The house at 632 Evergreen Lane on the north side of Hulis Township was a simple one and one-half story bungalow, sitting on an average-sized lot, with a bare-branched pin oak tree rising out of the front yard. The white paint on the clapboard siding was dull and peeling, and the gutter had separated from the fascia on the left, front corner. Weathered plywood covered the windows, and the glass was missing from the storm door. However, other than those salient issues, from the outside, structurally the building appeared sound.
It also gave no outward indication of the horrors that had occurred inside over the years.
They pulled in and parked behind a patrol car that was already in front of the house. After climbing out of his own cruiser, the sheriff ambled over to the driver's side of the first vehicle while Constance waited in the yard. The deputy inside rolled down her window as he approached.
“Morning, Skip,” she said.
“Mornin', Mel,” he replied. “Thought Johnson was supposed to relieve you around seven?”
“His kid's sick and he's running late,” she replied.
“Ahh, okay,” he grunted. “Didn't know. Haven't been by the office yet this morning. So, all quiet I guess?”
“Just like always,” Mel replied then nodded toward the yard where Constance was standing. “That the Fed? Clovis said they sent another new one.”
“Yeah. Gotta do the annual tour.”
“Think she'll figure it out?”
“Guess we'll see. Not holdin' my breath, but I gotta say, she's different from the others. So... Maybe... Just don't wanna get too hopeful, you know?”
“Yeah, Skip. I know.”
He shrugged, then hitched up his belt and repositioned the flashlight he was carrying tucked under his armpit. “I expect we're gonna be here for a bit. Why don't you go grab some breakfast and maybe Johnson'll be in by the time we're done and you can go home.”
“Don't have to tell me twice,” she replied, reaching out and cranking the engine on the patrol car. “Thanks, Skip. I'll swing back by in a bit unless I hear from you or Clovis.”
“Sounds good.”
The sheriff took a step back and waited for the car to drive off before joining Constance and walking with her to the front door of the house.
“I see you took my advice,” he said, nodding toward the ground in front of her as he dug a hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a keyring.
“What? Oh...” Constance replied, glancing down at the running shoes that were laced onto her feet. Looking back up she cocked her head to the side. “No offense, Skip, but you seem to have an odd preoccupation with my footwear.”
“I just notice things is all,” he told her with a shrug. “Like the fact that you also have a goose egg on the back of your head, probably from hitting it against the desk in your room last night when you were plugging in your laptop computer to the Internet. Plus you're expecting a call from someone and it's starting to bother you that he hasn't called yet.”
She cocked an eyebrow and stared at him.
He answered the unspoken question. “You keep reaching up to touch a spot on the back of your head and then you wince. You probably don't even realize you're doing it. You're a federal cop on a case, so I'm just about positive you're dragging a laptop computer around. Greenleaf Motel doesn't do Wi-Fi because Artie's too cheap to buy the equipment, and the jack for the wired connection is under the desks in the rooms. My guess? You came up too soon and bang, there you go. Goose egg.”
He gestured toward her right coat pocket and continued. “As far as the call goes, you checked your cell phone four times on the way over here and twice while I was talking to Deputy Slozar.”
“How do you know it's a he I'm waiting for?”
“Educated guess. I've told you, this isn't my first rodeo. Every one of your predecessors called their predecessor about this case. And every one of 'em was all antsy waitin' for a call back. Last agent on this was Drew, and he's a 'he' best I could figure. My guess is that's who you're waitin' on to call. Either that or a boyfriend. Unless you go the other way or somethin', which is none of my business.”
“If I did, you probably would have already figured it out,” Constance said.
“Yeah, probably,” he returned.
She sighed. “Uncanny. That's all I have to say.”
“Nope. I just pay attention is all.”
“Okay. Then I guess it would be uncanny if you could tell me what I ate for dinner last night.”
“Cobb salad with ranch dressing. In your room at the motel.”
She shot him an alarmed, wide-eyed stare and took a visible step back, tensing her posture.
“Keep it holstered, Constance,” the sheriff half snorted. “I'm not spying on you. Stella told me your to-go order this morning when I stopped in for the coffee.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because you're a stranger in town and she's a damn gossip that won't shut up to save her life, that's why,” he explained. “But back to the shoe thing. Ed Ruble over at the hardware store on Main? Now he has himself a pretty serious ladies shoe fetish. Honestly he's harmless, but while you're in town you might want to avoid him if that sorta thing makes you uncomfortable.”
She shook her head. “Stella again?”
“Nope. Figured that one out on my own.”
“I'm not sure I even want to know how.”
“Like I said, I notice things. It's my job to,” he replied, then turned and shoved a key into the lock. After giving it a twist, he depressed the latch beneath the deadbolt and pushed the now unsecured door inward. Stepping back he gestured toward the opening. “Ladies first.”
Constance nodded then stepped across the threshold and into the dark front room. Outside it was overcast, just as it had been the day before, so only a dim, grey light spilled in to bring an eerie illumination to the interior.
Sheriff Carmichael followed her in and left the door hanging wide open so that they could see. He pulled the five-cell flashlight from beneath his armpit and switched it on. The yellow-white beam formed a bright pool on the floor, casting an ever-softening glow out from the center as he adjusted it wider.
“A few years back there was talk of tearin' this old place down,” he offered. “Been wishin' they had ever since.”
“I assume it has been vacant for a while?” Constance asked, glancing around at the empty walls and scuffed hardwood floor.
“Coming up on about seven years, give or take,” he replied. “It was empty back in seventy-five, as you already know, and what happened didn't exactly help its value. Someone finally bought it around seventy-seven for next to nothin', or so I heard. They fixed it up a bit.” He shone the light along the floor, then through an arched doorway and toward the back of the house. “Re-did the kitchen, tore off the old back porch. Normal stuff.” He played the beam around a bit so she could get the lay of the floor plan. “Those folks lived here awhile, then moved. After that it changed hands a couple more times. Last owner was living here when the first body showed up seven years ago. Well, I guess in a couple of days it'll be eight years...”
She turned toward the sheriff. “That wasn't in the file. I assume that owner was investigated?”
“Much as need be,” he replied. “Ida Smith. She was eighty-nine, and when she found the... Well... What she found... Anyway, it didn't do her heart much good as you can imagine. She never was the same after that. Kinda went downhill, then she passed away about eight months later. Place has been empty ever since.”
“Definitely rules her out.”
“Yeah, I'd say so.”
“Who owns it now?”
“Hulis, pretty much. Ida didn't have any family left to speak of.”
“It actually looks like it's in decent shape for sitting vacant as long as it has,” Constance observed.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he sighed. “Could use some work, but it's still standin'. Sometimes when I drive by here it seems like the place is just mocking all of us. I know th
at sounds kinda crazy. It's just a damned old house.”
“With a seriously damned history,” she offered.
“Yeah...it's got one of those all right. But it's still an inanimate object.”
Constance thought back to some of the cases she'd worked in the past. “You just never know,” she muttered to herself.
“What's that?”
“Nothing,” she answered, shaking her head. “Just thinking out loud.”
“Yeah. I've got a daughter does that.”
Constance nudged the conversation back to the case. “Is there a back entrance?”
“Yeah. Locked up tight. Never any sign of forced entry.”
“Maybe the killer somehow has a key?”
“Locks been changed four times. Three of 'em I did myself.”
“Any other ingress or egress?”
“Window's would be about it, but they've never been disturbed,” he told her.
“The killer has to get in and out somehow.”
“Yeah, can't argue there,” he grunted, playing the flashlight around in the darkness. A moment later he quipped, “When you figure it out, tell me, okay? Because this'n has me stumped.”
“That's hard to imagine.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said. There was no hubris in his voice, just sincere confusion.
“Well, that's why I'm here,” she replied.
“Yeah, well no offense, but you're the fifth Fed to tell me that.”
“So...” Constance said, allowing the commentary to go without rebuttal. “As I understand it the bodies are always found in the basement, correct?”
“Yeah,” Sheriff Carmichael replied, panning the flashlight to the right side of the archway. “Stairs are just over there.”