skills. We partnered on the force after going through the police academy together. Our friendship remained strong, even though he never forgave me for deserting him to go into the P.I. racket.
Life as a rookie cop hadn’t worked for me. A loner by nature, I had an aversion to getting trapped in a job with too many rules and too many bosses. Not to mention some of the cops made the crooks I hauled off to jail look like saints. So I bailed.
As my own boss, I could choose the people I worked with. The pay wasn’t much better and the benefits lousy, but I slept well at night.
I joined Amos at the order line. We worked our way to the front and Marie, the clerk behind the cash register, greeted us with a bright smile on her pretty black face. “Hi, Amos, Noah. What’ll it be today, the usual?” Marie had a photographic memory.
We nodded.
The usual for me consisted of a burger with everything, fries, and a large iced tea. The usual for Amos was a gastronomic nightmare. Two cheeseburgers with the works, which included jalapeno peppers, a double order of onion rings, and a super size soda.
Marie wrote our order and names on two brown paper bags. Later the cook would place the finished order in the paper sacks. Efficiency in action.
We sat in a shabby booth near the window while waiting for the food. Amos placed a thick manila folder on the table and shoved it across to me.
“What’s this?”
He grinned. “I made a copy of the case book for you.”
He pulled the envelope back, opened the flap, and fanned glossy photos before me. “Brought the crime scene shots. I’ll have to take ’em back, but you can make copies at Walmart if you like.”
I shook my head. “Thanks, I don’t need copies, but I do appreciate getting a look at them. Hope you don’t get in trouble over this.”
Having the photos and investigation details was the next best thing to being at the crime scene.
“Not hardly. This case is as cold as a dead Alaskan salmon.”
The first photo of the car’s interior caught my eye. Sometimes people try to fake their disappearance by leaving blood samples behind. Not so in this case—too much blood. It’s hard to fake the splatter. All outward appearances indicated Abigail Armstrong died from wounds sustained in her car.
An expensive handbag and car keys lay on the floorboard. Obviously, robbery wasn’t the motive.
“Where did they find the vehicle?”
Amos shifted his large frame and fingered the snapshots. “In a very rough neighborhood on the south side. Some kid was trying to remove the tires when the police spotted him. A crack house sat across the street, and a meth lab operated one block down. We’ve cleared the drugs from that area at least a dozen times. They come back like roaches.”
We didn’t have a problem with gangs in Hebron, or as far as I know, in most parts of Wyoming. My theory is it’s just too cold to hang out on street corners. However, we do have a drug problem. Meth was a big deal here.
I looked over the case book copies. “Any reason to believe she might have been a user?”
“The blood stains had no trace of drugs. Since we didn’t have a body, we couldn’t be certain. None of the evidence pointed in that direction.”
The pictures bothered me, so I turned them face down on the table. “Did anyone question her doctor? Most physicians suspect when a patient is an addict.”
“The doctor said Abigail Armstrong wasn’t the type to do narcotics. Much too level headed. Those were her words, not mine.” He tapped the envelope. “It’s all in here.”
I handed the photos back to him and placed the file on the seat beside me. “Having access to your interviews will be a big help, save me a ton of time. Since she left home after getting a phone call, it’s a sure bet she knew her assailant.”
“You’re probably right. Now all you have to do is find out which of the ten thousand people in town placed the call.” He followed the comment with a
Life as a rookie cop hadn’t worked for me. A loner by nature, I had an aversion to getting trapped in a job with too many rules and too many bosses. Not to mention some of the cops made the crooks I hauled off to jail look like saints. So I bailed.
As my own boss, I could choose the people I worked with. The pay wasn’t much better and the benefits lousy, but I slept well at night.
I joined Amos at the order line. We worked our way to the front and Marie, the clerk behind the cash register, greeted us with a bright smile on her pretty black face. “Hi, Amos, Noah. What’ll it be today, the usual?” Marie had a photographic memory.
We nodded.
The usual for me consisted of a burger with everything, fries, and a large iced tea. The usual for Amos was a gastronomic nightmare. Two cheeseburgers with the works, which included jalapeno peppers, a double order of onion rings, and a super size soda.
Marie wrote our order and names on two brown paper bags. Later the cook would place the finished order in the paper sacks. Efficiency in action.
We sat in a shabby booth near the window while waiting for the food. Amos placed a thick manila folder on the table and shoved it across to me.
“What’s this?”
He grinned. “I made a copy of the case book for you.”
He pulled the envelope back, opened the flap, and fanned glossy photos before me. “Brought the crime scene shots. I’ll have to take ’em back, but you can make copies at Walmart if you like.”
I shook my head. “Thanks, I don’t need copies, but I do appreciate getting a look at them. Hope you don’t get in trouble over this.”
Having the photos and investigation details was the next best thing to being at the crime scene.
“Not hardly. This case is as cold as a dead Alaskan salmon.”
The first photo of the car’s interior caught my eye. Sometimes people try to fake their disappearance by leaving blood samples behind. Not so in this case—too much blood. It’s hard to fake the splatter. All outward appearances indicated Abigail Armstrong died from wounds sustained in her car.
An expensive handbag and car keys lay on the floorboard. Obviously, robbery wasn’t the motive.
“Where did they find the vehicle?”
Amos shifted his large frame and fingered the snapshots. “In a very rough neighborhood on the south side. Some kid was trying to remove the tires when the police spotted him. A crack house sat across the street, and a meth lab operated one block down. We’ve cleared the drugs from that area at least a dozen times. They come back like roaches.”
We didn’t have a problem with gangs in Hebron, or as far as I know, in most parts of Wyoming. My theory is it’s just too cold to hang out on street corners. However, we do have a drug problem. Meth was a big deal here.
I looked over the case book copies. “Any reason to believe she might have been a user?”
“The blood stains had no trace of drugs. Since we didn’t have a body, we couldn’t be certain. None of the evidence pointed in that direction.”
The pictures bothered me, so I turned them face down on the table. “Did anyone question her doctor? Most physicians suspect when a patient is an addict.”
“The doctor said Abigail Armstrong wasn’t the type to do narcotics. Much too level headed. Those were her words, not mine.” He tapped the envelope. “It’s all in here.”
I handed the photos back to him and placed the file on the seat beside me. “Having access to your interviews will be a big help, save me a ton of time. Since she left home after getting a phone call, it’s a sure bet she knew her assailant.”
“You’re probably right. Now all you have to do is find out which of the ten thousand people in town placed the call.” He followed the comment with a
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