The Reluctant Coroner (Fenway Stevenson Mysteries Book 1)

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  “What do you have for us, Trevor?” Dr. Yasuda asked.

  Trevor nodded in Fenway’s direction. “Good morning, Miss Stevenson,” he said, before looking back to Dr. Yasuda. “I haven’t completed all the tests yet, but my initial assessments indicate that this Smith & Wesson 4006 pistol was, in fact, the weapon that fired the bullet that killed Harrison Walker.”

  He started in on his presentation. He pointed out rotation marks on each of the bullets, and had a map of the inside of the chamber which made some of the marks.

  “Hold on a second.” Dr. Yasuda stopped Trevor at a photo where the gun sight was visible. “That’s an adjustable sight.”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” said Trevor.

  “Does this gun have a trigger play spring?” she said.

  “Um.” Trevor checked his notes. “No, I don’t see anything like that.”

  “All right, well, that should make it a little easier to narrow things down.” Dr. Yasuda turned to Fenway. “All of the model 4006 handguns came with a fixed sight and a trigger play spring—except for the ones issued to the California Highway Patrol for about 20 years. Those had an adjustable sight and no spring—just like this one. The CHP changed to a newer model a couple of years ago, but this is a very specific firearm.”

  Fenway looked at the adjustable sight. “You’re saying this is a CHP officer’s gun?”

  Dr. Yasuda nodded. “If it isn’t, it used to be. The CHP auctioned off their unwanted 4006s a few years ago, but there weren’t too many of them auctioned off, and the state has done a pretty good job of keeping track of the ones that were sold.”

  “Not ‘too many’? What does that mean? Ten? Twelve?”

  Dr. Yasuda laughed. “Hundreds—but not thousands. It’s a start. The database is pretty good. We’ll be able to see which guns have been stolen, or are missing, or have been handed in when some of those cities have done buy-backs. That might narrow the list down to ten or twenty. Of course, that won’t include guns that just disappeared and didn’t get reported.”

  Fenway tilted her head. “Really? Don’t cops lose their badges over stuff like that?”

  Dr. Yasuda shook her head. “You’d be surprised at how many guns assigned to law enforcement go missing every year. And no one gets fired.”

  “Well, I can’t say that makes me feel any better.”

  “There is something else here,” Trevor said. “The numbers were filed off, true, but the filing job isn’t the best. A few of the numbers are filed off pretty thoroughly, but some of them—well, it’s possible that we might be able to lift the number. We’ve got some new chemical treatments now.”

  “That would be good,” Fenway responded. “What about any fingerprints?”

  “Not yet. The gun looks like it was wiped clean.”

  “Wiped clean?”

  “Yes. Lots of guns that are abandoned are wiped clean. We’re working on the inside of the gun. Probably didn’t wipe off fingerprints there, although we often don’t get anything useable from the inside.”

  “Hmm,” Fenway mused. “Why would Dylan wipe the gun clean of fingerprints if he was going to bury it in his own garden?”

  “I don’t know,” Dr. Yasuda said, “but if I had a nickel for every weird thing every criminal did, I’d buy my own island.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Dr. Yasuda had a few follow-up questions for Trevor, more for procedural review than anything else. Fenway thought Trevor answered Dr. Yasuda’s questions with aplomb, although Dr. Yasuda didn’t seem happy with a couple of his answers. When she was finished, she turned back to Fenway.

  “Anything else, Miss Stevenson?”

  Fenway shrugged. “I guess not.”

  Dr. Yasuda told her that the official report wouldn’t be ready for a few hours. When Fenway went out to the waiting area, Dr. Yasuda had already had some autopsy notes printed up for her. She thanked the M.E. and left into the bright sunshine.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fenway was lost in thought on the drive back to Estancia. She was almost on autopilot, with only the sound of the GPS voice.

  She could feel the pieces starting to slip into place, even though there were twice as many murders to solve as the day before. It also looked increasingly likely that she’d have to provide Sheriff McVie with an alibi that could wreck his marriage and career, and, Fenway feared, derail her plans in California before they even got off the ground.

  She made the trip back in a little under an hour. Fenway walked from the parking garage to the office in the sunlight, which, a month ago, in rainy Seattle, she would have welcomed. Now, rather than enjoy the weather, she was impatient to get inside and do more research to figure out how the pieces would fit together.

  Dez looked up as she entered. “Hey, Fenway. Any news?”

  “You first. Anything come back from the phone records between Dylan and Lana?”

  “We went back a year on both of their cell phones. Lana’s home phone, too. Nothing between them, and nothing between their phones and any suspicious numbers. Lana called a lot of people after Carl was killed, but it was mostly extended family members, lawyers, the funeral home, florists, that kind of thing.”

  Fenway deflated slightly. “That wasn’t what I was expecting.”

  “I did find a ton of texts, phone calls, and private social media messages between Dylan and Amy McVie, though. Going back about six months. Dylan didn’t keep any of this stuff that private. Since I was able to find out about Dylan and Amy so easily—I found all kinds of stuff in about ten minutes—then for sure I would have found something by now between Dylan and Lana.”

  “So it doesn’t look like Dylan and Lana weren’t sleeping together.”

  “Early indications, anyway. But that’s not all. Since you said that Carl uncovered Lana’s affair with someone—not necessarily Dylan—I paid attention to any calls or texts that were regularly sent. I didn’t see anything that looked like an affair to me—not from a younger man, not from an older man, not from a woman. Nothing. I also took a look at Lana’s social media accounts, and looked to see if she had an account with any of the dating or affair sites. That’ll take a little longer to get through, of course, but so far, no hits. It just doesn’t look like Lana was cheating at all.”

  “That’s crazy.” Then Fenway remembered who she got the information from. “Ah, crap. Dad gave me bad information. Again.”

  Dez shrugged.

  “He told me that Carl hired a private investigator to look into the affairs. It might be worth seeing if Carl had any outgoing money to any P.I. firms locally, but if my dad lied about Lana’s affair, I bet the P.I. doesn’t exist either.”

  Dez nodded. “Okay. Now you.”

  Fenway leaned against the desk and pulled the notes out of her purse. “Dylan Richards was murdered. The killer tried to make it look like a suicide by hanging.”

  Dez pursed her lips and shook her head.

  “And the gun they pulled out of Dylan’s garden was a weapon custom-made for the California Highway Patrol, and it was the weapon that killed Walker.”

  “Ugh. Someone’s going way far out of their way to set Dylan up.”

  “Well, let’s not jump to that conclusion just yet, Dez. Dylan had motive—the video of Walker and Rachel.”

  “What?” Migs sprang up from his chair. “What video of Walker and Rachel?”

  Fenway put her hand up. “Hold on, Migs,” she said. “Dylan had the weapon. The CHP stopped using that gun a few years ago. Dylan could have bought it at auction or something.”

  Dez furrowed her brow. “Be careful about your conclusions, too, Fenway. Dylan didn’t have the weapon. Dylan’s garden had the weapon. Anyone could have jumped the fence and gotten in there. And that anonymous tip was awfully convenient.”

  “But Dylan lied about his alibi,” Fenway pointed out.

  “Yes,” said Dez, “but a neighbor saw his truck in front of the sheriff’s house.”

  “In front of the sheriff’s house?
” Migs exclaimed. “What was he doing at the sheriff’s house?”

  Fenway continued, “The neighbor said he wasn’t sure it was Sunday night. Now pipe down, Migs. We’re trying to figure this out.”

  “You guys don’t tell me anything.”

  Dez pulled a sheet of paper out of a folder. “Plus, the report came back on Dylan’s cell phone. It pinged cell towers right in the area of the McVies’ house.”

  “Doesn’t necessarily mean Dylan was there,” Fenway pointed out.

  “Enough for reasonable doubt for most juries, though.”

  Fenway looked at the floor and pinched the bridge of her nose, thinking. “We should interview Amy McVie.”

  “You have a death wish.” Dez shook her head.

  “That may be true, but we should still interview her. In fact, we should interview her before she finds out that Dylan is dead. If we can do it so that she convinces us that he was with her, then I agree with you, Dez, someone is definitely trying to set Dylan up to take the fall.”

  “I can’t believe you’re still doubting that he’s being set up,” Dez said. “What about the fact that he was murdered, but someone staged it to look like a suicide? Come on. I don’t have to have the sheriff’s missus tell me they were sleeping together on Sunday night for me to know that he’s being set up.”

  Fenway looked at Migs. His eyes were big, and he had been holding his breath for about fifteen seconds. “See, Migs? This is why we don’t tell you. Take a deep breath, man.”

  “You know that they’re going to look at the sheriff for Dylan’s murder,” Dez said.

  “Yes, the M.E. said that to me, too.”

  “This isn’t going to look good for him: arresting Dylan for murder when his own wife is Dylan’s alibi, the sheriff actually finding Dylan’s body, the murder weapon—a cop-issued murder weapon, might I add—conveniently planted, literally, on Dylan’s property. And what exactly is the sheriff’s alibi going to be?”

  Fenway looked away. “I assume he was home with his wife.”

  Dez stared at Fenway, blinked, then stood up. “Come with me.” She grabbed Fenway’s elbow and pulled her into the conference room. She closed the door. “Now, Fenway, I’m going to tell you a funny story. Would you like to hear the funny story? Here it is. My niece lives in the apartment complex next to yours.”

  “Oh.” Fenway tried not to wince. “That is funny.”

  “I know, right? I’d say it was a coincidence, but this is such a small town, I’m sure that I know someone in just about every apartment complex around here. Anyway, I’m her favorite aunt. I’m the cool aunt. She just turned nineteen and she goes to the community college. Studying accounting. We sometimes go out to the movies, like yesterday. After such a stressful day, it was great to just go to the movies with my niece.”

  “That sounds nice,” Fenway said weakly.

  “Well, I dropped her off last night after the movie—it was around 11:30. That’s why I don’t look my best today, because I’m so tired after dropping off my niece at 11:30 last night. Here’s something else that’s kind of funny: you know I can see right into the parking lot of your complex from my niece’s apartment? And did you know that I know what car the sheriff drives?”

  “I didn’t know either of those things.”

  “No, I would guess that you probably didn’t.” She folded her arms. “You were awfully chipper this morning, Fenway.”

  Fenway looked down at the floor.

  “Listen.” Dez dropped her voice. “I’ve only known you a few days. You seem to have a pretty good head on your shoulders—compared to the last couple of coroners, at least. And I hate to speak ill of the dead, but you’re actually engaged with the job. Like, your brain is on. And I like that.”

  Dez shook her head. “And, I understand; I was young once. I see the sheriff look at you, and I know what he’s looking at. But, girl, you got so much more to offer this department, and this county, than being a notch on the sheriff’s bedpost.” Dez sighed. “And, for the love of God, he’s still a married man. Amy might be cheating on him with a man young enough to be her son, but that don’t change the fact that Craig and Amy are still married. Get your head on straight, girl.”

  “He didn’t seduce me, or anything.” Fenway’s tone was defensive. “I got shot at. I didn’t want to be alone last night. He makes me feel safe. I wanted to do it.”

  “Oh, that is too much information.” Dez put up her hand. “Just stop it. This gets out, and you’re going to be the girl who sleeps her way into the job. That weakens all us women in the department. That weakens Rachel. And it validates all those piece-of-shit men who are going to hear about Walker and Rachel and think she was asking for it.”

  Fenway winced. “That’s not fair, Dez.”

  “Of course it’s not fair,” Dez snapped. “There’s a lot of shit that’s not fair. But telling you not to sleep with the married sheriff is not unfair. Sleeping with a married man, especially one you work with, is just stupid.”

  Fenway looked at Dez, whose face was angry and determined, although she was keeping her emotions mostly under the surface. Fenway couldn’t figure out if she, herself, wanted to be angry back at Dez. But she didn’t want them to fight. So, she swallowed hard. “Yeah. You’re right, Dez. Yeah, that was probably a mistake.”

  “So don’t do it again.”

  Fenway nodded.

  “And as far as what you’re going to do when the sheriff needs an alibi—well, let’s just hope it doesn’t get to that point.”

  Dez started to step past her, but Fenway put her hand on Dez’s shoulder. “Hold on a sec. Have you checked on Rachel? Has anyone told her about Dylan?”

  Dez sighed. “No, I don’t think so. I know her sister is with her.”

  “Look, I don’t have a problem with her being out for a week or two. Or however long she needs, really. She’s been through a lot, with the assault, and her husband getting arrested. And now it’s going to come out, probably, that her husband was sleeping with the sheriff’s wife, and that her husband was murdered, and I’m worried she’s not going to be okay.”

  “I’ll make sure her sister is taking good care of her.”

  “Maybe she should get out of town for a few days.”

  “On whose dime?”

  “Well, the department could pay for her to go to, I don’t know, Sedona or something, for a couple of weeks. We don’t want to get sued for a zillion dollars for employing a sexual predator.”

  Dez raised her eyebrows. “You think paying for her to go to Sedona for two weeks is going to stop her from suing the county?”

  Fenway considered this. “No, I guess not. Probably not, anyway. But I’m still worried about her.”

  Dez nodded, then stepped past Fenway and opened the door.

  Fenway followed Dez out into the main office. Migs was standing up at his desk, and he looked a little excited. Piper was standing next to him.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want to interrupt, but Piper found some emails on Walker’s laptop.”

  Fenway managed to smile after her lecture from Dez. “Nice to see you again, Piper. I didn’t realize what a techie bad-ass you are.”

  Piper blushed almost as red as her hair. “I don’t know about that.” Fenway saw Migs look at Piper, and he was obviously smitten. Fenway smiled wider.

  “Okay, Piper, come around and show us what you found.”

  “All right.” Piper picked up Walker’s laptop and brought it over. She put it down and tucked her hair behind her ears with her long fingers. Fenway noticed she had fairly short, neatly trimmed nails, but no polish. “It looks like Walker was using an anonymizer for one of his browsers. But it also looks like he forgot to use it on a couple of occasions. He was trying to be all sneaky, but he was lazy. He had a private ZoothMail address—that’s an encrypted email platform—and I think he usually used the anonymizer to access it. I can’t tell yet if he was using the anonymizer for anything else, but he was definitely using it for
this ZoothMail account.” She clicked a few things and Walker’s ZoothMail web page came up.

  “How’d you get into his account?”

  “That’s the crazy part. He cached his username and password, if you can believe it.” Piper giggled and put a hand in front of her mouth to stifle it. Fenway thought she saw Migs swoon a little. “All that anonymizer stuff, and he was too lazy to type in his username and password.”

  “Okay. What are we looking at?”

  “Well, there are a couple of interesting items here. It looks like this email account is communicating with only one other email address—this one.” Piper clicked on the email address. It was a jumble of numbers and letters before the @ sign. “Now, I looked at the headers on this email address, and they’ve done a very good job of obfuscating the IP address where this originated.”

  “So, we’re nowhere?”

  “No, no. I mean, if this is all we had, yes, we’d be nowhere.” Piper pulled out a printout from the folder and thrust it in front of Fenway. “But look at the headers on the address the RAT software was sending the video feed to.”

  Fenway looked closely, from the screen to the paper and back. Both strings were jumbles of meaningless characters—but they were the same jumbles of meaningless characters.

  “They’re the same,” she said.

  “Yes.” Piper nodded emphatically. “It’s actually the exact same obfuscation that the RAT tracking malware used.”

  Dez shook her head. “What does that mean?”

  “It means the RAT malware and these emails came from the same person.” Migs was so excited he was almost shouting.

  “It’s a very high degree of certainty,” Piper agreed.

  Migs plowed on. “And it narrows down the possibilities, because if it’s the same obfuscation, it can only be one of a handful of obfuscation tools, because most of the programs out there won’t give the same result twice. The ones that do are cheap.”

  “I guess we now know the RAT software guy is cheap.”