The Rivers Webb by Jeremy Tyler

Roy yelled. His cool exterior was wearing thin. “And I don’t give a rat’s hairy ass why he wrote backward. I’m gonna catch this sonofabitch, and I’m gonna set this right!” he bellowed. Then, turning on Dan with a face torn with mixed pain and rage, he pointed toward the woods that surrounded the Rivers’ home.
    â€œGet that worthless old bloodhound down here and start him on any trail he can find. This fella’ came out here last night, and I mean to find out where he went to.” Roy was still fuming as he trudged up to the front of the house.
    â€œSheriff,” John barked, a little sharper than he intended, though not by much. “You do know that, if I were here officially, this is exactly the point where I’d tell you that you should remove yourself from this case.” There was a pause as Roy looked back at him, as though he were deciding if he wanted to yell, cry, or just hit him.
    â€œAnd if you were to make that suggestion, this is exactly the point where I’d tell you to get your official fat ass back on the train for New York.” With that, Roy continued his march.
    â€œDamn good thing I’m not here officially then, isn’t it?”
    John wasn’t quite sure if Roy heard him or not. Truth be known, he didn’t much care. John had an investigation to continue, and a crime scene to work. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Matthias Parrott standing at a considerable distance from the body. As the local undertaker, it was his grim misfortune to be acting coroner. Normally, this duty was a simple matter, and well within his level of comfort. Unfortunately, the body he was called to pronounce this morning was a far cry from the tranquil passings to which he was accustomed. Even the occasional animal attacks held a certain natural dignity. What lay sprawled out in blood before him was neither tranquil nor natural. It was an abomination against his very humanity.
    â€œMr. Parrott,” John called to the undertaker. “Mr. Parrott, I’m finished here. You’ve noted that I have not disturbed the body, and were witness to this fact?”
    Mr. Parrott could only manage a slight nod.
    â€œGood. I’ll leave him in your kind care, now.”
    And with that, John left the shaken Mr. Parrott to his duties. He was almost to the front of the house when he heard it. The mournful scream broke the silence of the morning, sending both Dan and Fred instinctively dropping hands to holsters. But John remained undisturbed. He recognized that particular variety of wail. He had been expecting it. Aunt Wilhelmina had just learned of the brutal death of her only son.
    For just a moment, John allowed himself to wonder just how that scene might play out. Given what little he truly knew of Wilhelmina, would she be the sort of woman that would demand to know exactly what had happened, or would she prefer to distance herself from the painful truth? Would she want to take one last look at her boy, or be too grief-stricken to see his face?
    He could only dwell on those questions for a moment, though. He still had work to do, and he couldn’t afford to waste any time. Besides, the answers he was looking for wouldn’t come from Wilhelmina, regardless of her state. No, the person he wanted to speak with would have a much different take on this situation—and unless John was mistaken, he would be coming around the corner any moment now…
    As if on cue, Gerald walked into view. Gerald Peachtree was the absolute Georgian black houseman. In any other context, the sight of him, in his worn, yet scrutinizingly well-kept butler’s uniform, carrying a bucket of soapy water and an old scrub brush, would have been labeled as a stereotype.
    â€œYou’ll have to give Mr. Parrott just another moment or two,” John said casually, as an excuse to start a friendly conversation.
    â€œOh, I know it takes him a bit…I jus’ like