The Ragman's Memory Read Free Page A

together what they could.
    Tyler glanced over his shoulder, his frustration plain. “We need hammers and picks to get through this crap.”
    Norah Fletcher’s quiet voice floated up in the wake of this comment, reminding us that these scattered shards were more than mere parts of a puzzle. “So it really is somebody?”
    Tyler, as was typical when his focus was jarred by some emotional consideration, looked startled and self-conscious. Evans, on the other hand, proved how good a teacher she could be. She sat back on her haunches and draped a burly arm around the thin girl’s waist, explaining to her in a near whisper the intricacies of human anatomy and of animal behavior, replacing some of the sudden chill in the air with a broader appreciation of what life sometimes throws in our faces.
    By the time she’d finished, and after Norah’s pale face had regained some of its studious poise, a patrolman appeared with two trenching tools and a hammer he’d borrowed from a neighbor. Evans took advantage of the interruption to get up and escort Norah to where Ann Fletcher was standing uncomfortably on the fringes of our little group.
    “I think we’ve probably had enough science for one day. Besides, I happen to know you’ve got homework,” Evans said, as Norah slipped her gloved hand into her mother’s.
    Norah merely nodded, the full impact of the doghouse’s contents lingering despite her teacher’s best efforts.
    As they turned to go, I stepped before them and crouched down so Norah and I were eye-to-eye. “I appreciate what you did. When we find out what happened here, it’ll be because you cared enough to come forward. Not many people are that observant, or show that much responsibility.”
    A subtle pride radiated from behind those large glasses. She murmured, “You’re welcome,” before looking down at the ground. I no longer felt so badly about exposing her to more than what might have been appropriate. Good experiences sometimes come in odd packages, something I sensed even Norah’s mother might agree with.
    I straightened and shook Ann Fletcher’s hand. “Thank you.”
    “I tried to stop her,” she answered apologetically, still obviously distressed at how events had snowballed.
    “You were being protective. What she did does you credit—you obviously taught her well.”
    She smiled slightly, which was all I wanted to see. “Goodbye, Lieutenant.”
    · · ·
    Tyler appeared at my elbow. His earlier frustration at the frozen ground had faded. “I didn’t mean that literally, about the pick and hammers. It’d be too destructive. We can throw a tent over the whole thing, put a space heater inside, and have the ground totally thawed within twenty-four hours. That okay?”
    I turned back toward the site. “Sounds good to me. God knows how long this has been here. Anyone else come up with anything yet?”
    Sammie appeared from around the back of the nearby garage. “Stennis found what looks like chicken bones on the shelf of one of the storm drains, and Lavoie got a long bone from a culvert. Both were photographed in place and bagged. Evans thinks the long bone’s from a deer. The crime lab’ll tell us for sure. I also called the State’s Attorney’s office on the cell phone.”
    “They sending anyone over?” I asked.
    Sammie shook her head. “Said we could brief them later.”
    We returned to where Christine Evans was back on her knees scrutinizing the dirt before her.
    “There may be more,” she said, pointing with a gloved finger. “See that scat?”
    Sammie’s face turned sour as she focused on several two inch long, dark, twisted droppings, their ends distinctively marked by pointed, upturned spirals.
    “What about it?” I asked skeptically.
    “It’s from a fisher—part of the marten family—related to the weasel. They don’t like open ground, but they’re bold enough to come onto human property.”
    She suddenly flashed a disarming smile at the largely ignored homeowner who