said. “There’s no reason for more. I’ll just get some things for Jeremy, clothes and such, and take him home and care for him. Clara, you and Max can go off and solve this. You don’t need me.”
I squeezed my eyes nearly shut, lowered my head and gave her a firm headshake. “Mother Naomi, you are going to the police station. Once there, you’ll give a full and complete statement to Detective Mullins,” I repeated. Again, Max bristled at the mention of Mullins’ name. This time he signaled me that we needed to talk. I nodded but first wanted to finish with Naomi. “Right now, you’re going to sit in my vehicle and wait to be transported into town,” I told her. “I’ll collect a few things for Jeremy, to take with you.”
“Clara, as one of your mothers, I must protest and point out that—”
“Naomi Jefferies, I said get in the Suburban,” I ordered. “Chief Deputy Anderson and I don’t have time for this. We need to check on Jacob.”
Used to having motherly sway over me, Naomi crumpled her mouth into a peeved bow the way I remember her doing when I was a child and I or one of my siblings disappointed her. Once upon a time, that look would have sent me straight to my room. But I wasn’t a child any longer. Instead, I wore a badge, this was a murder scene, and Naomi needed to listen to me. Perhaps she understood that, because she didn’t argue. “You’ll get some of Jeremy’s things for me to take, though?”
“I will,” I said.
Reluctantly, she slunk over to my Suburban and Max raised his hand to one of the deputies from a squad that had just pulled in with more backup. “Stay with her,” he told her. “I’m going to give Chief Jefferies a walk-through.”
As we turned toward the house, the CSI’s mobile unit, converted out of an old horse trailer, pulled into the driveway. Max acknowledged the driver, then turned back to me. “We need to talk about Mullins. He can’t work this case.”
“Why not?” I asked. “He’s my lead detective. He’s got the most experience of—”
“Clara, Mullins is related to one of the victims,” Max blurted out. I gave him a questioning glance and he explained. “He’s the father of the woman upstairs, Laurel Johansson, one of Jacob’s two wives.”
“And she’s…?” I knew, but, on some level, I needed to hear it.
“Dead,” Max said. “Her throat’s cut.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say. The grisly scene suddenly felt even more tragic.
The CSI unit began their work, focusing on the bodies under the sheet. Before we entered the house, Max and I stood for just a moment and watched while they photographed the sheet and the uncovered boy’s body. The child looked perfect, like he’d gone out to play and lay down on the grass. But this child would never get up. He’d never start school, never play softball or soccer, never have a first date or hold his first-born child. I felt sickened by the raw exit wound above his eyebrow.
Once they had him documented, CSI officers got on all sides and raised the bedsheet. They walked away from the bodies, holding the sheet high, and then folded it into two rectangles, into quarters, then eighths. They laid the bloody sheet on top of a paper evidence wrapper, folded the paper over it, secured it and dated it, wrote the case number assigned to this outrage across it.
As they worked, Max and I examined what we could of the bodies. Max had learned the victims’ names from a deputy who knew the family, and he said the dark-haired woman was Anna, Jacob’s first wife. She looked as if she’d tripped and fallen face down in the yellowed winter grass. I could only see her long dark hair and her back, the soles of her slippers. I couldn’t walk closer and risk contaminating the evidence field, so I stood back, but it was easy to see the bloody holes that stood out on the white terry cloth. The laundry basket sat nearby, and it appeared as if she’d been outside hanging clothes when someone came up behind and shot her. It bothered me that Anna had her robe on. Why hadn’t she changed before coming outside? I wondered. She must have been cold wearing that. It’s chilly out here.
The children’s motionless bodies punched a fist into my heart. The little girl, Sybille, age six, lay in a fetal position