He sat at his desk busily writing up everything he could think of that pertained to the evidence gathered so far. Brian knew that if the doctor established the death as a homicide, he would have to contact the Ingersol police and turn it over to their investigative squad.

He had handled deaths before - drownings, an occasional hunting mishap and two particularly ugly traffic accidents, but never a murder. If he admitted the truth, he would like the chance to solve a real murder, after all, this was a small town and the killer was very likely someone local. That realization brought a cloud over his otherwise pleasant face.

Doc Butler came in, dropping his file folder on Brian's desk and flopped down in the only other chair, stretching his long thin legs out to their limit.

"Smoke?" He waved the package at Brian who shook his head. "Looks like you got yourself a real, bona fide murder, Brian." He lit his cigarette with a disposable lighter and inhaled deeply, tapping the file folder.

"Keep smokin' like that, Doc, and I'll also have a suicide."

"Bunk. Bin doin' it since I was twelve and I can still do thirty push-ups and swim eight laps each and every day."

Brian snorted, picking up the file. "Laps. Where the hell do you do laps around here? And the push-ups you're talkin' about are from the back booth at Gillys." He grinned at the expression on the doctor's face and flipped open the file, reading it carefully. "Says here cause of death was multiple blows to the head, but you also found a stab wound in his stomach."

"Right."

"Well any thoughts on that, Doc?"

"Nope."

"Care to help me out with a guess?"

The doctor dragged an ashtray toward the edge of the table and carefully wiped the ash from his cigarette on the edge. "Head wounds are too irregular to determine the type of weapon, but a few less whacks would still have done the trick. Stab wound was postmortem as far as I can tell, so your guess is as good as mine. Death occurred sometime Wednesday night. Can't be much more specific, weather's bin up and down near freezin', so it could even be longer." He finished his smoke and jabbed it out, dusting his fingers and grunting up out of the chair.

"Who would bother stabbing a corpse?" Brian made an annoyed sound.

"Somebody who was real mad, I'd say. Guess you'll be callin' Ingersol, eh."

"Not much choice, but I'd like to have another look around first. Be nice if we didn't need outside help for this."

Butler gripped his jacket lapels and appraised the young sheriff. "Don't go getting' romantic on me son, neither of us is qualified for somethin' like this. I'm a plain and simple country doctor not a pathologist, and you're just a nice young man - usually with a good dose of common sense - time to use some of it." He punctuated his comment with a terse nod and shambled out of the office.

Brian sighed and nodded a silent agreement, his eyes drifting back to the medical report. Still, he thought, reading it over, why not give the Ingersol police the most information possible. Who knows, maybe some diligent work could lead to better things. He grabbed his jacket and keys, tucked the report under his arm and headed out to the official police vehicle, a dark blue, three-year old Toyota sedan.

Three roads led from the highway up into Oak Mountain; one curved northwest from beside the service station, another from the south end of the town and the one Brian was on, which ran straight up from behind the courthouse, eventually curving south and crossing the other two.

The drive to Gough's farm took him through tall stands of pine, spruce and sugar maple, already blushing red and pink with autumn's brash approach; a barrier left to help protect the town from winter winds and snow.

The tar-covered dirt track was the best of the three roads, mainly because it went past the Split Oaks School, an austere, concrete block building identified by an overly ambitious piece of signage provided by Polly Whitehorse, and a spindly flagpole.

Polly Whitehorse was a local celebrity artist and full time administrator of the Nature's Gateway artist's retreat Her celebrity was acquired from having schooled a few aspiring painters who went on to some moderate success in their hometowns.

Inside the main entrance of the lodge-style structure, stood the Gateway Wall of Fame, displaying photos and copies of the works of her star pupils. Supported and subsidized by the community, it shared in the tidy profits generated by the retreat, a necessary income to provide for the needs of the two hundred and twenty-nine (twenty-eight, since the demise of Paynter Gough) population of Split Oaks.

Brian gave a short hoot on his siren as he passed the school. He knew it pleased the kids and annoyed Jenny Asaki, the young, dedicated teacher. Low grey clouds hung heavily over the top of the mountain, the threat of more rain pronounced by their bloated shapes. October was selling rain this year.

Brian slowed by the Gough mailbox, checking for any new contents and was pleased that Horace had been sharp enough to stop deliveries. He steered the car up the rutted track to the house, stopping, killing the engine and just staring at the surroundings. Gough was a slob.

The property was a disgrace; weeds ran rampant around every part of the house and the outbuildings. Discarded bits of machinery hugged the ground, rusting and rotting. The one small area he obviously spent any time at all on was a meagre patch with what appeared to be the remnants of a vegetable garden and even that was now weed choked and decimated by animals.

He climbed out of the car and strode up to the porch remembering the horrible smell from his last visit. Thankfully, time, weather, and wind had corrected most of that. Pushing though the door into the hall he stopped, unclipping his flashlight and beginning a slow arcing inspection with the sharp beam of light.

He and the doctor had covered most of this the first time so most of what he was seeing didn't provide much in the way of interest, but Brian tried to force himself to look with new eyes. The dust on the floor that would have been an important source for clues was reduced to the scuffle and scratching of multiple feet, including his, the doctor's, the mailman and some wildlife.

He stepped into the living room and shone the light on the chalk outline on the plank floor. It resembled nothing more than a large blob with one arm extending away like a stem. He followed the direction of the arm with the light over to a large cabinet tilted against the wall.

He was surprised that it hadn't caught his attention before; the design was so out of place with the rest of the room. Two large, single panelled doors with ornate brass knobs dominated the front, their finish stained and puckered, showing splits in what was once an extremely fine piece of furniture.

It took several sharp tugs to pull one of the warped doors open and the light revealed a tier of shelves with dainty cups and saucers arranged uniformly on each one. This was a poser. There was no way Paynter Gough used fancy china for his bourbon and everyone knew he never drank anything else so whose were these?

Leaning against one side of the shelf was a folded piece of paper and an old postcard with a picture of a tiny kitten tussling with a ball of yarn. Brian turned it over and read: Dear Paynt, looks like Mickey doesn't it? Pity you aren't here, your 'kuddly kitten, Gwen. The date was fifteen years old.

He opened the paper and gasped a sharp breath; it was a handwritten will leaving all his earthly goods to a Miss Gwendolyn Armitage. It predated the postcard. Brian studied both pieces but found nothing that would tell him how to find the beneficiary. He shoved them both into his jacket pocket and began to look around again, this time faster.

The police up in Ingersol would probably have some way to trace Gwendolyn Armitage; Brian wondered if she might have been a local at one time. The postcard was from overseas. Brian started back toward his car then veered to his left toward the barn at the back of the house. They had also looked in there the last time but a gut feeling prompted him to look again.

The huge doors were falling off the hinges, leaving a triangular opening and Brian slipped through into the murky light afforded by several holes in the roof and the solitary window. Nothing looked different; the dirt was dark, and many footprints covered the floor here as well.

A scattering of straw was swept into a pile against what once was a stall, now a collapsed pile of boards. He kicked through it, coughing from the released cloud of musty dust, then shone his flashlight down on the scattered stalks... it reflected the dull gleam of a piece of pipe with straw stuck in dark dried patches on one end.