The remaining two deputies were ordered to walk single file toward the barn, following in each other's footsteps.
Pritchard wanted them to look for anything out of the ordinary in the barn and then conduct a search of the vehicle. One of the men retrieved latex gloves from his cruiser and handed a pair across to his partner.
He tossed another pair to the woman, who almost dropped her camera trying to catch them.
The two male deputies proceeded toward the barn as the woman with the camera clicked her way along the gravel path from the driveway.
Crunch, crunch, click.
Crunch, crunch, click.
Ray looked down at the camera hanging around his neck. Pritchard seemed to take notice of it, as well.
"Did you take any pictures after you arrived here?" Pritchard asked.
"Um..." Ray had to think about it.
"Yes. Some inside, then a few out here before I realized she wasn't dead."
"Can you show me, please?"
With the strap still looped around his neck, Ray held out the camera and pulled up its contents so the detective could view them on the small screen. He scrolled through twenty-seven pictures, starting with the most recent of Correen Wallace in the bushes and working backward until reaching the pictures from Sunday's groundbreaking. Pritchard leaned in uncomfortably close as he watched.
"I'm going to need copies of any pictures you've taken," the detective told him. He leered at Billy. "Especially since the two of you did such an excellent job of stepping all over my evidence. We can go through the necessary formalities, or I could seize the camera now as evidence, but it would be much easier for everyone if the Citizen Gazette simply emails hi-res images to me by the end of the day."
"I can send them now from the camera," Ray said. "It has wifi. Give me your address and I'll get it to start sending you the pictures."
Pritchard spelled out his email address which Ray scribbled on the notepad he took from his back pocket. The detective then ordered Billy to remove his shoes and lead him to Evan Wallace, leaving Ray outside to scan through the pictures on the camera, selecting those he had taken that morning. As he scrolled through, a chill shot down his back when he came to the last photo from the day before. He had taken it as the handsome couple left the groundbreaking tent hand in hand, backs to the camera, stepping out into the blinding sunset. He knew it was probably the last picture anyone would ever take of the Wallaces together before whatever happened later that evening to leave one of them dead and the other clinging to life. He included that last picture with the rest. Just before sending the email and its many attachments off to Pritchard, he added his own email address in the blind copy field. It took several minutes for the message to register as sent, time Ray spent catching glimpses of the two deputies in the barn as they came in and out of sight and watching the female deputy with the camera meticulously go about her job photographing every last shimmering shard of glass.
The sound of another vehicle approaching caught Ray's attention. A sleek white sedan emerged from the trees and parked in the clearing between the house and barn, close to the fence enclosing the pasture. Following closely behind was a yellow minivan with an aerial antennae mounted on the roof and the words "WGRC -- News You Can Count On" in gigantic purple lettering across the driver's side. It came to rest a short distance behind Billy's cruiser with the engine running. The passenger door opened and a stocky man with perfectly parted black hair sprang out of the minivan. He sported a dark blue blazer over a stiffly pressed white shirt that hung down over wrinkled pajama pants. The strange outfit was complimented by worn out flip-flops.
Garry Vincent began covering Tramway County for WGRC-TV short after Ray joined the Citizen-Gazette, nearly seven years ago. He received all the same invitations to events and meetings as Ray and the rest of the local media, but he was sure to be a no-show unless there was the promise of a major story, such as the random killing of a community leader.
"Get off your ass and get the gear ready, Daryl!" Garry yelled into the minivan as he scrambled to tuck in his shirt and affix a crimson red clip-on tie.
Daryl popped out of the driver's seat and, in a blur of neatly orchestrated panic, managed to fix his reporter's collar, unload a large video camera from the back of the van,
set up two background lights, and run a quick sound check before handing over the microphone. The reporter commented on the process impatiently while his eyes bounced between Daryl, the house behind him, and the police car that had pulled in ahead of them in which the passenger and driver were deep in discussion.
"Come on, come on, come on," Garry grumbled.
The lights came on. Daryl silently counted down from five with his fingers as the reporter buttoned the blazer to hide his plaid pajama pants. With only one digit remaining before the camera rolled, Garry turned and hollered, "God dammit, Waugh, get out of my shot!"
Ray quickly ducked into the foyer out of sight of the news camera. He could hear Detective Pritchard and Billy talking in the great room on the other side of the dividing wall as they reviewed the scene. Pritchard, apparently still perturbed at the way in which the deputy and his guest had disturbed evidence, was mostly asking questions clarifying what items might have been moved or handled. Ray thought it best to remain out of that conversation. Through a gap in the curtains, Ray could see Garry Vincent standing ramrod straight in his ridiculous outfit. The television reporter's forced baritone voice carried over the grounds.
"Former county manager and local business leader Evan Wallace was found dead this morning at his luxurious estate here in the quiet horse community of Wilkston Creek, just north of Glen Meadows..." Not bad, Ray thought. Straightforward. Better than usual. "...Local police are not issuing any statements at this time as to whether foul play is suspected..."
Watching the two man TV crew work jogged Ray's brain into recalling he, too, was a reporter who had an obligation to submit a story by today's deadline. He lifted his arm but found he had forgotten to put on a watch before leaving his apartment. The time on his cell phone read quarter past eight. He also noticed he had seven missed calls, three new emails, and his ringer was silenced.
"Shit," he yelled.
Pritchard and Billy stopped talking. The detective popped his head around the corner.
"Something the matter, Raymond?" he asked.
"Oh, um... No," Ray said. "I just noticed the time. My deadline is in fifteen minutes."
Pritchard looked at his watch. "You'd better call your boss. I don't think you're going to make it." He disappeared back into the great room.
Ray mimicked Pritchard's effeminate voice in a quiet whisper as he unlocked his phone and placed a call to the Citizen-Gazette. Through the window he saw Garry Vincent had paused to fuss at his cameraman about something. From the passenger side of the police car that had pulled in ahead of the WGRC minivan stepped Sheriff Redmond. He looked pissed off, but then he always looked pissed off. Deputy Dean, the wiry deputy with the stupid smile Ray met earlier that morning in the break room at the Sheriff's Department in Whitlock, had been the sheriff's driver. Apparently, he always looked stupid.
When Ray's call finally rang through to the Citizen-Gazette, the receptionist barely gave him a chance to say hello before she launched into a fast-paced lecture on how crazy everyone at the paper was acting because no one could get hold of him and everyone was so worried. Well, maybe not Toni and Walter, but definitely Becky, who was snapping at anyone who spoke to her because the production staff was yelling at her for holding off on the front page until she heard from Ray. The girls in advertising were getting upset because the circular in today's paper would be delayed if Becky held up going to press because of Ray. Even Scott was annoyed because he needed his new camera back by noon for a photo op at a Chamber ribbon cutting for the new motel opening down in Oxton.
"Tammy!" Ray barked.
"Please let me talk to Becky."
"Becky! Ray's on the phone!" The receptionist yelled without bothering to take the phone away from her mouth.
A quick click and he found himself assaulted by his equally frantic managing editor.
"What the hell are you trying to do to me?!"
"Becky, I'm sorry," Ray pleaded. "This is the first chance I've had all morning to call."
"Like hell," she countered. "Where are you?"
"I'm out in horse country at Wilkston Creek," he said. "Somebody shot Evan Wallace."
"Holy shit," she said, the edge coming off her tone ever so slightly. "Shot, or shot and killed?"
"Shot and killed," Ray said. "I was on rounds with Billy for the feature when we found Wallace sprawled over the hearth at his house."
Becky was silent for several long seconds. "He's really dead?"
"Yeah, well, that's what happens when someone shoots you in the chest and you're careless enough to let all your blood pour out onto the floor," Ray said. "His wife is barely any better."
"She got shot, too?"
"No. It looks like she tried to see if she could fly from a third-story window."
"Holy shit."
He could picture Becky staring blankly at the wall in her office as she processed the information to determine exactly what to do with it. Her bottom lip was probably drawn up into her mouth and her eyes would be practically popping from their sockets.
"You're making that face again," he joked.
"Very funny," she said. "I can buy you another forty-five minutes, but nothing more than that. What can you get me?"
"I got pictures," he said. "If you go to my desk and pull up my email, I sent them all to myself about a half hour ago from the new camera. By the way, that thing is freaking awesome."
"Photos are great, but what about copy?" she asked.
"I can write a novel about it if you can get me more time," he said.
"I don't need a novel," she said. "Once I lay in a couple decent photos and rearrange the front page to bump you to the top all I'll have room for is about nine inches. And now you have only forty minutes, so quit talking to me and get typing!"
"Nine inches?!"
Ray couldn't believe it. The first time he had even the remotest chance of the Associated Press picking up one of his stories for national distribution and she was limiting him to a worthless nine inches. He peaked through the curtains again to see the television reporter talking face to face with Sheriff Redmond. The camera hung down at Daryl's side.
"Garry Vincent got his ass out of bed and actually managed to find our county on the map in order to cover this for the midday news. Half the state is going to want to know about this and all you're giving me is nine inches?"
"Don't push it Ray, you know what time it is," Becky warned. "I don't need this kind of shit on a Monday morning when I've already missed deadline because of you."
"I've been a little preoccupied here, in case you didn't just hear me tell you about finding a dead guy," he said. "Besides, you run late for Walter once a week and I never hear you bitching about him."
"Because Walter keeps me informed when he's going to miss deadline, and usually it's worth the wait. Look, you can write your novel for the online edition, but for right now all I need from you is nine inches. And now you're down to thirty-five minutes, so shut up and type!"
She hung up. Momentarily forgetting his surroundings, Ray buried the phone in his pocket and stomped out onto the porch mumbling to himself comments like "waste of an excellent story," "pain in my ass," and "I'll give you nine inches." He put the camera on the railing and reached for the notepad in his back pocket.
"Who are you?"
Ray didn't respond at first. He was too feeling sorry for himself to realize the question was directed at him. The second time Sheriff Redmond called out the question, Ray looked at the man and pointed to himself questioningly.
"Yes, you. Come here."
Ray made his way down the steps and along the gravel path leading to the driveway. Redmond watched him in silence, as did Garry Vincent. A slight breeze had picked up, carrying the damp chill of morning with it and reminding any who might have forgotten that proper winter weather was still a real possibility despite the recent warm temperatures.
"I know you," Redmond growled when Ray was twenty feet away from them. He turned back to the television reporter. There was no urgency in his voice. There didn't need to be. The expression on Redmond's face, the wickedly cold look in his eyes, imparted all the urgency necessary. "You better go, now."
"Can you at least tell me which family member placed the call for help?" Vincent whined. "At the very least let me get you on camera for a 'no comment' so I got something I can use."
Redmond raised a craggy hand and pointed a finger to the canopy of trees over the driveway. "Go," he said, and turned to walk toward the house.
Ray stayed where he was, confused and uncertain what to do. He wished he had his own car with him so he could leave, too. Daryl packed away the equipment while his reporter lit a cigarette and fumed.