The Bodies Left Behind

evidence?”
    “Yes, they’ll have to be processed. It looks like somebody went through them.”
    “What? Who?”
    Dahl lifted eyebrows apologetically to Arlen Tanner. “Just be a minute,” he whispered. Then into the phone: “We aren’t sure, sir.”
    “So we can’t have them back?”
    “Not yet. No.”
    “Do you know when we can?”
    “I can’t say at this time.”
    “Then can I ask that you secure them somehow?”
    “As evidence, they’ll be locked up, sir.”
    A hesitation. “It’s nothing critical, but we worry about trade secrets and issues like that. You understand.”
    No, he didn’t. But he said, “We’ll make sure they’ll be safe.”
    “Well, thank you, Sheriff. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, just let me know.”
    Yep, let me do my job.
    They disconnected. Dahl was irritated but couldn’t really blame the man. The practicality of his call didn’t mean he wasn’t mourning. Like Dahl, Sheridan had a job to do.
    The sheriff’s radio crackled again. Then he heard: “More company’s coming, Sheriff.”
    “Rescue team, tow truck?”
    “No, private car.”
    “Get the tag?”
    “Wisconsin. All I saw.”
    “Okay.”
    The sedan slowed and turned toward 3 Lake View, the house lit up like the Titanic in her last hours, Dahl decided, having just seen the movie with his wife. He waved the car to a stop with his flashlight and asked the driver to get out. The businessman, in his midthirties or so, stared at the tableau, his face etched with concern. He climbed out. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
    Tanner deferred to Dahl, who said, “Could I see some ID, sir? What’s your name?”
    “Ari Paskell.” He offered his driver’s license to the State Police commander, who handed it to one of his troopers to check out.
    “Please, what’s going on?”
    “What’s your business here?”
    “Business? I was coming to spend the weekend with Emma and Steve! What’s going on? I’ve been calling them all night and can’t get through.”
    “How do you know them?”
    “Steve and I are friends. We used to work together. He invited me to spend the weekend. Are they all right?”
    Dahl glanced at Graham, who was staring into the woods. How I hate this, the sheriff thought. He then noticed the trooper in the front seat of his squad car. He nodded, meaning that the man’s license and tag checked out. Dahl lowered his voice, “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, sir. But there’s been a crime. The Feldmans were, well, they were the victims of a homicide tonight.”
    “My God, no! But, no, you can’t be right. . . . I just talked to Steve this afternoon.”
    “I’m afraid there’s no doubt.”
    “No,” he gasped. “But . . . no. You’re wrong!” His face went even paler than it had been.
    Dahl wondered if he was going to slip into hysteria. It happened pretty frequently at times like this, even with the toughest folks, which this fellow didn’t seem to be.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “But it can’t be.” The man’s eyes were wide, hands shaking. “I brought them their favorite beer. And I got fresh bratwurst. I mean, the kind we always have.” His voice cracked. “I got them a few hours ago. I stoppedin . . .” He lowered his head. In a defeated voice he said, “Are you sure about this?”
    “I’m sorry, sir.”
    Paskell leaned against his car, saying nothing, just staring at the house. He’d be reliving memories, pleasant ones, of events that there’d be no repeat of.
    Munce joined them.
    “What happened?” Paskell whispered. “Who did it?”
    “We don’t know. Now, Mr. Paskell—”
    “But they’re not rich. Who’d rob them?”
    “Mr. Paskell, do you know who the other houseguest is? All we know is she’s a woman from Chicago used to work with Emma.”
    He shook his head. “No, they said somebody else’d be visiting. I don’t know who.”
    “I think you should head back home, sir. Or get a motel if you’re too tired or upset to drive. There’re some past Clausen on Six Eighty-two. There’s nothing you can do here now.”
    He didn’t seem to hear. He was frowning.
    Dahl paid a bit more attention and, like he always did with witnesses, gave him time to play the thought to the surface.
    “This is probably crazy . . .” He cocked his head. “Just a thought.”
    Usually civilians’ suggestions were crazy. But sometimes they led to the killer’s front door. Dahl said, “Go on.”
    “Steven was talking to me,