“Looks like he lost control of his car over there,” Tucker lit up tire tracks in snow with his flashlight, “came down the embankment and hit this tree head-on.” Tucker walked around to the rear of the driver side of the luxury sedan and pointed to dents at the corner of the trunk and rear quarter panel. “He was obviously hit before he lost control.” Sheriff Tucker turned off his flashlight and faced me. “The passenger window was broken–either from the impact or done purposely–and the killer leaned in and fired one bullet into Turner’s skull. The bullet exited his skull and shattered the driver side window. We’ve been unable to find the spent bullet or the casing and any usable footprints in the snow were destroyed by the first officers on the scene.” None of that was good news to hear when investigating a homicide.
Jesus, Nate! You should’ve called the damn cops like I told you. “Damn,” I said to the sheriff. “Someone really wanted to make sure he was dead.”
“How do you know him, Detective?” Sheriff Tucker asked.
“He owns a club in Cincinnati that I’ve been to a few times.” My answer was met with a snicker from the dickhead deputy somewhere behind me. I thought our moment of reckoning might come sooner than I first predicted.
“Find something to do, Sampson,” Sheriff Tucker bellowed loudly over my shoulder. Once my ear stopped ringing, I was grateful to have the full name of my new nemesis. Billy Sampson. “You were saying, Detective.”
“I gave him my card when we met at his club a little over a year ago.” I left out the part where Nate had gotten up close and personal with my ass. It wasn’t relevant to the story. “He called me a little over a month ago and asked me to come see him. He said he needed my help.”
“What kind of help?” the sheriff asked when I paused to breathe.Damn, I was getting there.
“Nate’s car had been vandalized one night and then he started receiving threatening emails. He was visibly shaken by the tone of them and I thought he wanted advice on what to do.”
“But he didn’t?”
“He didn’t say it out loud, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t want the police department digging into his personal life or business dealings to find out who was threatening him,” I told the sheriff.
“So why’d he call you then?” Tucker asked.
That question was trickier. There was nothing Nate had said during our meeting that indicated that he wanted me to do anything illegal. It was his body language, gestures, and the fact that he refused to involve the police. Someone killed Nate and I owed it to him to be as honest as I could be so that his killer was brought to justice. “I got the impression he wanted to hire me to find the person through non-legal channels. He didn’t say as much, but it was the feeling I had. He wasn’t happy about my refusal nor with me for repeating my recommendation to phone the police.”
“Let’s head to the station to talk,” Tucker said. I couldn’t tell from his tone if he believed me or not.
Regardless, I followed him to the Carter County Sheriff’s Department. Once we arrived, he showed me to his office and asked if I wanted a cup of coffee. He had his own Keurig setup in his office so I figured why not. It wasn’t like I was worried about them running my prints in connection to ones found on Nate’s car. I had never touched that car, not even at the scene of the accident. I made myself a cup of coffee and relaxed into the chair across from his desk. I had done nothing wrong and had nothing to hide from Sheriff Tucker.
“Can you recall what the threatening emails said?” he asked.
“Vividly,” I replied, setting my cup down on his desk. “The first one included a photo of Nate inspecting his damaged tires outside of his club. It told him how easy he could’ve been killed then, but where was the fun in that?” I looked at the sheriff and said, “I’m paraphrasing here. I can remember the content, but the exact wording might be off.”
“Fair enough.” He nodded for me to continue.
“The other email included photos of Nate inside his house. He was nude in them and doing various things like talking on the phone while holding a coffee cup or looking out the back door in the direction of the person taking the photo. The message said something about it was a shame to waste a cock like his then referenced cutting off his dick and making Nate choke on it.”
“Ouch.” Sheriff sat back in his chair and I could tell he was fighting the urge to cover his privates. It was a kneejerk reaction to hearing about someone losing their cock. “Was there anything else that you can remember?”
“Nate said he responded to one of the messages, I think it was the first one. He said that his email was returned with an error message that stated the email address he sent it to didn’t exist. I also noted that the emails were sent at the exact same time of day each time they were sent.”
“And that was?” he asked.
“Two in the afternoon.”
“Do you mind if CSU looks at your car for evidence of damage and are you willing to have a gunshot residue test performed on your hands?” Tucker asked.
I had never been accused or questioned about an involvement in a crime. I had told Tucker everything that I knew. It galled me to be doubted, but I had nothing to hide from him. “I’ll agree to both things.”
“Good man,” Tucker said, then rose to his feet. “I’ll send a deputy in here to perform the GSR test.”
A friendly deputy, who identified herself as Hannah Arnold, performed the test on my hands. I sat in Tucker’s office and drank coffee while I waited for him to give me the all clear. It took him a lot longer than I appreciated, but he finally dragged his ass back into his office a little before six.
“You’re free to go, Detective.” No apologies for holding me longer than necessary or doubting me in the first place. “If you think of anything else…”
“…You’ll be the first to know,” I finished for him on my way out of his office.
I locked eyes with the homophobic deputy on my way out the door. I wanted so badly to let Billy Sampson know what I thought about him, but I knew it wasn’t the right time. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that our time to have words would come. Instead, I puckered up my lips into a kissy face at him and headed out into the cold.
A chill worked its way down my spine, that had nothing to do with the subzero temperature, as I made my way to my car. I was overwhelmed with a feeling that I was being watched, and not by some camera in the parking lot. This presence was dark and ominous. I looked around me to see if I could find the source, but I couldn’t. Nor could I shake off the feeling that Nate Turner had practically brought his trouble to my front door.
