“Why would I take some time off?”
“You had a pretty crappy day yesterday.”
She tipped her head to the side. “And what sort of day did you have?”
His jaw tightened and he looked irritated. Good. She didn’t need a sympathy pass any more than he did. She wasn’t the one stuck in some hospital with a bandage around her head or a shattered elbow or a leg she could never walk on again.
“Look, Sophie …” He glanced at the elevator bank, probably looking for Ric, before settling his attention on her. The buzz saw started up again, and for a moment they stared at each other. When the noise abated, she waited for whatever words of advice he was going to dole out next.
“You want to have dinner later?”
She couldn’t keep the surprise off her face. The saw screamed again, saving her from having to respond.
He wanted to have dinner? She wasn’t sure what to do with that. Men hit on her all the time—one of the side effects of a job that required her to be friendly with the public all day long. A lot of guys interpreted her ready smile as a neon sign that said, Ask me out, I’m easy. Cops were the worst, because they tended to have big egos and didn’t need much encouraging. But she sensed there was something else behind Jonah’s invitation.
Then again, maybe the kiss had been the neon sign. Duh.
“We ready?”
They both turned to see Ric standing there. His gaze went from Jonah to her, then back to Jonah again. Sharp detective that he was, he seemed to realize he’d interrupted something.
“Give us a sec,” Jonah said.
Ric pulled off the visitor’s badge clipped to his pocket and put it on the reception counter. “We’re due at TCMEO in thirty,” he told Jonah, before nodding goodbye to Sophie and heading for the door.
TCMEO was the Travis County Medical Examiner’s Office. Sophie knew because she paid attention and had picked up on all the clever little codes people used around here.
Jonah was on his way to an autopsy, and she felt a pull of sympathy for him.
He handed over his visitor’s badge. He was frowning now, and she realized her silence was becoming rude.
She also realized it was Thursday.
“It’s just dinner,” Jonah said. “It’ll probably be late, too, because I’ve got about a hundred things to do before I knock off today. I can call you when I get off, or—”
“No.”
His eyebrows went up.
“I mean, thanks and everything, but I can’t. Not tonight.”
He waited for an explanation, and for some reason she gave him one.
“I have a date already.”
This seemed to surprise him even more, and she felt a surge of annoyance.
“Well.” He tapped his knuckles on the counter. “Good enough. Guess I’ll see you around, then.” He glanced at the door where Ric was waiting on the other side of the glass, then back at her. “Take care of yourself, Sophie.”
“Thanks.” She gave him her trademark smile, one hundred percent phony. “You take care, too.”
John Doe’s postmortem was already under way when Jonah and Ric arrived. The deputy medical examiner was hunched over the grayish body, poking a gloved finger around the mouth.
“Stippling above the lips,” Dr. Froehler said to his assistant. “Fouling visible as well.” The deputy ME gazed down at the burn marks left by gases that spewed from the pistol just after the trigger was pulled. He was obviously building support for the manner of death he planned to put in his report: suicide.
Jonah reached for the jar of Vicks sitting on the counter just inside the door. He swiped some gel under his nose to help with the smell before handing the jar to Ric.
“I hate this place,” Ric muttered.
“Yeah, me, too.”
Jonah stepped up to the steel table, giving himself the same vantage point he’d had this morning when he’d been in here with Jodi Kincaid and then Eric Emrick. Walter Graham had been autopsied in the suite next door, and Ric had stood in for that one.
Three autopsies in one day. It was a career record, one Jonah hoped never to repeat.
“Detectives.” Froehler glanced up and nodded.
“Doc.” Ric replaced the lid on the gel and plunked it on the counter. “The boss knock off early today?”
The deputy ME sniffed, which Jonah took for an affirmative. It was common knowledge that Froehler was the workhorse around here, while the head ME was more of a figurehead. Even so, the man had dragged himself out of bed this morning to perform two of the four autopsies. Jonah figured he’d taken note of all the news coverage and decided he needed to look hands-on.
“Still no ID,” Jonah informed the doctor. “Any tattoos or scars that might help us out?”
“None.”
Jonah glanced at the series of X-rays lined up on the light box across the room. “How about prosthetics? Unusual dental work?”
“His bones and his teeth look normal.”
Jonah and Ric exchanged looks. By the tone of his answer, they could tell something didn’t look normal. But knowing Froehler, they’d have to wait around to hear what it was. This doctor was meticulous—sometimes frustratingly so—and he didn’t venture his opinion without evidence to back it up.
“What about personal effects?” Ric asked. “Anything we missed in his pockets?”
“Just the Timex wristwatch that was handed over this morning.”
“His clothes are over there,” Froehler’s assistant added. “I didn’t find anything.”
Jonah glanced at a table across the room, where some clothes had been spread out. Black Hanes T-shirt, size medium; blue jeans, size 32 X 30; socks; underwear; and a pair of size-nine Altamas in desert brown.
The boots were favored by military guys, and they—more than the shooter’s skill with a gun—had convinced Jonah that running the fingerprints through a military database might not be a total waste of time.
“How about track marks?” Ric persisted. “Evidence of drug use?”
Froehler straightened his wire-rimmed glasses but didn’t look up. “We’ll know when we get the tox screen.”
Jonah gritted his teeth. His fuse was short today, and it wasn’t just because he’d gotten up at the butt crack of dawn to come up here and watch two innocent people get sliced open. “Is there anything you can tell us yet? We need an ID here.”
Froehler stopped what he was doing and gave him an appraising look. “There is one thing.” He moved to the side of the body and lifted the left arm, which was lax now that rigor mortis had passed. “It’s possible he’s recently divorced.”
Jonah stepped closer and frowned down at the hand. No wedding band, but sure enough, there was a faint white line around the ring finger.
“I’ll be damned,” Ric said. “I didn’t notice the tan mark yesterday.”
“Also note the callus,” Froehler said, separating the last two fingers to show them the marks where a ring had rubbed against the skin.
Ric looked at Jonah. “So maybe his wife dumped him and he had a meltdown.”
Jonah stepped back and leaned against the counter. As motives went, it was one of the oldest around. Still, he didn’t like rushing to conclusions. Plenty of men’s marriages broke up and they didn’t all start shooting up campuses.
Jonah’s thoughts went back to the setting, the methodology, the victims. Given the planning that went into the attack, he felt sure the university was significant in some way. Maybe his ex was taking classes there or worked there. They wouldn’t know until they got an ID.
Froehler ducked around the hanging scale and selected a scalpel off a cart filled with shiny instruments. Jonah braced himself for the Y-incision, just as Ric’s phone started to buzz.
Lucky bastard.
Ric checked the number and glanced at Jonah. “It’s Sean. Maybe we got something back from Delphi.”
He stepped out to take the call, and Jonah watched him through the window to the autopsy room. After a few m
inutes of listening, Ric waved him over.
But not before Jonah was hit by a wave of foul odors.
“We got a match on those prints,” Ric said as Jonah stepped into the hallway. “James Himmel, thirty-seven, of Columbus, Georgia.”
“That’s near Fort Benning. He ex-military?”
“Army had his prints on file.”
“So, what’s he doing down here?”
“No idea,” Ric said. “He’s not on staff or enrolled at the college. Sean’s running his credit cards right now, seeing if anything local pops up.”
“He married?”
“We’re checking.”
Jonah imagined some young woman moving down to Texas to start over after a bad breakup. Then he imagined her dead in a bedroom somewhere, like Charles Whitman’s wife.
If there was a secondary crime scene, they needed to find it soon.
“Detectives, you’ll want to see this.”
Jonah turned around to see Froehler’s assistant poking his head from the door. They both hesitated. Whatever it was couldn’t be more pressing than this latest intel.
“You go,” Ric said. “I’ll get started on some calls.”
“I’ll explain to Froehler, meet you out front in ten.”
Jonah returned to the steel table, giving the doctor exactly two minutes to show him something important. A pair of bloody shears lay on the cart beside him. Christ, he’d opened the chest already.
Froehler looked up at Jonah. “I thought I saw it on X-ray and I just confirmed it.”
“Confirmed what?”
“Tumors.” Froehler nodded at the gaping chest cavity. “This man’s eaten up with cancer.”
Gretchen emptied the packet of orange powder into the saucepan and stirred with one hand while reaching for the refrigerator door with the other.
She scanned the shelves. No milk, damn it. She grabbed a tub of margarine instead and made a mental note to add milk to her grocery list—the one that never seemed to get fulfilled.
“Is it dinner yet?”
She shot a glance into the living room, where the twins sat cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by Legos.
“Almost.” She scooped out some margarine and added a dollop to the mac-n-cheese. “Did you girls drink milk today at Mrs. Garcia’s?”
“Yes,” they answered in unison.
Gretchen felt a touch of relief. They might be skimping at home, but at least she could count on Mrs. Garcia. The woman took care of six kids during the day, and her fridge was always stocked with milk and fruit. That and quesadillas had been staples of the twins’ diet since school let out.
Gretchen spooned pasta onto plates, then cut up a hot dog.
“Ready,” she said, ferrying the meals to the table. She returned to the kitchen and filled two cups with water as the girls sat down.
“So.” She sank into a chair. Families that ate together stayed together. Or was it prayed together? Either way, she made an effort to sit with her kids for at least a few minutes every evening. “Tell me what you did today.”
By some tacit agreement, Angela did the talking tonight. “Played freeze tag, watched SpongeBob, and folded clothes.”
“Whose clothes?”
They both shrugged.
Gretchen watched her girls shovel macaroni into their mouths. Their appetites amazed her. It was probably another growth spurt, one that was going to strain her bank account.
“Mrs. Garcia’s clothes?” she asked.
“No. Boy clothes.”
“Man clothes,” Amy corrected.
Gretchen considered that. Mrs. Garcia lived alone, so either she was taking in people’s laundry or she’d gotten herself a boyfriend. The woman was sixty-four and on the frumpy side, so Gretchen guessed this was another one of her businesses. She wasn’t sure she approved of her six-year-old daughters being used as un-hired help, but she couldn’t really complain. Affordable babysitters were scarce, and Gretchen couldn’t have any disruptions at work.
“Can I have more hot dog?” Amy asked, popping a chunk into her mouth.
“Use your fork, honey. And no, we’re out.”
Two pairs of solemn blue eyes looked up at her. They didn’t say anything, which was worse than complaining. Now Gretchen felt guilty. She got up and retrieved the TV remote from the coffee table to give herself a distraction.
News, sports, reality shows, more news. She tuned it to CNN and settled back in her chair.
“Amy, your fork, honey.” Gretchen slid the fork toward her, and she picked it up reluctantly. Her sister followed suit.
“Mommy, what’s a massacre?”
Gretchen darted a glance at the television. It was that school shooting down in Texas again.
“It’s when someone kills a lot of people.”
Both girls looked up.
“Why would someone kill a lot of people?” Angela asked.
Gretchen cast a wary look at the screen. Why, indeed? Why did men beat their wives, or drink too much, or do anything? “I don’t know, honey. Amy, your fork.”
“But hot dogs are finger food. You said so.”
A knock sounded at the door, and Gretchen got up.
“Not without a bun,” she said. “And don’t argue with me.”
She shifted the curtain on the window beside the door and peered out.
Her heart skittered.
A pair of men in army dress uniforms stood on her doorstep. During every one of Jim’s deployments, she’d had nightmares about a scene like this. But Jim was out now, and anyway they were divorced. These men must have the wrong apartment.
She swung open the door and looked them over. Two crew cuts, two pairs of broad shoulders, two stony expressions.
“Gretchen Himmel?”
“No,” she said, her heart pounding now. “That is, not anymore.”
They stared at her.
“Are you the former wife of James K. Himmel?”
“I am.”
Gretchen’s chest tightened. Jim was out. What were these men doing here?
The TV droned behind her, talking about the sniper who’d climbed to the top of that library and shot all those people.
One of the soldiers glanced behind her at the television, and suddenly she knew. Her blood turned to ice.
“Ma’am, we need to talk to you about your ex-husband.”
Oh, no. Oh, Jim, how could you?
She clamped a hand over her mouth and thought about the girls.
James Himmel had spent his final night on earth in the Happy Trails Motel cleaning his guns.
Jonah watched one of the crime-scene techs lift a pair of oily rags from the trash.
“CLP oil, by the smell of it,” Jonah said.
The technician dropped the rags into a paper evidence bag and dipped his gloved hand back into the waste basket. In about the only stroke of luck they’d had in this case, Himmel’s room hadn’t been cleaned yet when Sean called the motel to check on a credit-card transaction. Jonah had his secondary crime scene now, and it wasn’t nearly as grisly as he’d feared.
“Just heard from Sean,” Ric said. “They had the ex in there for more than two hours, and she swears she hasn’t seen him in more than a year. No recent fights or harassment.”
Jonah muttered a curse. Another dead end on the motive front.
But then again, Dr. Froehler’s discovery this afternoon had given them plenty to build on. They were running tests on some tissue samples to confirm it, but it looked as though their shooter had been dealing with not only a recently finalized divorce, but terminal cancer. Either one would have constituted a triggering event that could drive someone to murder. The two taken together were pretty overwhelming.
Still, there were matters left to investigate, the most important being Himmel’s connection to the university and whether he was acting alone at the time of the shooting. Even with the gunman dead and identified, even with Himmel’s immediate family safe and accounted for, Jonah wouldn’t rest easy until those qu
estions were answered.
He stepped out of the way so several CSIs could wrap Himmel’s green canvas duffel bag with butcher paper to be transported to the lab.
“Army or police?” Jonah asked.
Ric glanced up from a pile of bank statements that was sitting on the dresser. “What’s that?”
“Who interviewed the ex?”
“Both. Couple of MPs picked her up, but I think they’re pretty eager to turn this over to the locals. He was let go from the army about two years ago, and sounds like they’ve washed their hands of him.”
Jonah didn’t blame them. He hadn’t seen the news since Noonan’s press conference, but he could only imagine the field day the media was having with Himmel’s military connection.
Jonah had spent five years in the army before becoming a cop, and he disliked anything that reflected badly on the uniform. At the same time, what he really disliked were people who thought they were above the law. The law was the law, and no one was exempt.
“Here, look at this.” Ric held up one of the statements. “Looks like he printed these last week.”
“What’s his money situation?”
“Pretty bad. Nothing but withdrawals for the past three months.”
Ric continued to shuffle papers as Jonah crossed the cramped little room and poked his head into the bathroom for an update. Minh was crouched beside the john, lifting prints from the handle.
“You can bet your ass I’m putting in for overtime on this.” The CSI was ticked, and Jonah could see why. They’d probably turn up fifty different sets of prints in this crummy little motel suite, and it would take an ungodly number of man-hours to run them all.
“Got to cover all the bases,” Jonah said.
“You mean cover Noonan’s ass. I got that.”
“Hey, Jonah,” Ric called from the other room. “Get some gloves and come see this.”
Jonah swiped some gloves from Minh’s evidence kit and went to the bed, where one of the CSIs was on his knees photographing something.
Jonah crouched beside them. “What you got?”
“Looks like a teddy bear.” Ric pulled it from under the bed. On closer inspection, they saw that it wasn’t a teddy bear but a blanket with a bear head on top. The thing had dingy gray fur and one of its eyes was missing.
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