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Reverend Oglesby had lived in one of the older areas of King George Proper. It was a mish-mashed area where quarter-million dollar homes were interspersed with doublewides or run down frame houses. There was a good bit of privacy to be had, as the lots were large and there was good tree coverage. The roads were difficult to maneuver, especially now that it was dark, and we almost missed the turn into Oglesby’s place.
Jack’s headlights flashed on a small neat square of a house with white siding and blue shutters. The porch was miniscule, and the only thing that made it at all interesting was the yellow crime scene tape across the door. The driveway was loose gravel and there wasn’t a garage or portico to park a car under.
“It’s quiet out here,” I said as we got out of the car. “No neighbors peeping over fences.”
“Yeah. The killers would have come in broad daylight, since they had to catch him before he left for his trip. We knocked on doors all along this road, but no one remembers seeing an unusual car at that time of day. Most people weren’t at home for various reasons, but everyone had nice things to say about Reverend Oglesby. They talked about how he’d help out neighbors by doing yard work or running errands if someone was struggling. He’d run this road and loop around the three miles every morning at six o’clock, seven days a week. One of the ladies down the street said you could set your clock by him.”
We walked up to the porch and Jack opened the deadbolt that had been placed on the door to keep the curious out. The house smelled musty from emptiness as we stepped inside, and Jack flipped on the lights. A fine sheen of black powder from the fingerprint dust coated everything, but underneath was the smell of lemons and clean. It was a small space—a postage stamp sized living room and a kitchen with worn laminate floors and yellow-flecked Formica countertops. A short hallway led to two tiny bedrooms and a bathroom. The furnishings were spare, and a few bills sat on the little table in the entryway, addressed, stamped and ready to be mailed.
“No signs of a struggle,” I said. “Not even a little one.”
“Yeah, which leads me to believe that only one person was here to administer the drug. There just aren’t enough fingerprints belonging to other people. We got a hit off of one set from his cleaning lady. She’d spent some time in jail a few years ago, but she said the Reverend wanted to give her a chance to make an honest wage. I believed her, but we’ll run a deeper check on her just to cross our t’s. No women are going to be involved in this. This is a good ole’ boys club. Women are as much of a minority to them as anyone.”
“I can’t see him opening the door and inviting in a group of men without some hesitation,” I said.
“No, but I could see him opening the door for one man. Especially if it was someone familiar. By all accounts, Oglesby was devoted to the church and his job of helping people. He wouldn’t have thought twice about getting a late start or his trip being ruined.”
Jack walked around the small space of the kitchen, painting the scene as I stood there quietly and let him think. It always amazed me that he wanted the slower pace of this job, because he was just so damned good at it.
“Oglesby was a friendly guy. He’d want to put his guest at ease.” Jack gestured to the two white coffee mugs. “The killer would want to get it done quickly though. The others were waiting on him, and there was always the chance a neighbor could come by. And the longer the perp waited, the more likely Oglesby would feel something was off. You can feel that kind of buzz in the air. So when Oglesby turned away to grab a couple of mugs and pour the coffee, he was given a quick injection to the back shoulder. He’s down before he can feel the sting.”
“There’s no way Oglesby could be moved by one man,” I said.
“No, that’s when the others showed up.” Jack walked to the back of the house and I followed. “They would have pulled the truck back here,” he said. “The treads match the ones we found at the dump site. They were gloved and they came up the hall to the kitchen to grab the body and take him out back. We found soil in the carpet in the hallway. They didn’t leave everything as tidy as they thought. I’ve got that blood sample taken from the ground. I’ll send it off to the lab in Richmond to see if it matches Oglesby. If it doesn’t, it could belong to one of our killers.”
I nodded as I followed him out the back door and down the three wooden stairs that led to an unfenced pack yard with patchy grass and plenty of shade trees. Jack turned on his flashlight and the beam settled on the ground not ten feet from the door. The tire tracks weren’t deep—just an impression surrounded by dozens of footprints in the dry dirt—but they were visible.
Jack stood with his hand on his hip with his jacket pushed back over his weapon so it didn’t get in the way. He shook his head and said, “All they’d have to do is throw a tarp over him until they reached the place they tortured and killed him. A three-man job. Two in the cab of the pickup and then the one who delivered the injection drove his own car. The whole thing wouldn’t take fifteen or twenty minutes from start to finish.”
“Something else about the drug they used on him,” I said. “Diprivan is only used during surgery by anesthesiologists. It can’t be acquired over the counter, and I’ve never heard of it being sold black market. There’s no demand for it.”
“So I’m looking for a doctor?” Jack asked.
“I’d say it’s a good possibility one of the killers has access to a hospital.”
“That’ll be fun,” he said. “Doctors are usually assholes. No offense.”
“Can’t argue with the truth.”
“We’ll hit the hospitals tomorrow. I can’t fit much more into one day. Let’s pack it in for the night.”
We headed around the side of the house and Jack relocked the front door with the deadbolt and made sure the crime scene tape was secure.
“You left all the stuff for S’mores at the funeral home,” I said once we were back in the car. “Don’t think you’re getting out of that one, my friend. I demand S’mores.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I dropped those specific ingredients off at my place before I came out to drag you away from the rats.”
I buckled my seatbelt and adjusted the heater as Jack did a u-turn on the graveled drive and headed towards his place. “Pretty damned sure of yourself,” I said.
“What can I say, babe? When you’re good, you’re good.”
Chapter Ten
The next morning, I had a sugar hangover that would’ve done any teenaged boy proud. My teeth felt gritty, and little men were dancing across my skull. I couldn’t narrow down the reason for the headache—there were many possibilities. One of which could have been the wine I’d used to chase down the S’mores.
I’d taken the upstairs guest bedroom that looked out over the trees and all the way down to the water line. Mostly because I thought it would be nice have something to look at as I waited for night to pass. I messed up the covers a little so Jack wouldn’t worry, but I’d sat most of the night in the overstuffed chair next to the windows. I’d dozed off and on like normal, but real sleep was a thing of the past. It didn’t help that I could hear Jack tossing and turning in the room next to mine.
As soon as the sky started to lighten, I headed into the shower and tried to do some damage control with makeup so the dark circles under my eyes wouldn’t be so prominent and people would stop commenting on them. My face was pale and my cheeks gaunt, and if I stared too hard I could still see the bruises the exact size of fingerprints around my neck. I stood back and looked at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. Iwastoo thin. I traced the outline of my ribs, almost as if it were someone else’s body instead of mine.
