A Deeper Darkness

by J. T. Ellison

  Damn Eleanor. Glossing over the truth. As if Sam wouldn’t have been able to handle the news.

  Damn her eyes. And damn Donovan, too.

  She resisted the urge to brush his hair back from his blanched forehead. He had a bit less of it now, a slightly receding hairline that she was sad to see. When they’d sewed him up they’d gotten it slightly crooked. Only she would notice it, though. Or maybe Susan.

  Nocek was looking at her strangely, his insect head tilted to one side as he tried to decide what was wrong with the situation.

  She swallowed and met his eyes.

  “Shall we?”

  Nocek nodded. He stepped to the body and cut the twine that held Donovan’s Y-incision together. Snip. Snip. Snip. The fancy stitching that closed the flesh entirely would be done by the undertaker after the embalming. For their purposes in the M.E.’s office, to send the body to the funeral home, they simply threaded the needle through in the three places: midsternum right and left, plus a stitch from the bottom of the incision, spots that pulled the flayed flesh back together, then tied the twine in a knot. Brutal and utilitarian. The first time Sam had seen it done she watched in horror, sure the twine would tear and the skin would fly back open, but flesh was surprisingly tough and the method quite effective.

  The field was quickly revealed, and Nocek pulled the slimy plastic bag that contained the victim’s organs from the abdominal cavity.

  The victim. Good girl, Sam. Maintain your distance. Do not personalize this.

  Nocek gestured to the bag. “Do you wish to redissect? I can do it if you’d like to observe instead.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’d like to get my hands on everything, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. I will read to you the measurements that were taken as we go through the organs.”

  Sam ignored the little voice screaming in the back of her head and settled into work, the routine. A secondary postmortem was not easy. Decomposition had begun in earnest. And without seeing the organs in situ, having the standard reference points to go on, it was slow, sloggy work. The previous M.E. had been good, though; the remaining organ sections were large enough to work with, hadn’t been chopped into little pieces. Sam had been at this a long time; once she started, she found everything she needed without too much trouble.

  His liver wasn’t enlarged. His heart looked beautiful, with only the barest minimum of cholesterol plaque lining the valves. She sectioned off a fresh piece of lung from the upper lobe, cut it into a triangle—a trick she’d been taught to keep the upper and lower lobes identifiable after they were placed in the formalin-filled organ container. Upper lobes were triangles, lowers were squares. If she needed to pull the jar from evidence to take a second look at the organs from her own posts, she could easily identify which was which. Donovan’s lungs were hard to cut, much tougher than what was normal.

  “What is this?” she asked, under her breath. The bronchioles were covered in scar tissue, developed foreign-body granulomas.

  “Sand,” Nocek said. “From the multiple military engagements in the desert. All of the soldiers we are unfortunate enough to see have this in their bronchial trees, deep in the tissue. They breathe it in and it settles. They practically drown in sand over there.”

  Nausea hit in the pit of her stomach again, hard and sudden, and she felt the edges of her world crumbling.

  Don’t do it, Sam. Don’t even think about it.

  She imagined herself at the sink. The washing was the only solution.

  One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

  “Dr. Owens, are you feeling all right? You’ve lost your color.”

  She opened her eyes. Got her breathing under control.

  Normal. Nominal.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Forgive me. I didn’t eat breakfast.”

  She refocused on the section in front of her.

  This is Donovan, Sam. Donovan. Not Simon. Don’t do this now. Not now.

  Sam swallowed down the rising bile and used the back end of her scalpel to scrape away some of the grit.

  “I’ve…” Her voice was weak, broken. She coughed, cleared her throat. “I’ve seen this before. We get soldiers from time to time, as well. Usually 101st Airborne. But…”

  “What is the matter, Dr. Owens?”

  “Call me Sam, please.” She used her gloved finger to roll some of the granulomas. “I meant this. This looks like a more recent irritant. He’s been back over three years. This has been caused by a recent inhalation. But how can that be?”

  She had Nocek’s interest now. Both lungs were put on the dissection board. They each took a side and began to cut. A few moments later, he held a sliver of tissue up to the light, turning it to and fro.

  “You are correct, Doctor…excuse me. Sam. There is old scar tissue from the sand, but there is also newer, fresher areas of irritation, in the air sacs. See here, in the central tracheobronchial tree? It’s barely visible, but it’s there.”

  “Yes. I see it.”

  He moved to Donovan’s head, took up a small swab, directed it up the left nostril. He pulled it back and examined it. “And a minuscule amount here, in the maxillary sinus cavity. And more irritation to the trachea. This is certainly a more recent occurrence.”

  He snapped the swab into a tube, then laid his long-boned fingers across his chest. “We must have these tested immediately. The presence of the penetrating gunshot wound may have misguided our initial examination. As head of the department, I take full responsibility.”

  Nocek looked pained. Sam felt bad for him. It was an easy miss.

  “Well, I appreciate that, but before we go jumping to conclusions, let’s finish and see if there’s anything else left to find.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  McLean, Virginia

  Susan Donovan

  Susan glanced at the clock, saw it was 10:30. Damn it. The morning had gotten away from her. She’d been sitting at the kitchen table, lost in thought, for the better part of two hours. A cup of coffee had gone cold and scummy at her elbow. The papers were spread before her: a copy of Eddie’s will, the investments, insurance and bank statements. Since he’d returned from overseas, she’d let him handle the finances. It gave him a sense of control. Now she had to see where they stood.

  She got up and dumped the coffee in the sink, poured herself a fresh cup. Skipped the milk and sugar. The sugar tasted wrong somehow, cloying and overpowering. Poisoned by memories. Eddie had drunk his coffee black. She would do so, as well.

  The war had changed him. She knew how difficult it had been for him over there, and how hard he tried to fit back into the fabric of their lives once he returned. Warriors home from battle often slipped into depression, felt alien to their own lives. Without that purpose, that daily rush of adrenaline, the overwhelming courage it took to go back out on the roads, day after day after day, knowing someone was waiting to kill you, many foundered. There were no enemy combatants waiting in the bushes outside Safeway. But after years of being on guard, of not knowing if your next step was your last, they didn’t know any other way to live.

  Eddie had managed rather well, considering. There were others who didn’t. There’d already been one suicide from his old unit. When Eddie heard, he’d locked himself in the study for hours, refusing to come out until Susan threatened to call the police. She understood when he tried to push her away, and knew she had to do everything in her power not to let him. When that happened, bad things followed.

  Susan was still a part of the support group for their unit, for the women whose husbands continued their tours of duty overseas. She wanted out. Dear God, she wanted out. But she had so much experience, so much to offer these young wives and fiancées and girlfriends and mothers, that she didn’t feel right leaving. Eddie may have le
ft the Army, but the Army never leaves the family.

  Now that he was gone, she’d have the excuse.

  She should check in on the Listserv, if only to say thank you. The flowers they’d sent were dead now, wilted in their plastic homes, but the donation confirmations were still pouring in. They’d both been very active in the Wounded Warrior Project—and many of their friends had honored Eddie’s memory by giving to the organization. She knew everyone was hoping and praying for her. She knew it. Even if she’d rather they forget she existed so she could crawl into a hole and never come out, she knew they cared.

  They’d want the details on the service. Susan had spent too much time at Arlington National Cemetery. She knew exactly what to expect. And the women she’d comforted would attend by her side, walking the rows of white marble, the grass green and soft beneath their feet, the ground around them under constant disturbance, to his grave site. They’d hold her fingers, trapped in their own, and hand her tissues for her dry eyes. Just like she’d done when their husbands were being put in the ground.

  When the calls started, Eleanor had stepped in and organized everything. She had taken care of parceling the food; Susan wouldn’t have to cook for weeks. Thank God Eddie made her buy that freezer. He’d decided he wanted to be a hunter one year, and they had no room for the spoils, so they’d bought a wide, deep white freezer secondhand and found a spot for it in the garage. He’d filled it up with meat from his kills. She understood his sudden impulse. He’d spent so many years with a gun in his hands that he didn’t know what to do with them empty. Hunting was an outlet, much more than just exercise and fresh air.

  Venison. Another thing she’d have to give up. Like the sugar. Gone like her husband.

  She wondered sometimes, what exactly he’d seen over there. He’d given her bits and pieces, enough to paint a rather gruesome picture, but there were still nights when he’d wake, crying out, and she could see the carnage reflected back in his wide, blank eyes. Demons followed him back from every tour. But he’d made it through every time. Damn it, they’d made it through.

  And now this.

  What the hell did the note mean? Do the right thing. It implied he’d done something wrong. Her husband wasn’t the type to do bad things. It just didn’t make sense.

  And why hadn’t he shared it with her? What was he trying to hide?

  Susan sat back at the table and stared at the stack of papers. She needed to be alone. To take the girls somewhere, be quiet and simple for a while. Away from this town, which had killed Eddie in the end, after all.

  The phone rang. She didn’t want to answer it. But the caller ID was familiar. St. John’s Academy. The school they’d chosen for the girls. Even though they weren’t Catholic, they’d both agreed that children needed structure, discipline and respect. St. John’s promised that kind of character building, in spades.

  Heart in her throat, she clicked the talk button.

  “Mrs. Donovan, this is the headmaster. I’m afraid I need you to come by my office and retrieve Alina.”

  Retrieve. The word registered. Thank God. Ally wasn’t dead. Would she be able to ever get a phone call again from an institution and not assume the worst?

  “Is she ill?”

  “No. She’s fine. We can discuss this when you arrive. Can you come now?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Mrs. Donovan, I hope you know… Well, we are all so very upset by your loss.”

  “Thank you, Headmaster. And thank you for the flowers.” Susan glanced at the arrangement the school had sent, already wilted and brown, the heads dropping off the lilies onto the kitchen counter. “They’re lovely.”

  “Of course. We wanted… That’s neither here nor there. We’ll see you shortly.”

  Susan gathered up her purse and keys, thankful for the distraction. The headmaster’s crisp, no-nonsense voice hinted at something, though Susan was damned if she could figure out what.

  The phone began to ring again as she left the kitchen. She glanced back over her shoulder at the caller ID, saw a familiar number. Betty Croswell. Well, it was just a matter of time before the wives started seeking her out to find out about the service.

  Later, she thought. I’ll deal with that later.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Washington, D.C.

  Detective Darren Fletcher

  After the grueling talk with Betty Croswell, Fletcher had Hart drop him at his house and crashed for a few hours. Without sleep, his mind wasn’t going to work properly, anyway. He woke from his nest on the couch with a sore neck, waded through a month’s worth of Washington Posts stacked on the floor as he stumbled toward the kitchen, passed by a year’s worth of books he hadn’t had time to read stacked on the tiny dining room table. The kitchen was still decked out in 1970s avocado appliances and speckled linoleum.

  But it served its purpose: a semiclean space to house his coffeemaker.

  He started the coffee brewing and found a clean cup.

  He needed a maid.

  And a decorator.

  And a very large trash compactor.

  Despite the fact his case had kept him out all night and half the morning, he liked that it now had a wee bit of intrigue. A husband off the rails, obviously lying to his family, made for interesting investigating. It was better than that carjacking he’d caught a few nights ago. That upset him. Guy just minding his own business jacked at a stoplight, then dumped on the street. A freaking war hero, at that. Managed to survive three tours and saved God knew how many lives before coming home and biting it because some junkie needed to drive out to Prince George’s County to get a fix.

  The world was a seriously fucked-up place.

  He opened the refrigerator, found the remnants of a Cinnabon he’d neglected to finish and tossed it in the microwave. He didn’t want to think about how old the pastry was. Sipped on the coffee, leaned against his counter. Massaged his stiff neck.

  Military.

  A war hero carjacked in Southeast. A PTSD mess shot in Georgetown.

  Connected?

  Naw.

  The microwave dinged. He pulled the slick wax paper out, dumped the half-eaten and very hot bun onto a paper plate, and carefully gnawed.

  Military.

  Hmm.

  He set the plate on the counter and went to his office. Flipped open the laptop. Searched the obituary for the carjacking victim, Edward Donovan.

  The obit wasn’t vague, that was for sure. He’d served his last tour in Afghanistan in the 75th Ranger Regiment, Bravo Company.

  Fletcher had managed to remember to charge his cell when he came in, zombified from his all-nighter. He didn’t use a landline anymore—what was the point? He speed-dialed Hart, who answered on the third ring.

  “I’m sleeping. Go away.”

  “What unit did Croswell serve in?”

  “Fuck I know?”

  “Humor me.”

  Fletcher heard groaning, then sounds equating movement—sheets ripping back, feet on the floor, heel strikes on the teak hardwood Hart’s wife had insisted they pay extra for that their Labrador’s nails tore to shreds in a week. Fletcher hated to say I told you so to Hart—it wasn’t his fault. He’d had to capitulate to the wife. That’s what you did if you wanted to stay married during a renovation. In its favor, the teak had looked nice at the beginning.

  Page flip. That would be Hart’s notebook.

  “The 75th Ranger Regiment, Bravo Company. Served last in Afghanistan.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “Really, I’d rather stick it to Ginger. She’s got better equipment for that. Prettier than your nasty—”

  “Shut it. The carjacking last week? Guy was in the same company.”

 
Hart was quiet for a second. “Uh-oh.”

  “That’s what I thought. I’m going in. See if there’s a ballistics report on the Donovan case yet. I’ll flag Croswell’s to be compared.”

  “Without a weapon…”

  “You got a better idea?”

  “No. You really think they’re connected?”

  “Who knows? But I got three hours of sleep, sunshine. I’m raring to go.”

  Hart groaned. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Washington, D.C.

  Dr. Samantha Owens

  Sam scrubbed up after Donovan’s post, feeling vaguely uneasy. The rest of the morning had gone smoothly—no surprises. The gunshot wound to the right temporal lobe had crossed through his brain and lodged in his left ear canal, causing an unbelievable path of destruction along the way. His poor, beautiful, brilliant mind, shredded and destroyed. The bullet had certainly caused his death.

  But the lungs were vexing her. How did he get fresh sand in his lungs? Eleanor hadn’t mentioned that he’d been back to Iraq. She supposed it made sense—after all, he did work for a defense contractor now. But the fact that he’d been within the week before he died nagged at her.

  Nocek saw her out with a promise to get the mass spectrometry on the sand ASAP, and took her cell number in order to call with the results. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to get their answer—Sam assumed the sand would be a biological and ecological match to Iraq or Afghanistan. Wherever he’d been in the past week. Wherever he’d snuck off to and lied to his family about.

  She needed to find out where he’d gone. And why he’d want to hide that fact from everyone.

  She slid behind the wheel of Eleanor’s Mercedes and turned over the engine. Let the cool air-conditioned air flow over her. She’d come damn close to losing it inside the morgue. Too close. She knew the minute she let things come out she’d be broken forever. If she could just hold it together a little longer. Just get through the next few days, then she could go back home, to her rote little life, and continue on.