Free A Living Grave by Robert E. Dunn

was trying to get around me.”
    I was impressed. Any other deputy would have been bored and happy to go check on the noise. When I said that to Billy, he shrugged and said, “I wasn’t told to check out noises or cars. I was told to make sure no one went past that tape.”
    It was good to know there was still someone who did his job, even a small one, with respect and pride. Someday he’d probably be the sheriff, and I would be working for him.
    â€œDid they find anything?”
    â€œIt was quiet by the time anyone got here. I called it in at . . .” he checked a notebook even though it should have been recorded at the station. “Four-twenty-eight.”
    â€œOkay. I’m going to have a look around. What time are you being relieved?”
    â€œDon’t know that I am.” He read the look on my face. “Something wrong?”
    â€œProbably nothing,” I told him. “This killing is going to get a lot of attention. I’m afraid our scene will get a lot as well.”
    â€œKind you want it to get or the kind you don’t want it to get?”
    â€œWhat are you asking, Billy?”
    â€œIf you just want the scene kept clean, I can hang around and make myself obvious. Looky-loos won’t stop if cops are here. If you want to see who comes in for a closer look . . . well, I can bring a pole and a book. There’s a nice spot close by.”
    I never said I was above taking advantage of someone’s good nature. Billy had to return the cruiser and pick up his truck, but he’d be back within the hour to set up his off-the-clock surveillance. Until he was back I planned to stick around and check some things out.
    The field and trail showed new wear from all the activity of the previous day. In the wooded area the ground was pinned in places by wires with little plastic flags. They marked where evidence had been taken. In a wide, rough circle crime-scene tape was strung from tree to tree centered on a blank spot where Angela had died. The only remaining evidence of her presence was blood spatter that haloed a void where her face had been crushed.
    There was no new evidence and no startling revelations waiting. That was for television. Real police work was based on logging hours of repetitive tasks and questions. Very often the job isn’t finding out who did the crime. It’s more about proving the case against the person you already know to be guilty. Most murders are committed by someone known to the victim. That only holds truer with the murder of a child.
    Along the stream bank there were a few more flags where rocks had been moved and the one marking where a roundish stone had been found with blood and hair on it. Beyond that I headed north, the opposite direction I had taken with Clare the day before.
    Everything yesterday had been about the girl and my supposition that Clare and his whiskey were only coincidentally involved. The biker—make it bikers now—had taken a run right up to the top of the suspect ladder. That meant their interests had to be examined. One was seen here near the murder scene. The day of or day after the murder, he was kicking an artist around. That same day, another one was seen close to the dead girl’s home.
    Connections.
    Upstream and on a bend where the bank was shallow I found what I was looking for. Across the water, around a black burn mark, was a pile of cinder blocks, a pile of firewood, and a few old pallets tucked within a copse of trees. I crossed the stream for a closer look. The ground was clean, surprisingly so. There were parallel lines where a rake had been dragged through the grass and bare dirt. Even so, whomever had tidied up had left behind several bits of broken glass from canning jars and tatters of brown paper. The paper was the same tough, thick stuff feed sacks are made from. It wasn’t until I saw the paper that I noticed the kernels of corn scattered around.
    There was still a