Prime Witness Read Free Page B

Rushed a little more than they bargained for.”
    I look toward the bodies. “The MO,” I say. “Like the others?”
    Claude makes a face, something from the Old World, a lot of wrinkles and a screwed-up mouth, then nods. “Pretty much,” he says, ignoring the obvious, that these two on the ground are no college students.
    It is the third set of murders in less than two weeks for this rural county where big news is usually the column listing the drunk driving arrests on Monday after a heavy weekend.
    “We’re trying to get the cast of a tire track. Out there off the gravel road. A single vehicle parked behind some brush,” he says. “It’s a long shot,” he concedes, “could have been made by the killer last night. Could have been made by a family on a picnic last week.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Also we got a partial shoe print inside the tape.”
    My interest is piqued a little with this.
    “Looks like a running shoe, pretty small,” he says. “We think it probably belongs to one of the kids. They got scared.”
    “Understandable,” I say.
    “They left little tracks like chicken scratchings all over the place.”
    Over by the patrol car an evidence tech is taking a cast of one of the kid’s shoes to compare it to the partial on the ground inside the tape.
    There’s commotion in the brush beyond the tape, across the shallow creek, a dozen reserve deputies, part of the local search and rescue team. They have drawn the poison oak duty. One of them crosses the creek, moving toward Claude.
    “Lieutenant, you should take a look at this.” The cop is mud to the ankles of his heavy boots. He’s wearing the togs of search and rescue, an orange jumpsuit with belts and metal rings for every occasion. In his hand he has a plastic bag. Claude takes this in his open palm and examines it. A small, twisted piece of metal. It appears to be broken off from something larger. Dusalt makes a face.
    “What is it?” he says.
    “Part of a foot-cam,” says the cop.
    Claude shrugs, like this means nothing to him.
    “Used in climbing ropes. I think you’d better come across the creek and look for yourself,” he says.
    Claude moves away from me now, shouldering me out, talking to the officer. Their voices drop and I cannot hear this.
    Ignoring me, the two men start toward the creek. Unsure whether I should follow, I walk behind them, a little tentative. Claude turns to look at me. From the pained expression I wonder if he’s going to chew my ass for following, too many footprints messing up the scene.
    Then he says: “Forgot my boots.” There’s a stupid grin on his face. Claude has driven here, like me, in the family sedan. His field clothing and boots are locked in a patrol unit back at the county yard. He looks down at his white training shoes, $120 Nike Airs, then shrugs a little. With that he is mud halfway to his knees, following the other cop across the creek. I look down at my $200 Boston loafers, what was handy in the closet when the call came in, and I think to myself, “He who waits also serves.” Curiosity has its limits. I am stranded high and dry on this side of the creek, left to contemplate my circumstances.
    What had begun as a case of care-taking for a friend is now a burden that monopolizes every aspect of my life. My wife is furious—ready I think perhaps to leave me—my child neglected, my private practice in Capital City twenty miles away is a shambles, all because this favor for a friend now consumes every waking hour. Two days ago came the crushing blow, a phone call at three in the morning, a voice I did not recognize, a nurse at Good Shepherd’s Hospital. Mario Feretti was dead. The judges of Davenport County now have me strapped and secured for the duration.
    I watch as Claude and the other cop move through heavy brush to the base of a large tree. I can no longer hear what they’re saying. But the big cop is pointing up, into the tree. I look, but I can see nothing. Several of the