Page 12 of Forever Dead

Chuck was the one Connor noticed first. He had worked enough wrecks, shootings, and domestic calls to stop reacting visibly to most things. That morning his skin had gone gray around the mouth.

Connor got out and closed the SUV door behind him. “What happened?”

Arnold glanced at the house. “It’s old Miss Marsh.”

Chuck straightened, but slowly. “I found her.”

“What do you mean?” Connor asked.

“Dispatch got an anonymous call at seven forty-three,” Chuck said. “Male voice, maybe. Could’ve been disguised. Said, ‘You need to send somebody to Eleanor Marsh’s house,’ then hung up.”

Connor gave him a second before asking, “You went in alone?”

“Front door was locked. Back door was busted. I announced myself and went through.”

His attention drifted toward the farmhouse. He shook his head.

“What did you find?” Connor asked.

Chuck rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Her. Kitchen side of the house. Head snapped around. Chair smashed over her. Jesus, Connor.”

Connor put a hand on his shoulder. “Take a breather.”

“I’m fine,” Chuck said.

“No, you’re not. Go sit in the cruiser for five minutes. Get some water. I’ll come get you if I need you.”

Chuck started to protest, then let it go. “Yeah. All right.”

Arnold watched him walk toward the patrol car. “Takes a lot to shake Chuck.”

“That’s what worries me,” Connor said.

That told Connor nearly as much as anything else. Crime-scene tape ran from the porch post to a maple tree beside the drive. He ducked beneath it and pulled on gloves before entering through the damaged back door.

The break around the lock was fresh. Splintered timber pointed inward, and the strike plate hung from one screw. Whoever had forced entry had done it hard.

Inside, Matt Price was photographing the kitchen floor while Dr. Blethan crouched near the dining-room doorway. Another camera flash lit the adjoining room.

Matt lowered his. “Morning, Sheriff.”

“Morning,” Connor said.

Blethan didn’t turn immediately. He was staring toward the far corner.

Connor followed his attention. Eleanor Marsh lay on her side where the dining room met the wall, as if somebody had thrown her there and left her where she landed. One arm was folded beneath her. The other stretched toward the baseboard, fingers partly curled. Her head sat at an angle no living person could hold.

The rocking chair had been broken across her body. One curved runner lay over her legs. The back had split near the center, and several spindles were scattered across the floor. Another section rested against her shoulder. It did not seem possible that the chair had simply broken during a fall. Somebody had either smashed it against her or broken it separately and piled the pieces over her afterward.

A carving knife lay several feet away near the kitchen threshold. A mobile phone rested closer to the counter, its screen dark now.

Blethan rose carefully. He seemed older than he had the last time Connor saw him.

"I knew her for forty years," he said.

“We all did,” Connor said.

Blethan’s mouth almost grimaced. “She taught my youngest.”