“That’s fine. Refer to me as the affable, good-looking, outdoorsy blond guy,” Virgil said.
“With a serious line of bullshit,” Coakley added.
VIRGIL CALLED Jacob Flood’s home number, got a woman who said she was his daughter, and who said, “Mother’s out. She’ll be back at supper time.”
“Does she have a cell phone?”
“No. I can give her a message.”
Virgil identified himself and said that he’d like to come over after supper. He left his cell phone number and asked for a call-back if Alma Flood wouldn’t be there.
He called the duty officer in St. Paul, learned that Beatrice Sawyer and Don Baldwin had the crime-scene van and should be at Crocker’s place. He called Sawyer, a cheerful middle-aged woman, who, Virgil thought, was sometimes a little too interested in death.
“Got here half an hour ago and had a look, eyeballin’ it,” Sawyer said. “It’s murder, all right. Tell you something else—the sun went down, and it’s dark as the inside of a horse’s ass out here.”
“You’re sure?”
“Well, I’ve never actually been inside a horse’s ass.”
“About the murder?” Virgil asked.
“We feel that after the slug penetrated his lower jaw, tongue, roof of his mouth, sinus passages, eye socket, brain, and skull, he probably wouldn’t have had time to wipe the gun, or any interest in doing so,” Sawyer said. “But the gun was wiped. With a cotton blouse, we think. A couple threads got caught in the action. Ergo . . .”
“All right. So he wasn’t alone,” Virgil said. “You saw his penis? Exposed?”
“Yes. We believe he was involved in heterosexual activity immediately prior to his demise. Whether he actually ejaculated we won’t know until the autopsy is done, but we have no signs of semen on his clothing or the couch.”
“There was a suggestion here, by the sheriff, that he may have been involved in oral sex,” Virgil said.
“That would be accurate,” she said.
Virgil was surprised that she was so positive. “Really?”
“Yes. Because that explains the lipstick on his penis,” she said. “That’s also why we think it was heterosexual, and a blouse was involved in the gun-wiping. We could be wrong, but we rarely are.”
“Bea . . . you’re my huckleberry.”
“Yeah, you say that to everybody,” she said. “If it was oral sex, we have the possibility of getting some DNA. I won’t go into the details of how we plan to collect it.”
“Thank you.”
“But we will be doing that. I’ll tell you, Virgil, there might not be much more. This shag carpet, this fuzzy couch, there was a blanket . . . it’s an old house, and there’s a lot of dirt around. The furnace has been blowing dust on everything. It’s going to be a chemical mess. Our best hope is the DNA on his penis, and we’ll check the fly of his pants.”
“We’re also looking for a pair of uniform pants, green wool, with blood on them,” Virgil said. “Could be a very small amount, but you’ve got to find them. Check every pair of green wool uniform pants you can find. The blood comes from a ripped fingernail, so there might not be much. We’ll need DNA on that, too.”
“If it’s there, we’ll get it,” she said.
“Bea . . .”
“Don’t say it,” she said. “The huckleberry thing. Once was annoying enough.”
ON HIS WAY back down the hall to Coakley’s office, Virgil got a local call, from a number he didn’t recognize. He answered, and found Bob Tripp’s father on the other end. “I’ve talked to my wife, and we’re going over to the funeral home tonight at seven-thirty. If you wanted to get here at seven twenty-five, we could put you up in Bob’s room by yourself. We’d just as soon not be here when you go through it.”
“I’ll see you then,” Virgil said. “Thank you.”
Coakley was alone when Virgil got to her office. She had her boots back on the wastebasket, and was staring out her office window. When Virgil stuck his head in, she pointed at a visitor’s chair.
“Look a little bummed,” Virgil said.
“I am.”
“We’ll get this cleared up, you’ll be the town heroine,” Virgil said.
“Three murders,” she said. “And probably four. You know the last thing I did before I got elected sheriff? My last investigation? I was looking for some kid who was going around keying trucks.”
“Catch him?”
“No, but I know who did it,” she said. “I got myself close to the little asshole’s father, down at the diner, in the next booth. I was having lunch with the chief, and I