He tiptoed down the side hall, pushing in doors to look inside. Laboratory spaces of various kinds, all pristine and clean. Nothing too promising until the last door on the right. A common office with five desks, four of them neat, one cluttered. It looked a lot like the newspaper office. He wished he could find the idiot architect who decided that common areas like this fostered communication and… what was it? Community. Fostered community. What it fostered was time-wasting and a way for his colleagues to borrow his snacks and his ideas.
Thank God for messy desks, he decided. The four that were clean were also locked, the odd one a goldmine of papers and a clutter of empty drink cans and food wrappers with a half-eaten sandwich lying precariously on a pile of folders. He moved the sandwich and picked up the top folder, a thick one, labeled Putnam. It was an old case; he remembered the murder. Sensational enough, but only because of the people involved. Nothing like these last few days. He laid it carefully aside and picked up the next.
Toxicology on Mitch Houston. A blood alcohol in excess of the legal limit. No surprise there. The man drank like a fish. He made a mental note of the actual number though. It might come in handy.
Two more folders with names he didn’t recognize. Finally at the bottom, he found something interesting. An unlabeled brown folder with a spreadsheet in it and a sticky note written in an irregular hand, a smear of chocolate in the corner. The spreadsheet contained information on four recent Telluride deaths, one a bizarre accident involving an explosion up Silver Pick Road. The note made him read the contents carefully, aloud but in a hushed voice, into the recorder on his phone.
He finished quickly, restacked the folders in their proper order, hurried out of the office and out the back door into the alley. The door closed behind him just as he heard footsteps in the main hall and a man’s voice calling, “Who’s there?” He thanked whatever journalistic gods had his back and forced himself to walk casually down the alleyway. He was already thinking about the headline he could fashion from the four words on the sticky note: All trusties? Serial Killer?
CHAPTER TWELVE
JUNE 11, MORNING
The autopsy on Cosette Anira was as routine as a homicide postmortem could be. She was a beautiful, dead girl with a hole in her chest and her neck and I found exactly what I had predicted the day before. I wondered again who could possibly have pulled off such a shot, on Anira, on Monson, on Webster. A slug from a .22 long rifle —that’s what I pulled out of Cosette Anira — was accurate up to about a hundred yards and dangerous enough, but usually because of the damage it created by ricocheting around the body. These folks had been shot with uncanny skill. I just couldn’t reconcile the choice of weapon with the notion of a serial killer. Mass murderer, really. In either case, shooters tended to use high-powered, high efficiency guns. Not a small gauge rifle, no matter how accurate it could be. It was just odd, damned odd, as my grandfather would have said.
And she was a trust fund baby. Ben’s little discovery was having very ominous overtones. Seven dead and counting. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out we had a serial killer on our hands, odd or not. I wondered how long it would take for Pete Wilson to stir the pot.
I took a break from fretting to sort through the morning’s mail and reports. It was Tina’s daily task to stop by the post office on her way into work and bring the day’s missives to the office, sort and deliver them. There was usually a substantial pile, so much that Tina used one of the big city-style rolling carts to bring back the daily haul.
Not only did we get regular paperwork from all our outlying pathologists, there was a steady stream of inquiries from lawyers needing forensic assistance with various lawsuits. I liked the variety that being a consultant for hire provided, because it meant I got to use more of my medical brain and more of my legal one. The sad reality of life is that there’s not a whole lot of novelty in medical examiner work. Murder is murder, and accidents are accidents. There’s a fair variation in style, but nothing like the kind of variety that the rest of medicine provides. I read the mail with more interest for some than others until a voice interrupted me.
“Can I talk to you?”
I was startled out of my deep thought and put the letter down. No one ever enters my office unannounced; Tina is too good a guardian of the gates. I glared up at the intruder.
It was Marla Kincaid, dressed in white jeans and a simple, roomy tee shirt. She stepped into my office without waiting for my answer, but paused just inside the threshold, looking expectant and a little afraid.
I stood up, pushing the papers I had been reading away with my left hand. “No. No, you can’t. I can’t talk to you. That’s why you have a lawyer. You have to leave.”
I felt an unwarranted panic rising in my chest. She could not be here, not in my office. It was just wrong. I wanted to escape and it was my office. She had to leave. I straightened my spine, loomed as large as I could, and put on my most threatening face.
Her green eyes widened, but she stood her ground.
“I just want to ask you about Mitch.”
Her voice quavered a bit, but she had the look of a woman used to getting her way when she made a request.
“I need to know if it hurt. Did he feel anything? I need to know, it’s important. Please tell me, did he suffer?”
Her voice rose with each subsequent question until, at the end, it was a fragile, tentative, little girl voice, and it threatened to break.
I shook my head, adamant, even with the panic still there. “Miss Kincaid, you have to understand. I will be a witness for the State in your trial. I simply cannot talk to you without your lawyer present. Not about this and not about anything. You have to leave.”
I pushed out of my mind the report I had just read, the ballistics report on the bullet Isa Robles had pulled from the wall. It was bigger than the ones from the gun found in the possession of Marla Kincaid, a nine millimeter, not a .22. And explanation for my niggling concern about the weight of the lead I recovered from Houston. The gun in Marla Kincaid’s underwear drawer had not killed Mitch Houston.
It put a definite wrench in the works. In my mind, Marla was pretty much in the clear, but it wasn’t my mind that counted. I wanted to stay above the fray that was about to ensue when the sheriff and the lawyer got the report. I reached for the phone to call Tina and looked down to dial. I’d find out how this woman got past her later, but I suspected I knew. Tina, bless her heart, was starstruck.
I was three digits into the extension when the sounds of retching interrupted me. Marla Kincaid was an unpleasant shade of green and she was in the process of depositing her breakfast on my office floor. I dropped the handset and hurried to her side, snatching the wastebasket from the side of my desk as I ran. I managed to have it in place before the last bout, holding it in front of her and supporting her thin shoulders with my arm. Great, just what I needed. At least the mess had missed my Oriental rug, difficult to clean and one of the few things I had taken from my old home. From my bedroom.
After a few deep breaths, she straightened up, threatening to drag the back of her hand across her face. I held up a hand.
“Just wait. Go sit on the couch. I’ll be right back.”
I shoved her in the direction of the couch, none too gently, and fled the room at last.
Sudden nausea is not a phenomenon unknown in a medical examiner’s office, and we’re well-prepared to deal with it. I dampened two washrags with cool water and picked up a clean towel, then snagged a can of ginger ale and a plastic cup from the shelf above the sink. By the time I got back, Marla Kincaid was lying on the couch, her head propped on the heavily padded arm, eyes closed, forehead damp. She was even paler than I remembered from the hearing. I snapped the top of the ginger ale and poured some in the cup, then offered it to her.
“Here, sip this. Sips, not big gulps.”
I waited as she drank tentatively. When she had put the glass on the side table, she wiped her face with one of the wet cloths, then I
offered her the towel. Some motherly habits die hard. I squared my shoulders and suppressed my tendency to sympathize.
“Feel better?”
She nodded, face in the soft confines of the small towel. Her “A little,” was muffled by the cloth. She looked up, eyes still watery, caught a whiff of the mess on the floor, and retched again. Fortunately, I had the wastebasket handy. I laid my hand on her back; she was so thin, I could feel every vertebra. When she came back up for air, I handed her the second cloth after she wiped her face again.
“Lie down, put this on your forehead. You’ll feel better.”
I crossed the room, called Quick, and asked him to rustle up the spills kit and clean my floor.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Marla said.
Her voice was tentative; I recognized the reason. In the midst of serious morning sickness, even opening your mouth to talk gets to be scary.
“Sure you do,” I said, reaching automatically and indifferently for her wrist. Her skin was warm and dry and didn’t show any signs of dehydration. I felt absently for a pulse as I continued, “The first three months are the worst. After that it gets better.”
“I’m just so tired all the time. And nothing tastes good. And lately, it seems I can’t keep anything down.”
I smiled, not really meaning it. Her pulse was rapid, much too fast for a young woman her age, and the vomiting hadn’t been enough to elevate it. My mind raced though possibilities even as I continued the conversation in a light and pleasant vein.
“Been there, done that. When I was pregnant for the first time, it seemed like all I ate for three months was crackers and milk. And with Zoe, I was so tired that I took one of those long lawn chairs into my office so that when I wasn’t actually working, I could sleep.”
“Really?”
Marla struggled to sit up on one elbow and took a few more sips of ginger ale. I saw Quick, his bucket, mop and deodorizer out of the corner of my eye. I waved acknowledgement, and he smiled and went to work. He was done before Marla Kincaid put the glass down again. She gave a ladylike burp and sat up the rest of the way.
“I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to throw up on your floor. It’s so embarrassing.”
Civility compelled me to reply, memory made it easier.
“Don’t worry, you have many worse moments in store. Just wait until you are in the middle of a department store and your water breaks.”
Not only in a department store, in the most expensive store in town, trying to find a suitable dress for a wedding a week away, thinking that you have six weeks to go. I remembered the chagrin, then the fear because the baby was far too early. Luke had arrived ten hours later, four tiny pounds, but he’d done all right, and the store eventually let me back in. Best of all, I was spared having to buy a new dress for the wedding.
I shook my head to clear the memory and continued.
“Kids have a way of embarrassing the pants off you even before they’re born. Of course, when they are teenagers, you get revenge—it’s your turn to embarrass them.”
“How many do you have? Kids, I mean?”
“Six. Four boys and two girls.”
Those round eyes got big again. “That’s a lot!”
“These days,” I agreed.
There should have been more, but I’d lost a baby early on and a complication with Ben meant an end to my childbearing days. I remembered how I had cried when I woke up from the emergency surgery to find they had had to take my womb as well as deliver my baby. John rocked me in his arms and stroked my hair as I wept for hours, days, weeks, nearly a year.
“Was it hard? Raising kids?”
She never seemed to get a thought out on the first try, always needed a second shot to make herself clear.
I shrugged.
“Sometimes. They can drive you crazy, but it’s worth it. You’ll do fine.”
What a platitude. She’d do fine if she wasn’t in prison for murder. Which, I reminded myself, she probably wouldn’t be. I was irritated at my ineptitude. There is a reason I deal with dead people.
“I sure hope so.” She gave a small smile. “Maybe I better start reading up.”
“Maybe so.”
Marla Kincaid got to her feet, a bit wobbly. I put a hand under her elbow.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” That pulse nagged at me.
“Yes. Thanks. I guess I had better go. I really am sorry about your floor.” She started away, then turned to face me again. “You’re sure you can’t talk to me?”
I shook my head firmly. “No. Absolutely not. Have your lawyer explain. He’ll understand.”
“Okay. Well…thanks. That ginger ale really helped.”
“Usually does. Keep some on hand. And soda crackers.”
I bent over to retrieve the face towel, and turned to go back to my desk when I caught one last glimpse of Marla Kincaid as she exited my office through the glass of my door. On the back of her crisp white jeans was a spreading red stain. My heart sank, and I felt bile rising in my own throat. I dropped the linens and hurried to the door.
“Marla!” I shouted. “Come back in. Please.”
She was startled, but I’d used my lawyerly voice, and she returned obediently. “What is it?”
I sent a silent complaint heavenward. I had no business taking care of this situation but, under the circumstances, I had no choice.
“Maybe we better have the docs at the clinic take a look at you,” I said as evenly as I could. “Just to be sure. Come on in, lie down on the couch. I’ll give them a call.”
I was never any good at pouring oil on troubled waters. On my best day, I’m not a reassuring person; the kids always went to their dad for that. And this was far from my best day.
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Marla’s hand went instinctively to her belly. “The baby! Is the baby all right?” Tears were already spilling down her cheeks. She looked desperately to me for an answer.
I’ve never been good at lies, either. I put an arm around her as I guided her to the couch again, arranged her on her side and propped one of the back pillows under her feet.
“I don’t know. You’re bleeding. We need to get the doctor to see you, but for now just lie here and let me call.”
She reached out a hand to grab my pants leg as I started away.
“Please, no. Don’t leave. I’m scared.” The tears were out in a flood, and she was already wracked with sobs.
I suppressed the urge to run. I am even less adept at dealing with hysteria than I am with impending miscarriage. Like it or not, Marla Kincaid was temporarily my patient. I sat on the edge of the couch and she grasped my hand tightly, still weeping. I knew too well the cold fear that gripped her, and I knew that there was nothing I could do to make it better. Still, I reached a tentative hand out and stroked her hair. Soft curls, like my own brood, but short and stylish, a cut they used to call gamine-like.
“Marla,” I kept my voice soft and steady, hoping no measure of the fear I felt for her made its way in. “Let go of my hand. I’m going to call Tina and she’ll call the clinic, and I’ll be back just as soon as I do.”
She kept muttering to herself, “What’s happening to me? What’s happening to me?”
Her words echoed in the recesses of my own mind. I wondered for an instant about a woman who worried about herself and not her child. My words had been of fault, not self-concern when I was in the same situation. I’d said them to John when we’d lost our baby, convinced that I had done something to deserve such a terrible fate. Something unforgivable. In his no nonsense way, he’d shaken his head and held my hand.
“Jane,” he told me. “Things just happen. It’s our job to get through them. It’s not your fault.”
And he’d kissed me.
Remembering, and feeling John nearer than he had been for months, I stroked the curls again and again. Finally, she let go of my hand, her sobs beginning to subside. As soon as I called down to the front desk to tell Tina the situatio
n, I was back on the couch. Marla lifted her head to make room for me on one end, then laid her head in my lap, quiet now but still crying, staring vacantly ahead, calm and afraid. I stretched my arm across her form, hugging her as tightly as I could from the awkward position of having the head of a weeping murder suspect in my lap, and feeling sharply, completely sorrowful for her pain. I remembered John holding me when we lost little Emma, and I closed my arm a little more tightly and smoothed her hair again. I was still stroking those blond curls when the paramedics arrived from the Center, and there was a patch of dampness on my lap from her tears.
*********
It took almost two hours for Ben to find the salvage yard. Because Lucy wasn’t there to give him directions, he got lost on the far side of Montrose, amongst interrupted streets that didn't end up going where they should have gone. It was almost noon when he finally pulled through the chain link gate into the gravel yard. A mixed breed dog loped up, tail wagging, tongue lolling, the very antithesis, Ben thought, of the junkyard dog of legend. He stepped out of his Jeep and scratched the dog’s head. The owner, old and wiry, his face tanned by too many hours in the sun, his beard gray and his thinning hair pulled back into an improbable pony tail, held out a leathery hand.
“You must be the young fella from the coroner’s office. Tom Patterson said you'd be by this morning.”
The man spit a stream of tobacco juice into the weeds and wiped spittle from his mouth. Ben was glad they’d already shaken hands.
“I’m Ben Wallace. Thanks for letting me take a look at that car.”
“No problem, son. It’s right over here.”
The man threaded a path through the various wrecked cars, brown dog trotting behind him as though it anticipated a treat.
“Hang on,” Ben called after the disappearing form.
He retrieved a small plastic case from the back of his car and trotted, like the dog, after the disappearing form of the man, his boots crunching the gravel in double time. They stopped in front of a bright orange Hummer, much the worse for wear for having rolled over on its top and come to rest on its nose in the San Miguel River. The windshield was broken out. Even had the shards still been there, there would have been no way to tell whether it was gone from the impact of the car as it rolled down the embankment or had been broken out by gunfire first.
Dying For Revenge (The Lady Doc Murders Book 1) Page 15