Into the Fire

                                          From my solo mystery . . . 

Chapter Four 

Walt Casey got eliminated quickly from the suspect pool being as he was in California with a horse he planned to run down there. The shock of hearing his assistant trainer was dead elicited a few choice expletives but no genuine concern and oddly no real surprise at the demise of the young man. Other than a colorful cussing inquiry about what happened to his right hand man, Mr. Casey acted more perturbed and inconvenienced about having to find a replacement on such short notice and while out of town than for the loss of life.

     “Get Renee down there pronto,” he barked over the phone.

     “And Renee would be who?” I asked, my sarcasm unabated.

     “My wife—”

     “And there’s some reason you can’t contact her?”

     He dropped the f-bomb and told me he’d send her down to the barn. Whatever reservoir of respect I might’ve had for the man’s ability to train these beautiful horses evaporated after our telephone conversation. Meanwhile, Jesse gathered information from the guard at the front gate for the perceived timeframe.

     Barn activity had been increasing steadily. For no good reason I wandered to the north end of the barn only two tack rooms down, plotting our next move which I figured would be the Danny Westland barn. I grabbed a peppermint from my jacket pocket and unwrapped the candy, looking for a garbage can. Just to the right outside the shedrow stood a nearly full metal refuse barrel painted the steel gray color of the barns. Lying in the crease of an empty paper feed sack and barely visible, I spotted a 20cc syringe containing a trace of some kind of liquid. I stared at it, mesmerized, my mind computing scenarios that wouldn’t quite register in conscious thought, the cellophane from the candy still in my hand. I shoved it in my pocket and called for one of the Forensic Investigators.

     Jenny Wicklund responded. Top rate and funny as a comedienne sometimes but dead serious about her work—pun intended. “Whatcha got, boss?”

     I laughed because no one else called me “boss”. “Jen, let’s get this sack and syringe bagged separately from the rest of the garbage in here, but I want it all.”

     “You got it.”

     After watching her photograph, bag and tag the sack and syringe, I headed for the other end of the shedrow to check out that garbage can. Beer bottles, some pop cans, a couple of Aquafina bottles, and raggedy bandages that some horse probably ripped off himself in the stall filled only a quarter of the barrel, but for some reason I decided to collect its contents too.

     Jen looked back at me, and I motioned to her about this can. She gave me a thumbs-up, and I decided to wait there for Jesse but first I walked around the other side of the barn where someone said Roman parked his rig: an older model Ford Explorer, amazingly shiny black indicating a fresh wash and possibly waxed, his O/T sticker hanging from the rearview mirror giving him the right to park inside the gates at his barn. Peering inside through the smoked windows, I saw it was unlocked. I slipped on a disposable glove and opened the door. Spic and span. A guy after my own heart in keeping his ride tidy. Even smelled fresh. I looked on the driver side floor under the mat to see his car keys, what I presumed was a tack room key, and possibly a key to that small black file box in his room.

     I went back to hail Jenny to add the processing of the car to her duties.  

Father, thank you for it all, the inspiration, characters, words, etcetera. Apart from you, I can do nothing. Please direct my future steps. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.