4 The Killing Bee Read Online Free PDF

guess he gets points for that.
    "Afternoon, Burns," Chief Walsh greeted me affably enough when I entered. "Have a seat." The chief was a good-looking man in his late fifties with distinguished gray hair and blue eyes. For some reason I always found something insidiously evil about those eyes. I thought he would have made a perfect Nazi colonel, sipping Rhine wine with his pinkie extended as he sent folks off to their doom.
    "Thank you," I replied, sinking into the upholstered leather easy chair opposite his desk. The seat was extremely comfortable, probably to lure visitors into a false sense of security.
    "Terrible tragedy this morning," the chief intoned, shaking his head solemnly.
    "Yes, it was."
    "Care for coffee? You like it black, as I recall."
    "Chief, let’s face it. We dislike each other too much to make small talk. Tell me what you want, and I'll tell you if I can give it."
    He looked hurt. "You're not acting very grateful, considering I'm the guy that saved your life."
    "I am grateful. You were courageous, and I wish I liked you, I really do. Now what do you want?"
    "Nothing onero us. I just thought you might appreciate an update on the case." He chuckled at my surprised look. "Hey, what the heck. I know you have an interest in this sort of thing, and I realize the suspect's a personal friend of yours. So, do you want to hear it?"
    What was the catch? The chief had never treated me like this before. Almost like a colleague. "Sure," I said uncertainly.
    "No problem. Well, first of all, the county M.E. puts the time of death some time between seven and seven thirty-five, when the body was found. Now you already know about the trophy, I assume?" I nodded. "The M.E. checked it out. He says the trophy matches the contusions on Sam Meckel's temple."
    "In other words . . ."
    "Right. The trophy was the murder weapon."
    "I figured as much."
    "But did you figure this?" He leaned toward me. "We got Laura's prints here at the station, and we got her son's prints off a Game Boy he left at the library. We checked them against the prints from the murder weapon."
    I tensed. "And?"
    "Every single print on that weapon—and there were five of them, including partials—belonged to either Laura or her son," the chief said triumphantly.
    "Why are you really telling me this?" I said. "To stop me from investigating?"
    The chief leaned back in his chair. "Jacob, you and I are both fathers. I don't have to tell you what this murder will do to the children in our community. Sam Meckel was a be loved figure." That was stretching it, but I didn't quibble. "His murder will be a traumatic experience for these kids. A lot of them will be having some pretty horrible nightmares." Here I thought the chief was probably accurate. "So let’s not screw around. Let's get this investigation over with as soon as we can, and let the healing process begin."
    "I agree. But one question: what if Laura didn't do it?"
    "Come on, that’s just your emotions talking. You want to see the fingerprint report?"
    "What if the killer never left fingerprints? Maybe Laura covered the m up when she picked up the trophy. Or maybe the killer's hands weren't sweaty enough. Or the killer was wearing gloves."
    "In May?" the chief said, annoyed.
    Ever since I got hooked into this whole P.I. biz, I'd been doing side reading on my own. Now I laid some of it on the chief. "From what I've read, there's all kinds of reasons why fingerprints don't happen. Usually all you get is smudges. Especially a situation like this, where the trophy was handled afterward—"
    The chiefs polished veneer started to chip a little. "Listen, Burns, I don't need you trying to turn this murder into a bad Hollywood movie script."
    "I'd think you'd want my help, considering how I helped you before."
    He snorted. "Right. You and I both know you just got lucky."
    I have to confess, there was a certain amount of truth to that charge. I seemed to have an embarrassing habit of picking the wrong person as the