Free The Boy Must Die by Jon Redfern Page A

newspaper.
    “These belong to Sheree?”
    Randy frowned. “I think so. I think she owns a pair. For gardening.”
    Before he spoke again, Billy slipped a note card out of his suit pocket. He folded it over once, creased it, then slid it into his right hand, and with it covering his fingers fitted it onto the lip of the rubber boot and lifted the boot up. The sole was clean and dry. He put the boot down. The other one was dry and clean as well.
    “What time did Sheree come over to your place yesterday?”
    Randy pulled in a breath, then rolled his eyes; looking over the back garden, he rubbed his chin.
    “I can’t be sure. After dinner. Maybe nine or ten. She has a key and lets herself in. I was working on a budget for this morning’s meeting.” Randy tilted his head back and threw a glance at Butch. Billy sensed nervousness in the professor’s voice.
    “I don’t have much interest in the garden, Billy, as you can see fromthe mess out there.” It was Sheree. She had come up from behind and was drying her hair. She had changed into a pair of tight jeans and a pink blouse.
    “Do you mind, Sheree, if I take a look around your basement and garden now?”
    “Not at all, Inspector.”
    Randy frowned. “When do you want us down at the station?”
    “The constable can take you in the cruiser,” answered Billy. “He can call Dodd to get things set up.”
    Billy was taken aback when Sheree Lynn suddenly gave him a quick hug. “Thank you, Inspector, for caring.”
    Randy smiled woodenly. He steered Sheree Lynn outside through the front door. Turning away from them, Billy pulled out his notebook. He went into the living room, where he’d left his ballpoint, and sat down and began to write each separate piece of information he could remember — especially the description of the caller’s voice “Did they do it? Did Darren go?” Then he stood and walked to the front hall, where Butch was checking over the see-through plastic Ziplocs. Each bag was tagged with neat handwriting. A book with a pentacle on its cover, a noose, a cloth bag with a blood stain, one wax candle, three matches, one paper set of four unlit matches, and a paint-coated stir stick, paint brush, both with black paint.
    “Butch, what do you know about Professor Mucklowe?”
    “Career wise? He’s a big name at the university in Native sites. We did a background run on him during the Schow case. Divorced, tenure position, published articles, and a book on the Blackfoot Nation.”
    “On the level, then.”
    “Seems that way. What do you make of him and Sheree Lynn?”
    “He likes to play boss. She likes it when he does.”
    “You think they’re telling the truth?”
    “For the most part. Neither one of them has an obvious motive for killing a young boy. Sheree Lynn shows remorse at least. I don’t know, yet, what I think about Randy. He’d just as soon ignore the matter as he did the boys when they were alive. Still, it doesn’t lie right. Sheree andRandy seem to be hiding something. At least holding back.”
    Billy opened Johnson’s kit, pulled out a pair of rubber gloves, a set of tweezers, and a clutch of Ziplocs.
    “Butch, I’m going to do a quick walk-around downstairs. How do you want to proceed?”
    “You call it.”
    “Get Dodd to check the alibis of Sharon Riegert and her boyfriend, Woody. And have him record both Sheree’s and Randy’s formal statements separately. Then have him go through your reports and statements on the Schow case. Pull out names, numbers — teachers, friends, family — anyone associated with these two boys. Especially anyone who said anything about Darren. Did you say you’d met the counsellor at the school?”
    “Yeah. Bill Barnes. I’ve got his number in another notebook, out in the cruiser.”
    “Call him. See if he can come up with any new names of boys around fourteen who might have known Darren. Or had mentioned being here.” Billy hardly had time to catch his breath. “In a few days, the