Free The Breathtaker by Alice Blanchard

still without electric power. The damage path ran across several hundred acres of central-pivot irrigation pipes, where the hopeful green of April had given way to vast expanses of brown.
    Back at the morgue, Charlie and Duff extracted the rest of the flying debris from the bodies and carefully examined it before sending it off to the state lab for further testing. There were eight pieces of weaponized debris altogether. “Let’s hope we pull a print off one of these,” Duff said.
    Next Charlie drove to Shepherd Street, where the
rat-a-tat-tat
of the gas-powered generator reached his ears before he even stepped out of his car. He went around back, where part of the roof lay in pieces on the Peppers’ backyard and the few trees that remained standing held shredded debris in their upper, leafless branches. Swiping off his sunglasses, he opened the kitchen door.
    Mike Rosengard looked up. “Hiya, Chief.”
    “Mike? What are you doing here?”
    “Finding lots of smooth glove prints, for one thing.” He leaned over the sink, his features narrowed to a single point of interest as he brushed Chinese-blue fingerprint powder over the faucet and handles. He had a forehead like polished granite and thick dark hair with a streak of premature white, like a worry that emanated from a specific part of his brain. He wore the requisite suit and tie, neatly pressed. “Whoever did this knows crime scene procedure. Fuck. I hate that.”
    “Sours my already tenuous mood.”
    “I heard about the teeth. Hunter filled me in.”
    “Did he tell you about the debris and everything?”
    “Debris, teeth, the whole nine yards.”
    Charlie could hear the melancholy sound of the wind as it whistled through the rafters.
    “I know you said to take the week off, Chief, but what am I supposed to do? Sit around and twiddle my thumbs while all this is going down?”
    Eleven years ago, Mike had moved here from Boston, where real things happened. Real crimes, not these penny-ante drug busts and B&Es and domestic disputes where people were constantly changing their stories. Charlie often worried that his best detective might become bored with only half a dozen homicides a year; but now it looked as if they had the type of mystery a Boston cop could really sink his teeth into.
    “Where are you and Jill staying?” Charlie asked.
    “My brother-in-law’s house. We had to discuss who parks where, when to take a shower. I feel like I’m living in a dormitory.” He scratched his forehead, leaving a daub of blue ash in the center like a third eye. “I tried to keep the boys quiet last night, but Sammy wouldn’t stop crying. Still, I can’t complain, Chief. We’ve got a roof over our heads and three hots a day. We’re just grateful to be alive.”
    “Anything I can do,” Charlie told him. “Anything at all.”
    “Thanks, boss.” He straightened out his arms, and Charlie noticed that the sleeves of his gray suit were about an inch too short. The tie was blue with green polka dots. Mike smiled. “What can you do? You’ve gotta laugh.”
    “I can loan you a few ties. I doubt the suits will fit.”
    “Ties I’ll take,” Mike said. “This is about the most conservative one my brother-in-law has.”
    “So the perp wore gloves?” Charlie said.
    “Which means the crime was premeditated.”
    “Multiple stab wounds, that’s rageful. That’s personal.”
    “So he knew the victims?”
    “We don’t know that yet.”
    “Premeditation, combined with the viciousness of the attacks, indicate that the perp might’ve known his victims.”
    “It’s a possibility.” Charlie opened the refrigerator and stood inspecting its contents: Tupperware containers with indeterminate leftovers, a plate of hardened hash browns, a slice of lemon meringue pie covered in aluminum foil. He closed the door, then noticed the refrigerator magnets—Oscar the Grouch, Smiley Face with a bullet through its forehead, a glow-in-the-dark “Earth from Space” magnet.