Paying The Piper - 9. Chapter 9

After dropping Cale off at home, Quent had driven to the station. Apparently, Cynthia's murder had shocked the town's other petty criminals into taking a day off – everything was quiet. For which Quent was supremely thankful.

Rob was manning the silent phone. He grinned when he saw Quent walk through the door. "Any leads, Chief?"

"Don't call me that." Quent brushed by his sometimes-competent deputy and retreated to his office. When it looked as though Rob meant to follow, he slammed the door.

He dropped into his chair, leaned back and closed his eyes. Rob knocked on the door, but Quent ignored him. It took an inordinate amount of strength to tolerate the man on a normal day, and today Quent simply wasn't up to it.

Rob was suited to petty theft. He excelled at retrieving kittens from trees. The kids at the grammar school adored him for assemblies. Murder, however, was way over his head.

Quent picked up the phone and dialed the county Coroner's office. By a unique stroke of luck, he got the Medical Examiner herself on the phone.

"Hello, Peggy."

"Oh, Quent. How are you?" Quent could hear the rattle of instruments in the background. He tried not to think of what was happening on the other end of the line.

"Have you finished with Cynthia Mullen?"

"Always straight to the point, aren't we, Quent?" More clattering and then the sound of running water.

"I find it's a timesaver. The Mullen autopsy?"

"Yes, yes. Just finishing up now." Clank. Clatter. Splat.

Quent grimaced. "And?"

"Hang on."

Quent waited. He heard the creak of a swinging door. The rattle of a coffee pot. Then an audible thump as Peggy arrived in her office and closed the door. "Thanks. Okay. That was very sad, Quent. She was so young."

"Mmmmm. What are your conclusions?" He could actually hear Peggy bristling over his lack of empathy. It made him smile.

"Well, COD was blunt force trauma. She was hit extremely hard from behind."

Quent frowned and made an actual note in his notebook. "Not the stab wounds? They occurred post mortem?"

"No, the loss of blood indicates she was alive during at least a portion of the attack. But probably unconscious."

Quent tapped his pen on the desk. "Somebody hated her."

Peggy slurped her coffee noisily. "That would be my guess. The pattern of wounds is indicative of that."

"Was she sexually assaulted?"

"No."

Quent gave a tired sigh. "Please tell me you have something to send to trace."

Peggy sighed back. "No semen. And it doesn't look like she was given the chance to fight back, so I doubt we'll find anything of consequence under her fingernails. Maybe something will come back from her clothing or from the scene. We'll have to wait and see. I take it you've had no luck up there either?"

Quent snapped his notebook closed. "No."

"I'll call you as soon as I hear anything. Good luck." She hung up.

As he ruminated over the evidence – or lack of it – Quent listened to Rob bumble around the outer office. He'd been hopeful for a fingerprint at least. It was still possible some useful evidence would surface, but not likely. He stared at the wall as he reviewed what he'd learned that day. Again, he wondered what Cynthia had been doing on Cale's property. And he wondered if it had anything to do with why she'd been killed.

**********

The rest of the afternoon was given over to paperwork. Thankfully, it required only a miniscule portion of his brainpower. As he filled out and signed forms, he continued to puzzle through the mystery of Cynthia's murder. Eventually, he pushed the pile aside and picked up the phone.

In less than thirty seconds, he had Steve Mullen's number and was dialing. Steve answered on the fourth ring. "H-hello," he sniffed. He'd been crying. Quent pinched his nose and considered hanging up, but resisted the urge – he knew he'd have to bite the bullet at some point.

"Mr. Mullen?"

"Y-yes?"

"This is Quent—"

"Ohhhh, Cynthia!" The crying started anew. Quent nearly snapped his pencil in half.

"Mr. Mullen, please calm down. If I'm going to find out what happen—"

"Why haven't you arrested that Drew Marcus?" Steve yelled through his tears.

Quent flipped his notebook open and began drawing little stick figures swinging at the gallows. It helped him not grind his teeth so much. "How do you know Mr. Marcus, Steve?"

"Wh-what do you mean?"

Quent retrieved a sharpie pen from his desk. The stick figure sprouted red hair. "I mean, this morning, he was 'that new guy'. Now, all of a sudden, he has a name. How well do you know him?"

Steve blew his nose and Quent jerked the phone away from his ear. "I talked to Marci. She told me his name," Steve said.

Quent stopped doodling. "You've spoken with Marci Patterson?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He heard Steve huff indignantly. "She's a friend! She called to offer her condolences."

"Ahhh." Quent added another stick figure next to Steve. This one wore a dress.

"That's not against the law, is it?" Steve asked nastily.

"Not to my extensive knowledge." Quent began to search his desk for a brown sharpie pen. A moment later, he emerged with one and began adding tan bushy hair to the second figure.

"Anyway, you need to stop bothering her and start looking for Cynthia's killer!"

"I'll move it to the top of my list," Quent spat. "I called to let you know the autopsy on your sister is complete. I imagine the…body will be released in the next day or so."

"Did they find—"

"Goodbye." Quent hung up. God in heaven, he longed for a drink. If he weren't reasonably sure Cale was sleeping, he'd call him right then. Still…. The clock read five-thirty – a perfectly acceptable time to head home to his scotch. Especially on a day that had begun at three a.m. Certainly nothing could make his day worse than it already was.

Rob knocked on the door. "Hey, Chief."

Groaning, Quent dropped his head into his hands. "What?"

"Joel's outside. He wants to get a statement for the paper."

"Fucking fantastic." Apparently, he'd been wrong.

**********

Cale laughed. "I bet that was the cherry on your day. Did you give him one?"

Quent ran the glass across his forehead. "A what?"

Cale snorted. "A statement."

Quent reached out with his foot and dragged the coffee table toward him. The expensive knick-knacks rattled when he plunked his shoes onto the immaculate glass top. "Yes."

Cale grinned. "Do tell."

**********

"So, do you have any suspects?" Joel had asked.

Quent ignored the question and pointed to the seat in front of his desk. While Joel bounced his way into it, Quent sat down in his own chair. Joel brandished a pencil. "So—"

"Shut up, Joel," Quent interrupted. Thankfully, the Birch kid was easily intimidated – he clamped his mouth shut immediately. "Now, listen," Quent began. "And don't bother asking questions. I'm not going to tell you anything of importance, so don't be surprised when you don't hear it. Understand?"

Joel hesitated, eyes up and to the right while he processed the last statement. Then he said, "I understand. But—"

"Cynthia Mullen was discovered at approximately two-thirty this morning. She'd been stabbed multiple times and died from her wounds."

"She died from the stab wounds?"

Quent rolled his eyes. "As of this moment, her death is still under investigation. We have nobody in custody, but are pursuing several leads."

Joel looked at Quent with wide eyes and Quent barely restrained himself from smacking him. Aside from last year, when one of the town's more rowdy high school students had taken to spray-painting, "Repent! For the time of reckoning is near!" on the windows of local businesses, Cynthia's murder was undoubtedly the biggest story of his career.

"You don't have the slightest idea who might have done it?" Joel asked. "What about fingerprints?"

Quent made a mental note to contact the Birch's about their son. Someone needed to break the news gently that their boy was an idiot. "I said, no questions," Quent growled.

"Because," Joel went on, ignoring the growing storm on Quent's face, "according to other sources, Cynthia was seen talking to a drifter at The Tin Man right before she was killed."

Quent stood up. Joel didn't take the hint. "Do you know who it was?" he pressed.

Quent walked to the door and opened it. Joel didn't move. Quent decided to throw the boy a bone – maybe then he'd leave. "Yes. I've already interviewed that particular individual. He's not a drifter, but only just moved to town."

Recognition dawned in Joel's eyes. "Oh! It wasn't Drew, was it?"

**********

Cale stared at Quent. "You're not serious?"

Quent swallowed the last of his scotch. "Do I ever joke?"

Cale sunk back into his chair. Fate was making it near impossible to get away from Drew. He ignored the excited fluttering in his stomach. This wasn't a good thing. "I haven't seen any 'I love Drew Marcus' bumper stickers yet," he said with a weak smile.

Quent snorted. "Give it time."