“Sean had drinks at the bar,” Zander said quietly.
“That doesn’t account for Lindsay being drugged,” said the sheriff, still writing in his notebook. “But let’s keep it in mind if nothing turns up in their house.”
“Could it have been injected?” Zander asked, wondering if something could have been administered during Sean’s bar scuffle.
“I didn’t find any injection sites,” answered Dr. Rutledge. “But Sean had abrasions on his knuckles, jaw, and cheekbone, and deep bruising on his abdomen and back. Consistent with fighting and being kicked.”
“Any other injuries?” Zander asked.
“Not current. He had an old break in his radius and was well on his way to heart disease.”
“He was only twenty-seven,” the sheriff said, shock in his voice.
“Yep. I see it in younger people all the time. And also his heart was no longer beating by the time they hanged him. Livor was present in his lower extremities. He was hanged soon after being killed.”
“They hanged a dead man,” Zander said slowly. The killers had an agenda.
“They did. Maybe they thought he was still alive, but one of the stabbings cleanly sliced through his aorta. He bled out quickly. This was his cause of death.” The doctor paused. “Nineteen stab wounds. Twenty-one on Lindsay.”
Zander’s head reeled. Someone had been angry. Very angry.
“And Zander.” Dr. Rutledge’s voice lowered. “Lindsay was pregnant. I’d say around two months.” The doctor’s tone was careful.
Zander’s vision narrowed, focused on the cars speeding by on the road beyond the parking lot. He felt the sheriff’s curious stare pointed his way. “That’s horrible.” His voice was even, flat, as he tried to ignore the sudden ringing in his ears.
“Think she knew?” muttered the sheriff.
“In my experience, most women know,” said Dr. Rutledge. “But some go into labor with no idea that they were pregnant. I thought those were made-up stories until it happened to the daughter of a friend of mine.” Wonder filled his voice. “They scrambled to buy diapers and a car seat. No one knew.”
Zander briefly closed his eyes. Why were some people handed children while others agonized and suffered to create a family?
“Did she have defensive wounds, Doctor?” asked Greer.
“She had two cuts on her lower arms. With the amount of GHB in her system, I suspect this was a feeble attempt at defense. Livor mortis is consistent with the position she was found in, on her side. She wasn’t moved.”
Unlike Sean.
Had Sean been the target? Zander wondered. Or both? Was the pregnancy a factor?
Not knowing the motive bothered him.
“Time of death, Doc?” he asked.
“I estimate between midnight and three a.m.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else that would help us at the moment?”
“Not for now. You’ll have my report this evening . . . well, except for the extended toxicology results. I requested additional testing, and sometimes it takes a while.”
“Good call. I’d like to know if they had anything else in their systems.”
Zander ended the call and sat silently for a moment. The sheriff respected the silence. Zander suspected his brain was also going at full speed. Dr. Rutledge had given them a lot to process.
“Do we want to go to the Osburnes’ right away?” Zander asked.
Sheriff Greer’s hands tightened and twisted on the steering wheel. “Maybe we first need to see if any Osburne fingerprints turned up in the Fitch household. From what I understand, the brothers wouldn’t have visited Sean and Lindsay socially.”
Zander understood. A visit might tip their hand. The presence of the brothers’ fingerprints inside the home would most likely indicate they’d been there for the attack. “Let’s drive by and see if anyone is home. You know what they drive?”
“An older Ford king cab and a Durango.”
Zander was duly impressed by the prompt response. But the sheriff had known that the Osburnes had fought with Sean ahead of their visit to the bar. He might have checked.
“Sheriff,” Zander asked, “how many race-based crimes do you see every year around here?”
Greer rubbed at the back of his neck as he thought. “Dunno. You never know if race is what started something. And honestly, ninety-nine percent of the population around here is white. That other one percent is Latino.”
“Any reported race incidents involving the brothers?”
“I’ll have to look. As far as I know, they pick fights with everyone.” He shook his head. “Every time I cross paths with them, they’re working somewhere new. Or not working at all.”
Zander wasn’t surprised. The entire coast of Oregon was slightly isolated. A low mountain range separated the cities from the rest of the state, and few extra jobs were available. Unemployment was high. This was no California coast with warm weather and perfect bodies. Living on the Oregon coast took dedication and a thick coat.
Greer turned the ignition. “The Osburne place isn’t very far from here.”
“I’ll follow.”
The sheriff’s Ford Explorer abruptly pulled onto the shoulder of the narrow road and slammed to a stop. Zander sucked in a breath as he hit the brakes and pulled in behind him.
Zander had been distracted, studying the homes along the two-lane highway. Maybe it was the bleak weather, but the properties scattered among the tall trees and brush had depressed him. Many held broken-down vehicles, rusted swing sets, and barns with giant holes in their roofs.
Greer stepped out of his vehicle, and Zander did the same. As far as he could see, they weren’t near a home or driveway. There were only trees.
The sheriff’s face was grim as he strode toward him, and the hair on the back of Zander’s neck rose.
“What happened?” Zander asked, his stomach sinking.
“Just got a call. One of my deputies shot himself this morning, so I need to go there first. The Osburnes will have to wait.”
“What?” Shock jangled through Zander’s nerves.
Greer crossed his arms and looked away. “It was Copeland,” he said through white lips.
Zander instantly placed the name. “Your deputy from yesterday morning. The one who took down Sean’s body.”
“He’s dead. My boys say he used his service weapon.”
Zander couldn’t speak. Is this related to the Fitch murders?
“I need to go.” The sheriff turned away, his shoulders stooped.
“I’m coming with you.”
Greer glanced back. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”
“Yesterday your deputy was the first officer at a crime scene that I’m investigating, and today he’s dead?” Zander held the sheriff’s gaze. “I’m coming.”
Greer stared. He looked as if he’d aged ten years since they’d talked at the pub. “Suit yourself,” he muttered.
He knows I have a point.
Zander climbed back in his vehicle and immediately called Ava.
Minutes later Zander parked behind the sheriff again. The Copeland home was in a small residential neighborhood full of cookie-cutter one-story homes on small lots with green grass. The street was crowded with law enforcement vehicles. Clatsop County, Astoria, City of Seaside, and even a state patrol vehicle. Officers stood in small groups in front of the home, and neighbors pressed against the caution tape, snapping pictures.
Ava’s SUV caught his eye. She was on her phone, pacing beside it. She had still been in downtown Bartonville, so she’d beaten them to the scene, and because Ava had interviewed Copeland yesterday, she knew where he lived. She hung up as Zander and Greer approached, her blue eyes somber.
“I updated the boss,” she told them. “And I was told the medical examiner went inside the home here a few moments ago.”
“Copeland was such a young kid,” muttered Greer.
“He was youn
g. Do you think the murders got to him?” Ava asked. Her tone indicated she found it doubtful.
“How’d he seem when you talked to him yesterday?” Zander asked her.
“He was shook up and definitely upset, but I got the sense he wanted to see justice done for the couple.” Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t see an officer not wanting to live because of what he’d experienced.” She gestured at Greer. “But you knew him better.”
“I never saw or heard of any suicidal tendencies on his part,” said the sheriff. “But let’s get the facts first.”
Greer scanned the groups of waiting officers. They’d all stopped their conversations and were facing his way. Palpable pain radiated from them as they waited for their sheriff to do something, anything.
Zander knew the sheriff could do nothing to ease the grief.
“I want two officers to keep the civilians back from the tape,” Greer ordered the closest group. “Tell them to put their phones away. Have some respect.” He ducked under the tape and headed up the short walk. Zander and Ava followed. The three of them signed a log held by a deputy at the front door.
The deputy’s eyes were red and swollen, but he stood ramrod straight as they wrote down their names. The sheriff removed his hat and rested a hand briefly on the deputy’s shoulder. He gave a quick squeeze and nodded but didn’t speak.
Gratitude flickered in the deputy’s eyes.
The three of them passed through the front door, and Zander squared his shoulders to face another death scene.
The body was in the living room immediately to their right. Nate Copeland sat in a recliner, his feet on the raised footrest. The chair had been reclined back so far that it was almost flat. Copeland could have been taking a nap except for the blood caking his head and neck. A young Hispanic male bent over the body, doing something under Copeland’s raised shirt. He looked up at the trio.
“Hey, Sheriff.”
“Dr. Ruiz,” said Greer. “This is Special Agent Wells and Special Agent—”
“McLane,” said the young medical examiner, looking at Ava. “We met a while back. Or is it Special Agent Callahan now?”
“Not yet,” Ava answered. “The wedding is this summer.” She glanced at Zander. “Dr. Ruiz handled my DB on a case at the coast last fall.”
Dead body.
The medical examiner straightened as he removed a thermometer from the slit he’d cut at Copeland’s liver. He checked the reading and then gently bent the body’s arm back and forth at the elbow. “No rigor,” he stated as he also moved the officer’s fingers. “Body temperature is only a few degrees below normal. What’s the temperature in here?”
Zander stepped to the thermostat on the living room wall. “Seventy.”
Dr. Ruiz tipped his head as he studied the body. “He’s been dead about two or three hours.”
The sheriff exhaled loudly. “Midmorning. Not long, then.” He turned and motioned to a deputy near the door. “Start a canvass of the neighborhood. See if anyone heard anything.” The man nodded and left, stepping around a crime scene tech with a camera.
Greer waved her in. “You got here fast.”
“Hearing it’s one of ours lights a fire under everyone,” she said. She frowned at the medical examiner, clearly unhappy that he was working in the crime scene.
“I took my own pictures before I touched the body,” Dr. Ruiz told her. “I’ll get them to you, and I’ll be out of your way in a minute.”
Ruiz turned back to Copeland as the tech started to circle the edge of the room, snapping pictures nonstop. The medical examiner shone a flashlight in Copeland’s mouth. “Entrance wound through the hard palate.” He gently palpated the skull. “Good-size exit wound.”
Based on the blood and brain matter splattered on the chair and wall, Zander had already assumed that. Copeland’s weapon lay in his lap, his hand at his side. Zander stared hard at the gun and the position of Copeland’s hands and arms. He didn’t see anything that indicated Copeland hadn’t shot himself.
But he was keeping an open mind.
Is someone tampering with this investigation?
Dr. Ruiz glanced at Greer. “We’ll check his hands for GSR.”
“Of course he’ll have gunshot residue on his hands,” Greer pointed out. “He handles guns every day. For all I know he took his weapon to the range yesterday.”
“The particle count from the residue will tell us,” Dr. Ruiz said. “It’ll be very high if he fired the weapon right here.” The doctor removed his gloves and set them near the gun. “I assume I’ll be working on this one?” He glanced at Greer. “Or are you sending it to Portland like yesterday’s deaths?”
Sheriff Greer looked to Zander and Ava.
“No offense, Doctor,” said Ava, “but since Seth Rutledge has already seen two bodies from this case, I think he should see this one.”
“You think it’s related to yesterday?” Ruiz asked.
“We can’t rule it out,” answered Zander. He looked over the living room, noting the furniture and decor seemed a couple of decades old. “Do you know if Copeland lived here alone?” he asked the sheriff.
“Yesterday he told me he lived with his parents,” answered Ava. “He also said they were in Mexico for several weeks.”
“Who found him?”
“One of the other deputies—Daigle—was to pick him up this morning,” said Sheriff Greer. “They had plans to go to Short Sands. A beach south of here,” he clarified. “Daigle called it in after he found him.”
“He still around?”
“I saw him out front.” The sheriff strode to the door and looked out. “Daigle! In here,” he shouted. “Please,” he tacked on almost as an afterthought.
The deputy who appeared wore sagging jeans and a heavy coat. His round face was blotchy and his eyes swollen. He deliberately kept his gaze on the sheriff, avoiding the sight of the body.
Zander felt for him. Daigle looked barely out of high school. The same thing he’d observed about Copeland yesterday. To him all the deputies appeared very young, and he wondered if he was simply getting old.
He didn’t feel old. Forty wasn’t old.
Except maybe in the eyes of twentysomething-year-olds.
Ava frowned at the deputy, two lines forming between her brows, and Zander wondered if she was having the same thoughts.
The deputy shook hands with Zander and Ava as Greer introduced him. Polite. Exceedingly polite. Often what Zander had seen from fresh graduates of the state’s police academy before they had much experience.
“When did you last talk to Copeland?” Ava asked.
“Last night, ma’am,” Daigle said as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. “We agreed I’d drive and pick him up around noon.”
“He sounded interested in the trip?” asked Zander.
“Yes, sir. We were both looking forward to getting out of town for the afternoon.”
“It’s cold, damp, and windy,” Ava pointed out. “Why would you go to the beach?”
The sheriff snorted lightly as Daigle answered earnestly. “If we waited for perfect weather around here, we’d never leave home. We’re used to it. Shorty’s has some protected areas where you can build a fire and stay out of the wind.”
“What do you do there?” It sounded miserable to Zander, protected or not.
Daigle shrugged, looking at his feet.
Drink. Smoke pot.
Zander exchanged a glance with Ava, whose lips twitched. He wondered if Daigle had drawn the short straw to be the driver.
“Nate needed to get away after his shitty morning yesterday,” Daigle explained.
“How’d you get in the house?” Zander asked.
“Door was unlocked. I rang the bell, and no one answered. I could see—see him through the window, so I opened the door.”
“Copeland ever say anything in the past that made you worry for him?” Zander continued.
“No, sir. I understand what you’re asking. I never dreamed this would happen in
a million years. I’d say I’m his closest friend, and I never saw this coming. If he had depression, he never told me about it.”
“Many people won’t discuss it,” Ava said quietly. “Even with their closest friends or family. We’ll check for some antidepressants.”
“I can’t believe he did this knowing I’d be the one to find him,” mumbled Daigle. “Fucker.” He wiped an eye.
Ava’s eyes were gentle. “Maybe he trusted you.”
“Still sucks. Never gonna get that out of my head.” He glanced briefly at the body and shuddered.
The sheriff raised a brow at Zander and Ava. They nodded. “You can go, son,” he told the deputy. “We’ll talk later.”
Daigle left without a word.
“Has anyone reached Copeland’s parents?” Zander asked.
“I left a vague message for them to call me. Nothing yet,” answered Greer. “Let’s take a quick look around.”
The three of them split up. Zander took the single bathroom, where he checked the medicine cabinet and under the sink. He found medication containers, but the names on them were John and Helen Copeland. Except for a blood pressure prescription, he wasn’t familiar with the names of the drugs.
“Nothing in the bedrooms,” stated the sheriff as he walked down the hall.
“No medication in the kitchen,” Ava said from the rear of the house. “But come take a look at this.”
Zander and Greer joined her in the kitchen, where she stood in front of the open refrigerator. “See that?” She pointed at a six-pack of Miller Lite on the top shelf. “It’s right next to an unopened container of ranch dip.” She gestured at the counter, where three bags of potato chips sat next to a small cooler. “Looks like he intended to go somewhere today.”
“Like to hang with a buddy at the beach.” Greer swore under his breath.
Zander opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out the trash. He carefully dug through the top items with gloved hands and found what he was looking for. A receipt for beer, chips, dip, and a bag of ice. “Is there a new bag of ice in the freezer?”
Ava checked. “Yep.”
The three of them exchanged a long look.
“By the way, the prescription containers I found have different names on them,” Zander said. “John and Helen Copeland?”
The Last Sister Page 8