There were two radio systems in all DNR vehicles, the 800 MHz for talking to Lansing, all DNR field personnel and district offices around the state, and for talking to Troops. The county and city were on a separate system. With the 800 silent, he dialed in Delta County on the other radio and heard the dispatcher talking to a deputy. “Code 10-54X, Code 3,” she said.
Code 10-54 was a possible suicide; X indicated a female. Code 3 meant get there fast. He depressed his mike button. “Delta, DNR Twenty-Five Fourteen, where’s that Code 10-54?”
She gave him the address, which he automatically scribbled in the notebook he stored by the radio. His heart sank. It was Outi Ranta’s house.
He let Newf into the truck and blue-lighted to the house. Two Delta County cruisers were just pulling in, along with an EMS Ramparts unit. A third county unit was on his heels. He grabbed a pair of disposable latex gloves from a box in the backseat, and got out.
The Delta County undersheriff, James Cambridge, pulled in beside him. Cambridge was sixty, overweight, had a chronic bad back, and would retire this summer. He was the sort of county cop who was gruff, unfriendly, and uncooperative with other agencies. His personality had cost him two runs at sheriff, and only the benevolence of the current sheriff allowed him to keep his job this time around.
“James,” Service greeted him
“I hate calls like this,” the undersheriff said. Service knew Cambridge would soon question his presence.
Service stepped into the house behind Cambridge. There was a young deputy in the hallway. The kid looked pale, about to be sick. Cambridge squeezed his shoulder, a gesture that caught Service by surprise. The undersheriff was not known for giving warm fuzzies to his people.
Service looked into the kitchen. Cambridge said, “Mind your step,” and went back to talking to his deputy.
There were two lower panes of glass gone from the bay window. The rest of the glass and white wood were sprayed with blood and gray tissue. Service saw a body on the floor and leaned to look, not wanting to soil the evidence. It was Outi Ranta, her skirt hiked up around her thighs, one shoe off. She had a corn pad on the uncovered foot. A Colt Python with a four-inch barrel was on the floor. He guessed it was a .38. The two bottles of vodka were where he had last seen them, one of them unopened, the other one looking to have about the same amount as earlier. Ranta’s chair was tipped over. It was the same chair she had been sitting in when he last saw her.
He stepped out of the kitchen and went outside for a smoke. A Gladstone cop pulled up and went inside. Then a Troop Service didn’t recognize joined them. Cop lights always drew crowds. He walked along the side of the main house to the guesthouse in back. It was unlit, small. He tried the door. Open. He flipped on the light, saw the bed was made, no dirty dishes. It looked unlived in. He backed out, circled the small house, looked through a window into the bathroom. Clean towels, new soap in the dish. He sat down on a lawn chair and finished his cigarette.
He found Vince Vilardo stepping out of the house when he got back to the front. He was telling Cambridge and the deputy, “Body temp says two, three hours max. Who found her?”
Cambridge gave a soft nudge to the young deputy, who said, “A neighbor two doors down thought she heard a noise, but she was making supper for her kids. Later she come over and saw the broken glass and blood, and called.”
“When did she hear the noise?” Vince asked.
“Suppertime,” the kid cop said.
Cambridge said, “Go ask for an actual time—even if it’s an estimate.”
The young deputy took off on a run. Cambridge looked at Service and shook his head.
Vince nodded for Service to follow him. They went to the side of the house. “This wasn’t a suicide,” Vince said quietly. “Paraffin shows no traces of nitrates on either hand. The projectile appears to have traveled downward, right to left. Nitrate and appearance of the wound suggest five, six feet away. I’ll verify all this in the lab, but I thought you’d want to know.”
“You wondering why I’m here?”
“I gave up speculation long time ago.”
“You’re sayin’ homicide, not suicide?”
“Ninety percent,” Vilardo said.
“Thanks, Vince.”
Cambridge drifted back to them. “Thanks for responding,” he told Service. “We’ll take it from here.”
Translation, “Butt out and adios.”
Vince leaned close to Service, whispered, “I’ll call you in the morning.”
When he got home there was still no call from Tree.
Why had Outi Ranta been killed? She and Honeypat had had a falling out. Was there someone or something else? He started to make a list but pushed the pad away. Not his business. Most victims knew their killers and most murders were crimes of passion, unplanned events that simply happened. He had not taken a close look, but it looked to him like there had been no struggle in the kitchen. Did Outi think she was alone or had she let someone in? Leave it be, he told himself. Let the process run its course and let the county do its job. Still, he couldn’t help feeling that there was something he should have done to prevent this. He had seen her only two nights ago, and though she had been upset, he was sure she was all right and strong.