Page 9 of Brimstone Hollow

“Could I see the police report?”

Dishman looks at me for a protracted moment while phones ring down the hall.

“Yeah,” he says, finally. “I can print it off for you.”

“Thanks.”

He turns back to his computer and clicks his mouse a few times before a printer on the other side of the office churns to life.

“And the photos from the scene? I assume Officer…”

“Alvey,” he says. “Gavin Alvey. He’s the one that was just in here. I know he’s young but he’s a good officer. At least so far.”

“I’d like to talk to him as well, if that’s all right.”

“Sure.”

“And he took the photos?” I ask. And, after Dishman nods, I ask, “Could I see them?”

He puts his hand up to grasp the monitor as if to turn it, then suddenly pauses and says in a soft, warning tone, “They’re pretty nasty.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “I’ve seen it all before.”

“You an ex-cop?” he asks. “You’ve got the look.”

“Air Force,” I say.

Dishman puffs out his cheeks and then blows the air out in aCan’t say I didn’t warn yousort of way before swiveling the monitor around between us. He rolls his chair sideways a little and leans forward so we can both see. Now that he’s closer, I get a whiff of Dial soap and Tide laundry detergent. It’s a stark counter to what I see on the screen.

There, in full color, is Ezra King’s body. He’s laid back in a brown leather recliner, his Bible resting in his lap between his limp, swollen hands. He has the bloated look of a corpse you can smell just by looking at it. He wears black jeans and a black linen shirt buttoned all the way up. The swollen flesh of his face and neck, purple with necrosis, spills over the tight collar. His black hair is shiny, slicked back, making his envenomed visage even more grotesque. His black cowboy boots sit next to the chair, upright and ready in that forlorn way that empty cowboy boots always seem to have.

Dishman clicks through a few different angles. The young officer did a good job capturing the scene. There’s a tighter shot of Ezra’s face, his right cheek and nose a glossy black. Same thing at his throat. There are several shots of the room from farther back and more from the other side. Nothing looks disturbed, out of place, or otherwise indicative of a crime having been committed there.

“Katie said that there was no autopsy,” I say, sitting back in my chair.

“That’s right.”

“Who made that call?” I ask.

Dishman swivels the monitor back and says, “County coroner. Name’s Roman Bradley.”

“Can you tell me where to find him?”

“Oh sure,” Dishman says. “He’s the funeral director over at Bradley Funeral Home. There’s only two funeral homes in town and Bradley is themain one. You get onto Darling Street, go up the hill, and he’s at the top of it.”

“You think he’ll be there on a holiday weekend?” I ask.

“I think he won’t be able to help it,” Dishman says. “The Bradleys live there.”

“Thanks,” I say and stand up.

Dishman stands as well and goes over to the printer to collect the police report. He puts it in my hands and I get that scent of soap and clean laundry again.

“Here,” I say, sliding a card from the exterior pocket of my bag. “I’d like to talk to Officer Alvey now, if that’s all right with—”

The door opens again and we both turn to look as Officer Alvey—Gavin—scuttles into the room. This time, he looks especially harried, carrying a half-eaten turkey sandwich in one hand and a sticky note covered with hasty scribbles in the other.

“It’s the fire chief,” Gavin says, a bite of food tucked into his cheek. “It’s about that house fire out on Route 6. Billy Shepherd’s place?”