Rachel Harris, private detective extraordinaire and Clayton Kincaid, local cop and friend discuss Bronco Murray's case.
“This is a private matter, Rach.” Clayton shook his head. “Not grounds for a full police investigation. Bronco understands that, right? You’ve filed for discovery, received the traffic crash report, death certificate, autopsy and toxicology reports, plus all these articles.” He flicked a finger at her copies of newspaper articles covering Thomas Northman’s car accident. “Everything in that pile indicates death due to drunk driving and tumbling down a deep ravine.”
“Nah, something’s off about all this. I need to talk to the cop and tow truck driver who were at the scene. See if anything seemed odd, because these reports indicate Northman swerved.” She sniffed, taking in the stench of sweat and whatever other bodily fluids lined the police station’s offices. “It really reeks in here. Light a friggin’ candle, or something.”
Clayton sighed. “Harris…listen, lots of deer live in Northern Ohio. And Northman’s accident occurred in the fall, during rut. Likely just wrong place, wrong time. No mystery there.”
Rachel barely refrained from kicking him. His rational mind wasn’t what she needed today. For once, they were actually on the same side in an investigation, because usually she assisted her uncle with criminal defense cases. “While I don’t relish the thought of sending Bronco’s grandmother to jail, I would like to find answers for him. Luckily, Evidence still had a sample of Northman’s blood. I sent it off to my toxicologist.” She shrugged. “I’m betting another substance impaired Northman’s driving.”
Her stomach growled, since she’d skipped breakfast. Maybe she could talk Kincaid into taking her out for pancakes. “I wish we could still investigate Northman’s car. The fire after the crash could have been intentional to mask other injuries or foul play.”
“The coroner ruled accidental death due to the combined effects of traumatic and thermal injuries.” After closing her file, Clayton crossed his all-too-toned biceps over his chest. “I wish Bronco the best, and I hope he finds peace with his family issues, but we all have family issues, Harris. Some of us live in that nightmare every day. You know that better than anyone.”
“I know he’s hurting.” She ran a finger along her coffee cup’s rim. “And for some girly-frilly-bags-of-fluffy-kitten-shit reason, I want to ease his pain.”
“Better ways to ease a guy’s pain.” Clayton smirked.
Rachel rolled her eyes. “You have no idea.” She held her hands more than a foot apart. “No one can handle that. He’s a freak of nature down there. I don’t know how he walks around with that thing all day.”
“I know.” Miming a gun with his forefinger and thumb, Clayton made a clicking sound out the side of his mouth, which made half his face scrunch. “It’s a tough job, but guys like us have no problem carrying the extra weight.”
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2015 Copyright by Jillian Jacobs