Free Dry Bones in the Valley: A Novel by Tom Bouman Page B

Attorney Ross and Wild Thyme Township Supervisor Steve Milgraham. There was a sour smell of coffee. We took seats around a scratched oak table. At the center of the table were several evidence bags, large and small; I took note of the bloody blue shirt found in Aub’s corncrib, a misshapen bullet which I assumed had taken George’s life, and other sundries. A whiteboard stood at the front of the room, clean. Dally stood and drew a black line down the center of the board, writing John Doe at the top of one half, and George Ellis on the other.
    The sheriff cleared his throat. “Last night was as bad as it gets. George was a good policeman. Let there be no doubt: we’ll hit back harder than anyone ever thought of. Every one of us in this room is here to . . . to do so.” He glanced at me.
    The sheriff continued. “But we can’t spread too thin yet. We’ve got not one homicide, but two, and not quite enough men for one. Anybody remember John Doe?” He tapped the board with a marker. “We know how George died. But I’m afraid this JD puts us out of our depth. So, let’s stay on his side of the board until we can touch bottom.”
    I was sure the line between those two deaths would fade before this was over. The extent of its blurring was the question that interested me; in that border zone down the center of the board, I hoped there would be truth enough to fashion meaning.
    Deputy Jackson let out a mighty yawn and looked around, eyes wet, to see if it was noticed; he hadn’t slept; no one had, except Milgraham and the DA. I caught the deputy’s yawn and pushed it shivering out my nose.
    Wy Brophy cleared his throat and opened a manila folder. “Guess I’ll start.” He passed around some photos of the body, his octagonal glasses perched on the very tip of his nose. “The guy had been out there a month or two at least. Absence of insect life in the body means, A, he was packed in the snow pretty well, B, it was a cold winter and he never thawed, or C, both. You’ll note that he’d been wedged under that boulder facedown. The lividity on his back suggests he’d been lying dorsal for some time before winding up that way. On his back, then, not on his stomach, is how he started out dead.” He handed another photo around, a close-up of the corpse’s chest and the wound. “See here, this speckling like cinnamon in a semicircle pattern, this is a powder burn. He was shot, most likely at a distance of twenty feet or less. More burn than I usually see. And”—Wy produced a red plastic baggie—“I found this. A lead ball that bounced up into his neck, right snug against his jugular.” It looked like a .50-cal lead ball to me, slightly flattened by its journey through the body. “Making the likely murder weapon, what?”
    “Jesus,” said Jackson, coming awake.
    “A muzzle-loading musket,” I said. “Most likely a flintlock.” In the seventies, flintlocks came back in fashion. Hunting with a flintlock was a celebration of frontier life long gone, a way to stand apart from the modern world. The brief season between Christmas and New Year’s allowed you to add a doe to your freezer if you couldn’t get a buck in the fall. That is, if your ass didn’t fall off from the cold and if your musket actually shot when you pulled the trigger. Some of the firearms were handed down, some bought new, some converted from replicas. More hunters own them than use them.
    “Are you sure?” Milgraham said. “Hoo.”
    “Someone tried to dig it out. Probably couldn’t find it and gave up trying.” Brophy passed the baggie to Deputy Jackson. “It’s got something on it, could be human fat. It felt greasy. A musket, I’ll bet that’s right.”
    “Aw, shit,” said Dally.
    I said, “A lot of hunters have one in their locker. Season’s in late December.” Deputy Jackson handed the baggie to me and I hefted it between thumb and finger.
    Detective Palmer grunted respectfully. “Farrell’s probably right. Tough shit