John Sandford - Bad blood

"Ah, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Schickel said, crossing himself. "He ate his gun. He must've killed Bobby."

A pistol, a matte-black Glock like Virgil's, except in.45 caliber, lay on the floor next to the couch.

"Did he carry a.45 Glock?" Virgil asked, looking at the big black hole at the end of the barrel.

"Yeah, he did," Dunn said.

Crocker was on his back, an entry wound under his chin, a massive exit wound at the back of his skull. The arm of the couch, covered with a plush green material, was soaked with blood, hair, and what might have been pieces of bone; a couple of small holes in the wall beside the couch looked like they might have been made by fragments of the exiting slug.

"Maybe he knew he was gonna get caught," Dunn said.

"Didn't kill himself," Virgil said. "He was probably murdered. Let's clear the house, just to make sure there's nobody hurt, somewhere. We don't want to dig around, just clear it. Two minutes."

The three of them moved through the place, but found it empty. Crocker had lived only on the first floor; the second floor was closed down, the door at the top of the stairs sealed with 3M insulating tape. They pushed through, and found a bunch of old dusty furniture sitting in cold, dry, dusty rooms.

When they were sure there was nobody else in the place, Virgil said, "Let's call the sheriff. This is really gonna make her day."

They stepped carefully past the body and back outside. Dunn made the call, and Schickel asked Virgil, "Why'd you think it's murder?"

"When Lee was telling me about B. J. Tripp, she mentioned him being hanged from the bunk. I asked her if his dick was hanging out-you know, strangled himself while masturbating."

"Heard of that, but never seen it," Schickel said.

"Yeah, well, it wasn't. Hanging out. But if you go up there and look, you'll see that Crocker's fly is down, and you can see his dick sticking out. I never, ever, heard of anyone who was yanking his crank and stopped to kill himself. Or anyone who took his dick out, and left it out, and killed himself. It's not dignified. When people kill themselves, they tend to think about how they'll be found-they imagine it. They imagine how sad everybody'll be. They're going to show them… but they don't stick their dick out."

"I didn't pick up on that," Schickel said. "His dick."

Dunn came back: "The sheriff's on the way. What about his dick? Whose dick?"

Lee Coakley looked in on Crocker's body. Her mouth was a thin line, with a twist at the end, as though she'd been sucking on a lemon. "He could be a jerk, but I'd never have wished this on him," she said.

"I called our crime-scene people up in the Cities. I thought you might want to go that way, given the situation, instead of using your own man," Virgil said. "You say yes, I'll get them on the way."

She nodded. "Yeah. Get them started. I'll get Gene to set up in the driveway, keep people out. I better go down and tell Jim's folks."

"You okay with that?"

She nodded again. "Yes. My job, and I won't dodge it. I'd feel better if I could spit, but I don't think I can."

"Got a preacher you can take along?"

"We do, but his folks belong to some kind of private religion. I think it'd be best not to try to sneak a Lutheran in the door. I'll just have Greg ride along."

They went outside, and she told Schickel and two other deputies to shut the scene down and wait for the crime-scene crew from the Cities. "I don't want anybody in or out. Anybody."

"They'll be three hours," Virgil said. "They're loading up."

"What're you gonna do?" Coakley asked.

"Not much to do until the crime-scene guys have a look," Virgil said. "I think I might go get a bite to eat."

He walked along with Coakley to her truck, and said, "I'd like to look at the files on this whole chain of events-the Flood killing, Tripp's death, the personnel file on Crocker."

"I'll call in. You'll want to talk to a deputy named John Kraus. I'll have John put you in the conference room. I'll be back in a couple hours, at the latest. I'd like to read through them again myself."

Virgil stopped at the Yellow Dog Cafe in downtown Homestead, got a California burger and home fries, with a Diet Coke, and thought about the three killings. Had to be tied. He didn't know how often Warren County had a murder, but he'd guess one about every ten years or so, if that often. To have three, in a week, all cryptically linked, was pressing coincidence.

They had no reason for Tripp's murder of Flood; no reason for Crocker's murder of Tripp; no reason for an unknown killer to murder Crocker, especially when Crocker was lying on a couch with his penis sticking out. Crocker hadn't been surprised; everything in his old house rattled, so he must've known that he wasn't alone in the house, must've known the person who killed him. And he hadn't feared that person; probably had some sexual relationship with her. Or him.

Hmm. Or him. A few months earlier, Virgil had worked a case in the North Woods in which a bunch of lesbians had been involved. Didn't seem right that he'd go right on to another case involving homosexuals.

On the other hand, Tripp may have been gay, active or inactive. He had wanted to talk to a newspaper reporter about the Flood killing, and the only fact known to Virgil about the reporter was that he was gay.

On the third hand, he did only know one fact about the reporter, and taken with all the facts he didn't know about him, his sexual orientation was probably irrelevant.

Maybe.

He took out his cell phone and called Coakley. She answered on the third ring, and he asked, "Are you at Crocker's folks'?"

"Yes."

She didn't say anything else, and Virgil realized that she was sitting there with them, and they were listening. "Is there any possibility that Crocker had homosexual inclinations?"

"Very, very unlikely. But nothing's impossible, as I'm sure you know," she said.

"You gonna come with me when I talk to this newspaper reporter?"

"Absolutely. I'll see you in an hour."

Virgil hung up, toyed with his home fries. Unless the crime-scene crew came up with something that definitely pointed at a particular person as the killer, or somebody came forward with information, it would be tough to get into the Crocker killing… though it would be interesting to learn more about friends and relatives of Tripp, to see if they blamed Crocker for the death.

And with Crocker dead, it'd be tough to get into the Tripp killing, as well. Had to be some private motive. Some motive that involved Tripp and Crocker and almost certainly Flood.

Tripp had wanted to talk to somebody about Flood, so that killing can't have been on impulse. Tripp planned it. Took the T-ball bat with him. Could be an entry there…

He was about to leave the cafe when a man in a dark suit and close-cut silver hair came through the door, followed by a pretty, dark-haired woman carrying a briefcase and dressed in a gray lawyer suit. He looked familiar, and the man did a double take when he saw Virgil.

"Virgil Flowers," he said, and, introducing himself, "Tom Parker-I cross-examined you in the Larson case." He said it with a friendly smile and Virgil remembered him. Good attorney, he thought, though he'd been on the other side.

"Oh, sure," Virgil said. "Nice to see you again."

They shook hands, and Parker said, "This is my associate, Laurie… and I bet you're not here on a social visit. There's a hot rumor going around the courthouse that Jimmy Crocker's been murdered. That true?"

Virgil said, "I can't really talk to you about it in detail. But, yeah. I'm just in from his place. The sheriff's out telling his folks."

"Better her than me," Parker said.

Laurie asked, "You know who did it?"

"No idea, yet."

"When you find out, let me know," Parker said. "I want to rush out there with my card."