John Sandford - Bad blood

"There was a suggestion here, by the sheriff, that he may have been involved in oral sex," Virgil said.

"That would be accurate," she said.

Virgil was surprised that she was so positive. "Really?"

"Yes. Because that explains the lipstick on his penis," she said. "That's also why we think it was heterosexual, and a blouse was involved in the gun-wiping. We could be wrong, but we rarely are."

"Bea… you're my huckleberry."

"Yeah, you say that to everybody," she said. "If it was oral sex, we have the possibility of getting some DNA. I won't go into the details of how we plan to collect it."

"Thank you."

"But we will be doing that. I'll tell you, Virgil, there might not be much more. This shag carpet, this fuzzy couch, there was a blanket… it's an old house, and there's a lot of dirt around. The furnace has been blowing dust on everything. It's going to be a chemical mess. Our best hope is the DNA on his penis, and we'll check the fly of his pants."

"We're also looking for a pair of uniform pants, green wool, with blood on them," Virgil said. "Could be a very small amount, but you've got to find them. Check every pair of green wool uniform pants you can find. The blood comes from a ripped fingernail, so there might not be much. We'll need DNA on that, too."

"If it's there, we'll get it," she said.

"Bea…"

"Don't say it," she said. "The huckleberry thing. Once was annoying enough."

On his way back down the hall to Coakley's office, Virgil got a local call, from a number he didn't recognize. He answered, and found Bob Tripp's father on the other end. "I've talked to my wife, and we're going over to the funeral home tonight at seven-thirty. If you wanted to get here at seven twenty-five, we could put you up in Bob's room by yourself. We'd just as soon not be here when you go through it."

"I'll see you then," Virgil said. "Thank you."

Coakley was alone when Virgil got to her office. She had her boots back on the wastebasket, and was staring out her office window. When Virgil stuck his head in, she pointed at a visitor's chair.

"Look a little bummed," Virgil said.

"I am."

"We'll get this cleared up, you'll be the town heroine," Virgil said.

"Three murders," she said. "And probably four. You know the last thing I did before I got elected sheriff? My last investigation? I was looking for some kid who was going around keying trucks."

"Catch him?"

"No, but I know who did it," she said. "I got myself close to the little asshole's father, down at the diner, in the next booth. I was having lunch with the chief, and I said, 'There's gonna be trouble when I catch this kid. He's done fifty thousand dollars' worth of damage, and the insurance companies will be after him or his parents with a chain saw.' That stopped it, you betcha."

"Well, that's good," Virgil said.

"But you never did car-keying investigations," she said. "And I can tell you, you can flat get whiplash from the change in speed, from car-keying to quadruple murder."

"Never did a car-keying investigation, but I once investigated the theft of toddlers' pants," Virgil said. He told her about it, and they exchanged a few more stories, and Virgil told her about the phone calls, and finally she sighed and said, "It's supper time. You should get out to Flood's, and I'm going home to cook some… crap. Macaroni and cheese. I can't stand to think about it."

"So take some time, cook something good. Think about the case while you're doing it. Call me when you think of something."

She poked a finger at him. "And you call me. Tonight. I want to hear about Flood, and about Bob Tripp's room. Tonight."

They walked out to the parking lot together, and then Coakley said, a frown on her face, "By the way, when we were talking to Pat, you said you could think of a few scenarios where Crocker didn't kill Bobby. So what're the scenarios?"

Virgil shrugged. "Crocker is having an affair with a female deputy, who came in to shut up Bobby. She kills him, while Crocker is off someplace, doing something. Gets her pants scratched. But she's worried that Crocker is going to tell somebody that she was there-use her for an alibi, if somebody finds out Bobby was murdered. And maybe she knows enough about autopsies to know that we might find out. So she goes over to Crocker's and kills him to shut him up, before he can tell anyone that she was at the jail."

"Well, goddamnit, Virgil, you're coming back on me again," she said.

"No, I'm not," Virgil said. "I was just thinking of scenarios. Besides…"

"Besides, what?"

"Bobby was a star athlete," Virgil said. "I don't think you're strong enough to keep him pinned long enough to strangle him."

"Ahh… Go away."

"You gonna think about it?" Virgil asked. "The scenario?"

"I'll think about it, but it's bullshit," she said, and Virgil went away. VIRGIL GOT to the Flood house well past dark, but could tell the house was a big one, a cube, white clapboard around the first floor, dark brown shingles around the second floor and the attic level. It sat squarely facing the county highway, on a low rise a hundred yards back, with a shelterbelt of fir trees to the northwest and west, dark against the Milky Way. Five snowmobiles were rolling down the ditch to Virgil's left as he came to the Floods' driveway, and they went bucketing on past into the night.

The yard was illuminated by three lights-one over a side door to the house, a yard light on a pole by the corner of the house, and another on a pole by the barn. The barn and a couple of lower outbuildings, a garage and a machine shed, sat off to the right of the drive, with the glint of a silvery propane tank off to the left. No cars were visible in the yard lights: everything was buttoned up, and dark.

Virgil could see no tracks going to the front porch as he came up the drive; not unusual. The side door would be the main entry. He climbed out of the truck, took a second to look around, and to feel the cold night air on his face, and to look at the stars, then walked to the side door and rang the bell.

He could hear a thumping inside, somebody running. A moment later, the door popped open. Two teenage girls stood looking at him, in the dim light of a small overhead bulb, and he nodded and said, "I'm Virgil Flowers," and one said, "Yes, we were waiting," and the other, "Come in. Wipe your boots."

"I could take the boots off."

"No need. Nobody else does."

The girls appeared to be about twelve and fourteen, junior high school age. They were dressed almost identically, in dark blue jumpers with white blouses and black tights, with black lace-up shoes. They were sallow with winter, with deep shadows under their eyes: their father had been murdered.

Virgil asked, "So, what are your names?"

"I'm Edna," said the older one, and the younger one said, "Helen."

He followed them up four stairs into a kitchen and around a corner and through another door into a living room. One of the girls called ahead, "Mother, Mr. Flowers is here."

Alma Flood was sitting on a couch in a book-lined living room, a reading lamp over her shoulder, a Bible on the arm of her chair. A man, older, big, farm-weathered with a white beard, a big red nose, and small black eyes, sat facing her on a recliner chair. A glassed-in bookcase, built under the stairs going up to the second floor, was full of what looked like fifty-year-old novels, the kind you'd find in a used-book store or an aging North Woods resort.

Alma Flood was square in the body, as the girls would be, with her hair pulled into a bun; she wore a dark brown dress. There was a resemblance between her and the older man, and Virgil thought he might be Alma Flood's father. She said, "Mr. Flowers. You have news?"

"Maybe," Virgil said, smiling. The man gestured at the second recliner in the group of furniture, and Virgil sat down. A comfortable chair, and the house looked prosperous; but no sign of a television set. Virgil said, "You know the sheriff arrested Bob Tripp for Mr. Flood's murder. Bob Tripp was then killed in jail-"