Should she tell Jared about the conversation she’d overheard? She shrank from it. None of it exonerated Palm. In fact, it could be taken as incriminating him. No, she couldn’t risk it. She’d consider it when she had more information. Surely the police would come up with information on this poor dead soul soon.
It wouldn’t be anyone she or Palm knew, of course. Some unfortunate woman who came to Fall Creek to meet a person who meant her harm. She dialed Royce’s number by mistake. Was she just delaying this repugnant and fruitless task because it was unpleasant? So get it over with.
She got out of the car and marched across the street. She pushed through the double glass doors etched with the logo of a meadow with a sparkling stream flowing toward a waterfall. “Royce. Back again?” Sergeant Brand greeted her with a warm smile.
“Not by choice, Chuck. The chief wanted me to see if I might know the woman who was found at the inn.”
Brand’s friendly smile changed to a quizzical look. His console buzzed, and he put a call through to the squad room. “Why would he think you’d know her?”
“She’s supposed to have called my house from the hospital. If it was her, I thought she said my name. But hers rings no bells for me, so I probably misunderstood.”
“Yeah. ‘Fern Rock.’ So far no record of anyone by that name has turned up. Sounds like a fake.” The sergeant turned to punch in a number on his communication console. “I’ll give the chief a buzz. He’s with the city attorney. Probably deciding whether to let Palm make bail.”
Royce nodded her thanks and walked to a bench and sat down. Being here at the station conjured up bittersweet memories for her. She could almost think she would see Eddy’s wide grin as he came around the counter. Hi, babe. Just give me a minute to hassle Brand, here.
Instead, it was Jared Granite who strode out to meet her a moment later. “Royce. Thanks for coming. I know this won’t be pleasant. Let’s get it over with.” He led the way out a side door and over to the morgue entrance. The morgue was housed in a newer brick addition to the mellow red bricks of the one-story police station. They walked up the two shallow steps to the door.
The smell of formaldehyde and disinfectant clogged Royce’s nostrils as they entered the building. She clenched her right hand in a pocket and tried to take shallow breaths.
They passed through a bare tiled foyer. To the right of the door Jared held open was a sliding glass window above a narrow shelf. Did a morgue need a receptionist? Her mind grabbed at irrelevant thoughts to avoid thinking for as long as possible about what was ahead of her. Jared followed her into the concrete-floored, brightly lit morgue proper. Two stainless steel tables, with adjustable lights above and instrument tables next to them, comprised the furnishings. A half-dozen rows of flat steel squares, two to a row, centered with hand holds, about twenty-four inches on a side, formed the left-hand wall. They looked like over-sized file cabinets.
“Charlie, where are you?”
When the short, balding man wearing a dark green scrub suit and wraparound rubber apron came through a rear door, Royce nodded in greeting.
“Yo, Chief. Royce. Lucianne okay?”
“She will be. Thanks for asking.”
“You wanted to see the battering victim’s body?”
“Are you finished with her?”
“Just. Was writing my report up.” The pathologist untied his rubber apron and hung it on a wall hook at the head of one of the steel tables. He sighed and sat on a high stool at the foot of the table. “Do you want to wait and read it, or shall I give you the highlights?”
“Give me the highlights now,” Chief Granite said, glancing at Royce, who nodded, surprised he was allowing her to hear.
“Whoever bashed her meant to kill her. I’d stake my reputation on that. Just beating somebody up for the hell of it wouldn’t do the damage I saw. Really don’t see how she lived as long as she did or actually regained consciousness. Strong-willed woman.”
Cold fingers traveled down Royce’s spine again. Who was she, this woman who had inspired such hate in someone they would beat her to death with their bare hands? Or did they? “Charlie, could you tell if the assailant wore gloves?”
The bald pathologist, whose strongly built, rotund body had been as lean as Jared Granite’s frame when Royce first met him years ago, rubbed his pink scalp. “Didn’t find any fibers, Royce. But no different blood type or skin cells either. Could have worn latex gloves, of course. No evidence a weapon was used. My best guess is she was knocked down with a smooth blunt instrument, then kicked with heavily shod feet.”
“Feet?” Chief Granite’s olive complexion darkened at the information, the single word ground out between clenched teeth.
“Yes. The worst injuries, the fatal ones, were inflicted by someone wearing heavy shoes or boots kicking her when she was down.”
“Which ones?” the chief asked.
“Skull fracture, left side of the head, broken jaw. Moving down the body, ruptured spleen and colon. Left arm broken, also from kicks, though that wouldn’t have been fatal, normally. Crushed left foot and ankle.”
“Such rage,” Royce murmured. “What could have unleashed it?”
“You were a cop’s wife, Royce. You know something of what people are capable of. Not just men, either.”
She shook her head, that day over twenty years ago rising up in her mind. Jared couldn’t know that she had first-hand knowledge of that driving rage. Only the grace of God and physical weakness had prevented her from following through with her intent.
“You okay, Royce?”
The chief’s voice sounded far away. The hated image from the past dimmed. She slammed and locked the door on it and forced her awareness back to the present unpleasant task. “I’m okay.”
“Let’s get this show on the road, folks.” Charlie slapped his upper thighs and rose from his stool. “I’ve got work to do.” He walked over to the row of oversized filing cabinet drawers and reached for the handle on one. He hesitated a moment and said, “However she may have looked before, she ain’t pretty now, Royce.”
“I said I’m okay, Charlie.”
He shrugged and pulled the drawer open.
Royce steeled herself for what she would see, but all that was visible when the drawer slid open was a heavy white sheet. The sheet had an elongated low mound in its center.
With a final glance in her direction, the coroner pulled the sheet off the body in one smooth motion. Royce checked an impulse to step back. The nude female body looked so defenseless. The arms lay at the sides, one a little crooked with dark purple bruises visible, small well-shaped hands open. Slender legs, proportionate to the body. One delicate ankle and its foot were flattened and looked almost boneless, several tattooed flowers barely visible through bruises and lacerations. In contrast to the ankles, the feet seemed too large. A plastic tag was tied around the right big toe.
Swallowing the bile that rose in her throat, Royce forced herself to look at the face. Dark purple bruises covered most of it, two deep lacerations across the right cheek, a visible indentation on the left side, both lips painfully swollen. Charlie’s neatly stitched Y incision bisected the huge area of bruising on the body, all shades of purple and red, some parts so dark they looked black, which spread from the chest to the pelvic region.
“With so much bruising and discoloration, I wonder if even someone who knew her well could—” the chief observed, echoing Royce’s thought from last night.
Charlie crossed his arms and rocked back and forth beside the open drawer. “There’s one other thing, Chief.”
Chief Granite looked up. “What’s that?”
“The killer could have waited. She would have died very soon anyway.”
“What? Why?”
“Cancer. Advanced breast cancer, apparently untreated. Metastasized to liver and kidneys, liver almost completely destroyed.”
The chief was visibly shaken. “How long?”
“Best guess. A month, probably less.�
��
Royce must have made a sound. The chief’s keen gaze, not without sympathy, searched her face. “Anything?”
“No, I don’t know her.”
He continued to look at her. “You’re certain? She must have had some reason to call you.”
“I don’t know why the woman called my house. Maybe in her condition, she dialed the wrong number. Maybe I misunderstood and she didn’t say my name. Whatever it was, I do not recognize her.” Wrenching her eyes from the sight of the pathetic body, Royce wheeled and began to walk toward the steel doors. Behind her, she heard the drawer slide back into its wall niche and Chief Granite’s steps as he followed her. He touched her arm, turning her to face him.
“Charlie,” he called to the coroner, “send that report ‘Restricted, Chief Only.’ ” He stared hard at Royce. “You never heard this.”
She stared back. “You know very well I would never reveal restricted information.”
Somewhat to her surprise, he had the grace to look a little disconcerted. “Of course, Royce. Sorry.”
Taking a deep breath as she pushed open the doors and gained the comparatively fresher air of the foyer, she continued toward the outer door. “What about her clothing? Did anything have labels?”
“She was wearing a sort of housedress, loose. Just a couple of other outfits in the room. Off-the-rack discount store labels, mostly. Looked like she, or somebody, had made the blouse and skirt hanging in the closet.” He hesitated. “Peasant style, I think I’ve heard it called.”
Why the hesitation, Royce wondered. Then she remembered that Lucianne had dressed in that casual style when she and Jared first married. Before she took off for Capitol City. Now her look was sleek and sophisticated, as befitted a big city features reporter.
“Any luggage?”
“Cloth tote bag. A couple sets of underwear in it.”
“You said you’ve sent fingerprints to the FBI?”
“Yes. But unless she’s been arrested at some time, or has a carry permit, or has been in the military, it’s not likely to help identify her.”
“I want to see Palm. Now, Jared.”
The chief managed to reach the door ahead of her and held it open. “Sure you can, Royce, if he wants to see you.”
Royce stopped in midstride. “What do you mean, ‘if he wants to see me’? Of course, he’ll see me.”
Royce followed Jared Granite through the station parking area, trying to brush past the familiar black and white cars without thinking about them. Eddy had loved the powerful engines and would have kept his cruiser at home if it had been allowed in those days. Her thoughts touched on the day he’d taken Palm and herself for a not exactly regulation ride in his cruiser.
How had Palm felt, being driven to jail in the back seat of one, handcuffed, a prisoner? She could only imagine.
Chapter Thirteen
She and the chief re-entered the main station via the side door that led to the jail anteroom, and a pervasive smell of damp concrete mixed with the stinging odor of cleaning liquids enveloped them. No one could fail to recognize what this place harbored. Wire reinforced glass separated the officer on duty from a small concrete-floored area with dingy green paint on the walls. A grill in the glass allowed the officer to communicate with visitors.
“Woodstone back from his arraignment?” Granite spoke through the glass.
“Yeah, Chief. Got back ’bout ten minutes ago.”
“Bail?”
“Steep. Two hundred thousand.”
Her heart sank. How could Palm and Hal raise that much money?
The officer buzzed the chief and Royce through the solid steel door with its own four-inch square of wire reinforced glass.
She followed Granite down the inner hallway, as dingy as the outer room and smelling equally of pine-scented cleaner. An inmate—a trustee, she guessed—was pushing a filthy mop along the floor with lethargic motions. She wondered if the jail would look any worse without his efforts.
They stopped before another steel door, which opened to a cramped elevator. They stepped inside, Granite punched a button, and the elevator started a slow descent. Neither spoke again until the door creaked open, and they entered the jail proper in the basement. The chief led Royce to the visitors’ room, about ten feet square, furnished with a metal latticework table and two chairs of the same utilitarian construction.
“Wait here, Royce. I’ll have Woodstone brought in.” He went out, and she sat on one of the metal chairs. The room had no windows, but high in one corner, a video camera stared down with its unblinking red eye.
A few moments later she heard footsteps, lighter than the chief’s heavier tread. She stood and looked toward the door. Palm Woodstone, his brown hair just clearing the top of the doorway, stopped a few inches inside the room, while behind him a jail officer freed his handcuffed hands and closed and locked the door. He stood still, looking at her with no expression on his face. He was pale, and new lines his twenty-something face shouldn’t have etched his forehead.
“Palm. Are you all right?” She reached for him. “I’ve been so worried about you.”
Though his arms were unfettered, he made no effort to return her embrace. Dark blue eyes—some of the color seemed to have washed out of them since she last saw him—locked on her without any hint of their usual warmth, as though he were looking at a stranger.
She drew back, shaken. “Palm? What’s wrong?”
He walked around her and sat in one of the chairs, putting the table between them. “What could be wrong in this place?” His voice was cold.
She sat back down in the other chair. “I was afraid you were hurt when no one could find you.”
“Really?” He pushed his chair back a little and leaned forward, face toward the floor, hands linked loosely between his knees.
Royce jumped when a loud banging sounded behind her. The officer wielded her nightstick on the bars and called out to Palm. “Hands in sight, Woodstone.”
Palm slammed his hands onto the metal table.
“Palm? You could not have robbed and killed Bert Morrell. I know that.”
“Well, I’m glad to know somebody believes in me.” Belying his words, no hint of gladness informed his voice.
“Is there anything you need?”
He laughed harshly. “Only two hundred thousand dollars.”
“It’s a lot, but we’ll raise it somehow. We’ll get you out of here, Palm.”
“Hmmm? You have some secret source of funds, Royce?” He raised his head and stared into her eyes. Was there an emphasis on “secret”? No. He couldn’t possibly know about the money.
He stood up and paced to the wall, turned and paced back. “I doubt Dad will make much effort. He thinks I’ve been nothing but trouble since the day I was born.”
“Palm. No. Hal loves you in his own way.”
“What way would that be?”
“It can’t have been easy for Hal after Lily left. But he made sure you were cared for while he worked hard to provide for you.” The last thing she wanted to do was defend Hal Woodstone. But Palm was the important one. Thinking his dad didn’t care about him couldn’t be good for him, locked up in here.
“You’re a fool, Royce.”
She rocked back hard in the metal chair. It must be leaving that lattice imprint on her skin even through her clothes.
“And you love me in your own way, too, right, Royce?” Now a perverse gladness, though edged with pain, echoed through his voice.
The shock his mocking words produced had to be clearly visible on her face.
This was not Palm. This was a consequence of his being locked up for something he didn’t do. People, even adults, strike out at the people who love them when they’re hurt. Get the facts. Then get him out of here. That was what would help him.
She marshaled her thoughts. “Palm. Do you have a lawyer?”
“Lawyers want money.”
“But you have to have one.”
“Dad—Dad said so
mething about Marc Sage. I doubt he’d take the case.”
“He’s a corporate attorney. Amanda’s a criminal-defense attorney.”
“I pointed out that fact to…Dad. He snorted, thinks—you know what he thinks of women.” He ran his hands through his sandy brown hair, reminding her of the Palm she knew. Then some inner resolve seemed to harden, and he drew into himself again.
“Go home, Royce.” He walked toward the door. “You’re right, I didn’t rob or kill my boss, so this will all sort itself out.”
He glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room, then banged on the door with the flat of his hand.
A moment later, the lock clicked, and the jailer opened the door, handcuffs in hand. She made a circular motion with her hands, and Palm turned his back, thrusting his hands behind him.
Palm looked at Royce and opened his mouth. He closed it, then opened it again. “Royce. They let me use the phone once. I tried to reach someone. Would you—? No. Forget it.” He turned to the officer. “We’re through here.”
“Palm. Who is it? Of course, I’ll try to reach the person for you.”
Royce took a step after Palm and the jailer, but a second female officer took her arm and said, “You’ll have to come this way, Mrs. Thorne.”
Frustrated, she almost jerked her arm away, but common sense prevailed. She watched until Palm and the jailer disappeared through the door at the end of the corridor.
At least Palm was alive. He would be cleared of the charges; she’d make sure of it. Palm’s trouble was her fault. Why hadn’t she done what Eddy had directed in his letter six months ago? Then there would have been no motive and no suspicion of Palm in this robbery.
She pivoted toward the person who held her arm. Officer Sloan Odell was etched on her name shield. “Sloan! I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was you.”
Sloan’s lips turned down at the corners. She shrugged slim shoulders encased in her perfectly fitted uniform. “I wish it wasn’t, right now.”
“Have you talked to him?”
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