classmates, “even those you doubt. Ask questions and seek opinions, especially from experts. And always obtain corroboration. Then, and only then, disclose your findings. That’s what serious, contemplative journalists do.”
It seemed like overkill to me. Again, no pun intended. I knew the identity of the murderer and wanted to let the deputy know I knew. But more than that, I wanted to be considered a “serious” journalist. So I asked what I was supposed to ask, pointless as it seemed. “Deputy Ryden, is it conceivable that Samantha Berg was abducted on her way to the bar? By a stranger? Someone just passing through town?”
The deputy wiped his mouth with the back of his closed fist. “Call me Randy.”
“Well, Randy? What do you think?”
Again, he sighed. He did that a lot.
“Samantha lived out back,” he said, “in a small rental house on the other side of the alley, twenty yards from the rear entrance of the bar. There’d be no reason for a stranger to be back there. But if some guy was, he would have been spotted. People from town use the alley all the time.” He took a three-beat rest. “And if she’d been grabbed, Jim and the folks in the bar would have heard her scream. No band was playing that night. The place was quiet. And Samantha had a big mouth. Yet no one heard a thing.”
I propped my elbows on the table and rested my chin on my palms as I mulled over his remarks. See? I could also be a “contemplative” journalist. “What if the guy stabbed her right away? From behind? Then she wouldn’t have had a chance to scream.” I was doing my utmost to remain open minded—or at least give that impression.
“She faced her killer. We know that from the tests done on her chest wound. As for the blood? Someone would have noticed it that night or right away the next morning.”
“Not if it got covered by the snow.”
He rolled his eyes. “A killer’s not going to stab someone and stop to shovel snow over the blood.”
I shot him a cold, hard look. He deserved no less for being rude. “I meant it might have snowed later in the evening. Or the wind may have picked up and caused the snow to drift.”
The corners of his mouth drooped. “Sorry about that. You’re right, it did snow, but we only got a dusting. And while the wind regularly blows hard up here, it wasn’t strong enough that night to move all the snow necessary to cover the blood that would have flowed from that wound. It was a nasty one.”
I tried to maintain my glower. He’d been rude, and I didn’t want to let him off the hook too easily. But when it came to eyes, I was no match for Randy Ryden. His eyes were hypnotizing. At that precise moment, they had me imagining I was swimming in a pool of melted chocolate. And it’s damn hard to glower while floating in chocolate. “Well, um …” I stuttered, “is it possible she was murdered elsewhere?”
Unlike me, the deputy spoke without sputtering. “It’s possible. Even probable. We just don’t have any evidence along those lines.”
The deputy then put his coffee cup to his lips, providing me the opportunity to take control of the conversation. And for that, I was thankful. Because I’d become increasingly distracted by the man, I prayed that by talking more about the case, I’d avoid going completely ga-ga over him.
“Deputy Ryden … I mean Randy, based on what you said, the person who killed Samantha Berg must have been someone who didn’t prompt her to scream. Someone she left with voluntarily and on the spur of the moment.” I made an effort to read him, but it wasn’t easy. He didn’t give much up. Though after a few minutes, I thought I saw a flicker of what I’d hoped to find. “That’s it, isn’t it? I was right!”
He set his cup down. “What do you mean, you were right?”
I folded my hands studiously. “Well, to my way of thinking, Samantha Berg was killed by someone she knew well. Someone with ties to both her and Lena Johnson. That
It seemed like overkill to me. Again, no pun intended. I knew the identity of the murderer and wanted to let the deputy know I knew. But more than that, I wanted to be considered a “serious” journalist. So I asked what I was supposed to ask, pointless as it seemed. “Deputy Ryden, is it conceivable that Samantha Berg was abducted on her way to the bar? By a stranger? Someone just passing through town?”
The deputy wiped his mouth with the back of his closed fist. “Call me Randy.”
“Well, Randy? What do you think?”
Again, he sighed. He did that a lot.
“Samantha lived out back,” he said, “in a small rental house on the other side of the alley, twenty yards from the rear entrance of the bar. There’d be no reason for a stranger to be back there. But if some guy was, he would have been spotted. People from town use the alley all the time.” He took a three-beat rest. “And if she’d been grabbed, Jim and the folks in the bar would have heard her scream. No band was playing that night. The place was quiet. And Samantha had a big mouth. Yet no one heard a thing.”
I propped my elbows on the table and rested my chin on my palms as I mulled over his remarks. See? I could also be a “contemplative” journalist. “What if the guy stabbed her right away? From behind? Then she wouldn’t have had a chance to scream.” I was doing my utmost to remain open minded—or at least give that impression.
“She faced her killer. We know that from the tests done on her chest wound. As for the blood? Someone would have noticed it that night or right away the next morning.”
“Not if it got covered by the snow.”
He rolled his eyes. “A killer’s not going to stab someone and stop to shovel snow over the blood.”
I shot him a cold, hard look. He deserved no less for being rude. “I meant it might have snowed later in the evening. Or the wind may have picked up and caused the snow to drift.”
The corners of his mouth drooped. “Sorry about that. You’re right, it did snow, but we only got a dusting. And while the wind regularly blows hard up here, it wasn’t strong enough that night to move all the snow necessary to cover the blood that would have flowed from that wound. It was a nasty one.”
I tried to maintain my glower. He’d been rude, and I didn’t want to let him off the hook too easily. But when it came to eyes, I was no match for Randy Ryden. His eyes were hypnotizing. At that precise moment, they had me imagining I was swimming in a pool of melted chocolate. And it’s damn hard to glower while floating in chocolate. “Well, um …” I stuttered, “is it possible she was murdered elsewhere?”
Unlike me, the deputy spoke without sputtering. “It’s possible. Even probable. We just don’t have any evidence along those lines.”
The deputy then put his coffee cup to his lips, providing me the opportunity to take control of the conversation. And for that, I was thankful. Because I’d become increasingly distracted by the man, I prayed that by talking more about the case, I’d avoid going completely ga-ga over him.
“Deputy Ryden … I mean Randy, based on what you said, the person who killed Samantha Berg must have been someone who didn’t prompt her to scream. Someone she left with voluntarily and on the spur of the moment.” I made an effort to read him, but it wasn’t easy. He didn’t give much up. Though after a few minutes, I thought I saw a flicker of what I’d hoped to find. “That’s it, isn’t it? I was right!”
He set his cup down. “What do you mean, you were right?”
I folded my hands studiously. “Well, to my way of thinking, Samantha Berg was killed by someone she knew well. Someone with ties to both her and Lena Johnson. That
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