Page 58 of Sworn to Silence
“I’m a Marine,” he says, as if that explains everything.
I go through the back door and approach Ronnie Stedt. The air smells incredibly clean and I gulp it like water. He looks at me, then quickly glances away. “Come here,” I say.
Glock ushers the girl toward his cruiser. Ronnie watches them walk away and gets a scared-little-boy look on his face.
“You okay?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I never seen anything like that in my life.”
I motion toward the Explorer. “Let’s get out of the cold.”
Casting a final glance at his girlfriend, he trails me to the Explorer. I put him in the passenger seat, then climb behind the wheel. “You need a smoke?” I ask.
“I don’t smoke.” He heaves a sigh. “Cigarettes, anyway.”
“I’m going to let you slide on the pot.”
“Thanks.”
I start the engine and turn on the heater. “What were you doing here?”
“Nothin’.”
I make eye contact, but he looks away. “You’re not in any trouble,” I say. “I just need to know how you found that body.”
Looking thoroughly busted, he shakes his head. “We skipped school. We were just going to hang out.” He shrugs. “I can’t believe this happened.”
“Was there anyone here when you arrived?” I ask.
“No.”
“Did you touch anything? Move anything?”
“We just walked in. Drank a beer. Then we saw that...thingin the bedroom. Jesus...”
Their level of shock and genuine fear indicates these kids had nothing to do with what happened. “Do your folks know you’re here?”
He shakes his head. “My dad’s going to kill me.”
“I’ll leave the explaining up to you.” I see a cell phone clipped to his belt. “You need to call them right now.”
Sighing, he reaches for his phone.
I dial Doc Coblentz’s number from memory. “We need you out at the Huffman place on Thigpen Road,” I say.
“Tell me this is about a car accident or heart attack.”
“I wish I could.”
“Good God.” A heavy sigh hisses through the line. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I stand in the bedroom of the old house with Doc Coblentz and Glock, and we try not to stare at what’s left of the woman hanging from the rafter. Doc digs into his field kit, pulls out a foil packet of mentholated petroleum jelly and hands it to me. “This’ll help.”
I tear open the packet and dab it below my nostrils. I offer it to Glock, but he shakes his head. “My mom gave me that stuff when I was a kid. Can’t stand the smell.”
Under different circumstances I might have laughed. This morning, I merely fold down the top of the packet and put it in my coat pocket.
We’ve donned shoe covers and plastic gowns, not only to preserve the scene but to protect us from biohazard. “Judging from the amount of blood,” the doc begins, “I’d say he killed her here.”
