Dead Sleeping Shaman Read Online Free Page B

got home, I told myself.
    Voices came from toward the parking area and suddenly the space around us filled with men and women. Dolly introduced me, calling me “the body finder” which, I supposed, described my role there. Lieutenant Jimmy Brent nodded, his bald head beady with sweat from the walk in, his unibrow forming a single dark cloud over deeply suspicious eyes.
    “I’ll take a preliminary statement,” he said, getting down to business as he pointed me to a quiet place under tall trees, out of the way of the three techs climbing into their white suits. The M.E., old Doc Stevenson, was there, taking photos, then a video of the body, the area, and then of all who were gathered.
    I went with Lieutenant Brent to a quieter place, under tall trees, a soft bed of dried pine needles at our feet.
    “Mind saying what you were doing out here?” Brent held a pad of official-looking paper and a pen in his flat hands. His voice fell into the deep tones of the accuser as the wind kicked up and swirled dead needles around our legs.
    “Assignment.”
    “That it?”
    “Why else?” I knew the police didn’t care for nuance—like “I was feeling good and wanted to be left alone” or “I was thinking about writing another book …”
    He raised that eyebrow at me, the look like a shade going up, but under the shade were those eyes. He wrote on his pad of paper.
    “Magazine?”
    I shook my head. “ Northern Statesman .”
    “On … what … ?”
    “You know. Ghost towns. For an October issue.”
    “And she … ,” he nodded to where the woman lay, “was here when you got here? You thought she was sleeping, I guess.”
    I nodded but added nothing, recalling all cop shows where people lawyered up in the face of tough questioning.
    “When’d you realize she was dead? I mean, except for the flies …”
    I shrugged and dug my toe in, scraping a hole in the needles with my way-off-white sneaker.
    “I moved her foot and she didn’t respond. Then a fly walked down her cheek.”
    “You touch the body or anything? I mean other than the shoe?”
    I shook my head.
    “If we find your fingerprints, that’s the reason.”
    “Why else?” I demanded, getting angry. “Look, I’ve got to call the story into the paper. My editor will want something ASAP.”
    “Check with Dolly. I’ll keep her informed. Or call me at the police post.” The response was grudging. I figured I’d get as much help from him as I had on past stories. The guy was nothing if not tight lipped.
    He asked a few more questions and said he wanted me in Gaylord for a follow-up as soon as I could arrange it. I went back to stand away from all of them and watch.
    “Since I’m the O.I.C.,” Dolly said to Brent as he ambled back to stand beside her, “I’m keeping records. I already took the photos … stuff like that. You doing a baseline measurement?”
    Brent nodded, then asked one of the officers to get the tape measure from his car.
    “Good thing I’ve been studying crime scene management online,” Dolly was going on to anybody who would listen. “No damned defense lawyer is gonna catch me out this time if I have to testify.”
    “Good job, Officer,” Brent actually smiled, then ran a hand over his head, coughed a little, and went off with another man to establish the baseline—setting a hundred-foot tape measure from tree to tree: point A to point B to point C, with the woman’s body the central focus. From there they took more measurements and recorded them on a drawing of the site—always with the body and its orientation at the center.
    I supposed I should be going. I wasn’t needed and was actually ignored as the men and women went about their jobs, but it was fascinating to watch how quickly the body wasn’t as important as the investigation. Everything was done meticulously. Dolly surprised me, going about recording people at the site, taking her photos, and making notes as to what everyone was doing or finding. Evidently she’d