The Wife. BEVERLY BARTON

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       Chapter Seven

      Jack stood off to the side talking to Chief Ballard while Andy Gamble’s two-person crew carried the body bag out of the park. Jack had gone to school with the lanky, red-headed Andy, who’d been a senior when Jack was a freshman. Burly, bald Wade Ballard was ten years older than Jack, but everybody in Dunmore knew he’d been the local high school baseball star who had gone on to play for the Atlanta Braves for five years until a car wreck had messed up his pitching arm.

      The crime scene had been effectively closed off by a ring of tape, but the entire park was temporarily off-limits to all except authorized personnel. A single entry and exit route had been marked off in order to manage the number of people who had access to the scene.

      “The ABI guys are on their way,” Wade said. “Mike and I agree that it looks like we just might have ourselves a serial killer, considering this was the third preacher set on fire in the past eighteen months.”

      “Technically, this is your case since the park is in the city limits,” Jack said. “But with this crime possibly connected to the Mark Cantrell case, we would appreciate your allowing us to join forces with your team.”

      “I figure I need all the help I can get. I put in a call to Chief O’Dell over in Athens, where that other preacher was killed last year.” Scowling, Wade threw up his hand and hollered, “Where the hell did that dog come from? Get him out of here. I want this crime scene as pristine as possible for the state boys.”

      While two uniformed policemen chased off the stray dog, Wade grumbled under his breath. Heaving a deep sigh that expanded his massive chest and beer belly, he turned back to Jack. “Reverend Phillips swore that no one in his party got anywhere near the body, but Lord only knows how they might have accidentally contaminated the site.”

      “I’d say other than finding an eyewitness to the crime, which is highly unlikely, the most important thing is to get the answers to a few questions. Did the victim die from his burns? Was he doused with gasoline? And can we, with some degree of certainty, connect this crime to the deaths of Mark Cantrell and Charles Randolph?”

      “Yeah, you’re right.” Wade nodded, then settled his gaze directly on Jack’s face. “Tell me something. What kind of person would do something like this?”

      “I’m far from an expert, but my guess would be that it’s someone who hates clergymen.”

      Wade grunted. “Yeah, but why burn them to death? Why not just shoot ’em?”

      “Figuring that out is probably a job for a professional profiler,” Jack said.

      “Well, we sure don’t have one of them on our payroll, and I don’t know if the ABI boys have got one, either.”

      “I think I might know someone who can pull a few strings and get us a former FBI profiler.”

      Wade’s beady brown eyes widened with interest. “Tell me more.”

      But before Jack could respond, he caught a glimpse of the coroner meandering toward them, seemingly in no hurry. Andy’s long legs created a slow, easy stride. “Hell of a thing to see, a man burned like that,” Andy said as he paused alongside Jack. “It’s enough to give a person nightmares.”

      Jack understood only too well how the sight of something so atrocious could embed itself in a guy’s mind and haunt him for years. Even the most seasoned soldier never became completely immune.

      “Any preliminary findings you’d like to share?” Wade asked.

      Andy shrugged. “I’d say our victim was doused with gasoline, but the lab folks will make a definite determination. I’ll make sure any pieces СКАЧАТЬ