Free Murder in the Choir (The Jazz Phillips Mystery Series) by Joel B Reed Page B

shrubbery.
    “Why are we checking this out?” Kruger asked as we walked through the center and out the back door.
    “Mostly to be thorough,” I said. “As you will see, there are some prime spots for a sniper down here. Some of them offer a better shot than the shop, and we don’t know it was the shop for sure. I’d say we’re ninety-seven percent sure, but we could be wrong.”
    Kruger nodded. Being thorough is something the FBI understands and drills into all its agents. With most of them, it takes, but many of us remember their lab scandal from the nineties. “Look at that!” Kruger said, pointing to the traditional half moon cut into the outhouse door.
    “Traditional country art,” I told him.
    “No, not that. On the outside of the moon.” He pointed. The light was much better than the evening before, and I could see a faint smudge at the lower edge of the moon cut. “Looks like it might be gunpowder residue.”
    “Could be,” I said, taking out a set of reading glasses. Trifocals are a fact of life for me these days, even though I have perfect vision beyond arms length. “Your eyes are a lot sharper than mine.”
    Kruger didn’t say anything, but he seemed to appreciate even that faint praise. Working with Spinks must be hell on earth, I thought. I took out a pen knife and carefully opened the door with the blade, holding it wide enough we could both look in.
    Unlike the privy behind the blacksmith shop, this one had seen plenty of use. There was a powdering of lime on the floor by the half empty sack and two fresh rolls of toilet paper hung on nails on one wall. There was also a can of insecticide, probably for spiders. Privies attract flies, and flies attract black widows. Throughout the deep South, their stings are still the cause of too many deaths every year.
    “Crime Scene is going to love us for this,” I said, closing the door and taking out a roll of yellow tape.
    “At least they’re privy to what we have,” Kruger said with only a hint of a smile.
    “Better watch that,” I grinned. “Play on words is a serious character defect.”
    “I know, but it’s an art form, too. A pun is its own reword.”
    I looked at Kruger. “You know, Lonnie is the only other special agent I’ve come across with much of a sense of humor.”
    “And they banished him to Arkansas,” Kruger said without thinking. Then he realized how that might sound. “No offense,” he said. “That was not intended to put down your state. I love it here. Truly.”
    We walked a few steps in silence. Then Kruger said, “Look, I really mean it. I do love it down here.”
    I dropped into the patios of deep delta Arkansas. “Nah awfense takin’, Mistuh Kroogah. Long ago we learnt to make allowances for the mental shortcomins’ of owah Yankee visitors. Gene pool depletion, don’t ya know. All the good uns move South.”
    Kruger laughed. Nor was he being unduly worried by my response. A single remark taken the wrong way can wipe out years of good work and can have a drastic effect on an agent’s career. I suspect that’s why they’re so serious.
    I told him about my appointment with the pastor and we crossed the park to the church. The door was locked and no one answered my knock, so we sat on the steps to wait. They were still damp, and after a moment I could feel moisture soaking through my pants. I looked at my watch and saw I was five minutes early.
    I tried the door again a few minutes later, but there was still no response. I sat down again and Kruger and I continued talking. At a quarter past the hour, I decided I had misunderstood where the pastor wanted to meet and suggested we try the parsonage.  
    The parsonage sat about a hundred feet behind the church. As we walked there, I said to Kruger, “Remind me to ask you how a nice boy like you ended up in the FBI.” He was still smiling when I knocked on the door.
    A large, unsmiling woman answered my knock. I handed her one of my cards and introduced Kruger