundred-proof whiskey might have had the same effect.”

Cody nodded.

“But there’s some good things,” Larry said.

“Which are?”

Larry shined his light on the unburned half of the cabin. “The rain put the fire out before it took the whole place down. We might find something in there. That’s where the kitchen and dining room are, and a bedroom. There’s a lot of smoke damage, but who knows? We might find something.

“And the rain and cold might work a little in our favor,” he said. “If the rain hadn’t come no doubt the body would have been subject to the wick effect, because our victim was big and had plenty of fuel.”

The wick effect was when fat smoldered-sometimes for days-and rendered the carcass a mass of black gelatinous goo.

“So because we have a great deal of the body left, the autopsy boys might be able to determine cause of death.”

Cody centered his light on the frame of a metal desk and the black melted hulk on top of it. “We might even be able to recover something from the hard drive of the computer, I just don’t know. I don’t know if data on a hard drive can survive that kind of heat and this damned rain. But we might be able to recover something, if it’s even worth trying.”

Larry said, “And there you have it, folks,” bowing and sweeping his hand toward the body like a performer done with his act, “an accidental death in a remote mountain cabin.”

Cody said nothing. The rain drummed.

“What?” Larry asked, finally. “Are you thinking something else?”

“Let’s take a look inside the rest of the cabin,” Cody said. “Let me grab my gear.”

“You’re thinking something else,” Larry said, his disappointment palpable.

* * *

All the walls were black with smoke, but the kitchen was neat and uncluttered. The table was cleared except for salt and pepper shakers designed to look like rising trout. It felt good to get out of the rain.

There were no dishes in the sink. There were unopened packages of meat and vegetables still in the plastic bags from the store in the refrigerator.

“Looks like he’d just been shopping,” Larry said. “There’s no old stuff in here at all, like maybe he’d been gone and just came back with groceries. And there’s plenty here-two big steaks, some potatoes, salad in a bag. Like he was expecting someone or maybe just eating for two. I bet these steaks are still okay, considering how cold it’s been.”

Cody opened the dishwasher, hoping there would be dirty glasses or dishes inside.

“Shit,” Cody said. “He ran the dishwasher before the place burned down, so we won’t pull any prints from the glasses or plates.”

“He was a clean drunk,” Larry said, rooting through cupboards. “I’ll leave all these doors open so you can shoot ’em if you want. It might be better in the daylight, though.”

Cody checked under the sink. Cleaning supplies, garbage bags, the usual. He shined his flashlight into the garbage can, which was lined with white plastic. Garbage cans often held good stuff, he knew.

There were a few items inside, and he took the can out and emptied it on the table. Crumpled paper Dixie drinking cups, wadded-up Kleenex, shreds of cellophane, and the missing cork cap to the Wild Turkey bottle. Cody photographed the contents.

Larry saw the cap in the flash of the camera and whistled. “So we can assume he was on a bender after all.”

Cody pushed the cellophane strips around with the tip of his pen.

“What are they?” Larry asked.

“Cigar wrappers, I think.”

“So maybe he was smoking a cigar as well,” Larry said. “But I still think it was the open stove.”

Cody bagged the cellophane and the Dixie cups and the bottle cap and marked them with evidence numbers.

“What’s with that?” Larry asked, observing.

“You never know,” Cody said. “Maybe a print can be pulled.”

Larry nodded his head but eyed Cody with suspicion.

* * *

“Got something here,” Larry called from the bedroom.

Cody entered. Because the door had been closed, there was little smoke seepage or damage. The room was pristine compared to the kitchen; i.e., white walls, made bed, a half-full closet. Larry had his flashlight trained on an open suitcase on a cedar chest. Clothes were folded neatly inside. “He just got back from somewhere and hadn’t even unpacked yet.”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“Either that, or he was one of those anal types who packs the night before. But that doesn’t account for the fresh food in the refrigerator. Plus, the place just doesn’t seem lived in. It seems like it was closed up for a while and he just got here and immediately decided to get hammered. That’s kind of weird.”

“Yeah,” Cody said. Cody’s beam slid off the suitcase and rested on a battered leather briefcase next to the cedar chest.

“And something else, I just realized,” Larry said. “There weren’t any other liquor bottles in the kitchen. None. So unless he kept his bar out in the den where he burned up and every trace of it melted into the mud, the only bottle here was the one he was drinking.”

“Um-hmmm.”

“Which kind of makes me think he picked it up on the way here.”

“Um-hmmm,” he said, taking several photos of the suitcase, the closet, the bed.

“Hold it,” Larry said, moving farther into the room. He illuminated a dresser with several items on top; a comb, a Delta Air Lines envelope, a paperback, a pile of coins, and a wallet. “ID,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” Cody said. “Before you pick it up let me take some shots of the layout and the stuff on the dresser. Then I want to superglue the room. Then you can check it all out.”

Larry stared at him and Cody could feel his eyes on him in the semidark.

“Cody,” Larry said, “what the hell are you doing?”

“Investigating,” Cody said. “We’re investigators, remember?”

“Fuck you. I’m saying accident and you’re not. You’re treating this as a homicide.”

“I’m crossing every t and dotting every i, ” Cody said. “You know, like they teach us.”

“Bullshit,” Larry said, his voice rising. “You’re trying to show me up.”

“Not at all,” Cody said, opening his case and finding the extra-large can of superglue Fume-It. In a closed room, the aerosol glue would fog up the space and collect on any latent fingerprints on the surfaces of the walls, counters, or mirrors. Fingerprints would show on the flat surfaces like floral flocking on wallpaper.

“I’ll wait for you in the kitchen, you…,” Larry said, not coming up with the foul name he wanted that fit the bill.

“Just be a minute,” Cody said. “Close the door.”

Larry slammed it shut so hard the rest of the house shuddered.

Before releasing the spray, Cody threw the briefcase on the bed and opened it.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Cody opened the door to the dining area. “Got some shots,” he said. “The man was cleaner than hell. He must have scrubbed his walls. But I got some prints. Make sure we get the evidence tech to lift them.”

Larry stood in the dark in the kitchen and said nothing. Then he shouldered past Cody into the bedroom. The dissipating fog of Fume-It made him cough. When he emerged, he pinched the flashlight between his jaw and shoulder so he could use both hands to hold the ticket jacket up and open it.

“Used tickets and a baggage claim check,” Larry said. “Our man flew here on Delta from Salt Lake City three nights ago.” He dropped the jacket on the table and opened up the wallet.

“His name was…”