by Rita Herron
Poor Edith’s grandchildren would not have the pleasure of growing up with her or spending holidays in her kitchen baking cookies. Someone had to make that right. Or at least as right as it could be.
Her killer had to pay.
By the time she arrived at the morgue, the medics were bringing Edith’s body inside. She struggled to remain professional as she prepared to start the autopsy.
Once she had Edith on the table, she took a few moments to talk to her as she often did her patients. “I’m going to find out who did this to you, Edith. I promise.” She stroked the woman’s gray hair from her face, the brittle strands breaking off as she did. Dried blood and spittle darkened the corners of her lips, her mouth wide-open in a scream for help.
Forcing her emotions at bay, she donned her gear and began the gruesome task of the autopsy, speaking into her mic and entering the details of stomach contents, scars, injuries and forensics as she worked.
Just as she suspected, Edith had bled out from the gunshot wound. She recovered the bullet. It appeared to be from a .45. Morty had been shot by a .45, as well.
Edith also had a scar from a C-section, suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, had her tonsils removed and had last eaten biscuits and gravy.
Megan put time of death as the night before, being the same day her husband died, only Edith had died hours after her husband. So not a murder-suicide.
The bullet suggested they were murdered by the same person. But why kill Morty then his wife? Had she known her husband’s killer?
If so, why wouldn’t she have gone to the police? Instead, she was home preparing dinner.
Because she hadn’t known he was dead.
Megan sent the bullet to the ballistics lab to corroborate her suspicions and informed Lieutenant Hoberman about the time of death.
“We’ll look at phone records between the couple and others, and their financials. Hopefully some prints will turn up at the house.”
She thanked him and hung up, the image of Edith’s ashen, shocked face haunting her as she finished documenting the results.
When she finally checked the clock, it was way past dinnertime. The night shift would be on duty now, the hospital quiet as the patients settled in for the night. Of course the morgue was always quiet, especially since it was housed in the left quadrant of the basement.
She hung her lab coat on the peg on the wall and rubbed a hand over the back of her neck with a tired sigh.
But just as she stepped into the hall leading to the cold room and elevators, the hall lights flickered off. She frowned, feeling her way toward the wall for the light switch, but a noise startled her.
Footsteps.
Then suddenly someone slammed her up against the wall and shoved a knee into her back. Megan grunted and tried to fight.
But her attacker stuck the barrel of a gun against her spine.
It was cold. Hard. The click of a bullet in the chamber rent the air.
She screamed and swung her elbow back to fight, but he pinned her against the wall and yanked something thick and heavy over her head, pitching her into darkness.
Chapter Seven
Roan studied the Circle T ranch as he knocked on the door. Thanks to the McCullens, the owner, Boyle Gates, was serving time for cattle rustling.
His cousin Arlis Bennett had moved in to run the business while Gates was incarcerated. The bigger question was if Bennett had known about his cousin’s illegal activities and had been an accomplice. So far no charges had been brought against the man.
Judging from the size of the herd on the property, Bennett seemed to be maintaining the ranch. The community and local cattlemen’s club were watching, though, just in case he resumed Gates’s underhanded methods to add to his stock.
Night had set in, the heavy clouds threatening rain. Megan had texted him with news that Edith was shot with a .45, same as her husband.
Footsteps shuffled inside the house, then the door opened. A tall ruddy-faced man in his fifties stood there, Western shirt neatly pressed, his jeans new and stiff.
Roan doubted Bennett lifted a hand on the ranch himself. He probably had his hands do all the dirty work.
Including the men he’d hired to sabotage Horseshoe Creek.
He just needed some proof, dammit.
“Mr. Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Deputy Whitefeather.”
“I know who you are. You work with the McCullens.”
“Actually, I work for the people in Pistol Whip.”
Bennett held up his hands. “My hands are clean. You can look at my books and see all my stock was bought legitimately.”
He was probably smart enough to fake paperwork. “Actually, that’s not the reason I’m here. Can I come in?”
Bennett raised a bushy eyebrow. “I guess so.”
The burly man stepped aside and gestured for Roan to enter. Roan followed him to a large study with dark wood paneling, a giant cherry desk and credenza complete with a wet bar.
“Drink?” Bennett offered.
Roan shook his head. “I’m on duty. But you can go ahead.”
Bennett shot him a dark scowl as if he didn’t need anyone’s permission. He poured an expensive-looking bourbon into a tumbler, then carried it to a leather chair and took a seat.
Roan claimed the chair opposite him.
“All right, what is this about?”
Roan swallowed hard. He hated this part of the job. “Mr. Bennett, have you talked to your sister lately?”
Bennett’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Not for a few days. Why?”
Roan folded his hands. “What about her husband, Morty?”
A long sigh. “Two weeks ago. He came begging for money.”
“And?”
“Burns was good to my sister, but he didn’t know how to manage his land. He also liked to gamble and whittled away their income and savings to the point where they were about to lose their farm.”
So he was desperate for money.
“Did you help him out?”
“At first,” Bennett admitted. “I talked to Edith. Told her what he’d done. They fought, but she refused to leave him.” He shrugged. “I did what I could to help. But finally I had to cut him off.”
So Burns might have been desperate enough to take money to do something illegal, like set fire to the barns on Horseshoe Creek.
Bennett sipped his drink. “Now, why are you asking all these questions about Morty and Edith?”
Roan worked his mouth from side to side. “I’m sorry to have to inform you of this, Mr. Bennett, but both Mr. Burns and your sister are dead.”
Bennett’s eyes widened, then he threw back the rest of his drink. “What happened? How?”
The man’s shock seemed genuine. Then again, Roan didn’t know him well enough to determine if he was lying.
“They were both murdered. Shot at close range.” He cleared his throat. “Mr. Burns’s body was found dumped outside Pistol Whip.”
Bennett’s hand trembled as he clutched the empty glass. “And my sister?”
“She was found in her house.”
Bennett pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked as if struggling with his emotions. “When...” his voice cracked “...did it happen?”
“The ME put her death last night.” Roan forced a calm to his tone. “Where were you then?”
Anger flared in the man’s eyes. “You can’t be serious. You think I’d kill my only sister?”
“It’s a standard question, Mr. Bennett. Where were you?”
His nostrils flared as he stood. He walked over and poured himself another drink, then turned to face Roan, his eyes seething. “Here on the ranch. My housekeeper can verify that.”
“All day and night?”
“Yes.”
Roan stood. “One more question, Mr. Bennett. Do you own a .45?”
A muscle ticked in Bennett’s jaw. “No.”
But a quick flicker of his gaze toward the wall on the op
posite side of the room suggested he was lying. Roan scrutinized the area and noticed a painting of a waterfall.
He’d bet his job that a safe was hidden beneath that painting. And that Bennett had a .45 tucked inside.
Dammit. He needed a warrant to look through it.
Bennett gestured toward the door, indicating he was done with the interview. “Instead of hassling me, why don’t you look into the men Morty owed money to. Maybe they killed him and Edith because he couldn’t pay his debts.”
Roan gave a clipped nod. That was a possibility, although how could someone collect money from a dead man who was broke?
No...he had a bad feeling his suspicions were right, that their murders were connected to the McCullens.
That Bennett was offering an alternative person of interest to steer suspicion from himself.
* * *
MEGAN STRUGGLED TO BREATHE, but the thick body bag was suffocating. She couldn’t see, couldn’t think for the fear threatening to choke her.
God...she didn’t want to die.
She kicked her foot backward and managed to connect with her attacker’s knee. He grunted in pain, but tightened his hold around her neck. Then he pressed his mouth against her ear through the bag.
“Leave Joe McCullen’s death alone or you’ll end up in this bag for good.”
She tried to pry his fingers from her neck and felt latex gloves. Still, she scratched and clawed, desperate to get skin or at least some fibers to help identify him later. If she survived...
He jerked her forward, then something hard slammed against the back of her head. The next second, the world was spinning. She fought to remain conscious, the darkness swallowing her.
Another blow and she collapsed with a groan. Terrified, she blinked, silently willing herself not to black out, but pain shot through her skull, then a numbness crept over her. Blinding colors...black dots...room swirling...
She couldn’t move, couldn’t lift her hands, make her legs work. She tried to scream, but her voice was lost as he stuffed her in the body bag. The sound of the zipper rasping echoed as if it was far away, and she had the strange sensation of floating...
She looked down at herself in the bag, and then she was lying naked on the autopsy table...
* * *
ROAN DROVE FROM Bennett’s to the prison where Boyle Gates was incarcerated, hoping to get some answers. A sliver of a moon tried to claw its way through the storm clouds, occasionally adding a tiny flicker of light to the dark sky. Otherwise the land that stretched between Pistol Whip and the jail seemed desolate.
He phoned Megan to see if she’d found anything helpful with Edith Burns’s autopsy, but her voice mail kicked in, so he left a message for her to call him.
Then he punched Lieutenant Hoberman’s number. “Did you find anything linking the Burns couple to the fires at Horseshoe Creek?”
“Not directly,” Hoberman said. “Although there was a can of gasoline in the toolshed. But a lot of farmers have gasoline cans.”
“True.” Dammit.
“How about his financials?”
“Bank accounts were slim, although there was a deposit of ten thousand dollars made about a week ago.”
“Any idea where it came from?”
“No, it was a cash deposit.”
Just as he’d expected. No paper trail.
Although it was past visiting hours, he explained to the warden about the Burnses’ murders and that he wanted to see Gates’s reaction before anyone had a chance to inform him of the news.
Of course, if he’d paid to have the couple killed, he already knew. He and Bennett could have worked together. Or Bennett could have inadvertently told Gates about his sister’s troubles and Gates took advantage and offered to help Burns out of his mess if he did him a favor.
Roan settled into the chair in the visiting room, pasting on a professional face as the guard led Gates into the room. He’d seen the rancher around Pistol Whip with his air of superiority and disliked him immediately. He had also given some of Roan’s people hell about some land that they insisted belonged to the res. He wanted to buy it and tried to push them off, but thankfully the law had been on the side of the Native Americans.
Even in his prison uniform, Gates still exuded that cocky attitude. “What do you want, Whitefeather?”
The way he said Roan’s name sounded condescending, as if he thought Roan wasn’t good enough to share the same space with him.
“I thought you might be ready to talk.”
Gates rubbed a hand over his smoothly shaven jaw. “I’ve already said all I have to say.”
“Did you hire Stan Romley to set those fires at Horseshoe Creek?”
Gates’s eyes flashed with rage. “No. I already told the sheriff that. And if you think you’re going to persuade me to confess to something, you’re dead wrong.”
“What about Morty Burns? Did you pay him to sabotage the ranch?”
Gates shot up, handcuffs jangling. “This is absurd.” He jerked his head toward the guard. “Take me back to my cell.”
“Sit down, Gates,” Roan said firmly. “I’m not finished.”
“Well, I am,” Gates said in a tone that brooked no argument.
“No, you’re not.” Roan jerked his thumb toward the chair, an order to sit down. “Right now I have two bodies in the morgue. Two that I believe you are connected to.”
Gates went still, questions flashing across his face. “What bodies?”
Roan thumped his foot for a minute, intentionally making the man wait.
“You came here to talk to me, Whitefeather, so talk. What bodies are you referring to?”
“Morty and Edith Burns.”
A brief flicker of Gates’s eyes was his only reaction, but it indicated he knew more than he was willing to say. Maybe he’d even known about their deaths.
“What do they have to do with me?”
“The wife, Edith, was Arlis Bennett’s sister. I talked to Arlis. He claims that Morty was in financial trouble.”
“Again,” Gates said, his voice cold. “What does that have to do with me?”
“This is what I think. I think you and your cousin Bennett are working together. You needed someone to do your dirty work, so you hired Romley. Maybe you hired Burns, too. He could have helped with the cattle rustling. Maybe he sabotaged Horseshoe Creek.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? The man was desperate to save his farm. Edith was your cousin just like Arlis is, so you offered to bail out her husband. But things went sour. He wanted more money or tried to blackmail you and you had to get rid of him.”
“You’re forgetting something. I’ve been in prison for weeks.”
Roan stood, his mouth a thin line. “Yes, you have. But you forget—I know how prisons work. How easy it is to hire someone from the inside.”
“You really think I’d kill my own cousin?”
“To protect yourself? Yes.”
Gates stared at him for a heartbeat then spit. The guard stepped forward to reprimand him, but Roan gestured for him to wait.
“When I get the proof I need, you’ll go back to trial, Gates. And this time you won’t be eligible for parole. You’ll be on death row.”
“Wait just a damn minute,” Gates said when Roan headed toward the door.
Roan paused and folded his arms. “What?”
“Instead of trying to pin everything on me, why don’t you look at the other people who had a grudge against Joe McCullen?”
Roan maintained a neutral expression, although he was hoping for a lead. “And who would that be?”
“Elmore Clark.”
“I know about Clark. But McCullen helped Clark out by buying his land, and he kept it for him in case he got back on his feet and wanted it back.”
Gates cursed. “That’s a bald-faced lie. Joe refused to give Clark water rights and forced Clark to sell. Then McCullen put Clark out on the street. Clark hated the McCullens for years.”
&nb
sp; * * *
MEGAN’S HEAD THROBBED as she slowly opened her eyes, but an empty, black darkness swallowed her.
She fought for a breath, but the air felt hot, sticky, the air stifling. She reached up to find her way from the empty hollowness, but her hand struck something heavy, thick...vinyl. Then something hard above...
Slowly her memory returned, and fear choked her. The man...he’d attacked her. Covered her head with that body bag.
Panic shot through her and she tried to move, but she was trapped inside the body bag. There was no space, no room. The buzzing sound of the fluorescent lights in the morgue echoed above her.
The truth dawned quickly. Oh, God.
She was locked in one of the drawers in the cold room where they stored the corpses.
Terrified, she started to scream...
Chapter Eight
Roan checked his watch. Too late to talk to Clark tonight. He’d catch up with him first thing in the morning.
Megan still hadn’t returned his call, so he punched her number again. The phone rang three, four times, but her voice mail kicked in again. Dammit. Where was she?
Still working on the autopsy?
Knowing her, she wouldn’t leave until she’d processed each and every detail of the body and then she’d look for more. He liked the fact that she was meticulous in her job, dedicated and that she took great pains with the bodies that ended up on her table. She had more compassion for the dead than most people did for the living.
But...earlier she’d thought someone had pushed her into the street... What if her questions about this case—or another one she’d worked on—had upset someone enough to want her to stop nosing around?
Anxiety knotted his shoulders as he left the prison and drove back to Pistol Whip. The storm clouds that had threatened earlier opened up and raindrops splattered the windshield. They’d had a dry spell lately, and the farms and ranches needed this rain, but it reminded him too much of the night his mother died.
He’d held her while she’d passed, the rain battering the hogan where they lived in an erratic rhythm that had mirrored his pounding heart. He’d felt so helpless. Had wanted to do something to save her.
But nothing, not his prayers or the chants of the medicine man, not even the modern medicine Dr. Cumberland had brought, had been enough.