The Ballad of Frankie Silver - By Sharyn McCrumb Page 0,64
College sweethearts, taking a little vacation together after classes ended. Rich kids, too. At least, she was.”
Spencer glanced at the body. The small figure had been wearing jeans and a plain black sweatshirt. Now they lay crumpled a few feet away from her body. “How can you tell?”
The officer smiled. “It helps to have kids, Deputy. I recognize the brand names on her clothing. That outfit may look like old jeans and sneakers to you, but she paid a couple hundred bucks for them. I probably would have known even without that, but it isn’t something I could explain.” He shrugged. “Her manicured nails. Her hairstyle. After you observe people for enough years, you just know.”
“A robbery that got out of hand then?”
“No. There won’t be any money in the wallets, but taking the cash was an afterthought.”
Spencer poked a finger inside the billfold. Empty. The TBI guy was right. “Not the motive, though?”
“Incidentally, sure. I mean, the cash is just lying there. It’s not going to do the victims any good. Why not take it? But that’s not the real reason the killer did this. He did this for fun, because he’s so mad at something that this is his way of striking back.”
Spencer said, “I am reckless what I do to spite the world.”He shrugged. “I always liked that line.”
The older man smiled. “Macbeth,”he said. “It’s nice to hear Shakespeare every now and then from an officer, instead of Kris Kristofferson, which is what passes for philosophy these days.”
“I like him, too,” said Spencer. “So you think this guy we’re looking for is more than a thief whose robbery got out of hand?”
“He’s a killer first and foremost. Have there been any other unsolved murders around here?”
“No.”
“Any disappearances? Maybe you just didn’t find the bodies.”
“No missing persons.”
“Maybe he’s not from around here then. You’d better hope he doesn’t decide to stay a while. This kind of thing is habit-forming. There should be more victims sometime . . . somewhere.”
“How do we go about looking for him then?”
“Stranger killers are hard to catch. No pool of suspects. Could have been anybody. You have to hope they do something stupid. But we’ll do what we can to help you with the forensic evidence. It will take some time, though.”
Spencer nodded. “I understand. We have to have a suspect anyhow, before the forensic evidence will do any good.”
The TBI man stood up and stretched, yawning into the gray light. “Morning already. You’re going to have a long day ahead of you, Deputy, finding out if anybody saw anything suspicious up here. Oh, and when you notify the families, be sure you get a description of the personal effects the victims had with them. They may turn up somewhere. It could be the best lead you get.” He yawned again. “Keep in touch. Let me know if there’s anything else we can do to help.”
Back at the office, Spencer worked through the rest of the dawn hours, organizing his notes, making calls to locate the victims’ families. Now it was seven o’clock. He would have to make the notification calls soon, before the families left for work. He stared at the two telephone numbers, wondering which family to call first. He had never had to notify the family of a murder victim. Nelse Miller always took it upon himself to contact the families, and Spencer devoutly wished that the sheriff were here now to take care of it. The thought of coping with weeping and hysterical strangers made him uneasy, and he wondered what questions they would ask him about the circumstances and the condition of the bodies—and what should he tell them?
The most difficult call would be to the female victim’s parents, he thought, because no one ever imagines their little girl in danger. Should he get that call over with, or should he begin with the other one and work up to it? He was so tired.
He dialed the Wilsons’ number. The phone rang four times before someone picked it up, and a sleepy voice murmured, “—’Lo?”
Spencer took a deep breath. “Mrs. Wilson?”
“Who is this? What time is it?”
He took a deep breath. You never got used to it. “My name is Spencer Arrowood. I’m with the sheriff’s department in Wake County, Tennessee. Is there anyone with you, Mrs. Wilson?”
She made a startled cry and said, “What’s happened to Mike?” He heard her say, presumably to her husband, “Lyman, it’s about Mike.” Spencer waited for a man to come to