“Not yet,” Jack said, “but we’re expecting to any
moment. Ian normally starts autopsies after the morgue’s morning review. He
knows this one’s a high priority.”
“Well, hurry it up. I don’t want the press getting
wind of this until we know what’s what. We just got rid of all those damn
reporters from the magazine.”
“I saw reporters last night,” Jack said. “They’ve been
shadowing us for three weeks.”
“They’re shadowing everyone in the department.” Abbott
pushed away from Jack’s desk. “Don’t do anything exciting and maybe they’ll go
away.”
The phone rang and Jack picked up. “Ian’s got
something,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Monday, February 22, 7:30 a.m.
Liza Barkley frowned at her cell. Lindsay had never
come home. She hadn’t called and she wasn’t picking up. If her sister was going
to be late, she always called.
Liza bit at her lip, wondering what to do. She didn’t
know any of Lindsay’s friends anymore and had never called the cleaning service
where she worked.
But if she didn’t leave the apartment now, she’d miss
her bus.
Maybe Lin met a friend for breakfast
. Liza hoped so. Lindsay
worked so hard, her social life had become more endangered than the blue whale,
the subject of Liza’s second-period science test. She slipped her cell into her
pocket.
Call me, Lin. Let me know you’re okay.
Monday, February 22, 8:15 a.m.
He folded his newspaper. Martha’s suicide was way back
in the Metro section, but it was there. Soon Martha’s murder would be
headlines, maybe as early as tomorrow. That would depend on how skilled the ME
was, he supposed. And then, he’d be front-page news, every day. Coverage would
explode when they found Christy Lewis hanging from her bedroom ceiling. SERIAL
KILLER STALKS WOMEN, the headline would read.
He’d have to keep clippings. He smiled.
Frame and
hang them in my basement
.
That the dynamic duo had caught Brisbane’s case would
only help. They were media darlings, after all. The press would hang on their
every word, put every missed clue under the microscope. Then the headlines
would change. POLICE CLUELESS.
He wondered how long it would take someone to find
Christy Lewis. She’d be missed faster than Martha. Although she was divorced
and her parents were deceased, she had a job and daily contact with people in
the real world. Unlike Martha, who had lived in Shadowland.
Christy should be discovered by tomorrow when she
failed to show up for work a second day. He didn’t have time to rest. He had to
start preparing for his fifth of six.
Monday, February 22, 8:32 a.m.
“You work fast, Ian,” Noah commented. “I didn’t expect
a ruling until later.”
“I don’t have anything official yet,” Ian Gilles said.
“Where’s Jack?”
“Right here.” Jack came through the door, perturbed.
“I got delayed outside by a reporter. Wanted to know why we had two CSU vans at
a suicide last night.”
“What did you tell him?” Noah asked.
Jack shrugged. “ ‘No comment.’ What else could I say?
So, what do you have, Ian?”
Ian tilted Brisbane’s head so that her throat was
exposed. “I haven’t started the autopsy yet, but I thought you should see this.
Right in the middle of the ligature marks is a needle puncture. The rope was
placed precisely so the puncture would be hidden.”
“Injected with what?” Noah asked.
“Don’t know yet. Urine tox didn’t show anything. I’m
expecting results from the blood test this afternoon. So far, no other obvious
injuries, the X-rays show no broken bones, and I found no evidence of any
sexual activity.”
“Did you check the suicide Dixon processed last week?”
Noah asked.
“Janice did that exam. She’s at the national ME’s
convention, but I read her report.”
“What do MEs do at a convention?” Jack asked. “Never
mind, I don’t want to know.”
“Probably not,” Ian said without a trace of humor.
“Janice noted that establishing time of death was difficult as the deceased’s
window was open.”
“Same as Martha,” Jack said, nodding toward the body
on the table.
“Right. Samantha’s eyelids were glued open with super
glue, same as this victim.”
“Didn’t that send up any alarms?” Jack asked, and Ian
shrugged.
“We see people do weird things. All the other signs of
suicidal hanging were there.”
“What about the puncture wound?” Noah asked. “Does
Samantha have one?”
“I think so. Janice took a photo of Samantha’s
ligature wounds. I blew it up. You lose resolution, but I’m pretty sure I saw a
puncture wound. I’ll need to re-examine the body to be sure. Unfortunately we
released the body to the funeral home a week ago.”
Jack grimaced. “Exhumation?”
Noah nodded, resigned. “How long to get an exam on
Samantha Altman?”
“I’ll start as soon as the body arrives. I had the
blood samples from her autopsy pulled from storage this morning and they’re
already submitted for the same blood tests I ordered for Martha. That’s all I
can do until I get the body back.”
Noah put on his hat. “We’re going to interview the
Altman family today. We’ll grease the skids for the exhumation order. You’ll
call us when Martha’s autopsy is finished?”
“Absolutely.” Ian pushed the gurney into the
examination room.
“Next stop Altman family?” Jack said.
“I’ll drive.” They’d gotten to Noah’s car when his
cell rang. “Webster.”
“It’s Abbott.” Who sounded displeased. “Brisbane’s
suicide hit the papers and I just got a call from a reporter who said he
would’ve called it a homicide on page one, but his editor wouldn’t allow it
without corroboration. Apparently he got corroboration because he’s saying his
next headline will be ‘More Than a Suicide.’ Which of you corroborated?”
“Neither. Jack was approached, but said ‘no comment.’
Who was this guy?”
“Name was Kurt Buckland. How close are you to having
an official homicide ruling?”
“Ian’s doing the autopsy this morning, but he found
signs that Brisbane was drugged. We’re going to interview the Altman family
while Ian files for exhumation.”
“Good. I’ll give a statement as soon as Ian rules it a
homicide. That’ll take some of the wind out of the reporter’s headline. Be back
at four. Tell Micki to be here.”
“Will do. What about a shrink? We need to start a
profile.”
“Carleton Pierce will be here at four. I’ve put
Sutherland and Kane on standby.”
Noah dropped his cell in his pocket. “Let’s move. We
have a deadline.”
Monday, February 22, 9:35 a.m.
Eve carefully placed the receiver in the cradle on her
desk in the graduate office. “Fuck you, asshole,” she muttered.
A chuckle had her swiveling her chair. Callie sat
behind her, laughing. “I knew you couldn’t hold it in. What was that all about,
then?”
“I got a new leak in my roof, right over my bed. I
moved my bed, but then it dripped into a bucket for the rest of the night. I
didn’t sleep a wink.”
“You have to find a new place.” Callie brightened. “My
building has a vacancy.”
“Your building costs twice as much as I can afford.”
“The concept is called a roommate.” Callie drew the
word out. “My roommate and I split the rent and utilities and everybody is happy.
You should get a roommate, too.”
“No.” After years of living with others, she wanted
privacy. “My rent’s cheap.”
“Your rent is a
gift
. You’re just lucky that
old woman liked you.”
Eve smiled sadly. “Mrs. Daulton liked everybody.”
“I know. And I know you miss her. How much longer till
your lease runs out?”
“Six more months. And I’ll be damned if Myron Daulton
gets his greedy little mitts on my house a second before that.”
“Um, Eve, it’s not your house. Legally, it’s his.”
“Greedy SOB, thinking he can run all his mother’s
tenants out. Wouldn’t surprise me if he was up on the roof with an ice pick
himself, making the damn leaks.”
“Now you’re sounding paranoid. So was the asshole on
the phone the greedy SOB?”
“No, that was a roofer who does not fix roofs. He only
talks to people buying new roofs. Who needs a brand-new roof, for God’s sake?”
“Sounds like you do. You shouldn’t be paying for
repairs on somebody else’s house anyway. It’s not your responsibility. It might
even be a lease violation.”
“Well, it’s moot, because I can’t get anyone to do it.
I’m thinking that roofing would be a good skill to master. Lately I’ve done
plumbing, some minor wiring…”
Callie’s eyes widened. “You’re
not
planning to
fix your roof. You don’t like heights.”
“I like Myron less. I even called an old friend this
morning to ask how I should do it.”
“What did he say?”
“I got his voicemail. He’ll call me back when he’s off
shift.”
“You know him from the bar?”
“No, from back home. He’s a firefighter.”
“You touch your scar when you talk about Chicago,”
Callie said quietly.
Eve yanked her hand from her cheek. “Which is why I
don’t talk about it.”
“Don’t you miss them?” Callie asked. “Your family?”
Dana, Caroline, and Mia. The thought of them and their
growing families, so far away, made Eve’s heart ache. Not a day went by that
she didn’t miss them. “Yes. But I couldn’t stay.” To stay was to remember. To
hide in the dark.
“At least Tom is here,” Callie said. “And me. But I
ain’t helping with your roof.”
“Tom offered. He said he’d bring a half dozen friends
when the season is over.”
Callie’s smile became wry. “Tom Hunter plus six
college basketball players. On your roof. In the winter. You’re a foolish girl.
If you’d wait till summer they’d work shirtless.”
“If I wait till summer, everything I own will be
underwater and Myron Daulton will have won. I’ve got to go. I’ve got Abnormal
in fifteen.” Eve reached to shut down her laptop, then stopped. Abruptly. “Oh
my God,” she murmured staring at her email inbox.
“Eve, who is Martha Brisbane and why do you have her
on Google Alert?”
Eve had put Martha on Google Alert a week ago, after
she’d been missing from Shadowland for two days. Any mention of Martha on the
Internet would be flagged.
And it had indeed. Her heart in her throat, Eve read the
short article that had been published in today’s
Mirror. Martha Brisbane,
42, was found dead in her apartment last night, the victim of an apparent
suicide. She had hanged herself.
The article went on, giving statistics of
Twin Cities suicides, but Eve could only see one line.
Suicide. I should have seen this coming. I should have
stopped it
.
But Martha had spent eighteen hours a day in
Shadowland for months before joining their study. Who knew what had driven her
to do so? Still… Martha was dead.
And Eve wasn’t even supposed to know she’d existed.
“Eve?” Callie tapped her shoulder gently. “Who is
she?”
“Just someone I know.”
Someone I shouldn’t have
known. But I did.
Eve closed her laptop with a snap. “I have to get to
class.”
Callie hung back, studying her. “Will you go to the
funeral?”
She slid her laptop into her computer bag. “If I can
figure out where it is, yes.”
“You want me to go with you?”
Eve drew a shaky breath. “Yes. Thanks.”
“You bet. Don’t go climbing on the roof by yourself.”
Eve made herself smile. Her roof was now the least of
her concerns. “I won’t.”
Monday, February 22, 9:40 a.m.
“Thank you for seeing us.” Jack set his hat next to
Noah’s on the coffee table.
Mrs. Altman’s hands were clutched tightly in her lap.
“What is this about?”
“Your daughter, ma’am,” Noah said. He’d lost the toss
again. “We know Samantha’s death was ruled a suicide, but you and your husband
weren’t convinced.”
“It’s a mortal sin. Samantha was a good Catholic. She
never missed Mass.”
“We believe your daughter didn’t commit suicide. She
may have been murdered.”
Mrs. Altman closed her eyes. “Dear God.”
Jack gave her a moment. “Do you have the clothing your
daughter was wearing?”
“We put everything in a box,” she murmured. “We
haven’t been able to look at it.”
“What about the stool found in her bedroom?” Jack
asked.
“I gave it to a thrift shop. I couldn’t look at it.”
Noah wanted to sigh. “Can you tell us which location
you took it to?”
“Grand Avenue. Why?”
“It may be important,” Noah said, then damned the toss
he’d lost. He suspected Jack kept a two-faced coin in his pocket, because Noah
lost the toss most of the time. “To rule your daughter’s death a homicide, we
need to examine your daughter’s body.”