Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

The last part was addressed to the old hippie, who said, “None taken.”

Bible looked at the body. The sheet was stirred by a breeze. He reached down, asking Stilton, “Mind if I take a peep?”

“Yeah, I do.” Stilton crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t want to be difficult here, but the Marshals don’t have jurisdiction over these types of cases.”

Bible asked, “What types of cases are those?”

Stilton’s eyes couldn’t stay in one place. They moved from the hippie to Nardo to his deputies then back to Bible. Clearly, he didn’t want any Marshals here. Which was strange. Cops were usually like greyhounds. They got excited when there were other cops around.

Andrea tried to figure out why everything felt so off. This was her first real crime scene, but only Bible and Andrea seemed to appreciate the solemnity of the situation. The chief wanted them out of here. His officers were clueless. Nardo was clearly bored. The old hippie was focusing all of his attention on hand-rolling a cigarette. He was the right age for another person on Andrea’s list of suspects: Dean Wexler. The fact that he was here with Bernard Fontaine said something she didn’t quite yet understand.

She asked the old hippie, “Are you Dean Wexler?”

His tongue flicked out to wet the rolling paper. “That’s me.”

Andrea couldn’t take a victory lap. Nor could she turn herself into a thermometer, because Wexler’s temperature was barely registering. Neither he nor Nardo seemed concerned about the circumstances, which again was saying something that Andrea didn’t yet understand.

She asked Wexler, “What are you growing out here?”

He flipped the cigarette up to his lips. “Vicia faba.”

Andrea laughed, but only because Dean Wexler seemed like the kind of man who didn’t like young women laughing at him. “That’s a fancy way to say fava beans.”

His jaw tightened. His hooded eyes flashed with a silent threat.

“Marshal,” Stilton intervened, speaking to Bible. “I appreciate your help, but you can run along now. We got this.”

“What’s this?” Bible asked.

Stilton huffed air between his lips, exaggerating patience. “We got a girl—a young girl—who probably took a drug overdose. She’s had problems for a while. This isn’t the first time she’s tried it.”

“Oh, then,” Bible said. “She the one you pulled out of the ocean last Christmas or the one who cut her wrists a year and a half ago?”

Andrea felt the tension pull tight like a string.

At Glynco, they’d trained it into all the cadets to listen to their bodies. The fight-or-flight impulse was a hell of a lot more perceptive than any of your other senses. She kept her attention on Nardo and the hippie. There was something about them that felt dangerous. For the first time in her entire life, she wished that she was armed.

“Marshal,” Stilton said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but this situation doesn’t seem like it has a damn thing to do with the assignment that brought you and your partner into my town.”

Bible looked down at Stilton. “Funny thing about being a United States Marshal is, we’re one of only two law enforcement divisions in the United States that’s charged with the blanket task of enforcing federal law. We’re not limited to Customs and Borders. Or Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Or Internal Revenue. We get all the laws, big and small, hot off the presses or going back to March 4, 1789, the effective date of the US Constitution.”

Stilton looked uncomfortable, but he shrugged. “So?”

“USC 482-930.1 holds that it is a violation of federal law for any person to take their life by their own hand. It’s an oldie but a goodie. Dates back to English common law.” Bible winked at Andrea, because they both knew he was bluffing. “What do you think, partner?”

Andrea said, “Sounds like jurisdiction to me.”

Stilton adjusted his approach. “Now I told you first thing that we’re not sure about whether or not it’s suicide.”

Bible didn’t point out that his story was a bit slippery. Instead, he pulled a pair of nitrile gloves out of the pocket of his running shorts. He winked at Andrea again, finally acknowledging that he’d come prepared.

Stilton said, “This is a crime scene, Marshal. You need to wait for the coroner. We can’t disturb—”

Andrea asked, “Who put the sheet over the body?”

Wexler cleared his throat. “Guy who found her.”

Ricky had said that a farmhand had found the body. Andrea could see only two men in the field. “Then the scene has already been disturbed.”