Silent Smile (Sheila Stone #10)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sheila Stone stood on the cracked sidewalk outside Eric Blackwood's bungalow, the search warrant a heavy weight in her jacket pocket. Finn stepped up beside her, his face a mask of concentration.

"Judge Martinez didn't give us any trouble?" Finn asked, eyeing the peeling paint on the house's exterior.

"Woke him up at eleven pm, but Blackwood's purchases were enough to convince him," Sheila replied. She moved toward the front door, every sense on high alert. "Let's do this by the book, Finn. I don't want to give Blackwood's lawyer any ammunition if this goes to trial."

She rapped sharply on the door. "Eric Blackwood? This is Sheriff Stone. We have a warrant to search the premises." The words echoed in the predawn stillness.

No response came from within. Sheila tried the doorknob, finding it unlocked. She exchanged a glance with Finn before pushing the door open, her hand instinctively moving to her holster.

"Mr. Blackwood?" Sheila called out as they entered. The house was silent, the air stale and heavy with neglect.

"Alright," she said to Finn, "I'll take the bedroom and bathroom. You start in the living room. Look for anything related to Native American symbols or the dunes. And Finn? Be thorough."

As Sheila moved down the hallway, she cataloged every detail. Water stains on the ceiling. A stack of unpaid bills on a side table. Framed photos of desert landscapes, no people in sight. It painted a picture of a man isolated, obsessed with the world outside his window.

In the bedroom she found an open closet, empty hangers swinging gently. Dresser drawers pulled out, contents hastily removed. A dust outline on the top shelf where a suitcase should have been.

"Finn," Sheila called out, "looks like our boy packed and ran. What've you got out there?"

"You're gonna want to see this, Sheriff." Finn's voice carried a note of discovery that had Sheila moving quickly back to the living room.

Finn was crouched in front of a bookshelf, pulling out volume after volume. "Look at these titles," he said, handing her a book. "'The Sacred Symbols of the Desert,' 'Native American Rituals and Their Meanings,' 'The Spirit of the Dunes.' It's a regular anthropology course in here."

Sheila flipped through the books, noting dog-eared pages and penciled annotations. "He's been studying this stuff intensively. But why?"

"That's not all," Finn continued, pulling out a leather-bound journal. "Check this out."

The journal's pages were filled with hand-drawn symbols, meticulously copied and annotated. Sheila's pulse quickened as she recognized one—a crude sun with wavy lines emanating from it. It was nearly identical to the symbol found on Amanda Weller's forehead.

"Well, that's certainly interesting," Sheila said. "But it doesn't explain why he'd pick her, or if he has anything to do with Carl Donovan's disappearance."

"Doesn't tell us where he is, either," Finn murmured.

They continued their search, but found little else of significance. The kitchen yielded nothing but expired food and unwashed dishes. The bathroom was similarly unremarkable, save for a half-empty bottle of prescription sleeping pills.

Sheila stood in the living room, frustrated. "This doesn't add up, Finn. We've got evidence of his obsession with Native American symbols, sure. But nothing that definitively ties him to Amanda's murder or Carl's disappearance."

Finn nodded, his brow furrowed. "It's circumstantial at best. A good lawyer could argue he's just an enthusiast with poor housekeeping habits."

"And why Amanda?" Sheila mused, more to herself than to Finn. "Was she chosen at random, or was there something specific about her? And if Blackwood is responsible for Carl's disappearance, too, what's the connection?"

She paced the room, her mind racing. "We're missing something. There has to be a link we're not seeing."

Just then, her phone buzzed. She answered quickly, "Sheriff Stone."

"Sheriff, it's Deputy Chen. We've got a possible sighting on Blackwood's vehicle. A blue Ford pickup was spotted at the Gas 'n Go on Route 89, heading north. Matches the description and the plate we put out."

Sheila's pulse quickened. "How long ago?"

"Not more than twenty minutes, Sheriff. The clerk just called it in."

"Good work, Chen. Get the word out to all units. I want roadblocks set up on all northbound routes out of town."

She hung up and turned to Finn, who was already reaching for his jacket. "Blackwood?" he asked.

Sheila nodded. "Possible sighting of his truck. We need to move now."

***

As Sheila pulled up in front of the modest ranch-style house, Finn pointed to the blue Ford pickup parked nearby.

"That's his vehicle, alright," Finn murmured.

"We need to approach with caution," Sheila said. "For all we know, he's killed two people in the past twenty-four hours. He might not be too keen on speaking with us."

They got out and approached the house. They were halfway to the front door when it swung open, revealing an older woman with silver hair pulled back in a loose bun. Her eyes, a piercing blue that immediately reminded Sheila of Eric Blackwood, regarded them with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Deep laugh lines framed her mouth, speaking of a life well-lived, but there was wariness in her stance nonetheless.

"Can I help you?" she called out, one hand on the doorframe. Her voice was strong, with just a hint of a Southern drawl.

Sheila, surprised that this woman would be up at such an hour, held up her badge. "I'm Sheriff Stone, and this is Deputy Mercer. Is Eric Blackwood here, by any chance?"

The woman's brow furrowed, creating a network of fine lines across her forehead. "What do you want with my son—in the middle of the night, no less? Has something happened?"

Before Sheila could respond, a familiar figure appeared behind Mrs. Blackwood. Eric Blackwood looked between the officers, his expression puzzled. He was wiping his hands on a rag, leaving dark smears on the fabric.

"Sheriff Stone? Deputy Mercer? What's going on?"

Sheila felt a twinge of uncertainty. Blackwood didn't look like a man on the run. He was dressed in old jeans and a stained t-shirt, streaks of what looked like mud on his hands and arms.

"Mr. Blackwood, we've been trying to reach you," Sheila said, keeping her tone neutral. "You missed your tour at the park earlier today. Given recent events, we were concerned."

Understanding dawned on Eric's face. "Oh, God. The tour. I completely forgot." He ran a hand through his hair, leaving a smudge on his forehead. "Mom called, said she had a plumbing emergency. I should have called in, I'm sorry."

Mrs. Blackwood nodded, adding, "That was my fault, officers. The septic system backed up, and I panicked. I asked Eric to come over right away. It can be so expensive to call in a professional, you know?"

"What about the digging tools you recently purchased?" Finn asked.

Eric's eyebrows shot up. "The shovels and stuff? Yeah, I bought those for this very reason. Mom's septic system is old, and I knew we'd need to dig to access it." He gestured toward the backyard. "Want to see the mess we're dealing with?"

Sheila nodded, and Eric led them around the side of the house. The backyard was illuminated by several work lights, revealing a scene of organized chaos. A large hole had been dug near the center of the yard, surrounded by piles of dirt. The newly purchased tools were scattered about: shovels stuck in mounds of earth, a pickaxe leaning against a tree, a heavy pry bar.

"I've been at it all night," Eric explained, pointing out various aspects of their work. "The whole system needs to be replaced, but first, we had to deal with the immediate backup. It's been a nightmare, but we're making progress."

Mrs. Blackwood wrinkled her nose. "The smell was awful at first. Thank goodness Eric came when he did. I don't know what I'd have done on my own."

Sheila studied the piles of dirt, processing what she was hearing. The scene before her painted a picture of a devoted son helping his mother in an emergency, not a killer on the run.

"Eric," she said, deciding to lay all her cards on the table. "The books in your apartment, the ones about Native American symbols and rituals. Can you explain those?"

Eric's face lit up, despite his obvious exhaustion. "Oh, that's for a project I've been working on. I'm developing a new tour at the park, focusing on the indigenous history of the area. I've been doing a lot of research to make sure I get everything right."

Finn cleared his throat. "Do you happen to know someone by the name of Carl Donovan, by any chance?"

Eric frowned thoughtfully. "No, can't say I do. Should I?"

Sheila felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. They had been so sure, but now... Every piece of evidence they'd thought pointed to Blackwood's guilt suddenly had an innocent explanation.

"Eric, can you account for your whereabouts since we spoke with you yesterday afternoon?" Sheila asked.

Eric nodded, showing no sign of being offended by the question. "Sure. I came straight here after our talk. Mom and I worked in the yard until dark, then we had dinner before I came back out." He paused, then added, "I'm sure the neighbors can confirm seeing us out here if you need to check. Old Mr. Johnson next door even came over to chat for a while about an hour ago."

Sheila glanced at Finn, seeing her own doubts mirrored in his expression. Everything they were seeing contradicted their suspicions about Blackwood. The physical evidence of their work, the easy interaction between mother and son, the openness with which Eric answered their questions—it all pointed to innocence rather than guilt.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Blackwood," she said finally. "We appreciate your cooperation. If you think of anything that might be relevant to our investigation, please don't hesitate to call."

As they walked back to the SUV, Finn muttered, "Well, that was a bust. Back to square one, I guess."

Sheila nodded grimly, feeling the weight of their mistake. "We chased the wrong lead, and somewhere out there Carl Donovan is still missing."

"We'll find him," Finn said, touching her hand. "We'll find him."

She nodded, but she wasn't much encouraged. This was her first big case as sheriff, and she couldn't help feeling that she was blowing it.

"Let's get back to the park and join the search," she said as she climbed into the vehicle.

"There's one piece of good news," Finn said. "We've crossed one person off the suspect list."

"Sure," Sheila said. "And the flip side is that we don't have another suspect to replace Blackwood. The killer could be anyone—anyone at all."