“Watch out for the glass,” Davis warned.
Roger looked down and saw shards scattered around a car he recognized as Morris’s. Then he looked next to the car. Roger had never thrown up at a crime scene or autopsy, but he came close when he saw his old friend sprawled on the asphalt in a pool of blood.
Davis pointed up at a light that should have illuminated the area where they were standing.
“Someone broke the bulb so Morris would have to bend down to put his key in the lock. The key is still there. Morris was hit hard on the back of his head. The ME thinks twice. The blows would have stunned him. When he fell, he was stabbed in the heart. The ME thinks the killer knew how to use a blade because he was only stabbed once and it was a perfect strike. So, can you give me a positive ID?”
“That’s Morris.”
“Are you okay?”
“No. We were pretty close. Have they found the weapon?” he asked.
“No, but we haven’t searched for it yet. It wasn’t in the wound, so the killer may have taken it with him.”
“Do you think this was a robbery?” Roger asked, hoping it had been, because the alternative would be very hard for him to take.
“He used a cell phone in the bar, and like I told you, we didn’t find it or his wallet, so that’s probably what happened.”
“Do you have any idea why he was out here? This isn’t one of his usual haunts.”
“I think he was supposed to meet someone who didn’t show,” the detective said. “Let’s get out of this rain. I want you to hear what Riley Dawkins, the bartender, told us.”
The bar was dimly lit and smelled of beer and fried food. Two men were sitting in a booth across from the bar, working on burgers and beer, and a man in a suit was seated on a stool at the end of the bar, nursing a glass of hard liquor while he whispered into his cell phone. A mountain of a man in jeans and a red and black flannel shirt was standing behind the bar, polishing glasses. Above the bartender, at one end of the bar, a muted television was showing a basketball game.
“Riley, this is Roger Dillon. He’s a detective from Portland and he used to be the dead man’s partner.”
“He was a cop?”
“Detective, Homicide,” Roger said. “A really good detective.”
“Condolences. I didn’t mean any disrespect. My old man was a cop.”
“Riley discovered the body when he went to throw out the garbage,” Davis told Roger.
“Can you tell Detective Dillon what you told me?” Davis asked the bartender.
“Yeah, sure. Your friend came in around eight thirty. He sat inthe booth in front of where those two guys are sitting. He was facing the door. Alice waited on him—”
“We interviewed her and sent her home because she was upset,” Davis interrupted. “She told us he ordered a beer and nursed it while he watched the game. Go on, Riley.”
“I’m pretty sure he was waiting for someone, because he kept checking his watch, and each time the door opened, he’d lean out so he could see who came in. Then he’d look disappointed and sit back.
“Around nine forty-five, he pulled out his phone and made a call, but I didn’t see him talking to anyone, so I’m guessing that no one answered. He called again around ten. A half hour later, he paid his bar tab and left. The next time I saw him was when I took out the trash. I went over to see if he was okay, but as soon as I saw the blood, I came inside and called 911.”
“Do you get a lot of crime out here?” Roger asked. “Muggings, robberies?”
“We had one mugging about five years ago. I have to break up fights every once in a while, but something like this, no.”
“Anything else you want to ask Riley?”
“I’m good,” Roger said.
“What about the motel?” Roger asked Davis when they were headed outside. “Did Morris have a room?”
“No. He never went into the office and he didn’t make a reservation.”
“So he might have been lured to this isolated spot?”