He stepped into the shrubs, trying to peer in the front window, but the drapes were tightly drawn. Sharp’s instincts began to quiver like an insect’s antennas, and he remembered another house he’d approached.
There had been two dead bodies inside and a killer on his way out.
This is a different case.
He went to the garage door. Rising onto his toes, he looked through the high row of windows. No vehicle. Sharp walked around the house, trying to see into every window he encountered. But each one was covered. Who kept all their blinds closed?
No one he knew.
In the backyard, he looked inside the shed but found only lawn equipment. A deck jutted off the back of the house in front of a set of sliding glass doors. Sharp jogged up the steps. Vertical blinds covered the sliders, but a few of the slats were crooked. Sharp could see through the open slivers into the kitchen but saw nothing. He considered the lock-picking tools in his wallet. Was there a door he could break into without a neighbor seeing? On a whim, Sharp used the hem of his shirt to tug on the slider handle.
The door opened.
Sharp stepped inside, using his shoulder to part the vertical blinds. Once the blinds settled back into place—and the neighbors couldn’t see him—Sharp reached into his pocket for gloves and tugged them on. The house had a vacant air.
Sharp sniffed deeply. Something smelled foul, not like decomposing flesh but feces. When people died, their bowels and bladder often gave way.
Was Brian here somewhere, recently deceased?
Something bumped his foot. Sharp jumped, drawing his gun on reflex and pointing it at . . . a cat.
Sharp breathed, his pulse scrambling. The orange tabby rubbed on his ankle, then walked away, looking over its shoulder as if to beckon Sharp to follow it. When Sharp took a few steps in the cat’s direction, it trotted into the kitchen.
Two bowls sat on a vinyl placemat on the tile. Both were empty. One bowl had a few crumbs in the bottom. Brian hadn’t delivered the key to his neighbor. Was he really on vacation?
Sharp filled one bowl with water. Then he found some dry cat food in a cabinet and heaped the other bowl high, enough to hold one cat for a couple of days. He made a mental note to check back if Brian didn’t turn up.
Leaving the cat crunching at its bowl, Sharp walked from room to room, finding the source of the bad odor: the dirty cat box. But he still checked any concealed area big enough to hide a body. In the master bedroom, the bifold closet doors were open. A few of the dresser drawers weren’t fully closed either.
He stopped in the final room, a small bedroom converted into a home office.
An industrial-type desk was empty. Cable and cords trailed along the floor under it, as if someone had taken a desktop computer. Sharp checked the master bedroom a second time. A thirty-something-inch flat-screen TV hung on the wall, undisturbed. Another larger TV hung on the wall in the living room. An iPad sat on the desk.
A robber would not have taken a desktop computer and left flat-screen TVs and an iPad behind. Had Brian removed his own desktop computer? Why? Maybe it needed repairs.
Or maybe Brian had destroyed it. Physical destruction of the hard drive was the best way to ensure no one could recover any data.
Sharp took one more walk through the house, snapping pics with his camera phone. He didn’t see anything that gave him a clue as to where Brian had gone.
Sharp left the house and returned to his Prius. He wrote down all the information he had on Brian Springer. Sharp was stopping at Jenny Kruger’s house in the morning. Maybe she could find Brian’s mysterious vacation cabin on a lake.
Brian’s house had given Sharp more questions than answers. Why was the back door unlocked? If Brian had gone on vacation, he would have had the neighbor feed the cat and pick up the mail. He hadn’t done either. And why was his computer missing?
No, it didn’t look like Brian had gone on vacation, but he’d gone somewhere, presumably with someone else, since his vehicle was still out front. And he’d been in a hurry when he’d left.
Chapter Nine
Grief gathered in Lance’s chest as Tina’s voice faded into quiet crying.
He heard a rustling sound over the connection.
“Sheriff Colgate here.” He must have picked up Tina’s phone. “I’m taking Mrs. Knox down to the medical examiner’s office.”
“Is it Evan?” The words grated in Lance’s throat. Morgan reached over from the passenger seat and gave his arm a supportive squeeze.
“The body was pulled out of the Deer River.” The sheriff’s voice was scratchy and sounded weary. “It meets his rough description, but the ME has not yet officially IDed him. Evan’s fingerprints should be on file in AFIS, but they are not. It seems the original ten-print card was rejected by the Division of Criminal Justice Services, with a reprinting request.”
The automated fingerprint identification system worked well, but it wasn’t perfect. The system depended on good-quality original prints. The sheriff’s department had recently switched to using electronic live scan devices to record fingerprints. Until then, the sheriff’s department had been using traditional ink and physical cards. Evan’s prints had likely been kicked back by the DCJS because one or more of the prints had been smeared. Lance assumed no one ever followed up on the reprint request.
The sheriff continued. “There were several reporters at the body recovery scene. I didn’t want Mrs. Knox to hear about it on the news, so I came right over here. I explained that the medical examiner would notify her as soon as he identified the remains. But she insists on going to the morgue immediately.”
“I can’t blame her,” Lance said. “I wouldn’t want to wait either.” But part of him also didn’t want to confirm that Evan was dead.
“I know,” the sheriff agreed in a quiet voice.
Lance wouldn’t let Tina face the possibility alone. “We’ll meet you at the morgue.”
The Randolph County Medical Examiner’s Office sat in the middle of the county municipal complex. Twenty minutes later, Lance paced the commercial gray carpet in the waiting area. The smell of burned coffee soured his stomach. Morgan leaned on the reception counter, trying to get information from someone on the ME’s staff.
“Conference room two,” the woman behind the counter said.
A few minutes later, the door opened. Tina and Sheriff Colgate entered. The sheriff walked close to her. One hand hovered near her elbow, as if he were afraid she would fall down at any moment, with good reason. Tina’s face had drained to the color of skim milk. Her hands trembled, and her steps were shaky. She looked like she was walking to the gallows.
Morgan went to her side, took her elbow in one hand, and wrapped the other around her shoulders. Without speaking—no words could possibly bring Tina any comfort at the moment—Morgan led her down the hall.
Following, Lance nearly gagged. The air felt syrupy enough to choke him. The staff tried to contain the scents of decomposition and formalin to the autopsy suites, but they seemed to permeate the walls. Lance could smell death, although maybe that was all in his head.
They stopped in front of a door marked with the numeral 2. Lance and the sheriff followed close behind. They filed into the room, the silence as thick as the odors that wafted down the corridor.
Dr. Frank Jenkins came in dressed in clean scrubs. “Please sit down.” He waited for Tina to ease into a chair, her hands clenching the armrests. Then Frank angled another chair to face her. When he was at her level, he gave her his full attention. “First, let me say that I knew Paul. He was a good man. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Tina nodded. “What about—” She choked on the words, but they all knew what she’d been about to ask.
Frank nodded. “I’m trying to identify the body that came in a few hours ago. I can confirm that it is a young man in his late teens with short dark hair. He came in wearing jeans, Converse sneakers, and a black T-shirt.”
Tina’s breath hitched in her throat. �
�Just show me,” she croaked. “I’ll know if it’s my son.”
“I’m not sure you would,” Frank said gravely. “And I don’t want you to see him like this.”
When Lance had been on the SFPD, he’d worked with Frank. Lance had always thought the ME was a cold fish, but Frank had surprised him a few times lately. There was plenty of empathy on his face today. Maybe Lance hadn’t given Frank enough credit. Everyone in law enforcement became hardened as a survival technique. It was impossible to work with death on a daily basis without distancing oneself from it.
“I don’t understand.” Tina’s voice was as soft as a child’s.
Frank gritted his teeth. The ME needed to say something very unpleasant. “The young man’s face is not recognizable.” Frank paused, then finished in a soothing voice. “I believe he was hit by a car. We don’t have his fingerprints for a match, but we should be able to identify him by medical and dental records, which are on the way, and DNA.”
Tina gasped, a desperate sound. She collapsed into herself, weeping.
Morgan wrapped an arm around Tina’s shoulders and spoke to her in a low tone.
Lance jumped in. “Do you know how he died?”
“He had internal injuries but also a single GSW to the head.” Frank tapped his forehead.
Shot in the head, just like Paul. Grief pierced Lance right through the heart. He pictured Evan, his cheeks red with exertion, practicing slap shots on the ice, arguing about Game of Thrones in the locker room with his teammates, smiling when the team had won their first game. The memories overwhelmed him. Lance couldn’t reconcile the teenager he knew with a body on Frank’s table. His throat filled with a sadness so acute that he felt like he was swallowing sand.
Tina shook herself, straightened, and wiped her cheeks with her palms. Her eyes were bright with pain. “I can do it. I’ll still recognize my son without . . .” A sob cut off her words. Her lips flattened, and she took two long, steadying breaths through her nose. “I need to know.”
Lance couldn’t take it anymore. Tina deserved better than being left hanging about her son’s death.
He pushed off the wall. “I’ll go in. I know him.” He’d coached the teen three times a week for the last year. He’d seen him shirtless in the locker room a hundred times. The last thing Lance wanted to do was identify his dead body, but no mother should have to see her son in such a condition.
Frank got up. “OK.”
The sheriff stood. “Ms. Dane, if you’ll stay here with Mrs. Knox, I’ll go with Lance.” The body had been discovered in Redhaven, but if it was positively identified as Evan, the case would be officially related to Paul’s murder and transferred to Colgate.
Nodding, Morgan took Tina’s hand and held it tightly.
Lance’s feet seemed to weigh a hundred pounds each as he followed Frank down the hall to the autopsy suite antechamber. Lance and Colgate donned gowns, booties, and gloves. Lance carried the face shield in his hand. He’d always found the damned things claustrophobic. He wouldn’t put it on unless he had to.
Paul’s body was back here somewhere, he thought with a sick feeling, probably still bagged in the cooler. Was he still waiting his turn on the table?
The smells that had been faint in the waiting area exploded in Lance’s nose as he entered the autopsy suite. Bodies on stainless steel tables lined up in bays. The morgue had had a busy weekend. Acid churned in Lance’s belly.
Frank led them to the last table. “He came in about three hours ago, but we’ve been so swamped, we didn’t match him with the description of Evan Meade right away.”
The clothes had been removed. Lance saw them laid out on a nearby counter. A white sheet was spread out under them to catch any trace evidence that might fall off the clothing. Evan had been wearing a Game of Thrones T-shirt when his mother had last seen him. The shirt on the counter was a concert tee, but he could have changed before he went out.
Lance turned back to the body. A morgue assistant was photographing injuries. The body was long and lean, with the muscle tone of an athlete. Contusions on top of contusions covered the left side of the body.
“Damn,” Colgate muttered under his breath.
Lance had no words. Even if his brain could articulate what he felt staring at the young man’s corpse, his throat was too dry and clogged with emotion to allow him to speak. The corpse’s face was bruised and swollen beyond recognition. Lance stared at the ruined face, trying to match it to Evan’s. The shape of the head didn’t seem right, but the swelling had definitely distorted the features. And maybe Lance just didn’t want to believe it was Evan lying in the morgue.
Lance squeezed his eyelids shut for a second. He was no stranger to death, but he had to do this for Tina. He opened his eyes and scanned the rest of the body.
Frank pointed to the corpse’s forehead. “It’s hard to see, but there’s a bullet hole in the forehead here.” He moved down to the chest. “In addition to the facial bruising, the torso suffered serious damage. There’s significant bruising to the ribs and kidneys. His external injuries are consistent with being struck by a car.”
The sheriff cocked his head. “Someone ran him down with a vehicle, then shot him in the head?”
“We’re just getting started on the autopsy, but that’s what it looks like to me. I’ll call you immediately if the autopsy produces different answers.”
“How long has he been dead?” Lance asked.
Frank pursed his lips. “My preliminary window of death is between two and six o’clock this morning, but I’ll have to confirm that after I complete the autopsy.”
The hours fit the previous night’s timeline, and Lance couldn’t help but wonder, if he hadn’t waited for the police to arrive, if he had gone after Evan immediately, could he have caught up and saved him?
Sheriff Colgate shifted his weight. “Do you think it’s him?”
The hair was dark and short like Evan’s, although it was coated with mud and lake debris. The skin was pale, and like Evan, freckles dotted the neck and arms, areas where the sun had the most impact. Wait. Lance squinted at the belly. Most of the bruising was along the left side. The right was relatively clear. “Evan had an appendectomy over the winter. I don’t see his scar.”
“Are you sure it was visible?” Frank asked.
Lance pointed to the corpse’s abdomen, just below and to the right of the navel. “It was right about there last week.”
Frank moved to the table, adjusted the overhead light, and examined the right side of the abdomen. “No appendectomy scar.”
“Then this is not Evan.” Lance put a hand out to lean on the wall. His gaze returned to the clothing on the counter. Lance moved closer, noticing new details. The sneakers were high-tops, which Evan didn’t wear. Lance read the name of the band on the front of the T-shirt. Panic! at the Disco. Evan was all classic rock. He would never wear an emo band shirt. It was definitely not him. Relief weakened his leg muscles for a few seconds.
“I need to go out and tell Tina.” Lance turned and fled the room through the swinging door. He ripped off the PPEs and tossed them in a hamper without breaking stride. The sheriff followed, but the much older man couldn’t keep pace with Lance.
Lance halted in the conference room doorway, his eyes seeking out and holding Tina’s. “It’s not him. This body has no appendectomy scar.”
Tina sagged against Morgan and began to weep with relief.
As glad as Lance was that the body was not Evan’s, a young man had been viciously murdered. Another mother would soon be weeping with grief.
At the sound of the sheriff’s voice, Lance glanced back into the corridor. Colgate was on his phone. He saw Lance watching him, turned, and walked farther away. A few minutes later, he lowered his phone and walked toward the conference room.
Lance met him halfway down the hall. “Just because this isn’t Evan doesn’t mean this murder isn’t related to Paul’s death.”
The sheriff paused, his face confused, maybe ev
en a little irritated. “Why would you say that?”
“The body in the morgue looked very much like Evan, and he was killed in the same way as Paul,” Lance pointed out.
“Not exactly. Why don’t we wait until the body is identified before we make any associations?” The sheriff brushed past him and continued to the conference room. He avoided eye contact with Morgan as he entered the room.
“Mrs. Knox?” The sheriff stood in front of her. “I’m so sorry for putting you through this. I wish I hadn’t had to.”
She looked up at him with red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. “I know, but now what? Has everyone stopped looking for Evan?”
“No, ma’am. I have every available man on the case.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d like you to come down with me to the station and answer a few questions. I’ve just gotten some information we need to discuss before the press conference I’ve scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
Lance glanced at Morgan. Her eyebrow was up, and clearly, so were her suspicions.
“We’ll bring her to the station,” Morgan said.
“There’s no need.” The sheriff narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m headed there anyway.”
But Morgan clearly wasn’t going to cede control. The police could not force anyone to answer questions. “I insist. Mrs. Knox has a right to have an attorney present during questioning.”
The sheriff’s jaw shifted, as if he were grinding his teeth. “She’s not under arrest. We just want to talk to her.”
“Then you’ve completely cleared her?” Morgan asked.
The sheriff said, “We’ve confirmed that she was working until after one o’clock.”
Which wasn’t exactly a yes. Morgan stood. “Lance and I will bring Mrs. Knox to the station.”
The sheriff was up to something. Lance knew it. But what?
Chapter Ten
Evan’s body jerked. A blast of pain jolted him awake. His pulse hammered in his ears. He tried to scream, but his throat was too dry to emit anything other than a croak.
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