by Lisa Regan
Until the screaming started.
Chapter Three
Before Josie’s brain had a chance to catch up with her body, her feet were propelling her forward, deeper into the cemetery toward the sound of a woman shrieking. As she dodged through headstones and up to the crest of a hill, the cries became louder. They weren’t the keening wails of grief, Josie realized, but the sharp, serrated screeches of shock and horror. Scrambling down the other side of the hill, Josie’s sneakered feet slid along the soft, overturned ground where someone had recently been buried. She fell backward, arms flailing, but caught herself on a nearby stone. Righting her body, she saw the source of the commotion: a woman in khaki shorts and a purple T-shirt standing among the gravestones. Her hands clutched at the dark hair on either side of her head. Her body curled in on itself even as she stood, as if protecting herself from some sort of attack. A bouquet of colorful flowers lay discarded on the ground at her feet.
Josie ran ahead. Sweat poured from her brow. The woman turned as Josie reached her. “Help!” she hollered. “There’s something wrong with her! She needs help!”
Josie looked beyond her to where a second woman sat beside a headstone. Her legs were folded beneath her, and her arms wrapped loosely around her waist. At first, Josie didn’t understand what had alarmed the first woman so much. A step closer brought the kneeling woman’s face into focus. Her head was canted to the right. Some of her long brown hair was matted to her left cheek. The rest of it hung limply over her shoulders, mussed in some places and knotted in others. Although her skin was pink and vibrant, her eyes were fixed and lifeless, staring straight ahead. A breath shuddered through Josie’s body as she tried to process the tableau before her. The woman looked alive, almost normal—except for her eyes—as though she’d dozed off in a seated position and her head had lolled, or as though she were meditating. Except that she was dressed in business attire. A silky, short-sleeved cream-colored blouse, light gray skirt, torn nylons, black flats. That telltale bump on her nose was barely noticeable, except that Josie had been looking at this face on the news for the past three days.
Krystal Duncan.
Here she was, dressed as though she’d come from work. But Josie knew she’d been missing for three days. If there was any doubt in Josie’s mind, a quick glance at the headstone beside her squashed it. Bianca Duncan, it read, Beloved Daughter.
Hands pushed at Josie’s shoulders, urging her forward. “Help her!” the living woman screamed. “Something’s wrong with her! Can’t you see?”
Josie stumbled closer, already knowing that there was no help she could offer the woman kneeling before them. She had seen enough dead bodies in her time as a police officer to know that it was too late. Still, to pacify the hysterical woman behind her, Josie leaned over and pressed two fingers into the dead woman’s throat. As she suspected, no pulse. Gently, Josie nudged one of her arms. It didn’t budge. She was in full rigor, which meant she’d been dead at least two hours, maybe more. There was also something on her lips. Froth? Josie wondered. She leaned in to get a better look. Not froth. Something else.
Josie’s heartbeat skidded to a halt and then kicked back into overdrive.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” came a voice from behind Josie. “Why does she look like… like that?”
Josie stood and herded the woman away from the body. She pulled her phone from the pocket of her shorts. Her fingers dialed a 9, then a 1, and froze. If she called 911 or even dispatch, the call would go out over the police scanner, which the local press routinely monitored. Krystal Duncan’s disappearance had garnered a great deal of press coverage. Not only because of Denton’s sordid history with missing women but also because she was the mother of a girl who had been killed in a tragic school bus accident two years ago, and the trial of the bus driver was only weeks away. Josie cleared the numbers and instead, called Noah directly. “I need units,” she said when he answered. “At Vincent Williams cemetery. I’ve got a body. I’m pretty sure it’s Krystal Duncan. Female, mid-thirties. Suspicious circumstances.” She looked around them and tried to fix their location so she could tell Noah where to find them. Once she gave a general description, she said, “We need the Evidence Response Team, an ambulance for transport, and Dr. Feist.”
Dr. Anya Feist was the county medical examiner. Noah said, “We’ll be there in ten.”
“Keep it off the radio,” Josie instructed. “Unless you want the press crawling all over this place.”
“You got it.”
Josie pocketed her phone after hanging up. “Miss,” Josie said to the other woman. “We need to get away from here.”
She pointed to the body. “What’s wrong with her? Why is she just sitting like that? How is she—how can she be dead? What happened to her? What’s that… what’s on her mouth?”
“What’s your name?” Josie asked instead of answering her questions.
For a second, the woman looked dazed. She blinked twice and focused her gaze on Josie. “Dee,” she said. “Dee Tenney.”
Josie took hold of one of Dee’s elbows and walked her several feet from the body, turning her away from the spectacle. Beads of sweat dotted Dee’s upper lip. Her skin took on a slightly green hue. Josie wished she had some water with her, but she didn’t. The best she could do was get Dee into the shade beneath a large oak tree nearby. “Dee, let’s wait here for my colleagues.”
Dee rested her back against the tree trunk and used a forearm to swipe away the sweat on her face. She looked Josie up and down. “Colleagues?” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re that detective, aren’t you?”
In the small city of Denton, Josie had gained some fame and notoriety for having been instrumental in solving several cases so scandalous that they had made national news. Between that and her own shocking family history, which had been featured on Dateline, she was often recognized by strangers.
Josie opened her mouth to speak but Dee continued, “No, wait, you’re the reporter. You have to be the reporter. Why else would you be here?”
Josie held up a hand. “You were right the first time. I’m a detective with Denton PD. My twin sister, Trinity Payne, is a journalist. She lives and works in New York City. Dee, my team will be here in a few minutes. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Dee looked over Josie’s shoulder, out at the cemetery, but then she quickly squeezed her eyes shut. Her words came out high-pitched and fast, spilling out into the space between them. “Nothing happened. I was here. I saw her. I thought she was just sitting at the grave, you know? Except something wasn’t right. She wasn’t facing the headstone. I called out to her and got no response. I walked over to touch her shoulder but then I saw her face. She looked alive but dead. I don’t know how to explain it.”
“You don’t have to,” Josie said.
Dee kept her eyes tightly closed but shook her head hard. “It was her color. She looks alive,” Dee went on. “But she can’t be. She’s not, right? You felt for a pulse. She’s really dead, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” Josie said. She reached out and gently touched Dee’s forearm. “Dee? Can you open your eyes for me?”
Dee took in a deep breath and on the exhale, opened her eyes again.
Josie pointed to her own face. “Right here, Dee. Stay focused on me, okay? You’re doing great.”
A tremble started in Dee’s arms and quickly encompassed her torso. She hugged herself but maintained eye contact with Josie.
“Good,” Josie told her. “That’s very good.” Josie took exaggerated, slow breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth, her chest rising up and down in an even rhythm. After a few seconds, Dee began to mirror her. When Josie felt Dee had regained some of her composure, she asked, “You were here visiting a loved one’s grave?”
Dee nodded. “I was on my way to my daughter’s grave. I had brought flowers. I got a lot of yellow dahlias this time. She loved those. Anyway, that was when I saw Krystal. It was so odd. I knew everyone was looking for her. I felt
this rush of relief, you know? I had found her. Until I got close… Jesus.”
Tears streamed down Dee’s cheeks, but she kept her gaze locked on Josie’s face.
Josie quickly panned their surroundings and noticed a gray Honda Civic parked on the shoulder of the nearby cemetery road. “Is that your car?”
Dee nodded. “I know there’s a parking lot at the entrance to this place but it’s too damn hot to walk all the way out here from there. I figured it wouldn’t matter if I just pulled over. I was only going to be here for a few minutes. I didn’t expect to see anyone really. Certainly not Krystal.”
“Do you know her?” Josie asked. “Or did you recognize her from the news?”
“I know her. I knew her. My God. She lives down the street from me. Our kids… oh my God.”
Finally, Dee broke eye contact, looking down at her feet. Slowly, she slumped until she was sitting at the base of the tree. Josie watched as sobs shook her body. Searching her shorts pockets, Josie came up with a folded tissue and handed it to Dee. She didn’t press her any further. There would be plenty of time for questions later, after the team arrived and began a formal investigation. Josie wasn’t even due back to work until tomorrow.
As she waited for them to arrive, she turned back toward Krystal Duncan, her stomach twisting as her mind labored to process the scene once more—the unnerving dissonance between Krystal sitting upright, her skin a healthy shade and those dead eyes, that substance clinging to her lips, hardened drops of it stuck to her chin. Turning back toward Dee, Josie tugged at the collar of her shirt. Every square inch of the fabric slicked to her body with sweat. Even in the shade, the heat was oppressive. Josie moved her body so that she stood directly in Dee’s line of sight. What would cause a person’s skin to look so healthy after death? Josie searched her mind for some explanations from cases she’d worked in the past, but it was a struggle to focus. In this heat, decomposition would be accelerated. Yet, Krystal looked as though she had simply folded her legs beneath her and sat on the ground, which meant that she had not been dead for very long. Yet, she’d been missing for three days. Where had she been during that time?
The sounds of tires over asphalt reached Josie’s ears just before police vehicles crested the hill on the nearby road that looped through the cemetery. Josie looked down at Dee, who now held her head in her hands. “Dee? Can you stay here for a few minutes?”
A muffled “yes” came from behind Dee’s palms.
“I’ll be right back,” Josie told her.
She threaded her way through the graves to the road and waved for them to stop. A patrol vehicle and ambulance rolled up first, their lights off. Then came Noah driving his vehicle with their colleague, Detective Gretchen Palmer, in the passenger’s seat. Behind them was the marked Denton police SUV used by the Evidence Response Team. Josie saw the head of their ERT, Officer Hummel, and his colleague Officer Chan in the front. Bringing up the rear of the caravan was an old white beat-up pickup truck that Josie recognized as belonging to the ME, Dr. Anya Feist. They all came to a stop in line behind Dee Tenney’s car. As they disembarked, they gathered in a loose circle in the middle of the road. Josie brought them up to speed and then Gretchen took over, giving instructions for the uniformed officers to set up a perimeter and to stand sentry outside the crime scene to ensure no mourners who might show up would come close. She instructed Hummel and Chan to get to work processing the scene.
As Hummel and Chan dragged equipment from the back of the SUV, Dr. Feist said, “I’ll go with them.” She smiled grimly at Hummel. “And don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your way until you’re ready for me.”
Josie watched them walk off, each of them pulling a suitcase marked “Property of Denton’s ERT” behind them. She was keenly aware of Noah’s gaze on her. “Visiting Ray?” he said.
Josie nodded, feeling awkward telling her new husband that she’d been here visiting her old husband the day before she was due back at work. A day they both knew was a big deal for her. Then again, before they had even started dating, Noah had been the only person who knew about her visits to Ray’s grave. She didn’t tell people because she didn’t think they’d understand. Ray had died a disgrace—corrupt, dishonest, and cowardly—but he had died trying to save her from someone even worse, and Josie had never been able to stop grieving the man he was when they got married, or the boy he had been during their childhood. Once, he had been good. Until he wasn’t.
Noah smiled, hazel eyes twinkling, and reached over to smooth a lock of hair out of her face. His touch was so soothing that she felt like melting into the asphalt.
Gretchen looked in the direction from which they had come. “I had a uniformed unit drive up to the caretaker’s office to let them know what’s going on and find out if anyone saw or heard anything, or if there are cameras anywhere on the premises.” She took out her notebook and pen. “You sure it’s Krystal Duncan?”
“As sure as I can be,” Josie told her.
Gretchen used the top of her pen to scratch her chin. She sighed. “Shit. All right, then. Let’s get started.”
Chapter Four
Gretchen spoke with Dee Tenney for several minutes before sending her to the police station with Noah to give a formal statement. Processing of the crime scene would take several hours, and Josie knew Gretchen wanted to get Dee out of the heat as soon as possible. They watched as Dee handed Noah the keys to her Civic, and he drove away with her in the passenger seat.
Josie said, “I think she might be going into shock.”
Gretchen began walking toward the edge of the crime scene tape. “Noah will keep an eye on her. Get her comfortable, get her into the AC, make sure she’s okay before she leaves the station. You want to stick around or go home?”
Josie kept pace with Gretchen. “I don’t know,” she said honestly.
Gretchen stopped walking and shielded her eyes with her notepad. “You serious?”
A bead of sweat slid down the side of Josie’s face, along the thin scar that ran from her ear to the center of her chin. She rubbed it away. “Yeah.”
A few seconds ticked by. Gretchen said, “You still going to therapy?”
“Yeah.”
Now that they were out from under the shade of the tree, the heat felt more stifling. Josie’s black hair was wet and stuck to the back of her neck. She was acutely aware of the sweat staining the underarms of her shirt. Again, she tugged the fabric away from her torso as Gretchen continued to stare. Gretchen was dressed in jeans and a Denton PD polo shirt and aside from a light sheen of sweat along her hairline, she appeared unbothered by the temperature.
“What?” said Josie finally, unable to bear another moment of Gretchen’s scrutiny.
“Tomorrow morning you’ll report to the station, and I’ll have to bring you up to speed on everything we’ve learned here today. Save me some time, would you? Stick around. You are a witness, after all.”
With that, Gretchen turned away and trudged toward where one of the patrol officers stood sentry at a strip of crime scene tape, a clipboard in hand. Beside him, Dr. Feist waited to be admitted. In her arms were a Tyvek suit and booties. She’d already fitted the skullcap over her silver-blonde hair. She nodded at Gretchen and Josie. The officer lifted his pen to sign Gretchen in but she held up a hand. “Not yet,” she told him. “Wait till the ERT says it’s okay.”
Josie followed her as she circled the perimeter, trying to get a better look at Krystal Duncan’s body. From where they stood, Josie could see strands of Krystal’s brown hair blowing in the breeze. Again, the sight of the mother kneeling at her daughter’s grave—looking alive but most definitely not—sent a ripple of discomfort through Josie’s heat-addled body. Within the crime scene tape, Hummel and Chan took sketches and photographs and laid evidence markers. A flash of brilliant color caught Josie’s eye. The flowers that Dee Tenney had dropped, now wilting in the heat. She’d been bringing them to her daughter’s grave, she had said. But Dee was so young. She couldn’
t be older than Josie—mid-thirties. How old had her daughter been when she died?
Josie said, “Dee knew Krystal. She said that Krystal lived down the street. Their kids—”
Gretchen stopped walking, pocketed her notepad and pen, and pressed her middle against the crime scene tape, straining to get a good view of Krystal Duncan’s body. “Their kids were both killed in the West Denton bus crash two years ago.”
Just like everyone else on the Denton PD, Josie was aware of the bus accident. Five middle-school children had been killed in West Denton on their way home from school. Their Chief of Police had sent Gretchen to the scene to take point on the case. In her late forties, Gretchen was older than her colleagues, but more importantly, she’d had fifteen years of experience working for the Philadelphia police department’s homicide unit before coming to Denton. She had seen more grisly death cases than the entire Denton police department combined. Child deaths were the most difficult cases in their line of work. The emotional toll could be catastrophic but Gretchen, with her signature stoicism, had handled the bus crash with grace and forbearance.
Josie said, “The odds of Dee being here to find Krystal’s body are—”
“Pretty good,” Gretchen filled in. “All the kids are buried here. But I’ll check out Dee’s alibi for this morning and the last couple of days nevertheless.”
Josie nodded. “Who was the last person to see Krystal Duncan alive?”
Gretchen kept staring across the cemetery. “Her boss. She stayed late to finish up some pleadings on one of their cases on Thursday afternoon. He locked up after she left. She was due in the next morning and didn’t show. Him and one of her coworkers called her several times on Friday but got no answer. The boss called dispatch and asked for a welfare check.”