Six Geese A-Slaying by Donna Andrews Page B

got a bad one.”
    “You’ve been inside?”
    “Just far enough to see if he needed medical assistance,” Horace said. “And Meg’s right—he’s definitely dead. No pulse, no
     respiration, eyes open and fixed.”
    The chief opened the shed door, peeked inside, and nodded.
    “We’ll need the medical examiner to pronounce before we can proceed, of course, but I have no doubt you’re right. Any chance
     you can help us out with this one?”
    “Be glad to,” Horace said, nonchalantly, though I could tell from his expression that he was dying to work the case. Perhaps
     because he was still relatively new at forensic work, and enjoyed working what he called a “nice, grisly crime scene.” After
     twenty-five years with the Baltimore Police Department, Chief Burke looked as if he’d rather see anything else.
    “Meg,” the chief said. “Keep an eye open and let me know if anyone’s heading this way. Any thoughts on whether he was killed
     here or just stashed here?”
    The last bit, I realized, was directed at Horace.
    “Almost certainly here,” Horace said. “If he’d been killed elsewhere and brought in here, where’s the blood trail?”
    The chief nodded.
    “Another interesting thing—” Horace began.
    “Trouble,” I said. “Ainsley Werzel’s riding his camel this way.”

Chapter 7
    “I thought you had someone distracting him,” the chief grumbled.
    “So did I,” I said. “But I guess Michael and Dr. Blake underestimated the power of the press.”
    “Are there any other doors to this shed?” the chief asked.
    “No, but I suppose someone could try to get in or out through the windows,” I said. “In’s more likely; they’re shuttered on
     the outside.”
    “Go in and guard the crime scene,” the chief said to Horace. “And can you call Debbie Anne and tell her to send Dr. Smoot
     over?”
    Horace nodded and slipped inside.
    Ainsley Werzel appeared around the corner of the barn and reined in his camel about ten feet away from us.
    “What’s going on?” he asked.
    “I’ll have to ask you to leave,” the chief said. “And take the camel with you.”
    “What right have you—” Werzel began.
    “You’re about to contaminate a crime scene,” the chief snapped. “Now take that thrice-blasted beast someplace else.”
    Werzel’s eyes grew large, and he opened his mouth. Then he shut it again.
    “Hut-hut!” he said, kicking the camel. They disappeared around the corner of the barn.
    “That was too easy,” the chief said.
    In the distance, we heard Werzel shouting, “Hoosh! Hoosh!”
    “He’s not going away,” I said. “He’s just dumping the camel.”
    The chief muttered something indistinguishable.
    Sammy Wendell, one of the chief’s deputies, appeared from the other side.
    “Debbie Anne paged me and said to meet you here,” Sammy said. “What’s up?”
    “Homicide,” the chief said. “Keep that damned reporter at bay while we work the scene, will you?”
    Just then Werzel appeared from around the barn, notebook in hand.
    “I’m sorry, sir, ma’am,” Sammy said. “You’ll have to watch from behind this line.”
    Sammy held out his hands to define an imaginary line about twenty feet from the shed door. The ma’am, I realized, was directed
     at me. I went over and stood behind Sammy’s line, with an ostentatiously cooperative look on my face. Werzel didn’t like it,
     but he followed suit. For now, at least—if I were the chief, I’d keep my eye on him.
    “What happened?” Werzel asked.
    “Homicide,” the chief said.
    “Whoa!” Werzel exclaimed. “Someone offed Santa?”
    “The name of the deceased is being withheld, pending notification of next of kin,” the chief said. “What makes you think Santa
     Claus is involved?”
    “Stands to reason,” Werzel said. “That’s the shed where I saw Santa kicking the dog,”
    “What do you mean by ‘kicking the dog’?” the chief asked. From his frown, I realized he thought “kick the dog”