The Reluctant Coroner (Fenway Stevenson Mysteries Book 1)

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  They got in McVie’s car, and drove to the townhouse complex where Fenway had driven Rachel two nights before.

  “I’ve got to tell you something,” Fenway said, turning in her seat to look at McVie.

  “What?”

  “Dylan may have a motive for killing Walker. I don’t really want to tell you, because Rachel told me this in confidence, and it sucks that I have to tell you, but she was sexually assaulted by Walker on Friday night. And she recorded it on her computer.”

  McVie’s eyes widened. “She recorded it? Like with a camera?”

  “Yeah. He asked her to work late when no one else was in the office, and she got a really weird vibe, and HR wouldn’t do anything. So she set up a webcam, he made his move, and she recorded it all. She made copies of the video, and she told me she put one in her kitchen junk drawer, because she was afraid HR would confiscate the video and side with Walker.”

  McVie breathed out. “Ugh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Seriously. What a piece of shit.” He pulled into a driveway next to a sign that said Scarlet Oak Townhomes. “Okay, Dylan and Rachel live in number 19.”

  Fenway didn’t tell McVie that she drove Rachel home two nights before. “I don’t see any Ford pickups.”

  McVie parked and turned off the car. “Well, it might be parked on the street, but in my experience, people who commit a crime with their cars usually don’t drive it back home. They usually stash the car somewhere. If that’s the case, Dylan’s probably not even here. But you never know, some criminals really are that stupid. What was that you said? No stone unturned?”

  “Fine, fine.” She walked with McVie to the door of number 19 and looked at her watch. It was just past four in the morning.

  Chapter Nine

  McVie pounded on the door. “Dylan Richards?”

  “McVie! You’ll wake everyone up,” Fenway hissed.

  “If he’s not home, this’ll be quick. And if he is home, I’ll quiet down as soon as he answers the door.” He pounded again. She looked up as the light in the upstairs window went on.

  After about fifteen seconds, they heard footfalls on the stairs, then the door opened. Rachel peered out. Her hair was messy and she was in her pajamas.

  “Sheriff? Fenway? What are you doing here?”

  “Is Dylan here, Rachel?” McVie said.

  Rachel blinked, confused. “Yeah, he’s coming in just a second. What’s going on?”

  “Rachel, I think you and Dylan need to come down to the station.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Where’s Dylan’s truck?” McVie asked.

  “What do you mean? It’s right there—” she trailed off as she looked in the parking lot. “Well—Dylan parked it right there last night when we got home.”

  “Dylan’s truck smashed through the wall of Walker’s office early this morning,” Fenway explained. “And they took some stuff.”

  A dark cloud passed over Rachel’s face. “Oh God, did you tell him?” Rachel nodded to the sheriff.

  Fenway was silent, and she looked down at the doormat.

  Rachel put her hands over her face. “God, I’m so stupid.”

  “I’m sorry, Rachel,” Fenway started, “but we’re investigating the death of your boss, and you said I was going to find out anyway, right? And now Walker’s files are gone, and it looks like your husband might be involved, and I know he might have a motive.”

  Rachel looked confused. “Walker’s files are gone? What files?”

  “Can you just get Dylan and come down to the station, please?” McVie shot Fenway a look that said, would you just keep your mouth shut?

  Rachel drew in her breath sharply. “I swear, the truck was here in the parking lot when we got home last night. And I swear we haven’t left.” She bit her lip. “I’ll go get Dylan. Can we get dressed first?”

  “Of course,” Fenway said.

  McVie looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “But please make it quick.”

  Rachel nodded, turned around and went upstairs, leaving the door about halfway open.

  They were both back downstairs in a couple of minutes. Dylan was only a few inches taller than Rachel—maybe five-six or five-seven, but he looked muscular in a wiry way. He had light brown hair, fairly moplike on top. “What do you mean, where’s my truck?” Dylan asked as they came down the stairs.

  “I don’t know, Dylan.” Rachel threw up her hands. “It’s not where we left it last night.”

  “We should probably go to the station, sort it out there,” said McVie.

  Rachel looked at Fenway’s face, trying to read her.

  Dylan came out onto the front step. “Listen, Sheriff, I left my truck here last night. Right in that space, number 19, next to that silver Toyota.”

  “What kind of truck is it?” Fenway asked.

  “It’s a black Ford F-250.”

  “Duallies?”

  “You know it,” he smirked. Fenway couldn’t believe it—four in the morning with the police at his door and he’s being flirtatious and cool.

  “Got bull bars on the back?” McVie asked.

  Dylan’s eyebrows pulled in. “Bull bars on the back of the truck? What idiot would put bull bars on the back of a pickup?”

  “So that’s a ‘no’?”

  “Yeah, that’s a ‘no.’”

  “You didn’t have bull bars on the front either?”

  “Well, sure, on the front. That’s where they go.”

  “Honey,” Rachel said softly, “I think you better ask to file a police report on your truck. I think it was stolen and I think someone used it last night to do something illegal.”

  Dylan pulled Rachel to the side and they talked in low voices. Fenway couldn’t hear what they were saying. They walked back after a minute, and Dylan looked at the sheriff. “Sheriff, I think my truck was stolen. I’d like to file a report.”

  McVie shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, those forms are at the station. And as you don’t have a car, I guess you’ll have to ride with us.”

  “I have my car,” Rachel said. “I can drive us.”

  “Yeah,” Dylan replied, “I think I’d rather ride with Rachel. I can meet you there.”

  McVie looked at Dylan and Rachel. “Okay, no problem. But please go directly there. We definitely need to speak with you. If you weren’t driving your truck, you’re still a material witness.”

  Dylan squinted. “Am I under arrest?”

  “No,” Rachel answered. “But a material witness means that they can compel you to provide evidence.”

  He turned to Rachel and spoke in a low voice. “And what does that mean?”

  “It means we better go to the station.”

  “Where are you parked?” McVie asked.

  “A little ways up the street past that driveway.” Rachel pointed down the road a bit.

  McVie watched Rachel and Dylan walk to her BMW before motioning Fenway to get in his car. “I drove her home in that car the other day,” Fenway said to McVie after she got in the cruiser. “It’s really nice. Wonder how she affords that on an admin’s salary.”

  “Her dad bought it.” McVie started the car and reversed out of the space. “Listen, Fenway, I know you were trying to help, but you can’t be giving that kind of information out to suspects.” McVie pulled out into the street behind the BMW.

  “But Rachel is—” She stopped herself from saying “my friend.” She reminded herself that she had just met Rachel two days before. She supposed that she felt like that because Rachel had already opened up to her so much.

  “I know Rachel is an employee of the coroner’s office, but Walker’s sexual assault gives her a motive—and it gives Dylan a motive, too.”

  “I can’t see her doing this.”

  “Oh, come on, Fenway, you’ve known her for all of two days. One of my buddies from high school stabbed his landlord five years ago. I never would have pegged him for it either, so you can’t tell after just two day
s what Rachel’s capable of.”

  She looked out the window.

  “Listen,” McVie said, “when we get to the station, I’m going to sit them both in our interview room, then I’m going to take Dylan out to fill out the stolen vehicle form, and I want you to keep Rachel talking.”

  “What are we going to talk about? Do you want me to ask her questions about the case?”

  “Yes.” McVie nodded. “And ask her about those recordings, and who else knows those recordings were made, and where she was Sunday night—stuff like that.”

  “She owns a gun,” Fenway blurted out.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, a .22. She said her dad gave it her for self-defense, but she’s never used it.”

  “A .22 for self-defense?” McVie shook his head. “Her dad buys her a new BMW, but can’t get her a decent gun.”

  “So what type of gun killed Walker? Wasn’t a .22, was it?”

  “No, when I was there, the CSI team said it looked to be a bigger caliber than that. Maybe a nine-millimeter. I mean, we won’t know for sure until we get the results from the autopsy, but it was definitely bigger than a .22.”

  The sheriff’s office was behind City Hall. They pulled in next to Rachel’s BMW. Dylan and Rachel were already there, waiting for them.

  The station only had one interview room, so all four of them went there. They had just sat down, Fenway across from Rachel, and McVie across from Dylan, when McVie “remembered” that they should fill out the stolen car form first, so the two men left the room.

  Fenway was left alone in the room with Rachel. “I wish I hadn’t had to say something about the attack, Rachel.”

  Rachel put her head in her hands. “I’m such an idiot. I just met you. And I knew you’d be working on the investigation. I gave you a reason to suspect me.”

  “You gave me a motive for a lot of people, not just yourself.”

  Rachel was quiet.

  “But look, when you told me what had happened, I got so pissed off at Walker that I was ready to hurt him for what he did to you. And I just met you, so I can just imagine how angry Dylan is with Walker. How angry anyone who cares about you would be.”

  “Dylan doesn’t know.”

  Fenway tilted her head. “Are you sure about that? You put one of those flash drives right where he could find it.”

  “I told you, he’d barely notice a USB stick in the junk drawer,” Rachel insisted. “He wouldn’t have given it a second thought.”

  “How do you know, Rachel? He had more than enough time to look through the video, get fuming mad, and kill Walker on Sunday night.”

  “No, that didn’t happen. I’m sure that didn’t happen.”

  “Jealous husbands do crazy, stupid things.” Fenway rested her chin in her hand, her elbow on the table. “It’s not that much of a stretch.”

  Rachel looked down and didn’t say anything.

  “Dylan ever been jealous?”

  Rachel shrugged.

  “So that’s a ‘yes.’”

  Rachel sighed, obviously conflicted. “There was a guy who hit on me at a bar a couple of months ago. Dylan was playing darts with his friends, and I was bored so I started flirting with a guy at the bar. He bought me a drink. Dylan didn’t like it and threatened to punch the guy. The guy left right away. Dylan was saying he was going to follow him outside, and I told him just to stay at the bar a little longer. Dance with me a little.”

  “Did he follow the guy out?”

  “No, he stayed with me and his friends.”

  Fenway drummed her fingers on the table. “Has Dylan ever been in trouble with the cops before?”

  “Not really.”

  Fenway’s eyebrows raised. “What does that mean?”

  “It means not for a while. Not since he was a kid. He shoplifted some stuff when he was fifteen—had to spend a night in juvie before his mom got him out. Community service.”

  “Is that it?”

  “That’s all I know.”

  “You’re sure there’s nothing in his adult record?”

  “I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “Nothing I know about, anyway.”

  “Okay.” Fenway stood up. “And you made three copies of the video onto USB sticks?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve got one in your glove compartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “And one in the junk drawer in the kitchen?”

  “But like I said, I don’t think Dylan would even know what it was if he found it,” Rachel answered. “And if he had, he would have confronted me about it, or at least he would have acted differently about it. He would have asked me what was going on at work.”

  “All right. Where’s the third one, again?”

  “It’s in my purse,” Rachel said. “I was going to give it to Lana on Monday, but now that Mr. Walker is dead, I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “I think we need to take it for evidence.”

  Rachel rubbed her eyes. “I just want this to go away. I don’t want anyone to see that. I never wanted him to touch me. I just wanted it over.”

  “I know.” Fenway sat back down. “Believe me, I know.”

  Part of Fenway wanted to tell Rachel about what she went through with her Russian Lit professor. She closed her eyes and willed herself not to say anything, but as soon as she closed her eyes, she could see the professor’s face, feel his tongue on the side of her face, feel his hands up her blouse. Putting a bullet in his back would have felt good.

  “What did you say?” Rachel asked.

  Fenway realized she spoke the last sentence out loud, and she decided to steer into the skid. “I said, ‘putting a bullet in his back would have felt good.’”

  Rachel looked horrified.

  “Well, I would have liked to. Walker got what was coming to him.”

  “He was my boss. You’re in his office.”

  Fenway nodded. “Yeah. I guess I’ve already opened my big mouth up too much for one morning.” She paused. “Okay, there are at least two questions that the sheriff will ask me about, and if I don’t have answers for him, he’s not going to like it, and I’ll have to take the bus home.”

  Rachel still looked put off by Fenway’s comments, but she nodded.

  “When I was at your apartment, I told you I’d have to ask you this at some point—and it looks like now is the time I have to ask.”

  “You want to know where I was the night Mr. Walker was shot and killed.”

  “Yes. I remember you told me you forced yourself to go out, right?”

  “Yeah. I cancelled my plans on Saturday, but on Sunday I went to the movies with my friend Jordan. We saw a seven o’clock showing of The Trap Door, and I didn’t want to go home after, so I convinced her to come to Krazy Burger with me, and we got chocolate shakes and onion rings. I got home about ten o’clock and watched a couple of episodes of Hold Your Horses until I got the call at midnight that Mr. Walker had been killed.”

  “Will Jordan corroborate that?”

  “Sure she will.” Rachel nodded. “Jordan dropped me off and came in to take back a sweater I had borrowed a few days ago. And I probably have the movie stub and the Krazy Burger receipt. Dylan makes fun of me for not throwing any of that stuff away.”

  “Okay. I don’t know if the sheriff is going to want any of that, but we’ll need to check it out.”

  “I understand.”

  “Where was Dylan?” Fenway asked.

  “He was out with his brother, I think. I was asleep when he got home.”

  “And then I also need to know where you were earlier this morning, between one o’clock and three-thirty.”

  “I was in bed with Dylan until you came to wake us up.”

  “Can anyone else vouch that you were there?”

  Rachel shook her head. “No.”

  “Do you know if there are security cameras set up at your apartment complex?”

  “Um, no, I don’t know if there are cameras. What h
appened this morning? You said there were some files missing? And Dylan’s truck is gone?”

  “The sheriff is already pissed off at me for saying as much as I said at your apartment.” Fenway stifled a yawn. “You’ll have to wait to get the full story.”

  “All right. How long are we going to be here? Am I going to make it into work?”

  Fenway smiled, just a little. “I think your supervisor is aware that there are special circumstances regarding your attendance at work today.” She looked at Rachel, but there was no reaction to Fenway’s weak attempt at levity. “But, to answer your question, no, I don’t think we’re going to get out of here in the next couple of hours. Do you want some coffee?”

  “I guess so.”

  Fenway got up again and left the interview room, closing the door behind her.

  She took a deep breath. She had done several in-depth case studies over the course of her graduate program. She remembered that in one of the studies, back in January, the victim had committed a crime. The point of the case study was to demonstrate how personal biases can affect how investigators approach cases. Fenway was trying not to let that happen now, but as McVie had said earlier, it’s one thing to know the right way to act intellectually, and quite another to act in the right way in the real world. Rachel had opened up to Fenway, had told her something she hadn’t told anyone else, and Fenway felt like she betrayed Rachel’s trust in order to further the investigation.

  But as bad as she felt about Rachel, she felt almost high from the excitement of the investigation; it was like a puzzle—and it was why she had wanted to do forensics in the first place—piecing together the mystery of what exactly happened.

  Actually, that wasn’t quite true. She started the forensics program because she kept seeing women in the ER whose husbands or boyfriends had beaten them. She felt like forensics could establish a measure of justice for those women. Somehow. And the more she learned about forensics—the classes on evidence gathering, witness interviews, and chain of custody—the more she found it fascinating. She loved it—the mysteries, even the case studies in her classes, were intoxicating.

  She walked over to the coffee maker. It was an industrial machine, with water lines coming into the back, brewing directly into tall, thermos-style carafes that held a half gallon each. The carafes were all washed out, upside down in the sink, but Fenway didn’t see any coffee or any coffee filters. She started to look through the cabinets. Sponges. Paper towels. Lysol. Paper plates. Finally, in the second to last cupboard, she found some packets of French Roast from a place in Paso Querido called Mount Caffeinated. The filters were behind the packets. She prepped everything and pushed the ‘on’ switch.