Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

finished a two-week training course in print analysis run by the Texas Department of Public Safety. When Sheila took the chief’s job, the department’s fingerprint work had been sent to Austin, a turnaround of four or five days, sometimes a week—just not fast enough. Then Blackie beefed up the county’s forensic capabilities and Sheila sent the print work there, which was faster, at least in the beginning. Now, with more work to do, even the county lab was frequently backlogged, which could mean a couple days’ wait.
    And then Bedford had come along, a new hire with four years of college and a major in forensic science from Sam Houston State. He had already completed a basic course in fingerprint analysis as part of his major, but she sent him off for further training and purchased some minimal equipment—not enough to do the job the way it should be done, but enough to get a preliminary report done quickly, when they needed it. The confirmation analysis, if necessary, could be done at the county lab or in Austin, where there was better equipment.
    Bartlett glanced around. “If you’re finished in here, the med techs can take the body. I’ve let Dr. Morse know that we’re sending her an autopsy. She said she’d get on it as soon as she could.”
    The techs bagged Kirk’s hands and head and then removed the body. Sheila and Bartlett watched, paying attention. Sometimes things turned up when the victim was being moved and readied for transport. But there was nothing this time. Bartlett bagged the computer, Sheila picked up the Polaroids, and they went outside, where Jack lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. Sheila had given up smoking when she left Dallas Homicide, but she inhaled the secondhand smoke with more than a little longing. A cigarette would taste good right now.
    “The widow give you anything useful?” Bartlett asked.
    “A couple of things. Kirk hated guns—wouldn’t have one in the house. In fact, he was an anti-gun activist. Campaigned against the campus concealed carry.”
    “Good for him,” Bartlett grunted. He eyed her, as if he were testing. “This ain’t no suicide, at least that’s my feeling. How much do you want to bet?”
    “Not one red cent,” Sheila said. She opened her notebook and began to scan her notes. “Okay, here we go. Kirk had lots of friends, no enemies, according to Mrs. Kirk. She doesn’t know anything about a stalker, doesn’t want her boyfriend bothered, etcetera. She was at work all day, at the library—except for an hour when she was supposedly having lunch at the Nueces Street Diner. With her boyfriend. From one to two. Oh, and there’s insurance. Two hundred fifty thou. Plus she gets the house—
and
the business.”
    Bartlett whistled. “That’s enough motive.”
    “Agreed.” Sheila hesitated, thinking about the woman she had interviewed. “But she’s a softie. Motive, yes, but no starch. Not sayingshe didn’t kill him or that she doesn’t know who did. But if she’s involved, she’s a damn good actress.” She cocked her head, listening. There was a flare of lightning in the dark sky to the north, and in the distance, thunder rumbled. She thought of the email to Dana Kirk, time-stamped at 2:04.
    “Any idea of the time of death?”
    Bartlett blew a stream of blue smoke from his nostrils. Instead of answering, he said, “I just got a call from that kid reporter at the
Enterprise
. Jessica Nelson.”
    “That one,” Sheila said darkly. “She got a tip on Timms’ arrest, according to China Bayles. When we finally book the guy, she’ll no doubt be there. With a camera.”
    Bartlett chuckled. “Yeah, that one. But she did pick up on something, Sheila. She was looking for human interest and talked to a neighbor two doors east, a Mrs. Wauer. The woman says she might’ve heard a gunshot around two o’clock. She remembers thinking it was a backfire. And Matheson located a guy across the street and a couple of houses down, who claimed to have heard the same thing, about the same time. He told Mattie he thought it was the garbage truck.”
    “Garbage truck,” Sheila said thoughtfully, and thought again of the email. Somebody sent it at 2:04—if not Kirk, then the killer.
    “The garbage guys are pretty noisy,” Bartlett was saying. “That’s what the neighbor said, anyway. They like to bang the cans around, make as much racket as possible, hoping to wake up the taxpayers.” He pulled on his cigarette. “Nothing else—at least so