Rocky Mountain Mystery

by Cassie Miles

  Time passed, and the process became a little less unsettling. David had grown accustomed to the odor. He found that if he stared at one body part at a time, he could forget that this was a whole person who once had a life.

  Across the room, he saw Weathers and the uniformed cop leaving. Hah! He'd beaten them. He'd toughed it out. David felt like a forensic pathology ace. Go ahead and toss me that spleen, I can handle it!

  Blair glanced over her shoulder at him, and David flashed an "okay" sign. He was cool.

  Reinholdt had the scalpel again. He made an incision at the hairline. David instinctively turned away. He heard the whine of a Stryker saw, then the grinding noise as the blade hit the solid bone of the skull.

  This part of the autopsy was why Weathers and his companion had left. They knew what was coming. David, in his naïveté, thought the worst was over.

  Though, he didn't want to wimp out and disappoint Blair, there was no way he'd turn around and take a peek. His imagination told him plenty.

  "David?" Blair was standing beside him.

  He whipped around to face her. Her hands, in the latex gloves, were bloody. He concentrated on her green eyes. "Hi."

  "I think you were correct," she said in a low voice. "This murder was the work of the Fisherman."

  If he hadn't been afraid of losing his lunch, he would have grinned. Through clenched teeth, he said, "Stomach contents."

  "We'll know after analysis."

  Behind her left shoulder, Reinholdt was doing something at the victim's head. David raised one hand to his eyes, shielding his vision.

  Blair glanced at the big clock on the wall over the door. "We should try to get over to Adam's office before six. Are you ready to leave?"

  "Way ahead of you."

  Chapter Four

  The office for Colorado Crime Consultants was west of Denver in Golden, a small town nestled against the foothills. Blair hadn't done much talking on the drive. Her mind was preoccupied, focused on the autopsy she'd just witnessed. Her reading of the medical findings told her this "clean kill" was performed by the same perp who'd committed the earlier crimes. Yet there were differences—most obviously, the fish hook scars on the abdomen.

  The Fisherman was taunting them, sending a message. But why? And what was he trying to say? The answers weren't evident in forensic analysis. Pursuing this investigation might require old-fashioned police work— interviewing witnesses and suspects.

  Speaking of old-fashioned forensic police work, she had confided in Dr. Reinholdt before they left the Coroner's Office, telling him about the stinky fish in the trunk of her car. He had taken her car keys and would notify the forensic investigators though neither of them expected to find fingerprints on a trout.

  David found a parking space just off the main street with its quaint, Old West atmosphere, and they strolled down a covered sidewalk toward the opposite corner. "We're like a couple of tourists," he said.

  "But we're not here to shop." She paused to peer in the storefront window of a candle shop. The smell of scented wax wafted through the open door. "I wonder if we can get access to the forensics gathered by the Denver PD and CID on the current investigation."

  "Doubtful," David said. "Detective Weathers doesn't seem inclined to share with me."

  "Well, of course not," she said. "You're from the press. Even worse than that, you're an investigative reporter. Speaking on behalf of everyone in forensics and the cops, your people can be a major distraction."

  "My people? You make it sound like we're a tribe of hyenas."

  "An apt analogy."

  "You think I'm a dog?"

  She peeked up at him and grinned. He looked much better now than during the autopsy. The color had returned to his face, and his gaze was steady. "If you were a dog," she asked, "what breed would you be?"

  "Something macho. Maybe an Irish wolfhound."

  "Macho?" she teased. "Like you were in the autopsy suite?"

  "Hey, it took guts to hang in there." He linked his arm with hers and started along the sidewalk again. "Guts probably isn't the best word to describe watching an autopsy. Fortitude. I showed fortitude. I should get a Boy Scout badge for fortitude."

  "Didn't you find the process interesting?"

  "In a word...no!"

  "At least you're honest."

  "And I should get another badge for that." He turned right at the corner and started up the block. "How about you, Blair? What kind of dog would you be?"

  "Not a poodle," she said quickly. Nothing fluffy or cute. "A dog that likes swimming. Maybe a Labrador retriever."

  "Most of the Labs I've known have been a little wild. Is that you? Wild and exuberant?"

  She hadn't been crazy and out of control in years, certainly not after her accident. And before that? Her career left very little time for fun and games. She'd gone directly from college to med school, then an internship and field research. "Maybe I'm not wild, but the potential for exuberance is there."

  "That's something I'd like to see." His voice slipped into a lower register. "The wanton, uncontrolled, passionate side of Dr. Blair Weston."

  His intimate tone suggested passion in the bedroom. And, when she confronted his sexy blue eyes, similar thoughts popped inside her head. All too easily, she imagined discarded clothing at the foot of the bed. She and David, meshed together on the sheets. Their legs entwined. Their arms grasping and clawing at each other. Their lungs screaming with unfettered lust. Oh, my.

  She pushed open the gate in the white picket fence surrounding a gingerbread Victorian house that had been converted to office space. The sidewalk was flagstone, lined by a border of yellow dahlias and pansies. On the veranda, David opened the door to the charming yellow house with white trim. Inside was a foyer with hardwood floors, an imitation Persian rug and several potted ferns. Colorado Crime Consultants was the first door to the right.

  Behind the antique front desk sat Molly Griffith. If she'd been a dog. Blair guessed Molly would have the looks of an Afghan hound with her long neck and swoop of straight, blond hair, but her personality was pure terrier—quick, smart and tenacious.

  After she greeted them, Molly held up her wristwatch and announced, "One minute until six o'clock. End of the day."

  Blair asked, "Do you have a quitting time or does Adam make you stay all night?"

  "I'm flexible." She bent down, opened her bottom desk drawer and removed a bottle of Jack Daniels. "Sometimes I don't come in until noon. Sometimes I leave at two. Time is unimportant to me. Not like Adam. He's predictable as a metronome."

  She poured three fingers of Jack Daniels into a plain glass tumbler. "In precisely ten seconds, he'll open the door to his office and come out here for his evening drink."

  "Why?" Blair asked. "Something to do with the Marines?"

  Molly shrugged. "It's just Adam."

  The wooden door to an inner office opened, and Adam Briggs stepped through. His right hand was outstretched. He grasped the tumbler and took a sip.

  "Told you," Molly said. "This is the most predictable man on the planet."

  With a hint of a smile, he said, "Structure leads to productivity."

  "Or terminal boredom."

  As he swirled the amber liquid in his glass, Adam regarded her with an expression of fond indulgence. These two had worked together since the inception of Crime Consultants. He was the brains, and she was the heart. They made a good team.

  Adam asked his office manager, "Do you have the information for Blair and David?"

  "I picked up the last bit this afternoon," Molly said. "From Gary O'Hara. For an FBI guy he's kinda cute. Is he married?"

  "Not your type," Adam said.

  "He's got a pulse. That's about all I require these days." Molly nudged Blair. "I'm not getting any younger."

  "Gary O'Hara," David repeated the name. "He was the FBI Special Agent assigned to the Fisherman investigation five years ago. I thought he'd left Denver."

  "He was reassigned to Langley," Adam said. "H
e's been back here since the first of the year."

  "What kind of information did you get from him?"

  "Copies of his personal notes on the prior murders." Adam took another taste of his drink. "We won't get data on the current investigation, but the past is a closed case. Therefore, it's relatively accessible."

  Molly stepped out from behind her desk and led the way toward another closed door at the rear of their office. "I put everything back here in the conference room. O'Hara's notes. Partial transcript from the trial. Newspaper clippings. Interviews. Web site information."

  "Impressive," David said. "You're thorough."

  "I'm just the collection point," she said. "We have a couple of researchers who work for us on a volunteer basis, including a former court reporter who knows how to navigate that system. Shh, don't tell anybody about her."

  Blair and David stepped into a conference room. Above wainscoting, the walls were painted a deep red. Framed maps hung from the walls. At the end of the polished table sat a large cardboard box with a lid.

  Molly stood at the doorway. "Would either of you like something to drink?"

  "I'll have what Adam's having," David said.

  "Water for me," Blair said.

  "I'll get it." Molly turned toward the outer office and glanced impatiently toward her boss. "Come on, Adam. We're waiting."

  He sauntered up beside her. "Don't rush me."

  Molly planted her fists on her hips and tossed her head, flipping a wing of blond hair out of her eyes. "Any particular reason you're dragging your feet?"

  "As you know, Molly—" he tasted Jack again "—I only have one drink a day and..."

  "You like to savor," she finished his sentence. "It's the slow burn and the aftertaste."

  "Exactly." He drained the liquid from the tumbler and handed the glass to her. As he seated himself at the head of the table, he turned to Blair. "Tell me about the autopsy."

  "Manner of death—homicide," she said. "Cause of death was drowning. No evidence of sexual assault. Contusions on wrists and ankles indicated that hands and feet had been bound."

  She explained the postmortem marking on the stomach and concluded, "We'll know more after analysis on the water from the lungs and the stomach contents."

  "What do you expect?" Adam asked.

  "If this is the Fisherman or a copycat who is conversant with the particulars of the prior murders, the drowning will have been in a bathtub. The stomach contents will reveal Godiva chocolate."

  "Is there a significance to the candy?"

  "Me," Blair said. "After I was assigned to the first murder, every victim was fed that particular brand of chocolate. It's my favorite."

  "Mine, too," Molly said. "Are you sure that's significant?"

  "My nickname at the Coroner's Office was Lady Godiva," she said. "And it wasn't because of riding naked on horseback."

  "There's a direct threat to you?" Adam exchanged a worried look with David. "I didn't know."

  "Neither did I," David said. "If I'd been aware that Blair might be a target, I never would have wanted her to be involved."

  Molly placed their beverages on the table and Blair drank deeply of the cold bottled water. Now might be the time to mention the threat from this afternoon—the gutted trout in her car. But she was reluctant to take that step. She didn't want the investigation to be about her vulnerability.

  "Are you in danger?" Adam asked.

  "I'm not sure." She turned to David. "You've reported on a lot of these cases. How do people know when they're really and truly in danger?"

  "Some don't," he said, "until the ax falls."

  "Why not?"

  "Lack of imagination," he said.

  That certainly wasn't her problem. It only took a lowering of his voice for her to leap into a full-blown fantasy of lovemaking. "I don't suffer from that lack. Much of my work as an M.E. is based on an ability to imagine what might have happened."

  "Sometimes," he said, "people hide their fear by building emotional walls of defense, telling themselves over and over that nothing bad will happen to them, until they believe it's the truth. No matter what the facts."

  "Denial," Molly said. "It's not just a river in Egypt. If you're in danger, Blair, we have bodyguards that we can contact."

  "Not yet," she said. "I promise to be careful."

  "I'll make sure you do," David said.

  "Whoa there, cowboy." Adam leaned back in his chair and squinted at him. "What makes you think you're qualified as a bodyguard? Do you have training in hand-to-hand combat?"

  "No training." Though David was in decent physical condition, he knew little about karate, kung fu or any other technique that might be used to fight off a crazed serial killer. David's weapon was his pen...more accurately, the word-processing program on his laptop computer. "I have a gun."

  "Which you probably haven't fired in years."

  "Correct."

  "How do you intend to protect Blair?" Adam demanded.

  "By keeping her out of harm's way."

  "The Fisherman has never attacked anyone who was accompanied," Blair said. "He's not likely to take sudden, precipitous action. This is a guy who leaves no forensic clues behind. He's careful."

  "And dangerous," Adam said.

  "I know." David swallowed his drink in two quick gulps that set his throat ablaze. He didn't need a reminder that the Fisherman was lethal; the bastard had murdered his sister.

  He nodded toward the box on the table. "I'd like to take this information with me tonight."

  "Why?"

  "To determine which leads we should be following. I'll need to interview some of the witnesses." He was anxious to get his hands on the detailed files. "It's been five years. People might remember things differently."

  "None of this can be for publication," Adam warned. "I won't compromise any of my sources."

  "Don't worry." This was one crime he had no intention of writing about.

  Evening came quickly in Denver. As soon as the setting sun disappeared behind the Rockies, the blazing skies faded and darkness unfurled across the Queen City of the Plains. By the time they returned to the center of the city and Blair's condo building, David had his headlights on. He parked in front.

  "Until we know otherwise, we'll assume that you're in danger, Blair. That means I'm staying with you."

  "All night?"

  Her voice sounded husky, and he hoped she was coming on to him. "I can stay the night."

  "Not necessary. But if you bring that box upstairs, we can go through the information together."

  She flung her car door open.

  "Wait!"

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  He scanned the streets with a watchful eye. This area was condo city with lots of high-rise buildings. He spotted a couple of people on the sidewalk. Were they dangerous? Or just out for a walk? "Wait until I can walk you to the door."

  "Oh, please," she scoffed. "Do you really think I'm going to be attacked here? On this well-lit street? In front of witnesses?"

  How should he know? David had never before tried to think like a bodyguard. Lifting the cardboard box from the back seat, he followed her toward the entry to her building. He wished he had his gun with him.

  A man stepped from the shadows. He wore a black suit—not the expected garb of a serial killer, but there was menace in his stillness.

  Was this an attack? David knew he should respond with lightning reflexes. He dropped the cardboard box in front of himself. Should he jump on top? Dodge around the side? Maybe he ought to just trip over the damn thing and get the probable humiliation over with.

  He confronted the shadowy figure. "Who are you?"

  FBI Agent Gary O'Hara stepped into the light. Though he was solidly built, he moved silently as a wraith. "Good evening, David. Dr. Weston."

  "Agent O'Hara," David said. "Good to see you."

  "Wish I could say the same." His voice was low as a clandestine whisper. "You've only been in town a day, David. And you'
ve already got the local cops in an uproar."

  "I had a little showdown with Weathers. No big deal."

  "I've been specifically instructed not to consult with you on the current murder investigation," O'Hara said. "However, nobody mentioned the prior murders."

  "We have the data you gave to Adam Briggs." David pointed to the box. "Is there something else you wanted to tell us?"

  "Denver PD is taking the position that they arrested and convicted the right man five years ago. However, the murder of Pamela Comforti is assumed to be connected to the Fisherman. The police want to believe this killer is a copycat."

  "What do you believe?" David asked.

  "I think it's him. The Fisherman."

  David's blood stirred. They were on the right track. "How do we find him?"

  "Start with the past," O'Hara said. "Dig into the old crimes, the leads that weren't followed. Concentrate on suspects who've been out of Denver for a significant portion of the last five years."

  David asked, "Can we use you to check into VICAP and the National Crime Information Center?"

  "Go through Adam," O'Hara advised. He held out a business card. "If you come up with valid evidence, contact me."

  "Thanks."

  When O'Hara focused on Blair, his dark eyes lingered. He reached out and grasped her hand. "Always a pleasure, Dr. Weston."

  "Same here."

  O'Hara pivoted. In just a few strides, he went around the corner of the building and disappeared.

  Blair wasted no time hustling inside the front vestibule where she unlocked the inner door. A shudder rippled across her shoulders. "O'Hara's a little spooky."

  "Molly thinks he's cute," David said.

  "Not really," Blair said. "She's just teasing Adam. Anybody can see that those two are in love."

  "They are?"

  "Not in the conventional sense." She held the door for David. "I mean, they're not sleeping together. But there's a bond between them...like an old married couple."

  "A married couple who doesn't have sex?"

  "Don't bother puzzling it out," Blair said as she boarded the elevator. "Men don't understand relationships."

  "And you do?"

  "Better than you. I've spent plenty of time talking to my friends about their significant others. I've read the magazine articles and looked up the horoscopes to see what sign matched my own. Even if I never was a girly-girl."