by Jason Pinter
“Call dispatch,” Serrano said. “Tell them we may need crowd control. And with the media already here, Lieutenant George will want me to make a brief statement. Nobody gives Wright’s identity to the press.”
Tally nodded. “You know, if you asked me a few years ago, I would have said Constance Wright had a shot at the White House.”
“Me too,” Serrano said.
“Even after what she did to you?” Tally said, surprised.
“Even after that.”
Tally offered a weak smile. “Go get ’em, Tiger.”
Serrano trudged off to the bank of the Ashby River, where he planned to tell the assembled media crews absolutely nothing of substance. Still, one question gnawed at him. It had been two years since Constance Wright’s life had gone up in flames. The woman had endured indignity, malice, mockery, and cruelty on an unfathomable level. But she’d kept on living. Two years, and nothing.
So why would she suddenly decide to end it all now?
CHAPTER 4
Eric finished his breakfast in silence and left the table without so much as a thank-you. Megan, thrilled to have her mother’s sole attention, gushed about the new book she was writing.
“It’s a mystery and an adventure story,” she said. “Like Wonder Woman meets Dora the Explorer.”
“I would totally read that book,” Rachel said, completely serious.
“It’s going to be a whole series. My character’s name is Sadie Scout. She’s superstrong and has a pet tiger.”
“Of course she does,” Rachel said. “And what’s her pet tiger’s name?”
“Roxy.”
“A pet tiger named Roxy. And where does Roxy sleep?”
“In the bed with Sadie, of course,” Megan said, annoyed that her mother even had to ask such a silly question.
“I should have assumed the tiger slept in bed with Sadie. So when do I get to read the first Sadie Scout story?”
“When I’m done,” Megan said, slipping off her chair. “And not a minute before.”
“Well, I’ll be waiting.”
Eric came downstairs, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.
“Have a good day!” Rachel shouted. Eric said nothing, merely nodded and put on his headphones. Then he was gone. Minutes later the school bus pulled up. Rachel knelt down so Megan could wrap her little arms around her, planting a kiss on her daughter before she sped out the door. Rachel watched as she climbed aboard and took a seat next to her best friend, Simone Watson.
When did my peanut become a kid? At least she’d outgrown her previous favorite toy, something called a “Blingle,” a kit that allowed children to design their own glittery, sparkly stickers, which could then be affixed anywhere within reach. Rachel was convinced Blingles must have been invented by a pure sociopath, given that they essentially gave your child the ability to make your home look like a low-rent strip club. It wasn’t long ago that Rachel had opened the toilet seat lid to find a bedazzled unicorn staring back at her.
When both kids were gone, Rachel planted herself at the kitchen counter; made an egg white, spinach, and feta frittata; brewed a pot of french press coffee; took a stool at the counter; and streamed the news from her laptop while she ate.
She tuned in to Channel 8. The weatherman, sporting a tan that no December sun could have possibly bestowed on him, informed viewers that temperatures would top out this week at fifteen degrees, with a windchill factor around zero. Rachel grimaced as she sipped her coffee.
They cut back to the local anchors: a fiftysomething man with a wavy blond comb-over and chin sharp enough to cut glass and a smiley young brunette whose early-morning perkiness had to either be espresso or meth related.
“Now to follow up with our top story, breaking news from late last night,” the man said. “A body was found at the base of the Albertson Bridge in the early hours of the morning. Ashby PD was on the scene, as was our own Charles Willemore.”
Rachel put her coffee down and leaned in closer. The stream on her computer was choppy. She hoped it wouldn’t cut out.
The feed cut to a recorded shot from early that morning. The chyron read 2:00 a.m. The shot had been filmed from the eastern bank of the Ashby River. In the background, Rachel could see four cops with Ashby PD jackets examining an illuminated area at the base of the bridge. The scene had a radius of about thirty feet. The body itself was blocked off by a yellow tent. The camera showed a dozen or so pedestrians gathered at the edge of the frozen river, watching the grim scene. The feed then cut to a taped report.
“Charles Willemore for Channel 8, here at the Albertson Bridge, just across from Woodbarren Glen. Ashby law enforcement responded to a 911 call just after 1:00 a.m. for what at first glance appears to be a suicide at the iconic structure. As you can see, the scene behind me is quite unusual, in that the investigation is taking place atop the frozen Ashby River, necessitating extra caution by police investigators.”
Video showed a patrol boat cutting through the ice. A spotlight from the boat lit the crime scene with a harsh glow. The Channel 8 camera zoomed in to show a fortyish white male detective and a younger black female detective kneeling beside the tent covering the body.
Willemore added, “We were able to speak with one of the officers on scene.”
The camera cut to a man identified by the chyron as Detective John Serrano of the Ashby PD. Serrano looked to be between forty-two and forty-four, with dark-brown hair and light-gray sideburns peeking out from under a wool trapper hat. He had green eyes the color of pine needles and a several-days-old beard with graying whiskers. He looked tired and annoyed.
“Detective, can you tell us whether you’ve identified the deceased?” Willemore asked.
“As of right now we’re still performing preliminary forensics and have not made an official identification,” Serrano said. “Once we do, we will notify next of kin prior to releasing any statements regarding the identity of the victim.”
“You refer to the deceased as a ‘victim.’ Does that mean you believe this might have been something other than suicide?”
“People who take their own life are referred to as victims. Based on our initial findings we’re not ready to make an official statement as to the cause of death.”
“The Albertson Bridge has an unfortunate reputation for attracting those who wish to take their own life,” Willemore added. “Is it possible this woman leapt to her death?”
As soon as Willemore said the word woman, Serrano’s eyes widened in surprise.
Willemore wasn’t supposed to know it was a woman, Rachel thought. Somebody leaked that information to the media. Another cop, no doubt.
“It is possible. We’re not ruling anything out. Now, you’ll need to wait for an official statement, which will come once we’ve completed our preliminary analysis.”
Serrano left the interview. The camera followed him. Rachel could see that one of his fists was clenched.
The camera cut back to the tent. The female detective moved to the side. In that moment, Rachel saw the victim’s hand. On her left index finger was a silver ring with a large topaz gemstone.
Rachel had seen that ring before. She remembered what the woman had said.
This one is for family.
It didn’t make sense. She wouldn’t have killed herself. Not now. Not after everything she’d been through.
When you survive the fire, you don’t let the winter kill you.
Rachel rewound the livestream and took several screen grabs of the scene before pressing play.
“There you have it,” Willemore continued. “Sad news in Ashby today as a woman seemingly took her own life in the early hours of this wintry day at one of our city’s most beloved monuments. Back to you in the studio.”
The female anchor said, “Our prayers are with her friends and family, whoever they may be. We here at Channel 8 know the holidays can be a difficult time, so please, use these resources. Help is waiting.”
Several phone numbers appeared
on the screen below the news desk: the National Suicide Prevention Hotline, Gamblers Anonymous, and RAINN.
“Now on to sports,” the male anchor said, and they cut to a basketball game as if they hadn’t been reporting on the gruesome end of someone’s life just seconds prior.
Rachel sent the screen grabs to her email and opened the photos. Studied them. Made some mental notes. Opened the Calculator app on her phone. Within seconds, she knew that Constance Wright had been murdered.
Rachel got into her car and checked the time. An hour before she needed to be at work. She’d be cutting it close. But it needed to be done. She didn’t trust cops. And somebody inside the Ashby PD had clearly tipped off the media to the crime scene. But Serrano had seemed surprised, and the reaction felt genuine. Maybe he was on the up-and-up. But she needed to know for sure.
Rachel took a left down Merrybrook Lane and headed downtown. Southern Ashby consisted primarily of businesses and municipal buildings, all old brick and new steel. Despite the cold, the sun was bright in the sky, the glare off the snow blinding. Rachel slipped on her sunglasses.
She turned onto Isenberg Boulevard and headed west. Traffic toward the Albertson Bridge was a nightmare. Even though the bridge had reopened, the crime scene would still be taped off with rubberneckers backing up traffic for miles. But Rachel wasn’t heading toward the bridge. She already knew everything she needed to.
She took a right on Branch Avenue, drove several miles south past the Westerby Mall, then took I-74 South toward Peoria. She drove twelve miles, then pulled off at a strip mall. She parked next to a silver Buick and got out of the car.
She approached a filthy pay phone nestled between a Chinese take-out restaurant and a check-cashing joint. A group of teens loitered outside, performing skateboard tricks. One of the kids filmed the stunts with his cell phone.
Rachel took a packet of disinfectant towelettes from her pocketbook and wiped down the phone and handset. She opened an app on her cell and tested it several times for clarity, pitch, and tone. Then she put on her gloves and dialed 911. Time to see if the Ashby Police Department was worth a damn.
When the dispatcher picked up, Rachel said, “This message is for Detective Serrano of the Ashby PD. It’s regarding the body found at the Albertson Bridge last night. He needs to know this was not a suicide.”
CHAPTER 5
“Detectives Serrano and Tally, thanks for coming down. It’s good to have some company. It’s usually dead in here.”
Hector Moreno smiled and waited for a laugh. Serrano and Tally simultaneously rolled their eyes.
“Good to see you too, Hector,” Serrano said. “Thankfully for the Ashby PD your comedy career isn’t in any danger of taking off.”
Hector Moreno had been the chief medical examiner of Ashby County for sixteen years. He was a good-looking Hispanic man of about fifty, with warm brown eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a neat salt-and-pepper goatee. He wore a bolo tie with a silver cow skull inset with a turquoise stone over his scrubs.
“The less you see of us, the better,” Tally said. “Means people aren’t getting dead in suspicious ways. How are Camila and the kids?”
“Camila is wonderful. Just wonderful,” Moreno said. “Two of her paintings are going on display at an art gallery in New York City. Can you believe that? She’s flying out there in a few weeks for the grand opening. She could be the next Rembrandt for all I know.”
“Good for her,” Serrano said. “But it begs the question as to why she married you.”
“I know, right? Ten years ago she tells me she wants to try painting, buys some acrylics and canvas, turns the garage into a rainbow-colored mess, and now she gets weekly calls from some guy who calls himself Gulliver and speaks with a British accent even though he’s from Sheboygan. I looked him up. It’s only a matter of time before she leaves me to shack up with some cornrowed bohemian poet she meets at a hookah bar in the East Village.”
“Even so, I give her six months with the poet before she realizes how good she has it with you,” Tally said. “Never date a writer. I made that mistake once.”
Moreno laughed. “I’d pay to see the reaction she gets when all those hoity-toity artists ask what her spouse does for a living. ‘My husband? Yeah, he spends his days covered in guts.’ Hey, Serrano, you still reading those books about witches and magic beans? Learn any spells that can bring Mayor Wright here back from the dead? I’m not kidding. What happened to her a few years back was a travesty.”
“I agree,” Tally said.
Serrano remained silent.
Tally said, “So what have you got for us?”
Moreno snapped his fingers and beckoned for the detectives to follow him. He brought them into a well-lit gray chamber lined by sterile metal shelving containing forensic tools: scalpels, retractors, bone saws, rib spreader, enterotome, forceps, Hagedorn needles, and more. On a table in the center of the room was a body covered by a four-by-ten-foot white sheet. Serrano noticed a toe poking out from underneath the sheet. The nail was painted cherry red.
“Look there,” Serrano said, pointing to the toe. Tally came over to inspect.
“Coat of polish looks fresh,” Tally said. “She got a pedicure within the last week or two.” Tally lifted the sheet higher and felt underneath. “And she shaved her legs recently.”
“Means she was still grooming as of this week. Not exactly the behavior of someone getting ready to end it,” Serrano added.
“Let’s contact local nail salons, see if we can find the one Wright frequented,” Tally said. She turned to Hector. “You ready?”
Moreno nodded. “Just to warn you, it isn’t pretty.”
“Death never is,” Serrano replied.
“No, it is not. This woman deserved better.” Moreno slowly peeled off the sheet to reveal the body of Constance Wright. Tally took a sharp breath but said nothing.
Serrano studied the woman laid out before them. Constance Wright’s body was shattered. That was the first thought that came to his mind. She looked like a rag doll tossed haphazardly on the floor by a careless child, its limbs bent at horribly unnatural angles.
“Ice is an unforgiving bastard,” Moreno said. “I’ll walk you through it.”
“Go ahead, Hector,” Serrano said.
“The cause of death was blunt-force trauma to the head,” Moreno said, slipping on latex gloves. Wright’s entire face was caved in, from forehead to jaw, the bones dislocated. “Fortunately, she died immediately on impact. No pain.”
“Thank goodness for small favors,” Tally said.
Moreno nodded. “All twenty-four of her ribs are broken. Four pierced her heart and seven her lungs. Both her liver and spleen were punctured as well. Even if the head trauma hadn’t killed her, those injuries would have almost instantaneously.”
He moved on to her mangled limbs.
“Compound fractures of the left radius and right ulna, as well as both tibia and fibula in both legs. Her pelvis is basically dust.”
“Toxicology?” Serrano said.
“Blood alcohol level of .43. No traces of any other narcotics in her system.”
“BAC of .43? That’s inordinately high,” Tally said. “She must have really tied one on last night. Think she was numbing herself for the plunge?”
“Maybe. But there’s one more thing.” Moreno paused. “She was pregnant.”
Serrano’s jaw dropped.
“How far along?” Tally said.
“Her HCG levels suggest she was about nine weeks.”
“Meaning she more than likely knew she was pregnant,” Serrano said. “We’ll check her apartment for pregnancy tests, prenatal vitamins, anything that could let us know her frame of mind.”
Tally moved closer to Wright’s body, put out her hand, let it hover over the woman’s abdomen. She clenched her fist. Serrano put his hand over hers, gently brought it down to her side.
“I know,” Serrano said. “I know.”
Tally took a long breath. “Sorry. Just
. . . the waste of life.”
Serrano said, “Can we determine the identity of the father from the fetal tissue?”
Moreno shook his head. “At nine weeks the fetus only weighs about a tenth of an ounce. There’s very little tissue to speak of. And a DNA test can’t determine paternity unless you also have a sample from the partner to compare it to. The fetal tissue alone won’t reveal paternity.”
“It’s also possible she did it on her own with a sperm donor,” Serrano said.
“But why would she go through all that trouble to conceive and then jump off a bridge two months later?” Tally replied. Serrano didn’t have an answer.
“First things first,” Serrano finally said. “Both of Wright’s parents are deceased. No children. No other living relatives. We’ll need to bring in her ex-husband, Nicholas Drummond, to make the ID.”
“Those were some ugly divorce proceedings, if I’m remembering correctly,” Moreno said. “Drummond is not going to be happy to be dragged into this.”
“Ugly doesn’t begin to describe it,” Serrano said. “I also want to check his DNA against the fetus.”
“He can refuse to comply without a court order,” Tally said.
“If he refuses, that answers our question.”
“You think Constance Wright might have had one last roll in the hay with her ex and gotten knocked up?” Moreno said.
“It’s not uncommon,” Serrano said. “Drummond remarried soon after the divorce from Constance was finalized. Exes rekindle the spark, have an affair, get pregnant, and the husband tries to hide it from his new wife.”
“That’s why I made sure to hold on to some A-plus blackmail material in case Claire ever leaves me,” Tally said. “We’d settle in arbitration in five minutes flat.”