“Ms. Bennett’s purse and key fob,” Holstrom replied. “The detective retrieved them.”
Joe looked wider afield, searching for heel skid marks that would indicate that a scuffle had taken place or that someone—Jordie Bennett—had been dragged away. But there was nothing like that. “No signs of a struggle?”
“What you see is what we’ve got. We’re searching,” Holstrom added. He pointed out a team member who was several yards away, crouched down studying the loose surface of the parking lot. “But the manager, who also tends bar, estimated that when this went down there were fifteen to twenty vehicles in the lot.”
Hick, who noted that only five remained, said, “Must’ve been quite an exodus.”
Holstrom nodded. “We’ve got dozens of crisscrossed tire tracks, only a few shoe imprints.” He raised his hands at his sides.
“No one saw a car leaving?” Hick asked.
Holstrom shook his head. “No one’s come forward yet. Someone still might, though.”
Joe said, “Yeah, and it might snow anytime now.” He pinched the fabric of his damp shirt and pulled it away from his sweating torso. Addressing Holstrom again, he asked, “Security cameras?”
The younger agent smiled without humor. “The plumbing system is as sophisticated as this place gets. And that ‘system’ is a toilet around back that doesn’t have a lid, but does have a hand-lettered sign warning that it flushes only on occasion.”
“So that’s a no to security cameras,” Joe deadpanned.
“No to security, period. Unless you count the two sawed-off shotguns kept loaded behind the bar.”
“Probably the most effective system,” Hick remarked.
Joe pointed to a nasty-looking puddle a few feet away from the front grille of the car. “Is that vomit?”
“To be specific, a semidigested cheeseburger, chili fries, and lots of whiskey,” the ME reported.
“Who was the precious owner?” Hick asked.
“According to one of the first responders, the young man who found the body puked his guts up,” Holstrom said. “Here, then three times inside. Fortunately they keep a bucket handy for just that purpose.”
“Where’s he now?” Joe asked.
“Still in there. Being made to cool his heels till you arrived.”
“Am I done here?” the ME asked.
Joe thanked him and then, mostly out of spite, reminded him that the autopsy report was an important factor to their investigation. Huffing complaints, the pathologist stamped away.
Joe turned to Holstrom. “Nice guy.” Then, “Under the heading of ‘What the fuck happened?’ do you have anything useful to tell us?”
Holstrom absently scratched a spot on his cheek that looked like a fresh mosquito bite. “Not much, I’m afraid. The car is registered to Jordan Bennett. It was found unlocked, but all the doors were closed when first responders arrived. A deputy is going to dust it for prints, but, honestly, I don’t think she ever got in it after exiting the bar.”
Joe said, “So she left with whoever popped Mickey?” Since neither of the other two agents replied or offered a differing hypothesis, he said, “Okay then, did she leave with this unsub voluntarily or under duress?”
Agent Holstrom looked over at Hick, who shrugged.
“That makes it unanimous,” Joe said, “because I don’t know, either.” He started walking toward the bar’s entrance, saying over his shoulder to Holstrom, “Notify me immediately if you find anything.”
“Sure thing.”
“What’s the name of the detective you talked to?” Joe asked Hick as he pulled open the door into the bar.
“Cliff Morrow.”
Morrow was in his midthirties, with nothing distinguishing about him except for his attire. He had on a baseball cap, team t-shirt, coaching shorts, and dusty sneakers. Joe and Hick removed their latex gloves and shook hands with him. As they did, he explained his appearance. “I coach my daughter’s softball team. We were celebrating our win tonight at a pizza place when the call came in. I didn’t take time to change.”
He seemed competent and more than willing, perhaps even relieved, to share the investigation with them. “People around here harbor a lot of ill will against Josh Bennett,” he said. “Homegrown boy.”