The First Time I Hunted by Jo Macgregor

Author:Jo Macgregor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Joanne Macgregor
Published: 2021-05-31T16:00:00+00:00

– 26 –

I was resting in my car, fighting off the flashbacks that came every time I closed my eyes, when Singh arrived. He came alone. Clearly, he wanted to make sure this wasn’t a false alarm before he declared it a crime scene and summoned backup. He directed a disparaging look at my scruffy appearance — cobwebs and rust flakes in my hair, dirt on my clothes and face, and mud slimed over my Doc Martins — and wrinkled his nose, no doubt catching a whiff of vomit. While waiting, I’d caught a glimpse of myself in my car’s side mirror but could find neither the energy nor the inclination to give a rat’s ass about how I looked.

“Where’s this supposed crime scene?” Singh asked.

I led the way to the well house, stopped several yards away, and pointed. “In there. In the well.”

Seeming to feel no hesitation at that border of darkness I could all but see and touch, Singh marched up to the well house, wedged the flap open, and stuck his head inside. Looking back over his shoulder at me, he said, “You’d better not have called me out for a dead possum.”

“It’s a cat. It was once gray.”

He gave me a look. It wasn’t an appreciative one. “What makes you think a murder or attempted murder happened here?”

“I saw it. I mean,” I added quickly, “I didn’t see it see it, but I saw it.”

He rolled his eyes.

“And there are human remains inside the well. At least, I think there are,” I said.

“You think?” Without waiting for an answer, he went inside the little building and inspected the lid of the well. I knew what he was observing: spiderwebs, a thick layer of dust, and a frosting of rust from the roof.

“How can you possibly know what’s down there?” he demanded. “This well cap hasn’t been moved in years.”

“I saw,” I said again. “A man, mid-fifties maybe, was pushed into the well. He was wearing dirty blue overalls, and his hip was likely broken. A rib, too, maybe.”

“Is this vomit yours?”

“Yes,” I said, bending down so I could see what he was doing. “Sorry.”

Singh pulled on a pair of latex gloves, heaved off the heavy well cap, and peered down into the well. “It’s black as pitch in there.” With a stern warning not to touch anything, he exited the hut, stalked back to his car, and returned brandishing a Maglite as large as a baton. No friendly cartoons on the side of Agent Singh’s flashlight, no, sir.

Noticing the pair of handcuffs he was clipping to his belt, I frowned. “He’s been dead a while, Agent. I don’t think he’s going to be resisting arrest.”

“They’re not for him,” Singh said darkly.

Wonderful. So if he didn’t find anything in the well, he’d arrest me for wasting police time. And just like that, I was back to biting my nails. Singh, meanwhile, shone the strong beam down into the stygian depths of the shaft then hung the rope ladder over the well wall so that it dangled inside.

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