Page 93 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
“I know, I know, all abusive husbands are scum, blah, blah,” Chippen said, “but that doesn’t mean Cipre is the killer. Not any more than the next guy.”
Kateri viewed Chippen in a new light. “No. But he’s a big guy, strong if the way he hauled her out is any indication, and his wife could have taught him everything she knows about… cutters.”
The guys were unconvinced.
Officer Ed Legbrandt came puffing up the hill, followed by Ernie Fitzwater.
“At least let’s keep an eye on the Good Knight Manor Bed and Breakfast,” Kateri said.
“What are you thinking?” Bergen asked.
“I’m thinking my friend Merida Falcon is staying there and got a threatening phone call. Susie worked there and she’s dead. Phoebe Glass, the proprietress, is new to Virtue Falls. Dawkins Cipre and his wife are staying there.” It sounded worse when Kateri said it out loud.
Sean Weston stood up. “It is sort of the center of the vortex.”
“Don’t forget your sister’s there,” Moen said.
Kateri sighed. “I only wish I could.”
General, subdued laughter across the site.
Moen bent down and picked something up and examined it.
Kateri prepared to make the hike down the hill. “Pardon me, gentlemen, I’m going to call Garik and fill him in on this one, then we’re going to hold a press conference if anybody would like to stand behind me for support.”
General head shaking.
“Bergen, you stand behind me on the right. Moen, you stand behind me on the left.”
“No, Sheriff Kwinault.”
Kateri turned to Moen. “What?”
Moen advanced toward Mike Sun and offered him something from the palm of his hand.
Sun let out a huff of air, dug in his bag, pulled out a pair of tweezers and lifted the little black piece of—“It’s a piece of skin. It’s a fingertip. I think we can pull a print off this. Sonofabitch, Moen, you just saved the case!”
“Good for me.” Moen wiped his hand on his trousers. “I’m done with law enforcement. I thought I could do it. And I can. I can drive and fill out reports and arrest citizens for drunk driving. I can handle accidental shootings and bar fights and traffic deaths. But I can’t do”—he gestured at the body bag—“this.”
The officers got quiet. They understood the difference, nobody better.
Kateri asked, “What are you going to do, Moen?”
“I’m going to school, get better at graphics, get some kind of job in the field. Maybe go to Japan. I’ve been studying the language. I want to get my graphic novels published.” Moen looked at his palm and wiped his hand again. “No matter what, I’m done with police work.”
Bergen handed him a wet-wipe pack. “What about your father?”
“He’ll have to be disappointed in me.” Moen cleaned his hand, and cleaned, and cleaned. “I’m done. Sheriff, can I leave or do you want me to work my two weeks’ notice?”
Kateri almost gave him a pass and said he could go. Then she remembered—slashings, John Terrance, the Fourth of July… “Moen. If you would stay for the two weeks. We’ll make sure you stick with traffic violations and intoxication and littering. I’ll get someone else to stand behind me at the press conference.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.” Moen took off his hat and held it, and looked at Kateri. “It’s been a privilege to work with you, ma’am, and I was wrong when I said you were too old to be interested in sex.” He put on his hat and started down the hill.
The officers who were left fought back grins.
Kateri sighed. “He was doing so well. Then he had to add that last bit.”
Bergen sobered. “I hate to see him go. But we always knew he didn’t have the stomach for it.”
