The Reluctant Coroner (Fenway Stevenson Mysteries Book 1)

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  “Do you need to know where I was that night?”

  “We’ll probably ask you that at some point, but not now.”

  The two continued a couple of blocks east of the parking garage, where they stopped before a hole-in-the-wall taqueria.

  “Here?” Fenway said.

  “Best food in Estancia.” Rachel held open the door and followed Fenway in. “Carne asada? Chile verde? Chicken? Vegetarian?”

  “Chicken.”

  Rachel ordered, in Spanish, four tacos for the two of them, and horchata. She started to pull her wallet out, but Fenway stopped her.

  “Just got the HR lecture on the appearance of impropriety. Supervisors always pay.”

  Rachel smiled. “Thanks.”

  Fenway paid, and Rachel found a high table with two stools. Fenway sat down.

  “What number are we?” Rachel asked.

  “Twenty-three. You speak Spanish?”

  “Yeah, I was in the Semester Abroad program at UCLA, and I spent a semester in Costa Rica. My dad was freaking out the whole semester at how far away it was.”

  “What was your major?”

  “I doubled in political science and communications.”

  “Let me ask you something.” Fenway leaned forward on her elbows. “If I were to ask Lana Cassidy why she didn’t do anything about reporting the sexual harassment, what do you think she would say?”

  “Oh my God, Fenway. Don’t ask Lana about that.”

  “I’m not going to ask Lana anything. I just asked you what you think she would say.”

  The woman behind the counter called out “Veintitres,” and Rachel went to get their tacos.

  She came back and handed Fenway two tacos half-wrapped in foil. “What would Lana say,” she mused, squeezing a lime onto her carne asada. “She’d tell me that it wasn’t corroborated, and to stop making accusations without proof.”

  “Not what she’d tell you,” Fenway said through a bite. The tacos were the best she’d had in a long time. “What she’d tell me.”

  “Oh.” Rachel thought for a moment. “Well, she’d probably say something about how I’m a very impressionable young lady whose imagination can get the better of her. If I wanted to be treated like a little kid, I’d talk to my dad.”

  “Yeah. I know a little about strained relationships with fathers, too.”

  Rachel smiled and took a drink of horchata.

  “Maybe the two of our dads could compare notes. My dad has been working for your dad ever since he got out of the CHP.” Rachel grinned. “And now I work for you. There’s a kind of, I don’t know, symmetry or something.”

  “Did your dad know about what a creep Walker was?”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t tell him anything. He would have made me quit, and I think this job will give me good media training. But he thinks I can’t handle myself. I got into Princeton and we got into a huge fight about me being that far from home. I finally gave in and went to UCLA instead.”

  “UCLA is a great school.”

  “It’s not Princeton,” she said, wistfully.

  “And you’re back in town.”

  “Yeah.” Rachel started in on her second taco. “I got the job in the coroner’s office last June, right after graduating. I’ll be there a year next month. There aren’t a lot of press releases to write, but I get to do, maybe, two or three a month. I maintain our web page on the county site, too. The rest of my job is a lot of admin work, but I have to start somewhere. Better than some of my friends, who are living in their parents’ guest houses playing video games all day.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Honestly,” she said, conspiratorially, “I’d love to be White House press secretary one day. That would be awesome. That’s why I’m okay with a job in public service, even if I’m only doing a third of my work in actual communications.”

  Fenway nodded. “That’s pretty ambitious.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, let me ask you something. How come Dez or Mark didn’t push to be appointed coroner? I would think it would be great to be the incumbent if someone wanted the job in November. Most people who vote just look at who the incumbent is, and vote for that guy. Especially for a non-partisan position like coroner. How come Dez or Mark don’t want it?”

  “Well, Mark is about two years away from qualifying for full pension. And I don’t think he wants to risk that he might not win in November. We’re in California, sure, but this is kind of a conservative town, and I’m not sure he’d want the pressure to be the county’s first gay coroner, you know?”

  Fenway smiled. “Yeah, I think I can relate.”

  “Of course you can, sorry.” Rachel blushed. “As for Dez, well, she hates politics. She’d hate having to run, and she told me she’d probably shoot her mouth off and have everyone hate her and lose in a landslide.” She washed the last bite of her taco down with the horchata. “I think your dad actually has someone in mind, but just like Mark, the timing’s not right. Some executive at Carpetti Pharmaceuticals, but I heard that they were finishing up the launch for a new cancer drug, and he couldn’t get out of his executive role and onto the board of directors until the end of the year—when he’d know he won—and could take the cushy board role and be the county coroner on January first.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Why, are you thinking of running?” Rachel smiled. “I thought the idea was for you to just keep the seat warm until November.”

  “Yeah, that’s the idea. It’s actually a perfect situation: I was a nurse in Seattle, but I don’t have my license here in California, and I have that one class left in my master’s program in forensics. I can finish the class online, I can take the nursing license exam, and I can collect a decent paycheck in the meantime.”

  “Sounds pretty perfect to me.”

  “Yes, it does. It sounds pretty perfect.”

  They walked back to work in the sunshine. Fenway marveled at the weather: it was a beautiful day, the kind of day that comes only two or three times a year in Seattle. It was warm, but Fenway was still comfortable, even wearing a blazer, and there was a nice breeze off the ocean.

  Lana Cassidy was waiting for her when they got back to the office. There was a willowy young woman standing at the counter next to her, a couple of inches taller than Fenway, with long, straight red hair, and very pale skin with an almost cartoonish amount of freckles. She was wearing a short-sleeved green dress with black ballet flats.

  Fenway checked the wall clock—one forty-five.

  “Hi, Lana. I thought you said we had an hour for lunch.”

  “I just assumed you’d want to get this finished up so you could get started,” she snapped. “Miss Patten and I have been waiting for you for fifteen minutes.”

  “Well then, by all means, let’s get back into it.”

  “Piper Patten,” the redhead said, shaking Fenway’s hand. She had a high-pitched, almost elfin voice. “I work over in IT. I’ll be setting up your laptop, your email, your network access, stuff like that.” Fenway thought she was kind of adorable. The way Migs kept looking over at Piper, it seemed that he thought so, too.

  They went into the conference room. Piper and Fenway sat down, but Lana stayed standing, and started pacing around the table. Piper gave Fenway her temporary keycard, reviewed the rules and regulations documents—in a much more helpful way than Lana had—went over the emergency procedures, and logged into her department laptop—a three-year-old Acer with the Escape key missing.

  “Sorry for this laptop,” she said. “It was the only loaner we had on short notice.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  “Lana, can you stop pacing?” said Piper. “It’s really distracting.”

  Lana shot eye daggers at Piper. “I’m just thinking about where we’re going to seat Miss Ferris.”

  “Who?”

  “Me,” Fenway said, flatly, holding back from rolling her eyes.

  Lana sighed heavily. “Since the office is still cor
doned off, I suppose you’ll have to be assigned that desk in the back. It’s a real pain to have to move that phone extension; I wish you had agreed to start later.”

  “Later? I was told that helping the investigation on Mr. Walker’s murder was a top priority. That’s why I agreed to start so soon.”

  Lana scoffed. “Well, I don’t make the rules.”

  Fenway couldn’t wait to get away from her. “Are we done here?”

  “Yes.” Lana got up from the table. “Come on, Piper. And Miss Ferris, make sure to submit the direct deposit form by noon on Friday.”

  She collected a few of her binders and folders, leaving the rest with Fenway, and left the office.

  Migs smiled warmly at Piper as the door closed behind them, and then turned to Fenway. “Jeez, I’ve never seen her like that.”

  “I don’t think she likes me very much.”

  He nodded. “She’s had it out for you the moment she walked in here. What’s her deal?”

  Fenway shrugged. Rachel caught her eye and mouthed, “Sorry.”

  “So what kind of law are you looking to practice?” Fenway said, turning back to Migs. “You going to go to bat for the defense, like these clowns are saying?”

  “I bet Fenway can talk to her daddy and get you an interview with his oil company,” Dez teased. “Big oil can pay for a lot of Armani suits.”

  Fenway looked at Migs, who was shaking his head.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “Environmental law?”

  Migs smiled. “You should be a detective.”

  “Hey, Sergeant Roubideaux,” Fenway said, “can you help me with something, please?”

  “Ooh, first day and I get ‘Sergeant Roubideaux.’ Settle down, Coroner, I ain’t in my dress blues,” Dez joked. “Save ‘Sergeant Roubideaux’ for my Outstanding Service award.”

  “Okay, Dez, get your ass over here and help me.”

  “Hmph.” She walked over, but was unable to suppress a smile. “Maybe something in between.”

  “So, have we heard from San Miguelito forensics on Walker?”

  “Yeah. They were planning to do the autopsy this morning. They were supposed to do it yesterday, but without a coroner here, and without an investigator, they called yesterday and said they’d push it back.”

  “Think they’ve done it yet?”

  “I haven’t heard.”

  Fenway thought. “Maybe I could call them.”

  Dez shrugged. “Suit yourself. I hear their medical examiner is kind of a bitch.”

  “Well, you would know, Dez,” Migs said, a smile touching the corner or his mouth.

  She ignored Migs and lowered her voice. “Listen, I don’t think Little Miss Cassidy has a problem with you, I think she has a problem with…” and she pointed to the black skin on her exposed wrist.

  Fenway nodded, tight-lipped.

  “So watch yourself around her. She won’t lift a finger to help you with any insubordinate employees.” Dez laughed. “Except if it’s me. She hates my ass.”

  “Okay. Another thing, Dez—there are security cameras in this building, right?”

  “In the hallways, and at the entrances and exits.”

  “How about in here?”

  She looked at Fenway a little quizzically. “In here? Why?”

  “Someone’s going to have to go through Walker’s office. And one of the board of supervisors’ members thinks I’m in cahoots with my dad. If we find something about Walker’s murder that he doesn’t like, I want to make sure that, if there are cameras, I can prove that there’s no impropriety.”

  “Oh, Fenway. Thinking like a politician already.”

  Fenway tilted her head to the side, playfully. “If HR already hates me, don’t you think I need to cover my ass?”

  Dez laughed. “I certainly do, Coroner Stevenson. But if there are cameras in here, I don’t know about them.”

  “Okay, one last thing. Who would be best to help me go through Walker’s office? We don’t know anything about motive, or opportunity, or anything yet, but I think it goes without saying that everyone who worked with Walker is under suspicion. In fact, maybe it should be someone from outside this office.”

  Dez looked a little surprised. “I thought McVie would have told you already. You aren’t just the lead investigator on the physical evidence—you’re the only investigator. Everyone else in the office, and even the CSIs from San Miguelito county, has at least one or two open files in the coroner’s office. We’re not stupid, we know he might have been murdered over some falsified information, or a cop or a tech who took a bribe, or something like that. We could fly in someone from L.A. or the Bay Area, I guess, but we already have someone who studied forensic investigation from outside the area.” Dez paused. “I mean you, by the way.”

  Fenway must have looked as shocked as she felt. “Well, McVie told me that he wanted me to collect evidence from Walker’s office, but I didn’t realize I was the only one who could work on it. I’ve got to do it all?”

  Dez shrugged. “Congratulations?”

  “All right, fine. Show me the latex gloves, the evidence bags, and the cameras, and I’ll get started.”

  “Now?”

  “Well, I’m not sitting on my ass for a couple of hours waiting for McVie to drive me home. Walker was killed Sunday night—it’s already Wednesday. I’d be surprised if the trail isn’t already stone cold.”

  “Oh man,” Dez said. “Walker was a lazy, micromanaging sonofabitch. Now we’ve got an idealist on our hands.” She shook her head. “Were you in the Young Republicans in college?”

  Fenway scoffed.

  “Oh, come on, I was joking. You’re talking to the woman who suggested we get your dad a Derek Jeter jersey to thank him for a donation to the sheriff’s fund. The key for Walker’s office is across the street in the Sheriff’s evidence room. I’ll get it and be back in about ten minutes.”

  Chapter Seven

  Before she left, Dez talked to Rachel, who went into the supply closet to get what Fenway needed. Fenway opened her laptop and searched for the number for Klein Optometry, then picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Klein Optometry.”

  “Fenway Stevenson for Dr. Klein.” She was put on hold, but not for very long.

  Dr. Klein picked up. “Now listen, Miss Stevenson. You cannot call my place of work to harass me. Those were perfectly legitimate questions—”

  “Hang on, Dr. Klein. I’m not calling to harass you. I’m calling you to tell you that I’m starting to collect some evidence regarding Mr. Walker’s homicide, and I want to inform you of some things regarding the case.”

  “Inform me?”

  “Yes. It turns out that all the forensic investigators within a hundred-mile radius have files from open cases in Mr. Walker’s office, so there’s a conflict of interest. Luckily, I do not have any paperwork or files in his office. It looks like they’ve been waiting for me to get appointed, so someone without a conflict can go in there. I wanted to tell you beforehand that I’ll be the one gathering the evidence.”

  “It figures.” Dr. Klein sounded just as displeased as he had while he was grilling Fenway that morning. “Your father’s company is represented in several of those reports, I’m sure. Probably a couple of Ferris Energy employees have files in there.”

  “I’m sure there are, Dr. Klein. You probably have a few Ferris employees for clients yourself.” Fenway bit her tongue, too late, and took a deep breath. “That being said, I’d like to give you the opportunity to get someone over here and record my evidence collection. It can be you, if you want, and you’re welcome to bring a video camera if you have one—to be sure everything is on the up-and-up.”

  “How do I know you haven’t already hidden whatever evidence you have in there, and this is all a show for my benefit?”

  She paused. “Well, I guess you don’t. The door is locked. The key is being held in a separate office, and there are cameras in the hallway. There’s been police tape in front of the do
or since Monday morning—before I got here. But it’s not like there’s an armed guard standing watch over it.” She shrugged, even though Klein couldn’t see her do it. “I don’t know, Dr. Klein, you obviously don’t trust me, which is fine. I might not either, in your shoes. Is there something you’d suggest besides auditing it yourself?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. She could almost hear the gears turning in Dr. Klein’s head. Finally, he spoke. “I have patients to see, and if you’re hiding something, you would have already hidden it. If you’re on the ‘up-and-up,’ as you say, I guess I appreciate the call. But if you’re not, me getting a video camera and taping you isn’t going to catch anything you’ve already done. Goodbye, Miss Stevenson.” He hung up.

  “All right then.” Fenway looked at the phone before she put it back in her purse.

  Rachel came over to her desk with three boxes of blue nitrile gloves, evidence bags, ID tents, and some other equipment. “Long cuff or regular?” She pushed the boxes of gloves toward Fenway.

  Fenway thought back to her two evidence gathering classes. “Regular.” She grabbed two medium-size, regular-cuff gloves and put them on.

  Migs piped up. “Can I watch? I’ve always wanted to watch how professionals gather evidence.”

  She laughed. “Migs, I wasn’t a professional investigator until about four hours ago. You’re not going to learn anything from me. Feel free to watch, but be sure to yell at me if you think I’m doing something legally questionable.”

  Dez came back. With her was a young officer, wearing the sheriff department’s black uniform, his skin pink from what looked like a mild sunburn, and a military-style short haircut. “Officer,” Fenway nodded to him. She picked up the evidence baggies and envelopes.

  He walked over to the office, took the key out and unlocked the door before turning back to Fenway. “Okay, ma’am, there you go.”

  “Thanks.” Fenway ducked under the police tape and sighed. Twenty-eight years old, Fenway thought, and I just got ‘ma’amed.’

  He stood there.

  “You waiting for a tip?” Dez said.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well go on then.”