Free The Dying Hour by Rick Mofina Page A

we’re coming in from Seattle. Can you direct us to the scene?”
    Hodge did, sounding as if he’d been giving the same directions all day. The way to the farm was uncomplicated. Wade asked his next question.
    “Have you been able to identify the victim?”
    “Way too soon for that. Nothing’s been moved. We’re securing the scene and forensic people will go over it.”
    “Any indication as to the cause and manner and time of death?”
    “Nothing I can tell you right now. We’re early on this.”
    “Well, can you rule out a link to Harding, the missing Seattle woman?”
    “Can’t rule on anything. You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve got other calls.”
    “One last question, Lieutenant. The wire story says the body was found on private property. Can you tell me a little more? Who made the discovery? How did they make it? And do you have any suspects?”
    “That’s more than one question, son. Our people will bring you up to speed when you get here.”
    To get to the farm they exited 82 at North Prosser, taking the country road that parallels the canal to Whitstram. The property was a few miles east. There was no mistaking the remote house. Some two dozen police and press vehicles, from Seattle, Yakima, Richland, and Spokane, were there.
    Jason noted the name, Hanna Larssen, on the mailbox.
    Reporters and news crews were standing in small groups with sheriff’s deputies. One of them handed Jason and Hodge a sheet—a summary of what had happened, lacking anything new. A map pinpointed the scene. Hodge cursed.
    “Must be half a mile over the hills. There’s no picture from here.”
    “Welcome, Nate. Misery loves company.” A photographer from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer joined Hodge.
    Jason left them for a deputy encircled by a group of reporters, assuring them the lead detective would hold an on-site press briefing in two hours. Jason decided to try to talk to Larssen, the property owner. But when he approached the porch, a deputy there raised his hand.
    “I’d like to speak to Hanna Larssen,” Jason said.
    The deputy shook his head. “Sorry. Nobody’s home at this time.”
    Jason didn’t know what to try next. He joined the vigil with the press pack, making small talk. No one seemed to know much. If they did, they weren’t sharing. Deciding to use the time to write up some barebones stuff and color about the location, Jason went off alone by an empty patrol car. Its radio was busy with chatter.
    “Ryan, seventy-nine, wants you to pick up the additional statement, over.”
    “What statement? Over.”
    The dispatcher heaved an audible but friendly sigh.
    “The property owner who made the find this morning.”
    “Hanna Larssen?”
    Jason’s head snapped up, cocked to listen.
    “Ten-four.”
    “Okay, but what’s her twenty?”
    “Stand by.”
    Jason held his breath as the dispatcher returned.
    “She’s in Richland, at 344 Evergreen, with friends.”
    “Richland, well, that’s where I am.”
    “That’s why I called you.”
    “I’ll take care of it, ten-four.”
    Jason jotted the address, then consulted his map for Richland. It was east and not far. He could get there and back easily in under two hours. He glanced around to see if any of the others had overhead the police dispatch. It didn’t look like it. He closed his laptop to approach Hodge, but Hodge got to him first.
    “Jason. I can’t get a picture here. I have to take an aerial shot, so I’m going to Richland right now. I’m sharing a small Cessna charter plane with KING-TV and the P-I. I should be back in time for the news conference.”
    “Good.” Jason kept his voice low. “I need to get dropped off in Richland.”
    “Why?”
    When they were alone in the Cherokee, Jason told Hodge, who agreed to drop him off, then pick him up on the way back. He told Jason to be sure to find out if Larssen would agree to have her picture taken along with the story.
    The address was for a seniors’ home, a low-ceilinged one-story