Deeper Than the Dead

78

Mendez had only stepped out of the conference room to make a pit stop. Too much Mountain Dew. He was living on caffeine. When he came back out of the men’s room, the world had turned on a dime.

He watched now on the monitor in the break room, thankful the county had spared no expense in outfitting the building with state-of-the-art security. Cameras in every room but the john.

Farman had his service weapon jammed to Dixon’s temple. Vince was trying to talk him down. Frank wasn’t having it.

Mendez thought back to the conversation they had just been having about the possibility of Frank Farman being See-No-Evil. Vince didn’t go for it, but Mendez thought it could be.

If the killer was a man in a trust position of authority, who personified that more than a man in a uniform? Moreover, he could easily incorporate himself into the investigation. He could even maneuver himself into the position of would-be hero as they pursued suspects.

“Mendez.” Trammell stuck his head into the room. “We’ve got a big problem.”

“Yeah. I’m watching it.”

“No. Out front. Come on.”

He looked up at the monitor, thinking he shouldn’t leave. What could be more urgent?

“Really,” Trammell said. “Come on. Leone can keep him talking. You’ve got to see this.”

They jogged down the hall and out the front doors of the building, stepping into a scene out of Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

The grounds were being lit from above by the white glare of chopper-born spotlights. Parked smack on the lawn was a county cruiser, doors and trunk open. Deputies held a perimeter beyond the car, keeping cameras and people at bay.

“Frank’s car?” Mendez shouted to be heard above the beating of the helicopter blades.

“Yeah.” Trammell led him around to the back of the car and the open trunk. “And Frank’s wife.”

Sharon Farman lay dead in the trunk. Beaten, strangled, cut. Eyes and mouth glued shut.