Джонатан Келлерман - Crime Scene

Parked a few yards away — as if to distance itself — was Karen Weatherfeld’s green Jeep Cherokee.

Dark.

My phone was getting one bar, but the data network refused to budge. I mulled it over, then took another measured risk.

I called my office.

“Coroner’s Bureau, Deputy Bagoyo.”

My lucky night. Lindsey Bagoyo was good people.

“Hey there,” I said. “It’s Clay Edison, from B shift.”

“Oh hey, Clay,” she said, her voice cutting in and out. “What’s up.”

“Not much. Listen, I’m checking something out here, and I can’t get reception for shit. Can you do me a favor and look up an address for me?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

I gave it to her. Added, “It’s in Reno.”

“As in Nevada?”

“The very one.”

“What’s up there?”

“Long story,” I said. “Remind me to tell you sometime.”

I heard her typing.

She said, “I’m getting a couple names associated with that address. Arnold Edgar Crahan. Michael Wayne Crahan.”

What about the friend you mentioned from work?

You mean Wayne.

“Can you see if either of them have a record? I need to know who I’m dealing with.”

More typing; a beat.

“Nothing on our end,” she said.

“Okay. Great. Thank you.”

“Clay? Everything all right?”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll fill you in later. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

I put down the phone and strapped up, vest and gun.

Dry frigid air constricted around me, tightening the skin on my throat as I approached the gate and lifted the latch.

It squeaked.

A thousand dogs began howling.

I stopped dead, my hand hovering at my pistol.

I could hear the dogs, but I couldn’t see them. The ruckus echoed across the frozen earth, fracturing crazily: claws on wood, steel chains tested, meaty bodies slapping together. All from the sheds to my right.

The main house porch light snapped on.

The screen door banged open.

A man in a flannel shirt leaned out. He swept a flashlight over the yard, landing on me. I raised an arm against the glare. “Mr. Crahan.”

“Who’s that.”

“Sheriff. I’m gonna put up my badge. Okay?”

“Stay put.”

He ducked inside, reemerged dragging a baseball bat, his moccasins crunching snow and gravel. In his late forties, he was Anglo and sinewy, with thin brown hair and a wire of scar tissue connecting his left ear to the left corner of his mouth, where a lit cigarette dangled.

He stopped within swinging range. “Lemme see it.”

I held out my badge. He snatched it and scurried back.

The dogs bayed and scratched and wailed.

“Are you Wayne or Arnold?” I asked.

“Arnold’s my uncle,” he said.

He tossed me the badge. “What do you want?”

“I’d like to speak to Julian, please,” I said.

No reply.

“Is he in the house?” I asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Wayne. Come on. That’s Karen Weatherfeld’s Jeep.”

“Jeep’s mine.”

“With California plates.”

“I used to live in California,” he said.

I squinted past the pickup truck. “Is he out back?”

Wayne Crahan took a drag. “What’s the problem?”

“No problem. Just want to say hello to him.”

He chuckled, smoke billowing. The dogs were still going crazy.

I said, “You have my word.”

“See, friend, I don’t know what your word’s worth.”

He flicked ash toward the sheds. “Hush,” he said.

The barking ceased.

“Well trained,” I said.

“Nobody wants a pit bull don’t listen to instructions,” he said.

He sucked the cigarette down to the filter, dropped the butt, and toed it out.

“Do I have your permission to look around?” I said.

Before he could reply, footsteps came up the side of the house.

Karen Weatherfeld emerged from the shadows, saw me, and stopped short.

I raised my eyebrows at Crahan, who shrugged.

“You followed me?” she said.

I said, “How’s he doing?”

She seemed torn over whether to yell at me or thank me. At last she sighed, rubbed her forehead, came over to join us. “Not great.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“Not tonight. He needs to rest and let the medication take effect.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“Let’s see how he is,” she said. “I was planning on coming by to check on him.”

“Did you give him my message?” I asked.

“I think it’s a bit much for him to handle right now.” She turned to Crahan. “You’ll keep an eye on him overnight.”

“Yup,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said. Adding: “I wish you’d called me sooner.”

Crahan sniffed. “We’re fine.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said. “But that’s what I’m here for.”

“I said we’re fine.”

They regarded each other tautly.

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” I said. “It’s been probably two, three months since he ran out of meds. How’s he been managing this whole time?”

“I split him some of mine,” Crahan said.

We both looked at him.

“What,” he said.

We all arranged to touch base in the morning. Before leaving, Karen Weatherfeld went back to check on Julian once more. I stood in the yard, chapping my hands against the cold. Crahan fired up another cigarette and offered me the pack.

“I’m good, thanks.”

He blew out smoke. “Sorry I had to lie to you there.”

“I get it,” I said. “He’s your friend.”

He nodded.

“You two lived together long?” I said.

“Couple years. My uncle don’t charge no rent cept he takes half what we make from the dogs. Good dog get you three, four hunnerd.”

“You and Julian used to work together,” I said.

“Not since I hurt my back. He still likes to mess around. Him and tools, they get along.”

“I know, I’ve seen his stuff.”

“Oh yeah? Cool. I was the one helped him get the site set up.”

“Site... Website?”

“Yup.”

I said, “Julian has a website.”

“Etsy, man,” Crahan said. “People go crazy for that shit.”

“What’s he make? Chairs?”

“Nah, not no more. We don’t got the room for a workshop, pretty much just the lathe. Cutting boards, bowls. Little sells quicker and anyhow it’s easier to ship. He helps out with the dogs, too. The dogs like him.” He coughed. “Straight up: what trouble’s he in, huh?”

“None. I gave you my word.”

He nodded skeptically. “Then what’s your message for him?”

“That it’s okay for him to come home.”

Crahan sniffed, sucked in smoke.

“Whatever, man,” he said. “He’s home.”

I checked into a hotel-casino in downtown Reno, fifty dollars for a nonsmoking room that smelled like a bonfire of used jockstraps. The window opened a maximum of six inches. I left it cracked and cranked up the thermostat. Let the elements slug it out.

For the next couple of hours I wandered neon streets, breathing steam, enjoying my anonymity. Dinner was a cheeseburger and fries. From my booth I watched through fogged glass as the lucky and the unlucky stumbled by.

Wayne Crahan’s words kept coming back to me.

He’s home.

Crahan had given me the address of Triplett’s Etsy page. The shop was called Two Dogs Woodworking; it made no mention of either man by name, which was why it had escaped my previous searches. Licking grease from my fingers, I thumbed through the catalog on my phone, browsing pet food bowls, salad bowls, birdhouses, coasters, bracelets. By and large, their feedback was positive. Beautiful item. Well made. Good deal. A few people had complaints about the seller’s slow response time or his grouchy attitude, which I had to laugh at. Michael Wayne Crahan, friendly face of customer service.