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Agent Jeremy Haimes introduced them to the manager of postal operations and a postal inspector both hovering on the periphery. Both were older, shaken up and trying to hold it together, and of no help.
Several people who saw Sherlock did a double take, then were all over her with compliments and endless questions. She was polite but learned quickly to shut them off by saying only, “Yes, thank you. Now we have Deputy Lewis to attend to.”
Savich and Sherlock heard the James Bond theme “Nobody Does It Better,” and turned to see the postmaster, Mr. Mantano, turn away to answer his cell. When Mantano hung up, he walked back to them, careful not to get too close to the OTR, cordoned off by yellow crime scene tape, newly arrived forensic techs working around it. “As I told Agent Haimes, Ellie Moran, the employee who found the body, called me right away. I came down, verified that a dead man was in an OTR, called my boss in Richmond. She called the postal inspector, who called the FBI in Richmond. Everyone was here by six-thirty. I’ve kept all our employees away from that OTR—”
Sherlock asked, “What’s OTR mean, Mr. Mantano?”
He blinked at her, shook his head. “I’ve been with the post office for fourteen years and I don’t know.” He called out to another employee, then another. No one seemed to know. “It’s been in the PO lingo so long no one remembers, sorry.”
The manager of postal operations said he thought it meant “over the road,” as in transport. There was nervous laughter.
Dr. Krowder, the Richmond ME, with three assistants in his wake, shook hands with Haimes, Savich, and Sherlock, told Sherlock she was a pistol and wanted her autograph, then bent down to examine the body. “I sure don’t like seeing this after a lovely breakfast of scrambled eggs,” he said over his shoulder. “This is nasty, Agents. This knife—I’ve never seen one like this before.”
“I saw one similar to it yesterday. It’s called an Athame,” Savich said. “It’s a ritual knife used in witches’ ceremonies.”
“I don’t imagine you see that every day. You’re here from Washington, Agent Savich, so I presume you know something about this knife?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what’s going on here?”
“Not yet.”
“Wait, that murder yesterday in Washington. The news said something about a ceremonial knife used to kill a man. Was it like this one?”
Savich nodded.
The sheriff was a tough-looking old buzzard and he looked angry. He said, “I’ve known Kane Lewis for thirty years, met him after I first became sheriff back in the eighties. Tough as nails and everybody knew it, but folks in Plackett liked him better than the sheriff. Lucky for the sheriff, Kane didn’t want to run against his boss, always saying life was too good for him to screw up his karma. He had a half-dozen grandkids.” He smacked his fist into his palm. “I hope you have some ideas on what kind of monster would do this.”
“Not yet, Sheriff.”
Dr. Krowder straightened and stepped aside for a tech to snap photos of Kane Lewis.
“I’d say he’s been dead about six hours. Looks obvious what killed him, but I’ll let you know anything else I discover during autopsy. Sheriff, I’m real sorry about the deputy. I guess you’re going to be the one to speak to his family?”
“Yeah, me and Sheriff Watson of Plackett, that’d be the right way to do it. A case of the devil you know—Kane’s murder is going to shake up Watson, even though he was jealous of him, hated it that everyone liked him better and respected him more. You know someone as long as he knew Kane Lewis, it burns a hole, you know? Oh, yeah, Sheriff Watson was also Kane Lewis’s brother-in-law; Kane was married to his sister, Glory. What a mess.” He shook their hands and walked away, muttering to himself. He turned back to Savich. “This is the second victim murdered with a ridiculous witch’s knife. What’s going on here, Agents?”
“We’ll find out,” Savich said.
Watson, Sherlock, and Haimes watched the techs wheel out the big OTR. Savich didn’t think it would fit into the ME’s van and wondered how they’d get it to the morgue.
Sherlock said, “Dane and Griffin are going to the trucking company that’s under contract by the post office, to interview Brakey Alcott, the driver who delivered the OTRs early this morning.” Sherlock pulled out her tablet. “Brakey’s real name is Joseph. Says here on his Facebook page that he ended up with the Brakey nickname after he stopped his dad’s pickup too fast at age sixteen and sent his dad through the windshield, broke his dad’s neck, but thankfully he pulled through. Brakey’s twenty-four years old, fairly new to the job, but reliable and well liked. The truck company can trace his movements.”
