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“What blood?” Dal asked, frowning. He looked over Gil’s shoulder.
“There’s a good chance that your cat scratched the perp,” Gil murmured. “If this is his blood, it’s evidence that will stand up in court. We can get a DNA profile from the state crime lab.”
“I didn’t know Jarvis had scratched him,” Dal murmured.
Gil didn’t even answer him. He worked the crime scene, taking photos and measurements, careful to dust for fingerprints. But that was futile. Obviously, the perp had been wearing gloves.
He went around the house to the open window and knelt, looking at the tracks that started near where Snow had lain. He saw the imprint of her body. Nearby was a piece of firewood. He shined a light on it.
“That’s firewood. What’s it doing out here?” Dal wondered and started to pick it up.
“Leave it, please. That’s evidence.”
“It’s a piece of firewood.”
“It’s probably what the perp used on Meadow’s dog,” Gil murmured as he put the firewood into a large evidence bag.
Dal stopped dead. “Her dog? Snow?”
Gil nodded, preoccupied with the tracks. “She’s at the vet’s office. They don’t know if the dog will live,” he added, glaring up at his companion.
Dal felt two inches high. Now the imprint on the ground and the drag marks made sense. Meadow had had to drag Snow around the house to her vehicle. Snow might die, and he’d gone flaming mad to Meadow’s house and called her names . . .
“Dear God,” he said on a heavy breath. “I didn’t know. She tried to tell me and I wouldn’t listen,” he ground out.
Gil ignored him. He followed the tracks into the woods, photographing as he went. “The thief is a big man,” he murmured. “Tracks are deep. They end there, at the side of the highway.” He knelt again and photographed the tire tracks. “Probably won’t do any good, but they might be able to match the tread pattern. I’ll get pics of it, anyway.”
He got to his feet. “He was carrying a big canvas bag, wearing a long gray coat,” Gil added.
“He must have removed the legs, to make the desk more portable,” Dal commented. “They screw on.”
“I’ll make a note of that.”
“God, poor Meadow!” he ground out. “They don’t know if Snow’s going to make it?”
“No.” Gil faced him, still irritated. “Head injuries are tricky. I was in Iraq. One of the men in my squad was hit by falling masonry. He went down like a sack of sand and died three hours later without regaining consciousness.”
“I’ve seen fatal head injuries, too,” Dal replied. “I was in Afghanistan.”
Comrades in arms, Gil thought, but he didn’t reply. He was angry at the man who’d made Meadow even more upset. He recalled how miserable she’d been at the Christmas dance. Dal had been responsible for that, as well, although Gil didn’t know what was said between them.
“I need to see your cat,” Gil said.
“I’ll find him for you. I didn’t notice his paws.”
Gil said nothing. He followed the other man into the house. Jarvis was sitting in the kitchen sink, as usual.
“Careful,” Dal said when Gil moistened a small square of gauze and lifted the paw with blood on it, gently squeezing the pad to make the claws appear. “He bites. Meadow can pick him up, but nobody else can. Not even me.”
“She has a way with animals,” Gil agreed. The cat was cooperative. It didn’t offer to bite or scratch while he got the blood sample.
He put away the evidence and turned. “I’ll get back to the office with these and send them to the crime lab first thing in the morning.”
“Thanks for coming over.”
“Jeff told me to,” he replied, indicating that wild horses wouldn’t have dragged him there otherwise. His black eyes narrowed. “Meadow has real self-esteem issues,” he said quietly. “Good job, making her feel even worse while her dog fights for its life.”
He turned and went out the door before Dal could manage a comeback. His conscience stung him as the deputy’s car drove away.
