Free The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel by Stephen Wilson

police sirens peaked in decibels and then fell silent. Their ear-splitting approach had scared the intruders off, likely saving his life. A jolt of adrenaline surged through his body as he realized the troopers might find him at a second crime scene. Damage to the front door clearly signaled a break in—an offense that Sgt. Connors would be happy to charge him with.
    He moved one limb at a time until he made it to a seated position. He rose unsteadily to his feet. The open door at the rear of the apartment led to the deck and revealed the two thugs’ escape route into the backyard. Hubbard used it for the same purpose.
    As he stepped onto the deck, Hubbard discovered a trail of photos, scattered across the lawn like fat breadcrumbs, the farthest near the back gate. He ignored the ache at the back of his skull and made it as quickly as he could to the alley. Here the incriminating line of photos evaporated. No one was in sight.
    Why would the thieves steal photo prints when there were things of real value all through the place? He looked down at the last of the fallen images—yet another eight-by-ten-inch shot of an empty, weedy field. At the right top corner of the photo, someone had written NW32 in blue ink.
    Hubbard recalled the professional camera lens on the dining room table in the apartment. Why was Amir taking photos of empty fields? And who would want them this badly?
    Hubbard peered back around the fence toward the Victorian. There was no activity inside or around the house that he could see. Where were the troopers? Of course—they’re waiting on Connors, just like last time. Support for his assumption came from a new siren, approaching from the west. Sgt. Connors’s vehicle arriving finally from Hayslip. Hubbard pictured a group of cops and technicians, impatiently standing at the front of the house, waiting for Connor’s barked approval to begin their work. He hoped they wouldn’t find any evidence of his presence. They shouldn’t—he had left everything as he found it. Hubbard gingerly touched the blood-matted hair on the back of his head as he hurried back to his truck. The troopers might not notice his pickup down the block immediately, but given time . . .
    He took Second Avenue to get to the highway to ensure that he didn’t pass Connors on the way back. Once the siren faded, he got back on the main road to Hayslip.
    Hubbard glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was past ten o’clock. The sun dominated the sky, quickly heating the day. Bright sunlight reflected off the road and he blinked in pain, flipping down the windshield visor. Sweat trickled down the side of his face; his head throbbed. He shrugged off his coat but as soon as he threw it to the back seat, his cell phone, still in a coat pocket, rang. It had to be Mrs. Welsh, reminding him of the perils of brinkmanship. He reached back for it, continuing to steer with his free hand.
    “Don’t worry. I’m on my way—”
    “Mr. Hubbard? This is Mrs. Fincher,” the elderly voice quivered on the line.
    Hubbard’s heart sank. Not today .
    “Hello, Mrs. Fincher. It’s odd that you called—I’m coming back from Monticello and I just passed the road to your place.”
    “Oh, perhaps you could turn in on your way. I may be coming into some money to start my insurance back up.” Her voice was hopeful.
    There was an extended back and forth as Hubbard gently explained why he couldn’t see her now. He didn’t know if she fully understood his explanations, but in the end, they had set up a time to meet to discuss her burial insurance. Hubbard reminded her to write their appointment down on the pad by her wall phone and then he hung up.
    It wasn’t as easy to find a parking spot on the square as it had been earlier. Hubbard drummed his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently as he waited for a car to pull out from a space in front of the Hayslip municipal building and parked. He jogged across the square to the Union Democrat offices,