The Psalmist by James Lilliefors

the state’s attorney, Wendell Stamps.
    â€œOkay,” Hunter said. “Anything else, then? If not, let’s get back out there and solve this thing.”
    Hunter took her time pushing papers together as the others rose and filed from the room. She knew that she sounded more like a football coach than a homicide investigator, but that was how she approached her job; so far it’d served her well. Sometimes she caught herself saying a phrase that reminded her of her father, who’d coached high school ball most of his adult life, and who had drilled in her simple lessons about winning and losing, pumping her with sayings from ­people like Vince Lombardi and John Wooden.
    State’s Attorney Wendell Stamps waited until the others had all left.
    â€œHow do you feel about this?” he asked Henry Moore, the case officer with the state police homicide unit, who was still seated. “Just curious.”
    But Moore wouldn’t bite.
    â€œIt’s Hunter’s investigation,” he said, looking at the state’s attorney. Moore was a deliberative man in his late fifties with a ruddy, wind-­burned face. “I won’t comment beyond what she told you.”
    Hunter tried not to smile. The state’s attorney nodded to her politely, said, “Sergeant Hunter,” and left the room.

 
    Chapter 6
    â€œP ICK U P SOME lunch?”
    Ben Shipman was standing in Hunter’s doorway, wearing his old red lumberjack coat and worn, bleach-­spotted jeans.
    He twirled his keys once around his index finger. “I’ll drive.”
    Ship was a stocky man with rusty, wool-­like hair and earnest blue eyes. He was in his mid-­forties, divorced four or five years, with a teenage daughter. But he could be like an adolescent himself at times; this morning, Hunter had noticed, his socks weren’t matched—­almost the same color, but one thick wool, the other nylon—­and he’d missed two belt loops on his jeans. Also, he looked tired; the day before, Ship had driven to Baltimore and back, to witness the preliminary forensics on Jane Doe.
    When Shipman asked if she wanted to “pick up” lunch, it meant McDonald’s, one of the two fast food restaurants in Tidewater County. Usually, it also meant he wanted to talk.
    The Beatles’ “Strawberry Fields Forever” blasted from the car’s speakers as Shipman started the engine. “Whoops,” he said, punching it off. He kept two CDs in his car, The Beatles 1962-­1966 and The Beatles 1967-­1970. It was, as far as Hunter knew, the only music he listened to.
    â€œYou know what’s going on, don’t you?” he asked as they cruised onto Main Street.
    â€œNo, what’s going on?”
    â€œG.J. city, here we come.”
    â€œWhat’s G.J. city?”
    â€œGrand jury.”
    â€œFor whom?”
    â€œFallow.”
    â€œBut Robby Fallow didn’t do this.”
    â€œI know, I’m just saying.”
    Shipman went silent after that, hunched over the steering wheel. The homicide unit was assigned unmarked cars, none of them too obvious, like a Crown Vic. If Ship’s Mazda had been a suit of clothes, it would’ve been two sizes too small. Shipman had grown up here in Tidewater County and his speech was rich with Eastern Shore inflections—­ water was “wu-­ter,” about was “a-­boat.” He’d worked for the sheriff’s office for three or four years before earning his stripes as a state police investigator, and was still friendly with some of the deputies. He was Hunter’s liaison to what the “other side” was thinking.
    â€œTell me about that,” she said as they came to the first of Tidewater’s three traffic signals.
    â€œWell, I mean—­another week goes by, right? We don’t have any more than we have this morning? They’re going to convene the grand jury.