Free Damage by Mark Feggeler

driveway. He had asked which family member called for help? The husband was in no condition to use the phone, his wife was only marginally less dead, and their children weren't home. Unless one of the Wallaces placed the call before the trouble started, there had to be someone else at the house before he and Billy arrived.
    "Well?" Redmond asked.
    "We only got here around six-thirty," Ray said. "Billy and I checked out the barn first and then we came in here."
    "You refer to him as Deputy Merrill when you're talking to me. What did you see in the barn?"
    Ray thought back. So much had happened during the last few hours that their brief visit to the barn was a distant memory. "Just the car with the radio blasting. That was it."
    "Then what?"
    "Like I said, then we came in here and found him," Ray said, pointing sideways at Evan Wallace's body. He tried not to look at it. Several times he caught his eyes straying in its direction. "Shouldn't he at least be covered?"
    Redmond ignored the question. He turned to a new page in his notebook and scribbled. "Why did you place the emergency call?"
    "Why wouldn't I?" Ray said, his confusion at the sheriff's question showing plainly on his face. "Or are you asking why I did it instead of Billy?"
    "Deputy Merrill," Redmond corrected. "And yes."
    "We were both shocked to see that she was still alive after everything she must have been through," Ray said. "I guess I just reacted quicker. I had my phone out and was dialing before Bill... I mean, Deputy Merrill, realized what I was doing. I'm sorry if that broke some kind of protocol he was supposed to..."
    "Did you move the body?"
    "What?" Ray asked. "Which body?"
    "That," Redmond said, pointing at Evan Wallace, "is a body. The other thing you found is a victim."
    "I'll bet if he could talk he'd say he's a victim, too," Ray said.
    "You think this is funny?"
    "No," Ray said. He was growing tired of answering questions at a time when he desperately needed to get his story written. "It isn't funny, and I didn't touch the body. Look, we showed up here together. We were only apart for a few minutes, and that's when I stepped outside and found the victim. If you want to know what I did or didn't do during the rest of the morning, go ask my cousin. He works for you and his name's Billy."
    To his surprise, Redmond let the cousin Billy crack slide without comment. Perhaps it had something to do with the entrance of Detective Pritchard from upstairs, but Ray had the feeling the sheriff was finished with him. Redmond actually cracked a smile, which did nothing to soften or improve his appearance, and got up off the sofa.
    "Daniel," Redmond said to Pritchard. "Have Deputy Greevey give Mr. Waugh, here, a ride home."
    Pritchard nodded and motioned for Ray to follow him outside. Just before they left the great room together, from the staircase Redmond called an additional order.
    "And confiscate the camera."  
    "I already have all the pictures he took," Pritchard said before Ray had a chance to object. "He emailed them to me, so there's no need to take his camera."
    "This is a crime scene, Daniel. And that," Redmond pointed at Ray, "is evidence."
    "You can't take my camera," Ray declared. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks as he maintained eye contact with the sheriff.
    "Watch me."
    As Ray opened his mouth to argue, Pritchard faced him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't pick this fight," he whispered. Over his shoulder he called to Redmond. "I'll make sure he leaves it behind."
    Out on the porch, the detective ordered Ray to stay put while he wandered off to find Deputy Greevey. Ray checked his smart phone -- only ten more minutes to deadline. He groaned, opened a new email that he addressed to Becky, and started typing. He found it difficult to concentrate because he was mildly panicked about getting the article written in time and figure out how he would explain about the missing camera. Small newspapers like the Citizen-Gazette don't