Free Material Witness by Vannetta Chapman

wanted to laugh, but there was something about this case that wasn’t funny at all.
    It wasn’t just the murder — he’d seen his share of those. But Callie had been right about one thing: murder in Shipshewana was rare. Murder for a purse that had already been found discarded a mere four blocks away from the murder scene just didn’t add up.
    The fact that there were no fingerprints on the purse didn’t sit well with him either. This wasn’t going to be an easy case, but then again, what case ever had been?
    What exactly was this perp up to?
    Shane had a stack of witness sheets to wade through, so he made his way to the coffeepot. Maybe someone had seen something he hadn’t noticed when he’d glanced through them the first time.
    He would read while the crime techs analyzed their data and Callie slept.
    And he’d pray that tomorrow would be a better day.
    Callie noticed Max was acting strangely as soon as she pulled up to the darkened parking area outside her shop, but she thought it was because of the strange scents left from all the police, crime-scene techs, and the so-recent death. She took him into thegarden — careful to walk a wide circle around the corner with the yellow tape — and waited for him to take care of his business.
    Instead of padding around, Max slunk near the far side of the yard with his nose to the ground, growling occasionally and pausing once to raise his nose at the nearly pitch-black sky to howl.
    “It’s all right, boy. They’re gone now. There’s no one here but the two of us.” When he returned to her and she clipped his leash onto his collar, he strained at it as if a rabbit were darting across the parking lot. Callie briefly wondered if she’d be able to lead him to the back door. Max had bulked up since she’d inherited him, and his early morning runs with Gavin had added muscle where before there’d been fatty weight.
    “Maybe I should consider joining you two for a jog,” she muttered, opening the garden gate. The words had no sooner left her lips than Max jerked the leash out of her hand, a snarl tearing from his throat. Every hair on her neck bristled in alarm, but Max had already disappeared into the night — the one indication of where he’d gone being the sound of his leash dragging against the pavement.
    Callie took off in pursuit. Though one part of her mind screamed a warning, it was a warning she ignored. She couldn’t help it. Her legs flew, running after Max.
    He burst across the parking area, past the front of the store, and around the corner of the building, streaking by the trellis and rose bushes that still held a few white fall blooms. He would have made it to the back alley, but he pulled up short at the property line, his bark angry and rabid.
    Callie came in sight of him and stopped when she saw what he was barking at — two figures both clad in black. They stood in the dim light cast by the lone bulb dangling above the dumpster near the back lot of Pots and Pans. She opened her mouth to scream for Max to back away, but by then the first figure had already raised his weapon and found his mark.
    Max made one final leap, then crumpled to the ground, his cry dying midbark.
    Not again. This can’t be happening again
.
    Images of Trent McCallister kneeling over Max, his shirt soaked with blood, flashed across Callie’s memory. Before she could holler, before she could even stop to think about whether she ought to save her dog or run for help, the figure turned to point his weapon at her.
    Unable to move, Callie stared back, frozen.
    She stared and time stopped.
    But instead of feeling the sting of a bullet, the man lowered his weapon, grinned, pointed a finger at her, then turned and walked off into the night, his boots echoing down the alley. His partner followed close behind.
    Callie’s pulse thundered in her ears.
    What had happened?
    Who were those people?
    Why hadn’t they shot her?
    Why
had
they shot her dog?
    They’d shot her dog. The