“Sumstad said the head has suffered a lot of wildlife damage.” Even with the handkerchief covering half his face, I could tell he was grimacing. “He thinks they were attracted to the blood and tissue.”
“Any idea how long the body has been here?” Bull asked.
“It’s only a preliminary guess,” said Sumstad. He was climbing out of the ditch, walking toward us. “But judging by the rate of decomposition, I’d say he’s been out here two weeks.”
Irish had been dead two weeks.
“You think he came out here and committed suicide by jumping off the water tower?” Bull asked.
“It’s certainly been made to look that way,” Sumstad said.
“Made to look that way?” I glanced over at Indy. She was vomiting again.
“The placement of the body. The head trauma. It mirrors a fall. But he didn’t throw himself off that tower. He was beaten to death.”
“You sure?” Buckman asked.
“As serious as a heart attack, Sheriff.” Sumstad glanced over at the body in the ditch. It was bloated and black. “This wasn’t an accident or a suicide. It was homicide.”
I walked over to where Indy was leaning up against the car.
“Are you okay, angel?” I asked, gently rubbing the small of her back.
She exhaled deeply but nodded. “I’m fine. It’s just . . . hot.”
I put my arm around her. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
She paused. “Is it Freebird?”
I shook my head. “We don’t know yet.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but instead of saying anything, she rushed around to the side of the car and dry heaved.
“That’s it, I’m getting you home.”
“No, I’m fine.” She glanced over at the remains in the ditch. “It’s the smell. And the fact that we both know that it’s Freebird lying over there.”
I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her against my chest, my fingers caressing her shoulders.
She was right.
I had no doubt it was Freebird. He’d been beaten and left there to rot in the hot Mississippi sun.
Just like Irish, this wasn’t suicide. It was murder.
I kissed the top of Indy’s head and tried to fight of the real sense of panic knowing that Freebird wouldn’t be the last to be taken out.
INDY
The following morning I met up with Tex’s widow, Dahlia, at the Miller Self-Storage facility just out of town. I had promised her that I would help her clear out Tex’s storage shed. Thankfully, I was feeling better than I had been for the last few days. The long hours at work, combined with the long nights in bed with Cade, were taking their toll and I was prone to bouts of fatigue and nausea.
I took one of the club’s communal pickup trucks so we could easily shift things to either Dahlia’s home or the rubbish dump. Cade had appointed Tully and the prospect to tail me for the day, and even though I didn’t like it, I understood and accepted the need for protection. It wasn’t so bad—two big bikers would come in handy when it came to moving the big stuff out of the storage shed.
Tex was a hoarder and Dahlia couldn’t stand it. That was why he had a storage shed. She hadn’t wanted to clutter their home with all the things he wanted to keep. These included things like old bike parts, mementos from his youth like his old football jerseys and helmets, suitcases full of old clothes, and personal papers. He even had three big boxes of random jars.
I looked at Dahlia. “Jars?”
She chuckled. “Crazy fool loved collecting jars.”
“Really?”
She nodded and threw the stack of magazines in her arms into the back of the pickup. Once beside me, she picked out a few of the jars in the box. “Coffee jars. Jelly jars. Odd, weird-ass-looking jars. You name it. He had a hard-on for jars.” Her eyes filled with sadness. “He was a weirdo. But he was my weirdo.”
My heart ached for her. Dahlia was strong. But she was hurting like crazy.
“Do you want to keep them?” I asked.
She thought for a moment and then dropped the jars back into the box. There was the sound of glass breaking, then, without a word, she picked up one of the boxes and threw it into the back of the pickup. She turned to me, squinting in the sun.
“Honey, if I’m to move forward without Tex, then I need to start over now. Ain’t no point taking anymore baggage with me.”
And with that, she walked back into the storage shed.
I threw the two other boxes of jars into the pickup and then set about opening a smaller box that was carefully stored under an old desk. Inside it was a bunch of photo albums and what looked like a scrapbook of some kind.
I knew Dahlia would want to keep the photographs. Or, at least, look through them first. So, I opened up the scrapbook and lost the next ten minutes in club history.