Dying For Revenge (The Lady Doc Murders Book 1)

by Barbara Golder

  I never got to find out. I heard a loud crack from behind us, and then a second in the general direction of St. Pat’s, then heard screams from up ahead. Before I could connect the sounds, Connor pushed me to the ground and elbowed me roughly into place beneath the heavy and overhanging branches. There were no more of the sharp sounds, but the screaming continued amid a rush of other noise: slamming doors, gunning engines, bikes clattering to the ground, and running feet. I counted the pounding beat of my heart and took deep breaths to quiet it. Hard to do, pinned as I was by the bulk of the man beside me.

  One minute, perhaps, then two, three. The close quarters became even tighter, and I felt panic rising, my heartbeat escalating in spite of my mental admonitions to relax and the deep breaths I took. I squirmed, a rock prodding me squarely in the breast-bone, grass and a bit of dirt in my mouth and a dangling twig tickling the back of my neck. I mentally counted seconds, trying to judge the time.

  “Stay put, you damned fool,” Connor hissed. “Do you not know the sound of gunfire when you hear it?”

  I felt him adjust his position and began to sort the sounds out. There were no more of the ordinary sounds of the street which had otherwise gone quickly and ominously quiet; even the screaming had stopped. There were no more footsteps, no crunch of bike tires on gravel, no idle chatter. Then from the distance, a bullhorn telling people to evacuate the area, and more distant, a siren.

  “Coals to Newcastle,” I heard Connor grumble. “Not a soul outside except for you and me.”

  Just then, my cell phone vibrated on my hip. Connor’s bulk had me neatly pinned against the trunk of the biggest lilac tree, and I had to maneuver to retrieve it. My hand brushed against his shirt. With no small amount of pleasure, I elbowed him in the ribs for space. He grunted and shifted, but kept himself between me and the street. I rolled onto my side and lifted my head just enough to extract myself from the bush and to bring the phone to my ear. I already knew who was calling and what it was about. I just didn’t know who was dead yet.

  **********

  Half an hour later, Eoin Connor and I were sitting in the marshall’s office waiting to make statements. The unfortunate victim had not even made it to Telluride Medical Center. Cosette Anira — a stunning brunette heiress and fixture on the glossy pages of the local lifestyle magazines as both model and accomplished local real estate agent—had bled out in the street just as the ambulance arrived. I’d made a cursory examination of the body at the scene, Eoin Connor standing far enough away to be discreet, close enough to know what I was doing. I sent him two steps backward with a sharp word, and a deputy closed ranks to keep him at bay. I despise voyeurs at a scene. The dead should at least have the dignity of eyes turned away.

  The woman had died of one dead-on shot in the middle of the chest, another grazing her neck, ripping a hole in the blood vessels that pumped blood out at an alarming rate and sucked air in fast enough to stop her where she stood. I’d find a hole in the heart, a pericardium full of blood and a froth of air that stopped her heart cold in a matter of a few beats when I autopsied her later that afternoon. I hoped I’d also find an intact bullet. I was laying mental odds that it was a .22. From what the deputies were able to tell me, she had been walking up the street when she was hit. I had been right about the general origin of the shot.

  Connor walked with me to the marshall’s office after he apologized, both for his teasing and for his insensitivity. I should have thanked him for his instinctive protection, but I did not. Instead, I wondered why he responded so viscerally to the sound of the shots before there was time to think. It bespoke an unsettling familiarity with gunfire. There were layers to this man, it seemed, and not all of them good.

  Now we sat side by side in uncomfortable chairs, in silence, waiting to be called. At length, Connor cleared his throat and tried again at ordinary conversation.

  “A friend of your husband, you said back there. Your husband’s favorite whiskey, you said last night. And a family. You’re married, then?”

  I was surprised at the details he remembered. Making mental inventory was a habit of mine, one I often regretted, but not one I saw in most other people, who were generally so wrapped up in themselves that information about someone else went totally unremarked.

  “Widowed.”

  He looked sideways at me, and I saw his expression from the corner of my eye. It was kind.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” My voice was sharp and hard. I wanted to make it abundantly clear that this was a closed subject, a boundary he would not be permitted to pass.

  Connor was persistent but not stupid. He dropped the subject and moved on.

  “I was hoping to get a look at that file this afternoon. Have you had the chance to look at it?”

  I nodded. “Ben brought it up this morning. It’s on my desk. Not much there, really, despite what your source told you. But you’re welcome to it. You can stop by when you’re done here.”

  “Would you have time to take a look at it with me?”

  “I told you it isn’t one of my cases. I won’t be any help.”

  The last thing I wanted was to spend the afternoon with this man, with his uncomfortable insights and all-too-charming tongue. I knew I needed to keep him at arm’s length, or even further, and something told me that might be difficult.

  “Consider it an act of Christian charity.”

  I looked askance at him.

  “I’ve never gone through one of these files but that there was something to throw me off. I’d consider it a kindness if you’d spare the time to answer my questions.” He paused. “I’ll be happy to pay you, since it isn’t your case. Consider it a consulting job.”

  My sideways glance told me the good humor had vanished from his face. It was set and hard; he was clearly annoyed, almost as though I had delivered a personal rebuff.

  I hastened to make amends, which is how I ended up with Eoin Connor in my office for the rest of the afternoon. Worst of all, I was trapped in the office with him. The marshall had difficulty finding the victim’s next of kin. One of my personal rules is not to put knife to body until the nearest and dearest have been notified. I’d violated that rule in the Houston case, and it had bought me lawyer trouble. I wasn’t going to violate it again.

  Connor was a model visitor for the most part, asking occasional questions but otherwise so quiet that, had I not stolen the occasional look from my own work, I would not have known he was there. I had just made one such glance when he looked up himself and caught my eye. He grinned as if to say “Caught you!” then stood and stretched, the file in an untidy heap on the coffee table.

  “You’re right about the case,” he admitted. “The facts seemed pretty simple to me on first glance, and there’s nothing in this file that changes my mind. In a way, it’s too bad for me. Better reading when there’s something wrong in the investigation, but this looks pretty simple.”

  His comment irritated me, even though I hadn’t had anything to do with this case and had no particular dog in this fight. Most of us in the business of investigating crime are committed and capable. I take exception to people who view us as either dupes or goobers.

  “I’m glad it meets with your standards,” I said dryly. “Though I am sorry that the meticulous nature of my predecessor means that you’ve wasted your time on this book.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Connor countered, face still pleasant. “I just said it makes better reading and an easier sell if there’s a controversy about the evidence. Ever since the O.J. trial and all those true crime shows, the average man fancies himself a forensic expert. And it’s just human nature to want to catch the expert in an error. Do that and you’re guaranteed a bestseller. Turn it back around and prove that justice was served anyway, and you’ve got a movie or a mini-series. People still like to see right win out, vast amount of noisy sentiment to the contrary.”

  “You couldn’t prove it by me,” I said, then changed tacks, because I didn’t like
the route my train of thought was taking. “So what do you do now?” I was curious in spite of myself.

  Connor bent to reassemble the file, tapping the papers back into neat order and handing it to me before answering. “Sure, a mistake makes better reading and an easier book. But the real story is never the science; it’s the psychology. People read about murders for two reasons. Either they are simply nosy, and the story is nothing more than written gossip, or they want to reassure themselves that that sort of thing could never happen to them. They want to know that there’s something really abnormal about murderers, that they’re safe in their homes and in their friendship. Which, around here, these days, doesn’t seem to be the case.”

  A quiver went up my spine, and a knot formed in my stomach. I wondered when he was going to broach the subject of the series of killings stacking up in town. I had moved to Telluride to be safe, and it seemed murder was following me far too closely. I narrowed my eyes in aggravation. This man had a knack for treading on forbidden ground and doing so in a way that I found exceptionally irritating. My hospitality was at an end, and I wanted him out of my office.

  “Murders happen every day. Ordinary people, ordinary means.” I was stretching and I knew it.

  “People ordinarily get gunned down in broad daylight in Telluride? News to me!” Connor had cocked an eyebrow and his look was a challenge. He had caught me out and he knew it. I shot him a hard look, but didn’t answer. He backtracked with a faint grin on his face, as though he knew full well what he was doing and he was enjoying sparring with me. Putting together three shooting deaths with the information Ben had given me, not only did we have a serial killer, we had one who was rapidly decompensating. The killings were alarming, more frequent, and chancy.

  “No, I suppose they don’t,” I said cautiously, but with enough ice in my voice that I hoped he would take the hint and drop the subject. I had not sorted out this series in my own mind yet, and it worried me. I knew from experience there would be more killings, and there was nothing I could do to prevent them. I had no thread that tied the bodies together, other than a crack shot with a .22 and an animus towards the rich and famous. Mostly, it seemed, the rich. Although these folks had some notoriety, it was mostly local and secondhand, family fame, not personal.

  “You’re right of course,” he admitted. “Most of them are. Ordinary, I mean. That’s why I don’t write about most murders. I choose my cases very carefully, either for the victim, the killer, or sometimes the survivor. Something readers will either identify with or recoil from, sometimes both.”

  I took the folder from his hands. “Well, good luck.”

  “Thanks. Can I get a copy of the file to take back? It makes fact-checking easier.”

  I nodded and picked up the phone. “Ben? Can you come make a copy of this file for Mr. Connor?”

  Ordinarily, I would have asked Tina, but she had taken the afternoon off for a doctor’s appointment. And besides, I knew that Ben would relish the chance to have a few minutes with Eoin Connor. He’d bent my ear at great length about the man at breakfast the morning after Connor — and Isa and the rest — had appeared on my doorstep, obviously the result of Ben’s plotting to slide Connor in with the women.

  I had barely replaced the phone when Ben appeared at my door, striding into the room with vigor, a half-eaten sandwich in his left hand. He extended his other hand to Eoin Connor, big grin on his face. I watched as I always watched my children — waiting to see how this man treated my son.

  Connor extended his hand in return, as though my Ben were an old and respected associate.

  “Good to see you again,” he said.

  Ben glowed, hesitated a minute, then turned to me to take the file.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” he said more to Connor than to me, and backed out the door, taking another bite of sandwich as he went, his attention never leaving the writer.

  Connor turned to me once Ben was out of the room.

  “Learning the family business, is he?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Not really. Ben’s a college student, studying computers, information technology. He’s helping set up a new archive system for the center. He’ll be back at Tech in the fall.”

  “That’s the calling of the day, isn’t it? Did none of your children follow you into medicine?”

  I remembered that he’d seen a photo of us all when he’d come by a few nights earlier. His innocent, conversational question felt intrusive, but I answered anyway.

  “Only Beth. One older than Ben.”

  “The rest?”

  “Two in seminary. One housewife. One carpenter. One in med school. And Ben.”

  It was the minimum civility required, and I would say no more. I was spared the need when the power in the building went out, leaving the office in shadow, the only light filtering in from the long, rectangular windows in one wall.

  “Well, now,” Connor started, but I interrupted him, irritated about the inconvenience, but happy for an excuse to eject Connor from my office.

  “This happens now and again. It’ll be a while before it comes back on.”

  The powers that be had approved a generator for the building after repeated negotiations and once we pointed out the problems of losing our cooler, but our compelling argument only went so far. The generator, whose whine I could hear over the incessant beeping of my UPS, back-up computer power supply, powered only the morgue proper. I saved the work on my computer and powered it down, switching off the UPS to silence the irritating beep. Ben materialized at the door just as I looked up.

  “I didn’t get it done,” he said with some chagrin, then, hopefully, “Maybe I can bring it to your place later on tonight?”

  He was looking at Eoin Connor who regarded him like an indulgent uncle. I hurried to forestall that possibility. Somehow I didn’t want my son striking up a friendship with this man; it disturbed me on too many levels. Not the least was my innate horror at Ben’s finding friendship with a man other than his dad.

  “I’m sure Mr. Connor will come back later to pick it up. Give me your number, and I’ll have Tina call you when it’s ready.”

  Connor fished in his pocket and produced a card with a cell number with an unfamiliar area code but a local address, one in Mountain Village.

  “I’m renting a place at Sunrise,” he said, naming one of the newer condo developments that overlooked the slopes. “Nice little place, not but a few steps from the local bar.”

  I scowled a bit to put him off as I put the card under a weight on my desk, then shooed Ben and Eoin Connor out of my office.

  We emerged from the dim interior of the building into a brilliant summer afternoon. The streets ordinarily would have been full of the denizens of Telluride, gathering in groups on corners and around, chatting casually with each other, the power outage having provided a universal and welcome town coffee-break, but today they stood huddled together in doorways and in the shadows of overhangs, clearly needing to be outside, but wary of becoming a shooter’s target. I saw one brave soul cross the street heading toward the bakery. His walk was hurried, and he soon broke into a trot, taking the steps to the cockeyed screen door in a graceful leap.

  I turned to ask Ben a question only to find that he and Connor, deep in conversation, were already half a block down the street, headed in the direction of Town Park, Connor tamping tobacco into a pipe as he walked. They were the very image of unconcerned Telluride, from the days before the killings that now seemed to be our daily portion.

  Funny how easily the routine fades away in the face of fear, I thought as I steeled my nerves at the sight of them walking in the open. There’s already been one killing today. There won’t be another. Please God, not another.

  I saw Ben’s hands gesturing animatedly as he talked, a trait he inherited from me. Connor’s head was cocked in his direction, and he matched Ben stride for stride. I turned back and headed in the opposite direction, forcing myself to walk in the open to prove to myself that they
were safe, cold in spite of the warmth of the pleasant afternoon.

  *********

  Pete Wilson loitered in the shade of the grocery across the street from the Center, leaning casually against the wall as he watched Jane Wallace emerge in the company of her son and Eoin Connor. She didn’t look happy. Then again, she never looked particularly happy in Wilson’s experience, and another murder was not going to improve anyone’s mood. He was surprised to see her turn away from the men and walk west, right in the middle of the street. Not that there was too much traffic to worry about. He watched her until she turned right and disappeared around the corner.

  Dragon Lady’s gone, he thought to himself. Might be a good time to poke around.

  He sauntered across the street and pushed open the big glass doors, framing up what he planned to say to sweet-talk the receptionist. As it turns out, there was no need. The desk was vacant, no sign of her frizzy little head.

  Probably gone to the bathroom, he thought.

  He strode to the double doors with the red sign that said “Authorized Personnel Only.” Hoping that the power failure meant that the electronic locks were disabled, he pushed tentatively against them. They gave and he slid through, hoping that the staff, like everyone else in Telluride, was taking advantage of the situation and enjoying a little break. Outside. He paused, listening for sounds of occupancy. Nothing.

  The morgue was at the end of the main hall, steel doors still lit by the lights in the ceiling. He could hear the generator behind the doors and wondered for a moment why it didn’t power the circuit for the doors. His good luck, he decided. He debated getting an image of this latest victim in the morgue, but only for a moment. No sense courting jail. He already had a shot of the victim from the street, taken as the EMTs loaded the body into the ambulance. Better to exploit this unexpected access in more subtle ways.