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“FBI doesn’t maintain an official office in Maine. It all goes through Boston, Mass.”
Sean said, “It’s a long way to Boston. Do we have to stay until they get here? We’re both pretty beat.”
“Our lieutenant is on the way. You can talk to him about it.”
Twenty minutes later the lieutenant arrived and he was not sympathetic. “Just sit tight” was all he said before turning away from them to confer with his men and look over the crime scene.
The Evidence Response Team arrived a couple of minutes later, all ready to bag and tag. Sean and Michelle sat on the hood of their Ford and watched the process. Bergin was officially pronounced dead by what Sean assumed was a coroner or medical examiner—he couldn’t recall what system Maine used. They gleaned from snatched bits of conversation among the techs and troopers that the bullet was still in the dead man’s head.
“No exit wound, contact round, small-caliber gun probably,” noted Michelle.
“But still deadly,” replied Sean.
“Any contact wound to the head usually is. Crack the skull, soft brain tissue pulverized by the kinetic energy wave, massive hemorrhaging followed by organ shutdown. All happens in a few seconds. Dead.”
“I know the process, thanks,” he replied dryly.
As they sat there they could see the members of the Maine constabulary look over at them from time to time.
“Are we suspects?” asked Michelle.
“Everybody’s a suspect until they’re not.”
Some time later the lieutenant came back over to them. “The colonel is on his way.”
“And who is the colonel?” asked Michelle politely.
“Chief of the Maine State Police, ma’am.”
“Okay. But we’ve given our statements,” she said.
“So you two knew the deceased?”
“I did,” answered Sean.
“And you were following him up here?”
“We weren’t following him. I explained it to your troopers. We were meeting him up here.”
“I’d appreciate if you could explain it to me, sir.”
Okay, we are suspects, thought Sean.
He went through their travel steps.
“So you’re saying you didn’t know he was here? But you just happened to be the first ones on the scene?”
Sean said, “That’s right.”
The man tilted his wide-brimmed hat back. “I personally don’t like coincidences.”
“I don’t either,” said Sean. “But they sometimes happen. And there aren’t a lot of homes or people around here. He was going to the same place we were, using the same road. And it’s late. If anyone was going to happen on him, it would probably be us.”
“So not such a big coincidence after all,” added Michelle.
The man didn’t appear to be listening. He was looking at the bulge under her jacket. His hand went to his sidearm and he gave a low whistle, which brought five of his men instantly to his side.
He said, “Ma’am, are you carrying a weapon?”
