Mike Randisi, dressed only in blue boxers, was lying on the kitchen floor. The bullet hole was on the left side, just below his ribs. It was a small hole, surrounded by seared, blackened skin and a patch of powder soot. Soot also stained both of his hands. There was very little blood around the entrance wound. The exit wound in his back was a different matter. Instead of a neat hole, there was a deep, irregular gash, with tissue and bone protruding from it. There was an enormous amount of blood on his back, on the floor, and splattered all over the kitchen appliances, cabinets, cupboards, and floor. It had not yet dried. Next to him on the floor was the long-barreled .38 Colt.
I turned away, fighting the impulse to steady myself against the kitchen counter (I didn’t want to corrupt the crime scene with my fingerprints) while fighting an even great impulse to vomit in the sink (I didn’t want to look like a wuss). I forced myself to concentrate. The blackened skin suggested a near-contact wound, I told myself. That and the powder burns on his hands left open the possibility that Randisi and his killer had wrestled over the gun and Randisi lost. The murder weapon—it was Mike’s, his name was Mike—he seemed like a nice guy. Dammit! Concentrate. If he was killed by his own gun, that likely ruled out premeditation. If it had been premeditated, the killer would have brought his own weapon; of course he would, wouldn’t you? The killer came to Mike’s place because, well, because there was no way Mike would have gone to see the killer. He had agoraphobia. He was taking sertraline. The orange prescription bottle was right there on the counter next to the sink.
I heard voices behind me.
“Goldarn air-conditioning,” one voice said.
“Can you give me a time of death?” said another.
“Goldarn air-conditioning,” the first voice repeated. “Until I get her back to the morgue, I can only guess.”
Her? my inner voice said.
“I’ll take a guess.”
“I’m going to say she was killed between 2:00 and 6:00 a.m. Don’t hold me to it, though.”
She?
I spun to face the kitchen again. A knot of men, all wearing khaki and Sam Browne pistol belts and holsters, blocked my view from the kitchen into the living room. I kept staring until the group parted. Then I saw her. On the floor and facing the kitchen. Her arms and legs were spread apart as if she were making snow angels. She was dressed only in white lace panties and a man’s white dress shirt that was unbuttoned and hanging open, the sleeves rolled up. In the center of her chest, just above her breasts, was a small, nearly bloodless bullet hole.
Tracie Blake.
“Oh no,” I said.
The two men who had been speaking turned to look at me.
“Oh no,” I repeated.
“Who are you?” said the one with the badge.
“This is McKenzie,” Chief Gustafson said. “I told you about him.”
“Sonuvabitch,” I said.
“Get him out of here,” the badge said.
The chief grabbed my arm with both hands and pulled me toward the door.
“Goddamn sonuvabitch.”
For the first time since I’d arrived in Libbie, I didn’t mind the heat. I pulled my arm out of the chief’s grasp as soon as we exited the kitchen. He called my name, but I ignored him, walking around to the front of the house and sitting on the lush green grass. I turned my face to the sun and closed my eyes, willing the sun to burn the image of Tracie Blake’s dead body from my brain. And Mike Randisi’s. And all the dead bodies that came before them. Most people didn’t have to deal with such things. Most people were luckier than I was. It was not something I often admitted. Most days I fought against conformity, resisted the ordinary—my greatest fear growing up was that I would one day discover that I was boring. That was most days. On this day I found myself wishing I were an accountant, or a plumber, or a poor, overworked bookstore owner, anything other than what I was so drearily—a cop. Even without a badge I was a cop.
Goddamn sonuvabitch!
I heard their footfalls on the grass before I heard their voices.
“McKenzie, this is Sheriff Balk,” the chief said.
I opened my eyes. Big Joe was standing in front of me, making a large hole in the sunlight. He looked like the guy that Jack met at the top of the beanstalk.
The sheriff smiled and extended his hand. His face was wide and full of smile wrinkles, and he had a loud, penetrating voice that made me think he was good with a joke. I reached to shake his hand without leaving my spot on the grass.
“How you doin’?” he said.
“I’ve been better.”
I released his hand and gazed across the highway, looking northeast toward Miller’s properties off in the distance.
“I’m sorry about your friends,” the sheriff said.
“I barely knew them,” I said.
“I understand.”
I glanced up at him again, this time squinting against the sun. He was younger than the chief, closer to my age, yet there was something in his face to suggest that he was wiser, that he had seen things and had learned from them.
“Chief Gustafson explained why you’re here,” the sheriff said. “He said you and Ms. Blake visited Mr. Randisi yesterday afternoon.”
“Yes.”
“What can you tell me?”
I knew the kind of information the sheriff wanted, and I gave it to him, explaining that Mike had been weary of threats, that he had met Tracie and me with a gun in his hand.
“That was his Colt on the floor?” the sheriff said.
“Yes. Last time I saw it, it was on the kitchen counter near the door.”
“There was no forced entry.”
