A Far Gone Night by John Carenen Read Free Book Online Page A

“no evidence of foul play,” and cause of death was drowning. A suicide. The writer of the story asked that anyone with any information about the identity of the girl, or any other details about the suicide, to please contact Sheriff Harmon Payne.
    The other front page stories included warning of an unusually-cold winter and a report on two farmers whose feeder pigs had been stolen during the night. Hog rustlers! Bad weather! And a suicide.
    I should not be surprised by surprises, but I am. I had assumed Dr. Jarlsson would discover the bullet wounds in the back of the head during a routine examination of the body. I mean, if I could accidentally find them, wouldn’t he find them under the scrutiny of a bank of powerful lights that expose everything? Had he no training? No medical degree? No experience?
    Of course he had those things. He also had a lie to explain.
    I began shoveling in the chunks of sausage with ketchup glaze, interrupting my solid food fueling with long swallows of rich, supplemented coffee. Gotcha had finished her breakfast and come to my side and sat longingly at my feet, her big brown eyes looking up at me in sorrow induced by underfeeding. From my fingertips, I fed her a few chunks of sausage that she took gently. An occasional fembelch followed.
    Dr. Jarlsson had lied about the dead girl. Why? To what purpose? Or was he incompetent, simply assuming that the girl had stripped off her clothes in some kind of ritual, eschewing all things worldy , and plunged into the icy Whitetail River to end it all? But two bullet wounds in the back of the head? Did he even check? Of course he did, and now I was so awake I decided to give up sleeping. I could kiss it goodbye until I had some answers.
    My pendulum of pondering about Dr. Jarlsson swung slowly from ascribing to him incompetence to being engaged in something nefarious. But if the latter, what was behind it? I was itchy to take a little stroll down to the coroner’s office, so I forced myself to slowly consume my breakfast, carefully dress for cold weather, and then calmly leave the house and lock the door behind me after giving Gotcha a small “going-away” Milk Bone to ease her chronic separation anxiety.
    Then I trotted to the truck, climbed in, and drove more rapidly than usual into town.
    Although I wasn’t positive where Dr. Jarlsson’s office was located, somewhere in the back of my occasionally-logical mind I had the impression it was in, or very near, the Rockbluff County Courthouse. I crossed the bridge without looking over the side for another body, then circled the block upon which the courthouse was situated. And found the county coroner’s location.
    It was behind the courthouse in an unassuming, architecturally-ugly single story, red brick building painted yellow a long time ago with patches of original brick showing through. It looked bleak, sterile, and functional. And deserted. There were no cars or trucks in the four-car parking spaces, one of which had a little sign that read “County Coroner.”
    Four parking places and he needed his own? Are there that many people who need to see the coroner on a regular basis? I glanced at the clock on the dashboard and then I understood. It was only 8:30. Too early. My desire to learn more about Dr. Jarlsson’s findings, and why he came to such bogus conclusions, had urged me too fast forward.
    So I pulled into the slot next to Dr. Jarlsson’s appointed space. I could make out the sign on the door, which gave his hours as MWF 10 – 2. Not bad. Happy it was Friday, not Tuesday or Thursday.
    Since I had an hour and a half to wait, I decided to grab some breakfast at Holy Grounds. I wasn’t hungry or thirsty, but some strong coffee and three or four assorted doughnuts would help me pass the time. Balancing my breakfast protein with mid-morning carbs.
    And, oh yes, I could swing by Bednarik’s Books and pick up a copy of Suzanne Highsmith’s book. I had forgotten to ask her the book’s