Free Damage by Mark Feggeler Page A

purchase new equipment every day, so when Scott received permission to order a new camera, it had been cause for celebration.
    Pritchard returned, unaccompanied, as Ray restructured the fourth paragraph of his article. The detective walked passed him to the far end of the porch and stared out into the courtyard where Ray had discovered Correen Wallace. The man's presence made it even more difficult to concentrate, and Ray now had only five minutes left to finish.  
    "How was it you two didn't see that broken window when you first arrived?" Pritchard asked.
    "Fog," Ray said, trying to ignore him so he could think how the fifth paragraph should transition from Evan Wallace being dead to Correen Wallace clinging to life on her way to the hospital.
    "What was Deputy Merrill doing when you found Mrs. Wallace?"
    "Searching through the house," Ray said. Should he refer to Correen Wallace as a widow? She is one, he thought, but only barely. Maybe he should refer to her as his wife.
    "What was he searching for?"
    "Sweet Jesus! How the hell do I know?" He didn't mean to yell at Pritchard, but it felt good once it came out. "Can you please let me finish this?"
    The detective leaned back against the railing and grandly gestured at the smart phone. He smiled pleasantly and watched Ray as he typed. At five minutes beyond deadline, Ray put the last touches on what he felt was the crappiest article he had ever written and hit send. He let out a prolonged sigh of relief.
    The house and garage cast long shadows over the marked and unmarked vehicles. He never realized Tramway County had such a large police force. Across the clearing, uniformed deputies meandered in and out of the barn. To his right, the open pasture was fully bathed in sunshine, the lone pine tree standing watch as each of its foot-long needles sparkled in the light. Off to his right stood Pritchard. Ray took a few steps toward him.
    "So," he said, assuming a more friendly tone to compensate for having just snapped at the man. "Do you think she was pushed, or did she jump?"
    Pritchard, still smiling, seemed to be deciding whether or not he would participate in the conversation. He eventually pushed off the railing and turned to look up at the high peak of the house. "Most jumpers would have opened the window first," he said.
    Ray joined him at the railing and looked up at the third story window. The broken bottom sash hung loosely from its track, swaying slightly in the breeze, threatening to come loose. As he watched, Redmond's face appeared in the shattered window.

Monday, Part VII

    By quarter past nine, Ray was riding to work in the back of a sheriff's patrol car driven by Deputy Greevey, the stupidly smiling string bean he had met earlier that morning in the break room at the Sheriff's Department in Whitlock. He read over the article he had submitted and immediately spotted half a dozen typos and just as many run on sentences. He knew he had submitted better writing to his high school newspaper. Becky emailed back after receiving it, confirming his suspicions by grading the quality of his work in no uncertain terms.
    "What is this shit?" was all she wrote. He didn't bother responding.
    It didn't help his attitude that Deputy Greevey kept trying to make small talk, but clearly had never learned to carry on a conversation. He would ask Ray a meaningless question, Ray would answer, then Greevey would stare at him as though Ray had started the discussion and, therefore, had the responsibility of carrying it forward. This behavior lasted the entire drive from Wilkston Creek all the way down Highway 13 into Glen Meadows.
    "You ever seen a dead body before?" Greevey asked.
    "Not like that, no," Ray said.
    "Uh huh," the deputy grunted.  
    Most of their mini conversations ended with "uh huh." Its predictability had Ray muttering it under his breath along with the deputy by the end of the ride.
    "Looks like clouds coming in," Greevey said, craning his neck to peek up at the sky as