Page 39 of Whistle
He shook his head. “No, I just like the sound of it. Think you gave me a speeding ticket.”
“It’s very possible.”
“Yeah, that was you. Give me a ticket for driving too fast near the school when it was ten o’clock at night and there wasn’t even any kids around. You folks should be out catching terrorists, not bothering the likes of me.”
“At the moment, sir, I’m not here to bother you, but to seek your assistance in an investigation. You notice anything unusual late last night?”
“Like what?”
“Maybe a vehicle parked out by the road. Some lights. Anything suspicious?”
Darrell Crohn slowly shook his head. “Nope. I was asleep. Went to bed around nine or so, got up maybe an hour ago.”
“Okay, well, thank you for your time.”
“Only woke up once, around two, because of the train.”
Harry said, “Train?”
“The whistle. Why they have to blow the goddamn whistle in the middle of the goddamn night?”
“A train whistle woke you up.”
“Isn’t that what I said? But I got back to sleep pretty quick.”
“What line of work are you in, Mr. Crohn?”
“Odd jobs. Salvage, mostly.”
“Any chance you might have had something to drink before you retired last evening?”
Darrell smiled slyly. “That is a distinct possibility, Mr. Chief, sir.”
The rail line that bisected Lucknow didn’t come anywhere near Miller’s Road. Darrell clearly had been awakened by his own imaginings.
Harry gave the man a tip of a hat that wasn’t there and said, “I thank you for your time. You have a good day, sir.”
Harry had no better luck with the residents of the other nearby houses. He’d hoped at least one place would have been equipped with surveillance cameras, that an image of a vehicle stopping briefly might have been captured. But not one house out this way had a security system. Sure, they locked their doors at night, but this was notwhat you would call a high crime area. If anything, they were more worried about the occasional black bears that wandered onto their properties and rifled through their trash.
Harry was on his way back to his car when his cell phone rang.
“Chief Cook,” he said, taking the call. He always felt a little funny saying that, like he should add “and bottlewasher.” Sometimes, some wise-ass would supply the words for him.
Not this time.
“Harry? Marty here.” Martin Grist, the coroner.
“Hey, Marty.”
“The fuck is going on in your neck of the woods?”
“You tell me.”
“Never seen anything like this. Whoever did it, you’d want to take them on a fishing trip. He or she could debone a bass like nobody’s business.”
“Might sound like a dumb question, Marty, but have you determined a cause of death?”
“Well, he had a pretty nasty bump on the back of the head, but if that didn’t kill him, something else did before he was sliced up. Asphyxiated, would be my best guess. And then largely bled out before all the detail work was done.”
