Which wasridiculous. Because I didn’t really know people in pharmacology or homeopathy. I knewofprograms, and I’d talked to pharmacists in my life—with my number of medical problems, of course I had—but it wasn’t like I had a pharmacist friend I could call up and ask. Not that I would ask them what Elliot had asked me—because that would put them in a really bad legal position. But I might be able to figure out a way to ask hypothetically…
I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. There was no point thinking about it because it wasn’t a good idea.
But I did feel really bad for Lonnie.
Both Rogerand Lacy were out—we took turns responding to calls, and it had been my turn to stay back this time—so I was by myself, looking at some particulate evidence taken from an accident scene earlier in the week. It hadn’t been a deadly accident, although two people had been taken to the hospital for treatment, but I had to admit that I liked the fact that I would sometimes get called to work scenes where people weren’t dead.
This one had pretty obviously been a DUI, and we’d been told by the prosecutor working out of the Sheriff’s Office that they planned to bring charges, so our evidence would be useful. Most of that would be evidence taken from the skid marks on the pavement, tire tracks in the mud, and particulates that helped to identify who drove over what first, second, and so on.
It wasn’t high-stakes, exactly, but it was useful work if it helped to keep a drunk driver off the road, as far as I was concerned. And since I felt like it made a difference, I happy doing it.
At least until my phone rang.
It wasn’t a number I had in it, but it was a Shawano county area code.
“Mays,” I answered it. And, since nobody I didn’t know called me for any reason other than work, I added, “Shawano County Sheriff’s Department Crime Scene Investigation.” It was a mouthful, but I was new enough that just my name wouldn’t be nearly enough. After the first few times when very confused people asked who I was or if they had the right number, I’d started answering with the full thing when I saw an unknown local number.
“Mr. Mays? My name is Robin Colfax with the Gresham Fire Department. I was given this number by Chief Ziemer, and I just cleared this with Sheriff Mallet. We’re looking at what we assumed was an unauthorized bonfire, but there seems to be some sort of bone, and we want to know whether or not we need to call homicide.”
Depending on how badly burned it was, I might or might not be useful, but I could bring whatever it was back and get the DNA or spectrometry testing process started. “Just tell me where I’m going,” I told Colfax.
I got the address, and I said I’d be there as soon as I could.
Before I grabbed my stuff and left, I quickly looked up the name ‘Robin Colfax’ in the department database, and it pulled up a profile for aLieutenantRobin Colfax, who had dark hair, dark eyes, and skin that was the color of a rich chai latte. The contact number given in the database matched the number on my phone, so I saved the contact and pulled up the address in my GPS on the way out the door.
I was halfway to Gresham when my phone rang again. This time the number was Gale Smith’s.
I poked the answer and speaker buttons. “Hi, detective. What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to let you know—our kidnapped shifter woke up this afternoon.”
I sucked in a surprised breath. “Really?” I said to Smith.
“Really,” he replied. “Just did the interview.”
“Good for him,” I said, impressed at the poor guy’s tenacity. He’d been in really rough shape, and it hadn’t been at all clear that he was going to survive, much less wake up and be able to give a statement in a timely manner—not that being unconscious for a month felt ‘timely’ in any real sense. I’m sure it had been interminable for his family—his wife and two kids who had come home to find him missing with blood all over their house.
“He gave us some rough descriptions to go on—and you were right,” he continued, “about there being four total perpetrators at the scene.” I’d concluded this from the fingerprints—there had been four fresh sets that clearly didn’t belong to the family, especially around the door and the parts of the house where there had been signs of struggle and blood. “So I guess we’re looking for some sort of group.”
“Some sort?” I repeated.
I could almost hear him shrug in response. “Could be a group of friends or something more formal. If we were in one of the big cities, I might say it was gang-related, but you don’t get that kind of thing here in Shawano. If anything, you see white supremacists versus tribal members, but it’s not gang warfare in the way you’d find somewhere like Milwaukee or Chicago.”
I frowned, although I tried not to let myself get too worried about it, since I didn’t want to get distracted from my driving. “White supremacists versus tribal members?” I asked. That sounded a lot like something that could be potentially dangerousfor Elliot, and while I knew I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about him in a romantic way—and I was still mad at him about the foxglove thing from this morning—I didn’t want to see him hurt.
“Yeah, unfortunately.” Smith sounded tired and unhappy. “There’s not a lot of… color up here, in case you hadn’t noticed.” I had. I’d spent half my life in a city that was almost half Black and another ten percent non-white. In comparison, Shawano was a fulleightypercent white.
“I did notice that,” I told him, trying to keep the judgment out of my tone.
I apparently failed, as Smith made a snorting sound. “Point is, we’ve got a little bit more to go on in addition to fingerprints—rough heights and weights, some other details. Not that fingerprints aren’t useful,” he quickly noted.
“But unless they’re already in the database, they’re hard to use to ID someone,” I finished for him. It was true. You could confirm that a suspect had been at a scene, but unless their fingerprints were already in the federal database, they didn’t tell you what characteristics to look for.
“Exactly.” I could hear approval in his voice.
I was probably supposed to ask something else, but the blue line on my GPS told me that I needed to turn. “Thanks for calling, detective,” I said. “I’ve got to get to a fire scene,” I explained.
“They’re having you work cases for arson already?” There was surprise there, but not derision.
