“Not somebody I know,” Tom replied, leaning back in his chair.
“He disappeared twelve years ago, before you came here,” Gil told him. “They sent out search parties, but he was never found.”
“Trace evidence? And if there were skeletal remains, you’ll need a forensic anthropologist . . .”
Nemara raised her hand. “University of Tennessee at Knoxville,” she told him. She smiled. “Dr. Bill Bass’s stomping grounds.”
“Yes, Dr. Bass,” Tom said, and smiled. “He’s a wonder. One of our guys actually wrote him a fan letter. He wrote the book on stages of decomposition with his Body Farm.”
“I’ve read about that,” Gil said, impressed. “I often wished I could study there. But I was in the military, and then at the community college here. I envy you that education,” he added with a smile at Nemara. “It must have been fascinating.”
She beamed. “Most people find it gory, if they aren’t physical anthropology students,” she replied. “I’ve loved forensics since I used to watch Quincy on YouTube.”
“Quincy! My God, that was decades ago!” Tom chuckled.
“You can find any older series on YouTube,” she replied with a grin. “I always loved the opening scene, where Quincy jerked the sheet off a cadaver, and grown men went running out to throw up.”
“I imagine grown women would do the same these days,” Gil teased. “Some grown women,” he amended.
She smiled shyly. “I did throw up on my first visit to the Body Farm,” she confessed.
“Don’t feel bad. So did my partner, and he’d been in law enforcement for five years,” Tom said. “But living in a small town, he’d never seen a decomposed person. Lucky devil,” he added, shaking his head. “I worked Chicago. You see lots of them when you work homicide there.”
“Homicide?” Gil asked.
Tom nodded. “I was a patrolman, then a homicide detective, and after that I joined the FBI,” he replied. “I guess I’ve spent my life in law enforcement, in one capacity or another. And I’m still doing it.” He waved a hand around. “Except that I don’t get shot at here. Yet.”
They both laughed.
“What do you need?” Tom asked.
“I want to find out where Marley Douglas banked. We’ll go over the house where he lived. It’s surely been sold by now, twelve years after his disappearance.”
“Let me make a phone call,” Tom said.
Nemara and Gil sat quietly while Tom spoke to somebody. It wasn’t possible to follow the conversation until he mentioned Marley Douglas’s name and asked a few more questions. He thanked the person on the other end of the line and hung up.
“He had an account at the Miner’s Bank in Benton,” he told them. “He and his sister had an income from their father, who was wealthy. They had stocks and bonds in a formidable portfolio with a local investment counselor, and a small fortune in CDs and a savings account in the bank.”
“Who inherited?” Gil asked, hoping for a lead.
“Nobody,” Tom said simply. “The accounts are still there, in limbo. Nobody asked to have Marley declared legally dead, and there were, apparently, no relatives surviving.”
“There goes that possible lead,” Gil said sadly.
“That somebody offed him for money?” Tom asked. He grinned. “Highly unlikely. If you can do it without getting in trouble, can you tell me what you found when you examined the remains?”
Gil nodded to Nemara. She drew a breath. “There was a small round penetrating wound through the chest into the shoulder, and it left charred flesh and fabric. The back of the skull was slightly indented, and cracks radiated out from the impacted area. If I were making an assumption, he was attacked with an extremely hot round metal object and fell backward onto a hard surface, which was the cause of his death.”
“Where did you send the evidence?” Tom asked. “State crime lab?”
“Oh, no,” Nemara said. “Not that we’re not the best around here,” she added quickly. “But the FBI lab is superior to most crime labs. We sent what we had to them.”
Tom smiled. “Smart move. I’ve seen those guys finger murderers from a grain of pollen, and that’s a story and a half.”
“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “I tried to get on there, but they weren’t hiring,” she added. “It’s an amazing place!”
“Truly,” Tom agreed.
“What will they do about Douglas’s estate?” Gil asked.
“The judge will appoint someone to administrate it,” he said. “If there’s a living relative in the world, they’ll track them down. Imagine that,” he mused with a chuckle. “Out of the blue, they’ll be able to buy a Rolls or a yacht or a home in Venice. Go figure. My wife and I budget like mad and count every penny.”
“But you wouldn’t change a thing about your life,” Nemara commented with a grin.
Tom chuckled. “You’re perceptive. No, I wouldn’t. I’m the luckiest man alive.”
* * *
They returned to the office. By now, it was late afternoon and getting dark.
“You need to go back to your motel, and I need to go home,” Gil said wearily. “I imagine Bert’s getting hungry.”
“Yes, you have to feed your pet,” she agreed. She grimaced. “I wish I had to feed mine,” she murmured.
“I really am sorry.”
She managed a smile. “Me too.”
He opened the door and escorted her to her SUV. It was a kind touch because it was almost dark. “How about breakfast?” he asked. “I can cook. I’ll come get you and take you by my place before we come to work.”
Her heart jumped. She hesitated.
“Of course, if you’d rather not,” he began quickly, worried that he’d been too forward.
“You . . . you really want to have breakfast with me?” she asked, stunned and showing it.
His eyebrows arched. “Why is that surprising?”
“Well, nobody ever wanted to take me out to a meal or a walk or even . . .” She cleared her throat. “Yes. I’d like that very much.”
He smiled. “I’d like for you to meet Bert.”
She beamed. “I would love that!”
He sighed and grimaced. “I truly hope that’s how it turns out,” he said, half under his breath. “I’ll see you in the morning. About seven thirty?”
“That’s fine. I’m always up early,” she said.
He watched her drive away and then wondered if he’d lost his mind. She’d probably scream and run out the front door and avoid him like the plague for the rest of the time she was in Benton.
He went into the sheriff’s office to find Jeff on the phone with somebody who was obviously giving him a hard time.
Jeff was nodding and speaking, mostly one-word answers, and finally he hung up.
“Damn, I know how a sheep feels when it’s been shorn,” Jeff said, wiping his forehead.
“Who was that?” Gil asked.
“The mayor. He wants to know who killed his friend. He’s raging about how slow we’re moving.”