She was smoldering in her center, almost like the flicker of a small flame. She could only moan as his hands reached between her legs. His touch grew more insistent, an urgency in his lips and fingers, and she felt it too. She lifted her hips to him, and when they joined, she gasped at the pure pleasure of it, of him, of their bodies moving in rhythm. They moved together, at first slowly and then building with a sudden urgency until she could wait no more, a fiery explosion erupting inside of her, the thrill spreading out to every inch of her body. Nick shuddered with his own final release and collapsed on top of her, the weight and feel of him its own unexpected pleasure. They both lay there, slick with sweat and satisfaction.
Nick rolled away before pulling her close, her back snuggled against his chest. “This was great, Jess,” he whispered as he drifted off to sleep, the weight of his arm holding her close.
Butterflies flickered in her stomach, but the steady rhythm of his breathing told her he was fast asleep. She’d almost forgotten the magical power of leaning into someone at night, the closeness so soothing, such a perfect end to the day. She was certain that Nick was the one: solid, dependable, and he cared about her. Sam, on the other hand, was older and unattached, and it seemed more likely that what he was looking for was an affair, not a relationship. And as proof of that, he hadn’t even responded to her text.
She woke late the next morning, stretching the kinks out of her curled-up body, but holding onto the warmth of last night. When she reached for Nick, his side of the bed was empty, the sheets cold. She sat up and swiped her hand across the pillow where his head had lain. “Nick?” she called, throwing off the covers, her voice echoing in the emptiness. She reached for her robe, and then she saw it—a note on the small table.
Had to leave for court. Call later.
He’d drawn a big heart and signed his name. Jessie sighed and held the paper close to her chest. How could one night have made her feel so happy?
Her mood lasted through the morning and when she arrived for her three p.m. shift, Donna noticed. “What’s gotten into you?” she laughed.
“Huh?” Jessie asked.
“You’re humming. ‘Unchained Melody’, isn’t it?”
She laughed. “I guess I am humming. I’m just happy, I guess.”
“I can see that. Want to tell me why?” Donna, who seemed stuck in the nineties and hated computer charting, stuck her all-too-familiar pen behind her ear.
“Not yet. I don’t want to jinx this.”
She took report from Donna, and made her rounds. So far, things were, if not exactly quiet, then neither was it too busy to handle. The pace of walk-ins picked up as the ambulance arrivals slowed. It was Black Friday, and most people would be out searching for the next great bargain. Tomorrow, they’d remember their aches and pains, but that was another day and she’d be off. Today would be a good day in the ER. There was a lot to be happy about.
At six-thirty, just as the staff were making plans to order pizza, Tony, an assistant to the state’s Chief Medical Examiner, arrived. “Hey, Jessie,” he said, his voice velvety, “how’s things going?”
Jessie shook her head. He did make her laugh. His real name was Edgar Anthony Jones, a name he’d rejected early, adopting the nickname Tony because it evoked a toughness that Edgar never would. He was solidly built and incorrigible; he looked like he might have been a boxer instead of a technician with the ME whose job involved dealing with dead bodies. More than once he’d asked her to come and see the ME whom she’d helped out with last-minute equipment or medical records, or a description of how a wound had looked before the ER staff had probed it or opened it wider. “He wants you to work with him. Thinks he needs a forensic nurse.” Tony had passed the message more than once. “You’re the perfect woman for the job, for him, if you get my drift.”
“Why am I the perfect woman for the job, or him?” she’d asked.
“Think about it, Jessie. This is not rocket science. You have a pulse. It’d be a nice change of pace for him.”
She’d laughed so hard she’d almost fallen over. But today, Tony wasn’t laughing. “Is it about the job?”
“Not this time, Jessie. Not this time.”
“Did you come for pizza? We have no patients for you.”
He shook his head. “That’s tempting, but the ME sent me to get you.”
“I can’t just leave. What is it?”
“We need an ID on a body.”
“Why are you looking for me then?” she asked, her voice cracking. “I don’t know anyone who’s died.”
“The ME asked me to get you. That’s all I know.”
“Come on, Tony. You know everything.”
“Honestly, I don’t know anything.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “What time are you off? Wanna go out later?”
“You never give up, do you?”
He smiled, his coal-black eyes shimmering in the fluorescent overhead lights.
She shook her head. “Let me tell Elena where I’m going. I’ll be right back.”
She grabbed a piece of pizza and walked across the street, shivering in the cold air and cursing herself for leaving her coat behind. She followed Tony into the morgue, an old brick building that might have gone unnoticed except for the two stone lions at either side of the entrance. He held the door open and she stepped inside, depositing the last of the pizza into the nearest trash bin.
Even here in the large, open lobby, the stench of formaldehyde and sadness, which carried its own peculiar scent, created a fog of sorts. Jessie coughed and wondered how long she could hold her breath. They took the stairs to the second floor where the bodies were stored and the autopsies were done. She trailed Tony along a corridor to the room at the end, and she knew before he even pulled open one of the heavy double doors that this was the autopsy suite, though why it was called a suite as if it were in a fancy hotel escaped her. She paused, trying to steel herself, and passed through the door into the room.
As soon as she crossed the threshold, she could feel it—a distinct chill in the air, even colder than outside. “Bodies like it cold,” Tony whispered. She turned and made a face.
“Stop,” she whispered as a short, wiry man walked towards her. He put his hand out and then, just as quickly, pulled it back and peeled the rubber gloves that covered both hands.
“Jessie,” he said. “Good to see you again.”
Jessie smiled and reluctantly took his hand, the flesh wrinkly and damp. She felt herself cringe, and she slipped her hand away. “Good to see you, too, Dr. Dawson.”
He tilted his head, his neck disappearing into the folds of his autopsy apron, and smiled, pulling his eyeglasses up to his forehead, revealing deep amber eyes that shone brightly, almost too brightly, so that they were almost the yellow of a cat’s eyes. “Just Roger, please.”
Jessie nodded. “Roger.”
He ran his ungloved hand through his hair, the thick graying strands unruly and resistant to his attempts to smooth them down. “Well, well…” he said. It was clear that Roger couldn’t make small talk. Tony was right—too much time around the dead had rendered him socially awkward and timid.
“I can’t stay long,” she said, pointing to her scrubs and hoping to rush this along. “I’m working.”
“And I don’t want to keep you, Jessie,” he said, his eyes glowing, “but someone’s come in that we think you might know.”
Her forehead crinkled. “I don’t think so…”
“Just follow me,” he said, motioning her forward. “Don’t be afraid.”
Jessie took a tentative step. To her right, two male corpses were sitting upright, the metal gurney supporting their backs. They might have been chatting but for the fact that they were deceased, their bodies wrapped in plastic shrouds, their heads poking through. Jessie looked away. She followed Roger into the autopsy room, the shape of a body lying there under a white sheet. Her chest tightened. This was some kind of mistake. She was sure of it.
Tony lifted the sheet up
as Jessie moved closer. And she gasped, her mouth falling open, her hand fluttering there as she stumbled back.
“You know him?” Tony asked.
She could only nod.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Do you need a minute? Would you like to sit in the other room?” Roger asked.
She shook her head. The other room held even more bodies. “No, just give me a minute.”
“Can you confirm his name?” Roger asked.
“It’s Bert Gibbons. He’s a reporter.” A tight knot formed in her throat. “What happened?” she asked. “Heart attack?”
“No. His landlady found him hanging. I was told it was a suicide, but…” He looked back to the gurney. “Well, I’m not sure of that. I’m just now having a look.”
Jessie moved closer to the table where Bert lay. “Suicide? I didn’t know him well, but what I did know is that Bert was not the type to kill himself. Besides, things were going better for him lately. He had a new job in London. He told me he was leaving soon.” She flicked through her memories of Bert, searching for any hint of a man who’d decided to end his own life. But there was nothing there. He might have been a pain in the ass, but he wasn’t suicidal. This didn’t make sense. “Who did you say found him?”
“His landlady. He’d told her he’d be moving out earlier this week. But he hadn’t given the keys back, his mail was piled up and she went in this morning and found him. She called nine-one-one but as you can see, it was too late. He’d been there for a day or two, rigor mortis had set in and then reversed, leaving him flaccid. The police called it a suicide and sent him here.”
“Why call me?”
Tony came forward. “Your number was on a piece of paper on his desk. There weren’t any other contacts that we could find. The landlady said there was no emergency number on his lease either. You were our only lead. Sorry, Jessie.” He rested his hand on her shoulder.
She clenched her fingers and moved back to the table where Bert lay, his face bloated and blue, his eyes still open wide as if in fright. Old blood had collected by his nose, his mouth, even his ears. She felt a surge of bile rise to the back of her throat, and she covered her mouth, remembering the text he’d sent just five days earlier. Had he been in some kind of trouble? Might this have been avoided if she’d only answered him?
“Are you okay? An ID was all we needed. You don’t have to stay,” Roger said gently, moving to her side. For all of his weirdness, he really wasn’t a bad guy. “Would you like some water?”
The thought of drinking water from these faucets—probably infused with the formaldehyde that hung in the air—made her feel nauseous all over again. “I’m okay. It’s just that, well, he texted me a few days ago. I just didn’t expect this.” She forced herself to do what she did in the ER—separate herself from the person who lay in front of her. That was what she did to help her provide care for her patients; she distanced herself. But here, with Bert, it was too late to help him. “I’ve seen hangings before, and, well… do you mind if I look?” Maybe it would help.
“Be my guest.” He pulled the sheet away, and Jessie leaned in for a closer look.
“His arms and hands,” she asked. “They seem so stiff, so unnatural.”
“He was found with his fingers under the rope as if he was trying to loosen it or pull it away. And though the rigor mortis had subsided, his arms were still tightly contracted.”
“I don’t mean to overstep,” Jessie said, her voice a whisper, “but—look at his fingers.”
Roger slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and lifted one of Bert’s hands. “You have a good eye, Jessie,” he said, pointing to the abrasions on his fingertips and the debris under his nails. “They’re scraped and cut, his knuckles too, and he seems to have skin under his nails. Three of his fingernails have been broken off as well. All of that, in my experience, is more likely to be found in the hands of someone who’s been involved in an altercation. A rope wouldn’t cause those injuries.”
Jessie moved closer, her hand on her chin, the unpleasant sights and scents of the room all but forgotten.
“His neck wound is very deep,” Roger continued, pointing to Bert. “Those lines there in the center are more consistent with strangulation. In a simple hanging, the wounds are not so deep and are a little higher.” He turned to be sure she was still listening.
“I’ve only seen a few hangings,” she said. “But I see it, too. This wound looks somehow different.”
Roger pulled his glasses back down over his eyes, peering closely at Jessie. “Another good call,” he said softly, as though he’d been pleased that she agreed with his findings. “I wish you’d reconsider working with me. You always offer a fresh perspective. With your experience in the ER, you’d make a great forensics nurse. I think we’d make a great team, you and I.”
Jessie wondered if, despite his prominent position as the state’s Chief Medical Examiner and principal pathologist, maybe he was really looking for someone to offset his shyness, his awkwardness. It was certainly true that no one had ever called her timid. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think I could be here all the time. I mean, this place is just too sad.”
“Not if you’re helping to unravel the mystery of what really happened to someone. Think of it that way. You already see plenty of murder victims. Sometimes, the whole course of an investigation changes because of what we find over here. It’s worth considering.”
She folded her hands together. She hadn’t realized that her palms had grown so clammy, so damp, probably with guilt. She hadn’t much liked Bert, but she’d never have wished him harm. “I…”
“You look as if you need to sit for a minute.”
A hard lump formed in her throat, and she could only nod.
“Tony, will you take her to my office? I’ll just get started in here.” He picked up his rubber gloves and snapped them on.
“Will you let me know what you find?” she asked.
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Leave your number in my office.”
“Thank you, Roger,” she said as she turned to follow Tony through the doors, up a flight of stairs to the third floor and into a place so different from the autopsy suite, she might have been in another building altogether. The floor was carpeted, soft and plush under her feet. The soft gray walls were covered with framed prints of flowers and streams. But the starkest difference was the scent of cinnamon and cloves that filled the space. She inhaled deeply. “It’s so different in here.”
“This is where we write our reports, meet with police, have lunch. Hell, no one could work down there all the time.” He winked, and for the first time since she’d entered the morgue, she smiled. He threw open a door at the end of the hallway and she stepped inside, her mouth agape. The furniture was dark and sturdy, a lushly cushioned couch pushed against one wall, but it was the other walls that caught her eye. They were covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A rolling ladder allowed access to the highest shelves. She edged closer and saw that he had everything—science, physics, biology, chemistry, forensics—but he had novels, too—mysteries, classics, history. There was more to Roger than she’d thought. It was typical of her to judge first, think later.
Tony handed her a bottle of water. “Take your time,” he said, pulling the door softly behind him. She sank down onto the couch and took a long guzzle of water, hoping to clear the taste of bile from the back of her throat.
Her hands trembled as she set the bottle back down, an empty, gnawing feeling erupting in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t hunger. It was fear. Who would kill Bert? It didn’t make sense. Would a robber stage a suicide? That would take too long. And would the police really investigate this? Sam was so reluctant to look at Hart, though husbands, she knew, were the first suspects when a wife was murdered. Anyone who watched Dateline knew that. He hadn’t answered her text yet either. She closed her eyes, determined to get her bearings.
These were two separate killings, but they were connected. They had to
be. This was too much of a coincidence. Bert knew Rob Hart and now Rob’s wife and Bert were dead. She suspected once again that Rob Hart was the killer. Had he killed his wife and then Bert? And if not Hart, then who? Someone was out there, and they must know about her too. A shiver ran along her spine.
Was she in danger too?
Chapter Twenty-Two
She had to get back to work, but she had to speak to Roger again first. She took the stairs two at a time down to the second floor, taking a moment to steel herself before she pulled open the heavy door and stepped back into the main autopsy suite. Mercifully, the upright bodies by the entrance had been covered over, the stretchers laid flat, but the sharp stench of formaldehyde mingled with the coppery scent of old blood made her wince once again. Although it seemed odd considering where she was, Jessie knocked before she pulled open the door to the autopsy room.
Roger turned as she entered. “I’m glad you came back. I’d like to show you something,” he said, gesturing to Bert’s body, opened now from his throat to his navel, his lungs and heart and stomach visible even from where she stood. A drain at the foot of the gurney dripped with his body fluids and Tony was arranging metal bowls on a side table to collect organ specimens.
She shook her head and turned away quickly, forcing back the bile that crawled into her throat. “I… I can’t,” she said. “Can I speak to you outside?”
“Sure,” he said. “Just give me a minute here.”
Jessie pushed against the door and stepped into the main room, the first hints of a headache pulsing behind her eyes. She backed up to the exit door, so she could leave if she needed to. She whisked away the bead of sweat that erupted on her forehead despite the chill in these rooms.
Dead Girl Walking: Absolutely addictive mystery and suspense (Jessie Novak Book 1) Page 13