The Bones She Buried

Seventeen

Beth Pratt’s single-level ranch home sat along a rural route in the mountains surrounding Denton where each home was separated by two or more acres of land and boasted long gravel driveways. Beth’s house was small and white with black shutters on the sides of the windows. It sat at least an acre back from the road and was surrounded by tall oak trees. There was no porch, just a small stone step leading to the front door.

Josie parked behind a small red Honda sedan and she and Mettner got out. As they approached, Josie heard the low tones of what sounded like a game show playing on a television. Behind the screen door, the heavy winter door stood open, so Mettner rapped his knuckles against the edge of the door frame and called, “Miss Pratt?”

There was no answer, no sound at all from inside the house other than the television. Josie peered past Mettner into the living room. She didn’t have the best angle into the room which was to the right of the front door, but she saw part of a couch, part of a television sitting on top of a small stand, plush beige carpeting and what looked like the sole of a bare foot. Her heart stopped for a beat and then kicked back into motion. Her hand went to her service pistol, fingers deftly unsnapping the holster at her waist, her palm fitting itself around the handle of the gun. “Mett,” she whispered. “Something’s wrong.”

With her chin, Josie motioned toward the living room. The moment Mettner’s eyes landed on the foot, he drew his weapon as well. Keeping the barrels of their guns pointed downward, they entered the house, calling out “Police!” in loud, clear voices. No one responded. Mettner moved immediately to the right where a woman’s body lay face down on the carpet in front of the coffee table, a pillow partially covering her head. She wore a purple T-shirt and stretchy black pants. Both her feet were bare. One of her arms lay at her side and the other was bent, palm reaching over her head. Near her feet, a mug lay on its side next to a dark brown stain. A few feet away from that was a television remote and a copy of People magazine. Across the room at the foot of an empty bookcase lay piles of paperback books and photo albums which had been torn from the shelves.

Mettner squatted down and took one hand off his weapon to feel the woman’s neck for a pulse. He met Josie’s eyes. “She’s gone.” His hand gently touched the woman’s arm. “Cold.” Which meant she had likely been dead for some time, and they would not be able to bring her back.

Josie nodded toward the hall leading to the back of the house and Mettner followed. They fell into a formation with Josie leading, clearing each room and the back patio before returning to Beth’s body. The scene was eerily similar to Colette Fraley’s house except that whoever had ransacked the house had done so more hastily, leaving much more of a mess. Kitchen drawers had been pulled from their homes and tossed onto the tile floor, their contents spread all over the room. Papers, pens and other office supplies covered every surface in what looked to be a home office. In the master bedroom, every dresser drawer lay on the floor on top of a pile of discarded clothing. The closet doors stood open, and its contents were in a pile on the floor. Even the bathroom had been torn apart, items from the medicine cabinet and under the sink hurled onto the floor.

“Someone was looking for something,” Josie muttered.

With the house cleared, they moved outside to the yard beyond it but found no one nor any traces of anyone. Holstering their weapons, they returned to the body. Josie took out her phone and called dispatch. “We’re going to need the ERT and the medical examiner,” she said. “Better write up some warrants, too. It looks like we’ve got another murder on our hands.”