Page 39 of Lost Lake
She wanted to lean in to him. Instead, she eased free and tugged the mask back into place. “Question is, who is it?”
“One way to find out.”
She pushed the door fully open. Floor to ceiling towers of boxes, plastic bins, loose furniture, stacked magazines, black garbage bags knotted tight and bunched together in no particular order, packed the entryway. The clutter ran all the way to the back of the house, leaving a narrow corridor.
Gabe didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
“It’s too dangerous for both of us to go,” she said. “I’ll do it. You stay put.”
He took a step forward. “You said it yourself. You knock into one of those stacks, the whole thing comes down on you.”
“I’ll be careful. Give me five minutes. If you don’t hear from me, come in after me.”
She stepped off before he could argue. She doubted he would give an inch, and this was her job.
She threaded through the narrow aisles, letting her nose pull her deeper into the house. Past the furniture, past the collapsed towers of magazines, past bags that rustled when she brushed them. In the kitchen, only the sink and the top of the stove were visible above the clutter. The smell thickened, and she pressed a hand over her mask.
A stack of old CRT televisions had toppled. A small dog lay crushed beneath them.
She let out a slow breath. Not a homicide. Not a person. But the sight still landed somewhere in her chest and stayed there. She loved animals. The dog hadn’t deserved this.
Question was, was this an accident or had someone purposely knocked over the TVs to take out the dog?
They’d need a necropsy to evaluate his cause of death. After that, she’d see to it he received a proper burial.
She moved on. In what appeared to be the living room, a recliner was positioned next to a small table and lamp, all sitting oddly clear of surrounding chaos. An empty coffee mug sat onthe table. She bagged it for DNA and prints, then kept moving past a flatscreen balanced on stacks of bright fuchsia tote bins.
Two bedrooms were chock-full, allowing no entry. The third bedroom had a narrow path, then opened up to a bed and a brass lamp with a tattered shade on a small nightstand. No phone. No laptop. No tablet. She’d been hoping for one of them. They tended to provide a wealth of knowledge about a person more than they ever meant to give.
She and Ulrich had received calls in the boathouse, but maybe Mason had a different carrier and couldn’t get a signal on his property. If that was the case, there was no point in having an electronic device here. Maybe he spent his weekends deliberately off-grid. If he needed a computer, there was always the library in town or even a friend’s place. Worth checking for sure.
The bathroom was clean, uncluttered, and almost entirely bare. No medications, no personal items, nothing that said anyone actually lived here. Same as the kitchen. Both rooms had the flat, neutral quality of a space that was used occasionally at best.
A door at the back of the kitchen stood unlocked and slightly ajar, leading to the yard. Maybe Mason hadn’t closed it, thinking he’d be back. She left it exactly as she’d found it and made her way out through the front entrance.
Outside, she lifted her mask and pulled in a long breath of fresh air. Gabe was waiting, his expression concerned.
“I don’t think anyone was living here.” She shared details of what she’d discovered, choking back her distress over finding the dog.
“Then where did the dog come from?”
“Back door was open. Could be a stray. I didn’t stop to look for a collar.” The image of the dog surfaced again, small and still under the heavy TVs, and she pushed it away. “I’ll order anecropsy right away. The vet can check for a tag or an implanted chip and the dog’s cause of death.”
“Let’s assume Mason is the deceased. If the dog belongs to him, and whoever killed him also killed the dog…” Gabe shook his head slowly. “That’s a particularly cruel person we’re dealing with.”
He was right. A brutality to the killing went beyond the practical. Killing a man who could fight back was one thing. Killing a dog that couldn’t. That was something else entirely. She filed it away and moved on.
“We need to search the truck.” She started plowing through tall grass toward it. On the way she used her radio to call in the license plate and wasn’t surprised by their response.
“Dispatch confirmed the vehicle belongs to Howard Mason,” she said, pulling open the unlocked driver’s door.
Gabe circled around to the passenger side and leaned in. “I’m not really sure if that helps confirm our deceased’s identity or not, since he didn’t have keys in his pockets.”
“Keys are in the ignition,” she said, then took a good look at the cab and swallowed a groan. Fast food wrappers, empty cups, loose mail. Work clothes stained dark red, the same red as the boathouse paint. “He’s been painting the boathouse.”
“He must really love fishing,” Gabe said. “Keeps the boathouse spotless, then lives like this. Makes no sense. It’s like we’re looking at two different people.”
“Good point.” She glanced at him, but he was too busy pawing through the trash to look at her. “And one we shouldn’t rule out until we know more about who we’re looking at here.”
