“Right, we’ll sit down, drink some of Pat’s tea, and then talk about Mr. Bluton,” she said. As she glanced over to get his confirmation, she noticed Agent Moore staring at her excitedly. She had the kind of expression that said she was finally getting to see the master in action. Laura suppressed a groan.
They seated themselves around a square table on garden chairs that were weather-beaten, the wood bleached with time and marked with old stains. Laura accepted the cup of tea from Pat Brown when she poured it, happy to at least get something warm inside of her. The weather was cold, and while it wasn’t freezing yet, the FBI windbreakers they wore were never quite enough against real winter climes.
Ike and the Sheriff barely seemed affected by it, but Laura waited until everyone had their hands wrapped around a warm mug of tea—Agent Moore included—before she started. Time was of the essence here, but there was nothing to be gained by rushing and alienating a key witness.
“So, tell me about Mr. Bluton. What was he like?” Laura asked.
Ike shrugged, looking down into his tea with a frown. “Not a bad guy,” he said. “Kept his head down and worked. With a young family like that, only taking over the farm from his folks a few years back, he had a lot of work to do.”
“He’d been around here his whole life?”
“More or less.” Ike shrugged again. “Went off to college a few years, to get some advanced farming techniques or some such. Didn’t make him stuck up about it, though. Just mostly used the same methods as his daddy in the end.”
“You say he’s a neighbor,” Laura said, taking a map of the local area out of her pocket. They’d been on sale at the reception of the inn she was staying at, and it had seemed useful. “Can you mark out his land for me?” She was about to reach into her pocket for a pen, but Agent Moore beat her to it, clicking the nib out rapidly and practically shooting it into Ike’s hand.
Ike took the paper with the rough approach of a lifelong manual laborer, his hands unused to holding a pen. “It’s this whole field here,” he said, sketching it out with short, unpracticed strokes. “You see? Goes right the way across to the highway. His home’s ’round about here.”
Laura studied the markings he had made. “So, then, how did he end up all the way over here, in your field?” she asked, tapping the map where they were sitting.
“We figure he walked or ran in,” Sheriff Ramsgate spoke up, his tone quiet and gruff. “Got a trail heading out from where the body was found, in the opposite direction. Looks like he was coming over here from his property on foot, and then something either lured him closer or he was running from it and it caught him.”
“Someone,” Laura corrected him, gently. It was always worth remembering that a killer was just a human. No special powers—at least, she’d never encountered one yet. No superhuman abilities. Just a normal person. They could be defeated by a bullet, or outrun, or outfought, or stopped in other ways. “Any thoughts on who might want to harm Mr. Bluton?”
Ike shook his head. “Jamie was a good kid,” he said firmly. “Never heard of anyone having a dispute. We certainly had no problems with him, and we’re right next door. Sometimes you do get clashes. Not with him.”
Laura nodded, taking this in. “Alright. When you found the body, what do you remember about what you saw, heard, smelled? Anything can help, even if it seems small or insignificant to you.”
Ike made a pained face. “I don’t recall much,” he said. “Sorry. It was a shock, seeing him there. Thought it was kids doing crop circles at first, only to come across him lying there on the ground. I went to grab him—thought he was hurt or maybe sleeping or something, I didn’t know why. But I saw the blood on the corn first, splattered across it. Picked him up by the shoulder and I seen his throat. Cut side to side. One of the most gruesome things I ever saw.”
Laura watched his face, his body language. His every movement was protective, curling inwards, his shoulders slumping. He was upset. Genuinely so. And, she thought, still more than a little bit shaken.
“Alright,” she said. “If you think of anything else later, no matter how small, you give Sheriff Ramsgate a call and let him know. Got that?”
Ike nodded miserably.
“You’ve done well,” she said, injecting her tone with reassuring warmth.
“That was all very helpful,” Agent Moore chirped up suddenly, as if she’d finally found ground she knew how to stand on. Laura shot her a quick look, which she apparently ignored. “It must have been a terrible shock for you.”
Ike only nodded, though he responded with surprising positivity toward Agent Moore. For Laura, he barely spared another glance.
Laura fought the urge to roll her eyes and got up, nodding a thanks to Pat through the kitchen window beside them. “Sheriff. Back to your station, I should think?”
The Sheriff nodded, getting up. “I’ll get the boys to come out here and see about that cordon you wanted.”
Laura smiled. At least someone was listening properly. “I take it your county morgue is attached to the station?”
“That it is,” Ramsgate replied, starting to walk over to his vehicle. “I’ll lead the way. I’m sure you’ve got a lot you want to see.”