The day had started off with high drama, which made the hours seem longer than they had been. She’d just finished her starting cup of coffee when Deputy Troy announced a double homicide was being delivered to the morgue.
Even McTavish came in, despite it being his day off. The deputies out in Hazeldale, who had responded to the 911 call, seemed to think this incident was a big deal.
Two bodies had been brought in, a male and female, found in the same house on the swanky suburb side of Hazeldale, early that morning. The cleaning lady employed by the home owner had identified the male as her boss, Brent Charles. She had no idea who that was, but the initial rumblings were that he had some link to organized crime.
Working in the Sheriff’s department, she expected to get used to insider information that accidentally made it to her range of overhearing. But until that happened, she remained surprised at how close to big city crime they still were here in Markham. Gangsters living outside of Hazeldale? It didn’t make any sense.
The female victim hadn’t yet been identified, but officers were still examining other parts of the home for clues. First the actual scene had been processed and photographed, then the bodies were removed.
The coroner’s office had access to one autopsy lab, but she’d overseen enough of McTavish’s work to know how he operated and they would be easily able to work in tandem while occupying the same space. A female officer, Officer Marco, from Hazeldale was waiting outside the lab as well, ready to report back on official cause of death. Not that it would be a feat of autopsy magic: both victims were missing large portions of their skulls, and in her limited experience only a bullet to the head caused that kind of damage.
McTavish declared he’d work on the male, so Danielle would be taking on the woman. Since the male had been identified, officers had been in contact with his family receive permission for the autopsy. Not that it would be a challenge to determine the official cause of death, however.
While they waited for the female to be identified, Danielle started the procedure for her victim. Right when she saw the bag on the morgue table she had an initial moment of fear. Not from seeing a body; she’d seen plenty. But a murder victim was a big deal. She couldn’t mess up any part of this, otherwise somewhere down the road a guilty person might go free. She owed the victim all the due diligence she could muster, but she was wishing she’d had another cup of coffee first.
With full biohazard gear on, she used the lab camera to further photograph the female victim. Arms and hands bore no defensive wounds. The woman’s blouse was open, and even without removing it she could tell it hadn’t been torn open. She photographed the buttons, fully in tact and tightly attached, then set to removing the clothing. This was also photographed on the light table in the corner.
When that was bagged, she was left with an apparently healthy body on the table. There was no bruising, no abrasions anywhere on the victim. Other than its deathly pale tone, this was the body of an attractive woman in good shape.
Danielle weighed and measured the woman, then covered her from the neck down with a white sheet. From here, the job got a bit more difficult.
Taking the camera in hand again, she moved to the woman’s head.
The victim had a thick fall of long, blonde hair. From the top, one could hardly tell anything had happened to her. She was gingerly pulling the hair away when McTavish called for her help. Peeling off her gloves, she pulled on new ones and crossed the room to help him roll the male victim onto his side. Then she used the camera to photograph the back of the man’s skull. There wasn’t much to be seen, but after moving his thick, dark hair out of the way a bullet entry wound was obvious. Once she’d photographed that, the man was set on his back again, and she found herself staring down at the gaping ruin of his forehead.
No doubt about it; the bullet was not embedded.
One thing that still surprised her about the human body was that, in the stark light of the autopsy suite, in death it took on an unreal quality. When faced with a body, there was no question that the person was no longer “home.” This body with its expensive hair cut and close shave was another meat vessel, just like everyone else. Hard to imagine that face ever smiling, frowning, talking, or laughing. And it wasn’t the missing forehead; it was the stillness and coldness.
The absence of animation, that’s how she thought of it.
They both changed gloves again, then McTavish helped her prop the woman on her side in the same manner. She needed his help to move all that hair out of the way, crusted with congealed blood. It proved a bit more difficult, but eventually the large wound that had tore the occipital bone from the lambdoid suture loomed large. The white bone, blood, tissue, and grey matter all looked like some imagining from a horror movie. She took the photos she needed, using the camera’s flash setting, and they settled the woman on her back again. She grabbed a few more photos of the bullet’s entry wound, then she and McTavish compared notes.
The procedure took perhaps three hours, but Danielle could feel the subject matter taking its toll on her. Two people, shot to death. She knew nothing of the crime scene, nothing of their relationship to each other—other than the fact the woman was obviously not the man’s wife if the deputies in Hazeldale had called her that morning. All she felt was a sense of futility.
She’d learn to shake that, she knew. When they were done, they rode together back to the Sheriff’s department. McTavish immediately set off for his office to write up his report, whistling some old tune as he went. Danielle couldn’t feel that lightness. Instead, she made for the break room at the back of the main floor of the sheriff’s department. Her hands weren’t shaking, but as she poured herself another coffee they began to.
For three minutes, she was blissfully alone in the break room, then the door opened to admit Deputy Kerry Troy. His face was long past healed from the mighty sucker punch he’d taken from Tiny Gray before Christmas, but there was an odd hitch in his nose that would likely never go away. She didn’t know why, but she’d always liked Deputy Troy.
“Hey Danielle,” he greeted her easily, touching his brow as if he’d been wearing a hat. Little old fashioned, but it worked for him.
“Deputy,” she greeted him. “Good morning. Or, I guess, afternoon.”
“It was a tough one?”
She nodded, taking a sip of coffee. “It wasn’t excessively violent, but…well, you know.”
“Yeah. I know.”
They sat at the same table for a while, in comfortable silence. She had to wonder at how violent Markham was, now that she’d committed to raising her family here. She’d thought it safe, but after finding out all the deaths and murders that had occurred shortly before her arrival she had the feeling much of the safety was just smoke and mirrors. She had to wonder how prevalent crime really was in this little community.
Knuckles was a drug dealer.
Of course, she knew she shouldn’t be surprised he straddled the line of the law. But next door, friends with her daughter, by all appearances a really nice guy...selling drugs? She couldn’t get it to jive.
“That’s some deep frown you’ve got there, Danielle.”
She cracked a smile, shaking her head, and finally looking at Troy. “Nah, it’s nothing.”
“Anything I can help with?”
She took a deep breath, then set her coffee down to put her elbows square on the table. “Maybe.”
He leaned in, too. “Really? What’s up?”
“How much do you know about the Red Rebels?”
His eyes narrowed a bit. “Is there a reason you’re asking?”
“Is there a reason you’re avoiding the question?”
He grinned at that, then rubbed his chin as he studied her. Bizarrely, he simply said, “Knuckles.”
She frowned. “What?”
“I know where he lives. I know where you live, too. I don’t need my Detective’s badge to put that together.”
She sighed, studying her hands. “He live
s right next door, and my daughter has this...fascination with motorcycles all of a sudden.”
“How old’s the daughter? If she’s dating age keep an eye out.”
Danielle had to smile. “She’s ten.”
“He’s no pedo.”
Her eyebrows went up. “I actually didn’t think he was. She absolutely adores him, and he’s really, really good with her. So patient and understanding. And not in the least bit creepy.”
Troy’s teeth worried at his lip. “So...what do you need to know?”
“I also have a sixteen-year-old daughter. I want to know if the Red Rebels sell pot.”
Troy sat up straight. “Okay, well, that’s a valid concern.”
She nodded. “I see.”
Troy narrowed his eyes again. “I don’t know how much you know about the culture of motorcycle clubs, or people who are living a life of crime in general, but I can tell you what I know. There are some guys on bikes that you would not want to be in an elevator with. Violent, dangerous, and women don’t count for much in their lives. Just the road and the brotherhood.”
Danielle didn’t being up the criminology class that had been part of her schooling. She’d been wanting specifics, not a lesson.
“There was a club like that in Hazeldale, and then they just...disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yup. They were real pieces of shit. They jumped girls into their clubhouse by gang rape. They’d intimidate business owners into giving them a cut of their income for no reason because they sure as fuck weren’t offering protection. That town was terrorized by them. There’s a woman here in Markham that was held captive and brutalized for over a week by them.”
Danielle’s mouth fell open. “Are you serious?”
“She’s the wife of a Red Rebel now, but shortly after she got free the Mad Gypsys were no more.”
Danielle’s fingers drummed on the imitation wood table top. Damn nerves. “Are you saying the Rebels murdered them in retribution?”
“I’m not saying that at all. I’m just making a comparison. Now think on Markham. Does this town seem to be operating in servitude to that club?”
Danielle tilted her head. “So, they don’t shit where they live?”
Troy sighed, looking down at his own hands, clasped before him squarely on the table. It was a pose that screamed cop. “I’m saying people can get involved and shit can happen to them. But the good thing about Markham is, if you keep clear, it doesn’t touch you. I wouldn’t say I look the other way, not like some of my colleagues, but I also know where my energy is best put. And it’s not chasing after scum that takes out other scum but leaves the rest of us in peace.” He looked back at her. “Does that make sense?”
“So, they sell pot.”
“They sell pot.”
“And do you arrest them for it?”
“Haven’t caught them yet, but I can’t say it’s a priority.”
“It’s not?”
He smiled, and it was a bit sad. “You and I have both seen overdoses all over this county. Young kids on home-brewed shit that’s so dangerous I wouldn’t even take it with a prescription.”
He was talking about that orange Oxy, Sunshine they called it.
“The Red Rebels have done a lot to keep that shit out of Markham and they’re doing their damndest to kick it from the rest of the county, too. I’ll take a bunch of stoners looking for Cheetos roaming the streets over ODs from Oxy any day.”
She had to smile sadly. “I see your point.”
“Not that I condone drug use,” he said with mock seriousness, pointing sternly. “Just say no, young lady.”
“Oh, absolutely,” she laughed.
“And as for your neighbor, I don’t know him well. He’s a bit wild. But from what I’ve seen of these men they like their bikes, their booze, and women. But those things aren’t something they steal or take. Everyone is a willing participant, no one is in that club against their will. They’re close. Scary tight. No one gets into that inner sanctum without wearing one of those kuttes. But over the last couple of years they’ve matured. They’re getting married, having kids.” He shrugged. “It’s something more stable to protect. And they’re not stupid. No risks unless it’s worth it.”
That was a lot of very vague information, but she felt that told her everything while also telling her nothing. The temptation was there to tell Troy everything about the dealers in Bakersfield wanting to bring Sunshine into Markham, but at the same time his explanation gave her pause. She knew the best use for that information, and it wasn’t within the walls of the Markham County Sheriff’s Department. When her coffee was gone, she excused herself to go and finish her report.
At the end of the day, long after McTavish had clocked out, she locked up and headed for her Escape right at five o’clock. The drive home was uneventful, and when she pulled into her driveway she could see that the neighbor’s garage door was closed, which meant both her daughters were safely in her home.
Inside she did indeed find Grace starting supper, just putting the chicken in the oven. And Annie was setting the table.
“Wow,” she murmured, catching her youngest by the shoulders and kissing the top of her head. “Why am I getting so spoiled?”
“Annie has something to ask you,” Grace said, sounding terribly amused and leaning her hip against the counter.
Annie looked up at her, eyes wide. “Knuckles wants to come over for supper.”
Danielle frowned. “What?”
“Tell Mom what really happened.” Grace sounded all too pleased.
“Knuckles got home when we did. He said hi, I asked if I could help him with his bike, and he said he was tired so he was just gonna have supper and go to bed. But I said he should have supper with us because we always make too much chicken, and if he’s tired he shouldn’t cook. So, he’s having a shower and coming over. Is that okay, Mom?”
Her head was reeling a little, and not just from the rapid-fire relay of information. She looked up to Grace’s smirk. “And you just stood there?”
Grace shrugged.
“You don’t even like him.”
Grace looked a bit chastised at that. “I just thought he was weird. But he was on his bike today. And it turns out...he’s hot.”
Yeah, wow. So not okay. Her panic must have shown because Grace cut her off before she could say a word.
“Relax, Mom. He’s also, like, super-old. But he is old-hot. Like you.”
She opened her mouth to argue the fact that Knuckles was old, because she suspected they were the same age or fairly close, but then she paused. “You think I’m hot?”
Grace shrugged and turned for the sink. “You had us way young, and everyone else’s mom is either fat or trying too hard to look young. You’re skinny and you’re just cool with being you, so...yeah. Whatever.”
“It doesn’t matter if someone’s fat,” Annie spoke up. “Beauty is inside. Right Mom?”
Statements like that made her want to lock her daughter up so that the world wouldn’t be able to contaminate her. “That’s right, Annie. Beauty is inside.” Even as she said she was panicking that she probably looked like hell and the “hot” biker neighbor was on his way over.
“I got the potatoes, Mom. You can go primp.”
She made a face at her daughter’s back. “Why would I primp?”
Grace half-turned, spud in hand, eyebrow raised. “Yeah, right.”
“I should change out of these work clothes.” They did have the “death smell” to them. Not rotten bodies, just the clinical smell of the chemical clean-up that followed an autopsy. Barely recognizable at work, but around the house she was all too aware of it.
“Put on something pretty. And put on some make-up. Put your hair up.”
“Enough, Grace,” she said, not snappish but firm enough that her teenage daughter turned back to the sink to continue peeling potatoes. Probably still smirking, but she didn’t have time to worry about that.
Danielle didn’t really own “pretty” clothes. She had a few dark dresses that were for funerals and court. A dress seemed a little desperate for a spur-of-the-moment dinner guest. So, she paired dark jeans with a long, knit tank. She did take the time to pile her hair up in a clip and reapply her mascara.
By the time she left her room and padded down the hall barefoot, wondering why she was so fucking nervous, Annie was pulling the front door open.
And there he stood. She had hoped like hell that her conversation with Deputy Troy that afternoon would have thrown some ice on her hormones, but it hadn’t. Then again, she’d never seen him in a plain white T-shirt, jeans, hair still wet from the shower and slicked back, either.
Or maybe her brain was in some kind of carpe diem mode after attending the examination of two deceased people roughly her own age.
“Hey Curly,” he was saying to her daughter, holding out a six pack of cans. “I brought you some beer.”
“That’s root beer,” she squealed, grabbed it, and ran for the kitchen. “I’ll put it in the fridge.”
“Hey,” Danielle greeted him as he stepped into her living room, closing the screen door behind himself.
He looked up, then he seemed to do a double-take on her. Which had to be her over-active imagination. This was proven as he smiled and said low, “If this isn’t okay, just say the word. I know they sprung this on you. I can fake a phone call and go if you want.”
Even though he’d given her an up and down, that still stung a little bit. He may have been checking her out, but he didn’t want to stay?
“It’s just that Annie really seemed to want me here.”
Danielle’s smile was mostly relief. “No, it’s fine. Please, stay. Grace is making supper. I just got home myself. I have real beer; would you like one?”
“Nah, I don’t drink. I’ll wait for a root beer with dinner.”
“Oh.” Now she felt stuck. She wanted a beer, it was usually the best way to end her rougher days.
“You go ahead,” he insisted, motioning to the kitchen. “Please don’t abstain just for me.”
“I can get you a lemonade,” she offered, following Annie’s trail of exuberance into the kitchen. “Or a glass of water?”
Shelter (Red Rebels MC Book 5) Page 12