Rivers to Blood by Michael Lister Read Free Book Online Page A

Sheriff,” he said. “Well said. Now let’s all work together to catch the son of a bitch who did this, and this time let’s share the credit for solving the case when we’re done.”

Chapter Thirteen
    “C ould your inmate have done this?” Rachel Mills asked.
    I looked over at the body. Having processed the scene, FDLE was now lowering it and I could see it better.
    “My inmate?”
    “The one you let escape,” she said with a smile.
    It was dark now. Large halogen lights powered by generators partially illuminated the crime scene, but next to me much of Rachel’s short frame, pale skin, straight blond hair, and light blue eyes were in shadow.
    “From the little I’ve learned about him so far I’d say no.”
    An aggressive FDLE agent, who was now a friend, Rachel had once investigated me because of allegations made by the wife of an inmate—allegations she was sure were true. It’s how we met. In this case, Rachel would serve as FDLE’s lead investigator and liaison to the sheriff’s department.
    Having sent most of the other law enforcement agencies home, Dad had only a few deputies posted around the perimeter of the crime scene, and he, Fred Goodwin, Jake, and Robert Pridgeon stood together opposite Rachel and me on the other side of the body.
    As the sheriff’s department’s lead homicide detective, Fred Goodwin would head the investigation, and as the senior game warden, Robert Pridgeon would represent the game and freshwater fish commission on the makeshift task force.
    “If not him, who?” Rachel asked.
    I shrugged.
    “Of course, where would he get the rope?” she said.
    “A camp. Houseboat. May belong to this guy.”
    “So you think it’s possible?” she asked.
    I nodded. “No one expected him to escape.”
    “And if it’s not him?”
    “Somebody with a boat,” I said.
    “That’s half the population around here,” she said.
    We were quiet for a moment.
    Eventually she said, “Could be the brother or father of the white girl he was dating.”
    She was right. It could be.
    FDLE had lowered the body so that the feet were just above the ground and were now studying and photographing it. As bad as the body had looked hanging high above the ground, it looked even worse now. In addition to the bloodless cuts and gashes in the gray and bloated skin around the head and chest, everything was swollen to grotesque proportions.
    “I hate to be the one to point this out,” she said, “but shouldn’t his hands be covering his genitals?”
    I took a closer look at the body.
    She was right. His bound hands would have covered most of his swollen genitals if they had been allowed to fall naturally. Instead, the killer had tied a length of rope around his neck to the one binding his hands so that they rested higher on his body than they normally would.
    “You’re right,” I said.
    “Think it’s intentional?” she asked.
    I nodded.
    We were quiet for another moment, each of us looking at the atrocity inflicted on this man.
    “Any Klan around here?” she asked.
    “Not that I know of, but I wouldn’t exactly be on their mailing list.”
    She laughed.
    “There may not be an organized Klan,” I said, “but there’s plenty of Klanishness.”
    “Klanishness?” she said.
    I nodded.
    It was difficult to tell from here, but it appeared that the front of the victim’s body held the faint purplish tint of fixed lividity. The body had suffered so much trauma and was so swollen, we might not ever know for sure.
    “You dating anybody?” she asked without looking at me.
    I shook my head. “Not at the moment.”
    “You still hung up on what’s-her-name? The lawyer’s wife?”
    “How’d you know about that?”
    “FDLE bitches,” she said. “Are you?”
    “Trying not to be,” I said. “But so far they haven’t come out with a patch for that.”
    “If you want to go out sometime,” she said, “just for fun or some amazing sex … let me know.”
    “How amazing?” I asked.
    She