Exposure

Chapter 1

When Kirkland arrived in the mountains, Pillsbury, or Sheriff Conlee, as most people knew him, was standing around with his deputies, covering their faces with their long sleeves of their shirts or jackets. The Sherriff, whom Kirkland had known for years, was a tall man who towered above everyone else. He had a crew cut and white-gray hair with a smoke mask that almost matched his hair. One of the few deputies that Kirkland knew, Bill Orney, kept raising his wrist to his mouth and spoke in a tone that let Kirkland know he was holding his breath when he wasn't speaking. Probably one of the worst things you could do in this environment from Kirkland's experience, since it only led to dizziness and lightheadedness. But Kirkland was sure he already knew that.

"We don't know who called this in," Orney said the moment Kirkland approached him. No hello. No long time, no see. Nothing. Conlee put up a hand, as if to stop Orney from talking, and stepped forward. He was in his mid-40s, with the beginning of a gut, his belt cinched too tight at the waist, his plaid shirt tucked into his one-size too-big jeans. He wore thick workmen's boots that were already covered in what looked like mud though Kirkland's quick preliminary survey of the scene revealed nothing that looked to be the source of the wetness.

It was a beautiful log cabin seated just beyond a small stream that cut through the mountains. Large carved rocks, the size of small cars, some shaped to look vaguely similar to fat buddhas sat nearby, content. Some were carvings of woodland creatures made out of genuine stone, others, as he walked closer to them, he could see were made of cement. Kirkland made note of what appeared to be a grinning squirrel creature that had dark, dried splotches on its cartoonish teeth and nose.

They walked up on the wooden porch. There was a white rocking chair on the porch, spurred to motion by the gentle, smoke-filled wind. Kirkland could tell whenever the wind shifted not only by the woodsy-ash smell of the forest burning miles away, but by the nervous expressions on the faces of those around him. He vaguely felt sorry for them. It was a difficult time.

It was the kind of place Kirkland had been thinking about retiring in a few years.

"All right," Kirkland said. "Let's see what we're dealing with." The Sheriff came up beside him.

The front door was wide open. One body was still laying on the floor of the living room, right next to the coffee table. It was of a man, seemingly in his 50s to early 60s with a white and black peppered goatee and beard.

"We've got someone else coming in to help us, some volunteers who were helping out the fire department," one of the officers said.

"So what do we think we're dealing with? Drug deal? Domestic violence gone wrong?" Orney said, eagerly searching the faces of both the Sheriff and Kirkland. Kirkland remembered Orney. He figured himself a rising star, despite the fact that he lived in a town of less than 1200 people.

"Does domestic violence ever go right?" one of the cops said. There was a silence and Kirkland thought he could almost hear the inner groans in everyone's heads. Kirkland noticed there were at least five cops on the scene, yet half were out of uniform, and seemed too inert to be on active duty. He half chalked it up to the part of the country he was in. He knew he shouldn't be too shocked that they rarely saw murders in this area, since residents had miles between them and a certain mountain ethic that kept disputes at a minimum. There was, however, an underlying something that he couldn't put his finger on. He didn't know if it was an uneasiness in the air due to the dreadful closeness of the fires or what.

"We think he walked in and she was already dead," an older female cop out of uniform said pointing to the man's body. "Maybe he killed her." She looked to be the most unsettled of all of them, as she thumbed a professional camera hanging around her neck.