Chapter 13
The worst thing about solving a murder was telling the sheriff.
Even though he was right and McMartin was wrong, Arthur couldn’t shake the unpleasantness that came with interacting with law enforcement.
It was the one time he would have preferred to simply send a text, never mind he couldn’t figure out how to use Salvatore’s smartphone.
But, alas, he didn’t trust McMartin to take the information seriously unless they delivered it in person.
The station was as busy as usual. A few deputies sat at desks doing paperwork, and a little old white lady complained to another that her neighbor’s dog was too loud.
McMartin stood in the back with his hands on his belt, surveying them all as if he had nothing better to do—like solve a crime, perhaps.
“What now?” McMartin grunted when they walked in, a scowl taking root on his face.
“We have essential information about the case,” Arthur said.
McMartin crossed his arms. “You might not have gotten caught on camera dumping blood in the park, but I still don’t trust you.”
“You don’t have to trust us.” Arthur knew that was a lost cause. “You can trust the facts, and the evidence. We have a viable suspect, and I think he’s worth looking into.”
“Other than your husband?” McMartin glanced at Salvatore, and his lip curled into a soundless snarl.
Salvatore had been unusually respectful, letting Arthur take center stage, but this seemed to break whatever restraint he had.
“Really, Sheriff, there’s no need for pretense.” He gave an exaggerated wink. “I know I’m in your head.”
“There’s no longer any reason to suspect Salvatore, given the facts,” Arthur continued.
As much as he would love to delay pointing the finger of blame at a teenager, he wouldn’t let Salvatore derail them now.
Not when they were so close to being done with this awful business. “Brody Young’s the one you want.”
McMartin paused, genuine concern crossing his expression before he returned to an indifferent sneer. “Brody? Really?”
“He was out past curfew and his friends can’t account for his whereabouts, not to mention there’s video of Dr. Young’s truck leaving the park around the time of the murder. Brody was the one driving it.”
“There’s no way the kid was involved. He might get up to a little vandalism with his friends, but he’s not a murderer.”
“Excuse me if I don’t take your word for it.” Arthur narrowed his eyes.
“Look, I know Brody. He used to work for me. He didn’t do this.
That footage from the park isn’t definitive—and for all I know, it’s a deepfake.
” McMartin shook his head and turned. “When the FPI gets here Monday, I intend to hand them an open-and-shut case proving one of you did it. Stop wasting my time with this nonsense.”
McMartin disappeared into his office and slammed the door.
“That went well,” Salvatore said cheerily.
“Well? I can’t think of any way it could’ve gone worse!” Arthur exclaimed, leading the way out of the station.
“I could have ended up behind bars again.” Salvatore stroked Rumble’s head. He’d turned the backpack around so it was more of a front pack, for easy cat access. “Or they might have taken this sweet child away from us.”
“I suppose we must simply do everything ourselves.” Arthur sighed and beckoned Salvatore forward. If McMartin refused to investigate anyone besides them, they’d have to find Brody and question him on their own.
“There’s one problem with that.” Salvatore held up his phone. “Brody’s been off the grid since before the murder. No status updates, no Stories.”
“That’s odd…Suppose we’ll have to hit the streets and search for him the old-fashioned way.”
“Yes, yes, good, good. Old-fashioned.” Salvatore tucked the phone away and nodded sagely. “Shall I wear a doublet and hose, do you think? Or is this more of a bell-bottoms and tie-dye affair?”
By the time darkness fell over Trident Falls, Arthur and Salvatore were no closer to finding Brody.
They’d biked across town what felt like a dozen times—to the park, the riverfront, downtown, even the trailheads.
Trident Falls wasn’t very populated, but it was spread out.
Arthur was beginning to find it all rather hopeless, so though he wasn’t particularly hungry, he readily agreed when Salvatore suggested stopping for dinner at Trident Slaws.
Sal insisted on buying enough for Nora, saying that even if she was a murderer, they couldn’t let her go hungry, as she was a guest at the inn. Arthur agreed, though Nora and Quinn were now at the bottom of his suspect list—even if they were both acting suspicious.
“Are you sure Brody wasn’t home when you dropped by?” Salvatore asked as they parked their bike in front of the restaurant.
“I don’t know. Dr. Young didn’t invite me in, but he didn’t act like Brody was there. The truck wasn’t in the driveway either.” Arthur shoved his hands into his pockets, frowning. “You don’t suppose Brody might have skipped town?”
“Maybe.” Salvatore pulled out his phone. “You can call the dentist and find out.” He waved it in Arthur’s direction.
“All right.” Arthur sighed and snatched the phone.
“If you open the browser and search for Trident Falls dentist, I bet it’ll come up.”
“Right…” Arthur gave Salvatore a sidelong glance.
“You don’t know how to google things, do you?” Sal’s jaw dropped with altogether more surprise than was strictly necessary, in Arthur’s opinion.
“It’s fine.” He tapped his head. “I’ve got all the emergency numbers memorized anyway.”
“In what universe is the dentist an emergency number?”
“Teeth are our first line of defense, Sal. If a tooth goes bad, that can lead to all sorts of issues, and—”
“Sorry I asked.”
Arthur dialed. Predictably, considering it was after five and a Saturday, the out-of-office voicemail played—press 1 to leave a message, press 2 to be connected to emergency services, press 3 to contact Dr. Young directly.
“Sal, the numbers aren’t showing; how do I hit 3 if—”
With a melodramatic eye roll, Salvatore took the phone. He tapped the screen a couple of times, then handed it back to Arthur. A ringing sound blared from the speaker, and Dr. Young answered.
“Dr. Young here, how can I help you?” His voice was curt and professional, if a bit put out by being called in the evening.
“Dr. Young, this is Arthur Miller.” He stopped himself from adding no relation, as the dentist had already been informed of this detail.
Someday soon, perhaps, Arthur would be acquainted with the rest of Trident Falls enough to do away with the habit entirely.
“We spoke earlier—I tended your garden.”
Salvatore waggled his eyebrows suggestively but stayed blessedly silent.
“I remember,” Young said.
“I was wondering if Brody is home. We’d like to ask him some questions.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Dr. Young said, tone clipped.
“Why not?”
“He’s a minor, for one,” Young said stiffly. “And…he’s my son. I don’t want you or anyone else talking to him about something as serious as murder accusations without a lawyer present.”
“Dr. Young, we’re only trying to help—”
“Are you having a dental emergency?” Young snapped.
“No, but—”
“Then I’ll thank you not to bother me again.” He hung up.
“Rude,” Salvatore said as Arthur handed the phone back. “I was going to ask him what might constitute a dental emergency.”
Arthur let out a long sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. “To be fair, we were calling after hours, and we were doing so in order to accuse his son of murder.”
“To be fair, he’s a shifty sadist who yanks teeth for a living.”
“Come on, how would you feel if someone called you to accuse your child of murder?” Arthur asked.
“First of all, I cannot believe you’d stoop so low as to empathize with a dentist. Secondly, I’d feel proud as a peacock. Rumble is a vicious hunter. I’m sure she’s plenty capable.”
“I’m not sure it’s a matter of capability, but rather motivation.”
Despite her sharp claws, Rumble seemed more likely to take a nap than engage in a spot of murder. In fact, when they’d dropped her off back at the inn, she’d promptly curled into a ball and begun snoring, true to her name.
“So, what’s the plan?” Sal asked.
“Well, Dr. Young said we couldn’t talk to Brody—not without a lawyer.” Arthur shook his head. “Maybe we should try McMartin again, or one of his deputies. Clearly we’re not going to get anywhere with him ourselves.”
“Nonsense.” Salvatore produced his phone again. “Dr. Young wants us to get a lawyer, so we’ll get a lawyer.”
“I think he meant his son would have to have a lawyer—”
“Quiet, darling, I’m making a call, don’t be rude— Oh, hello, Theo.”
Arthur groaned and put his head in his hands.
“I’m putting you on speaker. Yes, Arthur’s with me.” Salvatore leaned against the brick siding of the building, apparently all thoughts of barbecue gone.
The entrance was deserted, but still. Arthur felt embarrassed to be having this conversation in such a public place. With proper landlines, one couldn’t wander around sharing sensitive information with the world while on a call.
“Hey, guys.” Theodore’s calm voice came from the speakers. “What can I do for you?”
“We need a lawyer in order to ask a minor questions,” Salvatore said before Arthur could wrestle the phone from him.
“Uh,” Theodore began. “Why? You’re not with the police or any other law enforcement agency. You’re private citizens. If you need to ask a kid something, having their parent around is good enough.”
“Really?” Arthur said. Maybe this call wasn’t such a waste after all. “What about a teenager? We think Brody Young might have…information about the case.” It still felt so wrong to accuse him of murder.
“Brody?” Theodore sounded surprised. Arthur could relate. “Legally speaking, his father doesn’t have to be present or anything, but probably nothing he says to you will hold much water in court unless he’s willing to repeat it to law enforcement.”
“If only we could find him,” Salvatore whined. “We’ve been all over town, and Dr. Young has been absolutely no help, though you know how dentists are.”
“Huh.” Theodore sounded thoughtful. “When I was closing up the shop tonight, I saw Brody’s truck parked nearby.”
“How long ago was that?” Arthur asked, excitement lifting his spirits.
“Maybe half an hour?”
“We’ll check it out immediately, thank you—”
“I can help you look,” Theodore said, a note of smugness in his voice. “I’m pretty good at tracking people.”
Arthur suppressed a groan.
“That would be lovely. Toodles!” Salvatore hung up. “Well, that was easy. Shall we adjourn to the…street over yonder?”
Arthur let Salvatore link their arms together as they hurried in the direction of the Big Bad Brew.
They didn’t encounter anyone else as they walked.
Shops around Trident Falls tended to close early, and there wasn’t much nightlife to be had besides a few restaurants.
Anyone interested in that made the drive to Portland or Bend on the weekends.
A city was only a couple of hours away in either direction, but Arthur would sooner confess to murder than sit that long in a car.
They spotted the silver truck just up the road from the coffee shop, parked wonkily along the sidewalk. No one was inside. Brody might still be nearby. Theodore wasn’t here yet, but Arthur wasn’t about to wait for him.
“We should split up, do a grid search—” But before Arthur could begin to put a plan in motion, the wind shifted. The scent of iron, sharp and strong, carried toward them. It wasn’t diluted like the blood at the park.
This was fresh.
Someone was bleeding, and they weren’t far.
“Is that what I think it is?” Salvatore sniffed the air, freezing for a moment, then snapping his head to stare behind the shop. “It’s coming from over there.”
Arthur turned, following Salvatore’s gaze. A darkened alley carved a path behind the coffee shop. In the light of day, Arthur had noticed the wall was covered in graffiti, but he couldn’t make anything out from this angle.
“Let’s go.”
“Good thing we left Rumble at home. I can’t bear the thought of bringing her into a dangerous situation like this,” Salvatore said softly.
“Be quiet,” Arthur hissed. “Whoever made this dangerous situation could hear you.” He glanced around for a weapon of some kind, but there was nothing but empty spray-paint cans lying around.
He didn’t like to think of it, even with the prospect of a hostile murderer on the loose in Trident Falls, but he didn’t need a weapon, strictly speaking. His fangs would do in a pinch.
Arthur stepped as quietly as he could, every squeak of his shoes against the pavement like claws on a chalkboard.
Behind him, Salvatore employed his vampiric flight to hover a few inches off the ground as they made their way down the empty side alley.
They rounded the corner behind the coffee shop, revealing a long corridor full of dumpsters and pallets leaning against the walls.
The scent of fresh blood was overpowering, mingling with the faint chemical smell of spray paint.
A message was scrawled across the brick in white paint: Fur Fiend. Blue paint, still wet by Arthur’s estimation, had been inserted between the letters to change the message to Fur Friend.
The particular shade stirred something in Arthur’s memory, but he didn’t have time to dwell. Below the freshly painted words, a pair of sneakers poked out from behind the nearest dumpster. Arthur rushed forward, Salvatore hovering right behind him.
A body lay propped against the wall, eyes closed, breath uneven. Blood pooled in the hollow of his throat, and on the side of his neck were two small puncture wounds.
It was Brody Young.
“Well,” Salvatore said dully. “This sucks.”