A Fountain Filled With Blood

Overhead, a white explosion cascaded into yellow and purple, and blue spheres filled the sky. A crash of explosions battered the air. She could see the watering trough now, bone-pale, long as a child’s coffin, mottled by the leaves’ shadows. And there, finally, was the reason for the dogs’ whimpering. Clare saw the fireworks reflecting in thick black blood, winking along the edges of torn flesh, illuminating dull, flat eyes.

Over the cacophony of the fireworks’ finale, she heard a wavering, high-pitched moan, rising and rising until she cried out, her voice choking, and she realized it was her. She was making the terrible noise as the cloudbursts of light exploded overhead, revealing and concealing the puffy, battered thing that had once been Bill Ingraham.

Chapter Ten

The crime scene was lighted like a carnival midway by the time Russ arrived. Two tall tungsten lamps flooded the ground and trees with a white glare, turning every shadow into a razor-edged anti-leaf and non-branch. The red lights of two squad cars circled monotonously next to what the Millers Kill PD referred to as “the meat wagon”—the squat mortuary transport used when there was no hope the ambulance would be useful. From behind a taut yellow tape, a dozen or more flashlights bobbed aimlessly as their owners, packing blankets and coolers, crowded in to get a glimpse of something much more exciting than fireworks. White, red, and yellow reflected off the lowering mist until the night itself glowed and Russ thought he could see individual drops of water suspended in midair.

Mark Durkee, who had been bumped up the seniority ladder when they’d hired Kevin Flynn, was working the crowd, notebook out, presumably taking names and statements. Russ ducked under the tape and waved at Lyle MacAuley. “Hey,” Russ said. “You set him on that?” He gestured with his head toward Durkee.

“He thought of it on his own. He read up on spotting perps who return to the scene and on this new technique of taking pictures of the spectators before running them off. It gets the possible witnesses on film, so we can match ’em up with their statements. He whipped out one of those little disposable cameras and went to it. He’s got a lot on the ball.”

“Yeah,” Russ said. “Let’s hope he doesn’t take it to someplace where they pay better.”

Lyle snorted. His unofficial status as detective had finally been rewarded with a promotion at the spring town meeting, after four years of Russ lobbying the Board of Aldermen to create a detective position. He couldn’t get that approved, but they had eventually given in to his argument that Lyle would leave if his experience wasn’t recognized. So now Lyle was deputy chief, on a force with eight full-time officers and four part-timers. The only way he could make sense of it was to conclude the aldermen felt they were getting their money’s worth if they got two jobs filled with one paycheck.

Sergeant Morin, one of the state police technicians, was opening his portable lab box and pulling out his elaborate camera equipment. “Has he been in yet?” Russ asked.

“He and I searched the area adjacent to the body. Nothing turned up. People were swarming up from the riverbank, so I made getting the tape up a priority.”

Russ nodded. “Good call. Let’s go see this guy, shall we?” He pulled on the latex gloves he had removed from his squad car.

“He was done right here and then laid out in this thing,” Lyle said, holding a wet sumac branch out of the way. “There’s a hell of a lot of blood—on the ground, on the basin, in the water.”

Russ stepped carefully in Lyle’s footsteps. When they reached the crumpled form in the watering trough, he sucked in against his teeth. “Jeez. You’re not kidding.” He squatted down slowly so as not to catch his clothing on any vegetation. “That must have been a garrote. I don’t think a knife could do that.”

“That was my take. It’ll make it harder if it is. No cut pattern to match to a knife. Just wash off a length of wire and roll it back on the spool. Whose gonna know?”

Russ stood again. The metallic smell of blood was strong enough to make his eyes water. “Yeah, but to use it, you have to be in close. Real close. Whoever did this must have been splattered with blood.” He looked at Lyle. “Anyone see anything?”

“Nothin’ yet. But it couldn’t have happened too long before he was found. A lot of that’s still wet.”

“I’ll wait for Emil’s opinion, but I have to—” Russ stopped, feeling foolish. “I mean, not Emil Dvorak…”

“Dr. Scheeler is acting as our ME. He’s the pathologist on loan from Glens Falls Hospital.”

“Until Emil gets back.”

“Right. Until he gets back.” Lyle smiled a little.

“Hey, guys,” Sergeant Morin called through the foliage. I need you to clear out for a few so’s I can get my shots.” Russ and Lyle retraced their steps slowly and deliberately, disturbing the plants as little as possible. “Thanks,” Morin said, disappearing into the leaves.

“Okay. Who found him?”