20
“Who are Melvin Rotsworth and Roger Phizter, and what do you know about Hank Wurthers and the county commissioners?” Emily asked Delia as she set down two beers and two bear claw pastries on the kitchen table. It was after nine o’clock, and Delia was in her pj’s already. She routinely had to rise at three AM to open the door of Brown’s Bakery. Emily sunk her teeth into the flaky, cinnamon-y goodness and chased it with a pale ale from Mash Up, a local brewery. The perfect pairing.
“Melvin Rotsworth moved here a couple years ago with his family to start a plumbing business in Freeport. Rots-No-More.”
“Horrible name,” said Emily with a mouth full of claw.
“Terrible. But business is good, and from what I hear, he does good work. And Roger Phizter is a pharmacist.”
“And do either of them have coroner experience? My guess is no.”
Delia shook her head.
“Then why on God’s green earth do they want to run for county coroner? Neither one has a medical degree, so they’d still have to farm out the autopsies to a medical examiner. Which means the county would be paying double fees. With me, like Dad, they’d get two in one. One-stop shop. Besides, both those men are working full-time already. It makes no sense.”
“It’s simple politics, Em.” Delia broke off a piece of pastry and popped it into her mouth. “Melvin and Roger are making a power play.”
“How’s that?” Emily groaned.
“In a lot of counties, the coroner position is a stepping-stone into local politics. Get elected coroner, do the job for a couple years. Gain local recognition and then run for another office up the food chain, so to speak.”
“Ridiculous. You can’t play with people’s lives and deaths like that.”
“Doll, that is exactly one of the reasons your dad stayed in his position for so long. He knew no one else cared as much as he did or could do a better job. He didn’t play their political games. Don’t let them walk all over you. Demand to be paid fairly. And demand justice.”
Speaking of. “Delia, I wondered if I could ask you a favor.”
“Always.”
“Mrs. Parkman doesn’t have the funds for a proper funeral for her daughter—”
“Say no more. I’ll start a kitty at the bakery. And all tips will go in as well.”
“Thank you so much, Delia. Now, we just need a new funeral director.”
“Have you heard from Cathy?”
“Only that she arrived safely to Ben’s house. I’m taking the lack of news as good news.” Emily licked cinnamon off her fingers and chugged down the last swallow of her ale.
“You’re doing a great job, doll. Your dad would be really proud. Don’t let those old codgers get you down. They have no idea how important it is to maintain justice in the community—and what it takes to do it properly,” said Delia triumphantly as she pushed her almost-untouched bear claw over to Emily. Emily smiled and took the pastry. She was ravenous.
“Have you thought about Dr. Payton’s job offer?”
“It’s a request to apply,” Emily mumbled through her mouthful of bread.
“Semantics. He sees something in you that he wants.”
“He has eyes only for you,” Emily joked. “And your cinnamon rolls.”
“He’ll have to take a number, like the rest of the men waiting in line for my sweets.”
Emily laughed and felt the tension release in her shoulders. “What about settling down here? Taking on Melvin and Roger?” she mused.
She considered Delia’s life. Delia had given her life to the FBI and had forgone marriage and kids. Not that she’d ever seemed lacking without them. Her life was complete and fulfilled, and she had expressed that to Emily on numerous occasions. She was not defined by her lack of marriage or children. Emily knew that whatever she chose, Delia would support her one hundred and ten percent.
“I don’t know, Delia,” she continued. “It’s hard to wrap my mind around university life. I’ve just never thought of myself as the teaching type.”
“You stay, and you’ll never leave.”
“You live here.”
“I came back. I had a life first. Besides, you’re a natural teacher, Emily. You always have been. You get that from your dad, too.”
Emily’s memory flashed to the many times in the operating room when Dr. Claiborne had handed her the reins to instruct a student doctor on how to make a clean incision or sew up a chest cavity.
“Here, you help a community. There, you influence generations from all over the world,” said Delia, with a keen eye toward Emily.
Emily had never considered that angle before. Delia had a point. Where would her talents be more useful and effective? On the field? Or teaching those who would be going onto the field? And which could she weather better—university politics or Freeport politics? It wouldn’t hurt to at least explore the opportunity at the University of Michigan. Especially since it had come knocking at her door, delivered in such a genteel package.
“He’s not bad to look at, is he?” said Delia with a sly smirk.
Emily laughed. “He’s definitely my type.”
“Brains, brawn, and beauty. I got you.” Delia glanced over and checked the time on the microwave. “Oh, goodness. I have to be up in five hours. If I don’t get my beauty sleep, I end up sprinkling salt instead of sugar on the doughnut twists.”
That was Emily’s cue to head home, but instead she reached for her bag.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Emily pulled out her laptop. “Do you have a quick minute to take a look at something?”
“Please tell me these are from the Pinetree Slopes case.” Delia’s voice sprung up with that old, investigative excitement.
“You don’t think I would leave you out of the loop, do you?” said Emily as she opened the images from Sandi’s autopsy. “And don’t worry, Nick is okay with this.” She told a little white lie. Easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
“I can tell you’re lying, Miss,” Delia said. “You pursed your lips just now when you told me.”
Emily sighed. There was nothing she could put past Delia. Which made her the perfect asset and ally. “I just want a second opinion on these fissure lines. It’s within my rights to consult a consultant.”
“I won’t disagree. I’m just remembering what a row it caused with the Dobson case.”
“Nick saved my life. We have an understanding now.”
Delia accepted this answer. Emily scrolled through the files until she found the ones she was looking for.
Delia slipped on her reading glasses as Emily turned the screen to her view. One of Delia’s many specialties at the FBI was forensic tool examination. Delia flipped through the series of X-ray images.
“Damage to the neck vertebrae and hyoid bone. Classic strangulation injuries,” she muttered, her eyes scanning the film of Sandi’s skull and neck. Delia clicked the mouse, and the screen changed to an image of Sandi’s ribs and midvertebral section. She slid her glasses down her nose and shook her head.
“What is it?” Emily asked.
“If I’ve seen it once, I’ve seen it a thousand times. See the fourth and fifth left rib? Look closely.”
Emily leaned in as Delia ran the point of a pen across a series of small fissures.
“Common blunt-force-trauma injury,” Delia said with a sigh. “Right under the heart.”
“The question is, which injury did her in first—heart or neck?” said Emily.
“Beaten and strangled.” Delia drew in a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. “Hard to know which came first. More importantly right now, what caused it?”
“And that’s why Dad came to you,” Emily said.
“From time to time. He knew when to ask for help,” Delia said with a comforting tone. “And I’m here for you, too.”
Emily followed Delia’s gaze back to the screen.
“It wasn’t a sharp object,” said Delia. “Something more narrow and rounded. Like a crowbar or pi
pe.”
“Those are a dime a dozen. It’ll be impossible to locate the murder weapon. Especially ten years later,” said Emily.
“Could be,” said Delia. “Best to focus on other evidence. There’s always another path, right, doll?”
Yeah. But why was it always so hard to find the trailhead?
Delia rose from the table, taking the two empty beer bottles and setting them in the sink.
Delia turned back to look at Emily. “It must be lonely in your house now.”
Her house. Technically. Yes.
“You going to be okay heading home tonight?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Home. Was her father’s house still—or rather, now—home?
Where was home?
21
The next day Emily holed herself up at home to take a much-needed break from the world. She ignored her emails and turned off her phone. And she slept. Emily couldn’t remember when she had slept so much and for so long. A full ten hours. With a catnap in the afternoon. It felt delicious. The fogginess lifted and her brain cleared. She no longer felt so overwhelmed when thoughts about the future drifted in. The shock of her father’s death had dissipated into a numbing reality. She allowed herself a few overdue sobbing sessions. Everything about her little retreat was restorative.
She spent time going through her father’s estate and researching the U of M’s anthropology department. From everything she could find in her search, she concluded that it seemed well-funded. Advanced. Multicultural. And respected worldwide. Since there was no forensic anthropology focus in place yet, Emily wondered who would be heading up the program and what exactly she would be expected to bring to the table. On the surface it seemed a bit daunting, seeing as she had neither the training nor the experience. She wasn’t afraid to forge new paths, but she had a lot of questions welling up in her mind about the position. And why Dr. Payton had asked her, of all people.
Yes, she was suspicious, as any good investigator would be. Why her? Why now? These were core questions in any criminal investigation.
By the following day, after lunch, Emily finally pried herself from her laptop to take a long walk around the property, soaking up the last autumn smells and sun. Seeing her father’s apple tree, she decided on the spot to spend the rest of the afternoon resurrecting her mom’s apple pie recipe. She’d never had time in Chicago to make pies, and Aunt Laura wasn’t exactly the culinary type. She plucked a dozen apples off Dad’s apple tree, went inside, and dug through her mom’s old recipe box, shoved in the back of a cupboard with cooking sheets and baking tins layered in dust. She found what she was after. The prized apple pie recipe.
But first, coffee. She brewed a pot and was pouring herself a mug when her doorbell rang.
“Hey, look at you! No more dark circles under your eyes,” Nick blurted out when she opened the door.
“Nice greeting,” She swung the door open so he could enter.
“It was a compliment. You look good. Rested.”
She just waved him in. “Coffee?”
“Always.” He followed her into the kitchen.
“To what do I own the honor of your visit?” she said with a chirpy voice.
“Just some updates on the Parkman case,” Nick said, scooping a full two teaspoons of sugar into his coffee. “I have a lead on something, and I was wondering if you wanted to take a drive with me.”
“I was going to make a pie today,” she said, proudly spreading her hands like a game show hostess over the apples and prepared baking supplies lined up on the counter.
He nodded. “Those are big plans, Betty Crocker. But I think you’ll find my idea more appetizing.”
“Oh? What did you have in mind?”
“I found Sandi’s stepdad, Gordon Ghetts. Landed himself back in prison three years ago for breaking and entering and attempted robbery. I’m heading over to question him. Come with me.”
Emily’s eyebrows raised as she took a sip of her coffee. She glanced down at her mother’s grease-stained, handwritten recipe card and felt a familiar twinge in her memory. She was fourteen and in the kitchen with her mom, who was peeling a large bowl of fresh apples. Emily held the recipe card in one hand and was gathering ingredients from the cupboards with the other when her father entered and announced there had been a boating fatality on the lake. Did she want to join him or stay with her mother making pie? Of course she had wanted to tear off her apron and rush out the door. But she had promised her mother she would help her make pies to freeze for Thanksgiving. She was about to say no when her mother interjected, giving her permission to go with her father. Emily didn’t have to be told twice. Off came the apron. She slapped the recipe card down next to the apple bowl and gave her mom a quick hug.
“So what’s the verdict? Coming or not?” said Nick.
Emily glanced up at him as he pulled her from her thoughts.
Mom would understand. And the pie would taste just as good tomorrow.
“I’ll grab my jacket.”
* * *
The scrunched-up expression on Gordon Ghetts’s pockmarked face told Emily that a cop and a blonde woman in a red jacket were not the visitors he had been expecting. They took seats across from him. After introductions had been made, Ghetts, whose charcoal-gray eyes kept shifting from Emily to Nick and back, belched out one question.
“So you think I did it, don’t you?”
“Did what?” Nick asked. Emily gulped inside. They hadn’t said a single word about Sandi Parkman or her being dead or murdered.
“Why the hell else would you two be up here? I hear things. This ain’t Antarctica. I get the news. I know Sandi’s bones been found.”
“Her remains have been recovered,” said Nick in an unflinching, professional tone.
“Well, I didn’t do it.”
“Why would you lead with that?”
“Because I know this ain’t no social call. You both cops?”
Emily had agreed that Nick would lead the questioning and she would be there strictly to answer anything that came up related to the medical forensic facts.
“I’m Dr. Emily Hartford. Medical examiner.”
“I understand your defensiveness, but I’m not accusing you or anything, Mr. Ghetts.” Nick was so calm. “I just wanted to come down here to ask you a few questions, as we’re trying to piece together some details of the day she disappeared. Where were you the day Sandi disappeared?”
“Nowhere near her,” Ghetts sputtered.
“Then where?” Nick pressed.
“Work.”
“Working where?”
“The sand mold factory.”
“From when to when?”
“I started at eight and we got out around five.”
Nick nodded. Emily knew those times correlated with his time card. Nick had gone back through old factory records.
“What did you do after work, Mr. Ghetts?”
“What I always did. Went for a drink with the guys.”
“Where?”
“Local bar.”
“Which one?”
“Silver Slipper.”
That was using the term bar loosely. Emily held back a grimace.
“You sure you went to work the day Sandi disappeared?”
“Yes. I’m sure. Do I need my attorney?” He folded his arms across his chest.
“You know your rights. You want me to call him? I will. We’ll get him here and I’ll wait all day if I have to. All weekend and all week, if that’s what it takes. And we’ll just pick up where we left off.”
This gave Ghetts pause. Emily held in her breath, waiting to see what he would do next.
“That won’t be necessary. I ain’t got nothing to hide, ’cause I ain’t done nothing.”
“Except sexually abuse an innocent young girl.” Emily betrayed her cool. Nick shot her a look.
Ghetts lurched forward in his chair. “I didn’t lay a hand on that girl!”
A guard stepped over, and Ghetts
leaned back.
“She made all that shit up because she wanted attention. She was messed up in the head,” he growled.
“You must have been really angry at Sandi for turning you in.”
“She lies really good.” His voice bled with sarcasm.
“I don’t think Sandi was lying about what you did to her,” said Emily.
“Did you even know her?” Ghetts barked back.
“Some people say they saw you were hanging around the school a lot after you got out of prison,” said Nick.
“Yeah. I did. And you wanna know why? Because Sandi didn’t know how to choose guys and she didn’t know how to keep her legs closed.”
“Are you saying you were trying to protect her?” Emily’s voice took on an incredulous tone.
“Sandi always had a boyfriend. Or two. She liked to play the field. She liked those jock types.”
Emily and Nick shared a quick glance. Was he telling the truth? Was there a side to Sandi Nick hadn’t seen? Or didn’t want to admit?
“Do you remember any names?” Nick asked.
“Shit, no. There was too many. But I know faces. Don’t think I don’t recognize you, Officer Larson,” Ghetts sneered.
“I never dated Sandi. We were friends. Neighbors.” Nick was laser focused, but Emily could see he was getting hot under the collar.
“Sandi had a lot of ‘just friends,’ if you know what I mean.”
“Who?” asked Nick.
Ghetts sat back, thinking. “She was always yapping about this one guy. They would talk for hours on the phone.”
“You remember his name?” asked Emily.
Ghetts shook his head. “The guy was a carrot top.”
“He had red hair?” Emily wanted to clarify.
“Yeah,” said Ghetts.
Secret Remains Page 12