Scared Stiff mwm-2 Page 2

  Before I can correct her she has raised her camera, snapped a shot, and blinded me with her flash.

  “No pictures unless I say so,” Hurley grumbles, and I am instantly grateful for his reprimand. I smile in his general direction and blink hard several times, trying to get my vision back. Then I realize I probably look like I’m batting my eyes at him and stop.

  “Not to worry,” Alison says. “That was just a fun picture for Mattie and Izzy. Nothing official.”

  I can see the vague outlines of everyone as my eyes struggle to adjust to the dark, and it seems they are all looking at Shannon again. So I focus my own gaze in the same direction.

  “What do we have?” Hurley asks.

  Izzy says, “Mattie, do you want to take this one?”

  Oh, goody, a chance to impress Hurley! I nod solemnly to hide my delight. Since I can’t see very clearly, I try to remember what I’d noted earlier as I start to speak.

  “The victim’s tentative ID is Shannon Tolliver, a thirty-something female and the resident of this house. It appears she was shot at least twice, once in the chest and once in the upper abdominal area. Given the location of the wounds and the amount of blood beneath the body, I’d guess one or both of the bullets pierced the liver or aorta and she quickly bled out.”

  “Any guess as to time of death?” Hurley asks.

  I’m still half-blind so as I move closer to the body to check for the presence of livor mortis and rigor mortis, I fail to see the bottommost step to the porch. My toe rams into the riser and my upper body continues its forward motion as my feet stop dead in their tracks. I feel myself falling and pinwheel my arms in a desperate effort to regain some balance, but the laws of physics are against me. I’m bracing for a collision with the hard wooden stairs when a strong arm wraps around my waist and pulls me back.

  “Careful there,” Hurley says, his breath warm in my ear.

  I’m momentarily in heaven as I feel the length of my backside come into contact with Hurley’s front side, but my rapture evaporates with his next words.

  “Christ, you’re like a bull in a china shop.”

  Hurley’s arm uncoils itself from my waist and I miss its warmth immediately even though my face is burning hot enough to start a fire. My vision is almost back to normal and I can see Izzy shaking his head. He steps up and takes over the examination, leaving me to stand where I am, trying not to look as stupid as I feel.

  A few seconds later I step forward more carefully and kneel on the other side of the body, taking care to shove the bulk of my gown between my legs so I don’t contaminate the blood pools.

  Together we begin our examination, looking for any gross trace evidence on the surface of the body before we touch or move anything. There are several stray hairs stuck in the congealed blood surrounding her wounds but their long length and blond color makes me suspect they are Shannon’s own. I pick them up one at a time and place each in its own evidence envelope, sealing and labeling the specimens as I go.

  Shannon’s left arm is beneath her body, hiding that hand from view, so examination of that will have to wait until we move her. But on her right hand, which is flung out in front of her, I notice that the knuckles appear raw and abraded. I wonder if she incurred this injury in her crawl and fall down the stairs, or if she managed to deliver a blow to her attacker during a struggle. If the latter, I know there might be valuable evidence there so I carefully place a paper bag over the hand, securing it with evidence tape. In doing so, I notice her arm is stiff. Izzy notes the same thing in both of her legs.

  “None of the lividity blanches and it appears she is in full rigor,” he announces.

  Eager to redeem myself in front of everybody, I jump in and say, “Given the outside temperatures we’ve had, that means she’s likely been dead for somewhere between twelve and thirty-six hours.”

  Izzy nods approvingly and says, “That is correct.”

  I hear Alison mutter a little hmph behind me and can’t help but smile. But then she says, “Twelve to thirty-six? Is that the best you can do? That’s a twenty-four-hour window of time.”

  My initial impulse is to leap across Shannon’s body, grab Alison by the throat, and throttle her. But before I can, Izzy jumps in.

  “It appears there is the start of some putrefaction here,” he says, pointing to a faint greenish patch of skin on the lower right side of Shannon’s swollen abdomen, just above the waistband of her pants. “That helps us narrow things down a little more. Odds are she’s been dead for around twenty-four hours, give or take a few. Here in the field, that’s the closest prediction I can make, but once we get the body to the morgue and do some further analyses, we might be able to pinpoint the time of death more precisely.”

  I glance at my watch, see that it’s just past eight-thirty in the evening, and do a quick mental calculation. “So time of death for now is likely sometime yesterday evening.” I pause and glance around, suppressing a shiver when I realize Shannon’s body lay out here all day long with no one noticing. It saddens me to think how hard she worked to decorate her lawn for Halloween, not knowing she would soon become a part of her own gruesome diorama.

  After unfolding a white plastic sheet and carefully placing it over the body to preserve any surface evidence we might have missed, Izzy and I turn Shannon’s body on its side to examine her back. There is a slight sucking sound as her body separates from the large pool of congealed blood beneath her and that, combined with the wafting scent of rot and decay, makes my stomach lurch.

  Izzy examines Shannon’s back and announces, “It’s hard to be sure with all the blood but I don’t see any exit wounds. So hopefully we’ll have some ballistic evidence once I do her post.”

  Hurley is scratching down notes in a small spiral-bound notebook as we ease the body back into its original position, first making sure to tuck the plastic wrap sheet in place. With that done, Izzy and I secure the wrap, completely enclosing the body. Then we stand, remove our bloodied gloves, don new ones, and start taking in the rest of the murder scene.

  I study the blood trail leading from the body to the porch and from there into the house. “It doesn’t make much sense for the killer to have dragged her outside where she might be found sooner,” I surmise. “And the amount of blood in this trail suggests she was alive until she got to the stairs. So I’m guessing she was shot somewhere inside the house and managed to drag herself out here.”

  Izzy says, “I agree.”

  “But why?” I pose. “Why come out here rather than phone for help from the house?”

  Hurley rewards me with a smile that makes Alison’s pout deepen. “Excellent question,” he says. “Let’s go inside and find out.”

  Chapter 3

  It turns out a white ball gown isn’t the best thing to wear to the scene of a bloody homicide. Despite my efforts, the hem of my skirt is spotted with blood and dirt. That means incurring a hefty dry cleaning bill before I can return it to our office receptionist, Cass Zigler, who let me borrow it from the wardrobe cache her thespian group owns. In order to avoid any further contamination of either the dress—which is actually two pieces, a skirt and a bodice—or the evidence, I slip on a pair of scrub pants from the stash Izzy maintains in the trunk of his car and remove my skirt.

  Izzy, Larry, Alison, and I follow Hurley along the edges of the blood trail into the house, Izzy marking our progress with his camera. Alison really has no business being with us but I suspect Hurley is letting her come along because he doesn’t trust her not to sneak a few pictures if left outside with the body.

  We’re only a few feet down the hallway when Izzy asks me, “How well did you know Shannon?”

  The question makes Hurley stop and turn to look at me, bringing our human train to a halt. No doubt he’s wondering if I will need to be recused from this investigation the way I was from Karen Owenby’s. In the latter case I had to step aside not only because I knew the victim, but because she’d been having an affair with my husband, a fact that
put me high on the list of suspects. This time I should be in the clear.

  “Only casually,” I assure everyone.

  Larry pipes up. “A lot of people know Shannon. She’s a waitress over at Dairy Airs.”

  Dairy Airs is an ironically named restaurant in town run by a family who owns a dairy farm. The menu is filled with fattening and delicious foods like fried cheese curds, cream puffs, cheesecakes, and my personal favorite, ice cream. The name, though cute, is an apt one since the place has made significant contributions to many of the derrieres in town, my own included. With all the wonderfully fattening delights the place has to offer, it’s amazing to me that Shannon is so slender. If I worked there, I’d be big as a house in no time.

  “To be honest,” I say, “I know Shannon’s husband, Erik, better than her. He’s a radiology tech at the hospital.”

  Hurley frowns. “She’s married? Where’s the husband? Did he call this in?”

  Larry repeats the trick-or-treater story, stating that the kids who found Shannon’s body have since gone home with their parents. “We talked to them and they were pretty traumatized but I don’t think they saw anything of consequence. She’d been dead a while by the time they found her. As for the husband, we’re not sure where he is.”

  “He doesn’t live here anymore,” I tell Hurley. “He and Shannon split up three or four months ago. Did you try the hospital?” I ask Larry.

  “We did. He’s not there.”

  “Any scuttlebutt on why they split?” Hurley asks me.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Erik never said anything other than that he’d moved out, but there were lots of rumors flying around the hospital when it first happened.”

  “What sorts of rumors?” Hurley asks, his blue eyes narrowing.

  “The usual suspects,” I tell him. “That Erik is gay, that one of them wanted kids and the other didn’t, that he had an affair, that she had an affair.”

  Hurley stares at me a moment and his gaze is so intense it feels as if he’s looking through my clothes to the skin beneath. Heat surges through me and I have to resist the urge to start fanning myself. Finally he says, “So what do you believe was behind the separation?”

  I think I detect some subtle innuendo in the question and I blush. I’m hot on the heels of my own separation, a fact Hurley knows all too well, and he also knows all the sordid reasons why.

  “I have no idea why Erik and Shannon split,” I say honestly.

  “Are they just separated or have they filed for divorce?” Hurley asks.

  Again I pick up a hint of subtext and I can’t help but wonder if Hurley is somehow alluding to my own situation. The fact that everyone else in the room is watching and listening intently makes me realize they have picked up on it, too.

  “I’m guessing they were only separated, given the relatively short time since their breakup and the fact that Erik never said anything about a divorce, but I don’t know for sure.”

  Hurley stares at me a moment longer, then his gaze drifts down my body. Alison sees it and seizes an opportunity to jump into the conversation, stepping away from me to force Hurley’s gaze in her direction.

  “Shannon was dating someone,” she tosses out, looking proud. And rightly so. Gossip is a hot commodity in small towns like ours, and having the latest info elevates one’s standing in all social circles, especially one involving a homicide investigation. “She’s been seeing that new psychologist who came to town six months ago.”

  Hurley poises his pen over his notebook and says, “Name?”

  “Luke Nelson.”

  As Hurley scribbles down the name I add my own two cents’ worth, just to show I’m not totally ignorant. “He’s a psychiatrist, not a psychologist.”

  “What’s the difference?” Hurley asks.

  “A psychiatrist is a medical doctor and a psychologist isn’t. Psychiatrists provide counseling and psychotherapy the same way psychologists do, but a psychiatrist can also prescribe medications and perform treatments, like electroshock therapy.” There is a moment of silence and I wonder if anyone besides me is picturing the grim electric chair scene out front.

  “Has anyone canvassed the neighbors yet?” Hurley asks, shifting the topic of conversation and continuing deeper into the house along the blood trail. We all step in behind him.

  Larry says, “One of the houses across the road is for sale and has been vacant for several months. There’s no one home at the other, and based on the mail flowing out of the box, I’m guessing they’re out of town. The closest house to the east is a quarter of a mile away and the one next door to the west is home to a ninety-seven-year-old woman who is nearly deaf, close to blind, and hasn’t had her hearing aids in all week.”

  We arrive in the kitchen—the end, or technically the start of the blood trail—and everyone stops to gape at the scene. There is blood everywhere: on the walls, the table, the counters, and the floor. It looks like a blender full of catsup ran amok. And there are obvious signs of a struggle. One of the chairs is knocked on its side and the others are positioned at odd angles. Shards of broken glass, some with blood on them, are scattered at our feet, and there are puddles of milk on the table and floor. Still on the table are two plates bearing untouched pieces of cheesecake and a second glass of milk. Clearly this is where Shannon was shot and it looks like she didn’t go down easily.

  Izzy takes out his camera and begins a running commentary on the blood splatter evidence. “Based on the spray on the far wall over there it appears the perpetrator shot her from the doorway leading to the hall behind us.” He pauses, snaps a few pictures, and then continues. “The first shot hit her when she was standing in front of the sink. It looks like she threw a glass of milk at the perpetrator, and it shattered all over the floor here. Based on the blood trail from the sink and the splatter on the wall to our right, I’m guessing Shannon was staggering her way around the table when the second shot hit.” He snaps a few more pictures of the walls, and then he bends down to snap several shots of the broken glass and the floor under the table. “Well, what do we have here?” he says, gingerly picking his way across the floor toward the table. He reaches under the table, picks up a blood-covered cell phone, and hands it to Hurley.

  “Looks like it’s broken,” Hurley says. He looks around the kitchen and adds, “I don’t see any land lines here. That would explain why Shannon dragged herself down the hallway and out the front door.”

  I open an evidence bag and hold it out to Hurley, who places the phone inside. As I’m sealing the bag, he makes his way across the room to the back door. “This dead bolt is locked so I’m guessing the shooter left along the same path Shannon took.”

  Alison is holding her camera tightly at her side, her knuckles white from the strength of her grip. I can tell it’s killing her that she can’t snap any photos in here.

  Hurley says to Izzy, “There’re no signs of a struggle, but you never know. We need to swab all this blood evidence and make sure it belongs to Shannon. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky and discover she managed to injure her killer. Maybe some of his DNA is in this mess.”

  “Even if we don’t get any DNA evidence here,” I say, “we might be able to get some from her hand. She had some abrasions on her knuckles.”

  Izzy says, “I’ll get a crew working on the blood evidence straightaway.” I sigh as he takes out his cell phone and dials a number, knowing that the “crew” he’s referring to will consist of him, me, and Arnie Toffer, our primary lab tech. It’s going to be a long, bloody night.

  I take a moment to look around, trying to see past all the gore to the kitchen beneath. I can tell the room would be a bright, sunny spot during the light of day, thanks to the pale yellow walls, white cabinets, and two large windows on the eastern and southern sides of the room. It saddens me to think of Shannon sitting here in the morning sunshine, sipping her coffee, reading the day’s paper, and readying herself for the day ahead, not knowing it would be her last.

  Who would w
ant to kill her? And why? I flash on her husband, Erik, who I’ve known since grade school. He’s always been a kind, gentle, and well-humored soul so it’s hard for me to imagine him doing this, no matter how acrimonious his and Shannon’s separation has been. Then I remember all the hideous tortures I imagined inflicting on my own husband in months past and rethink things. Of course, imagining them is one thing, doing them another.

  I consider myself a fair judge of character—ex-husband aside—and decide I want to be there when Erik is notified of Shannon’s death so I can judge his potential guilt for myself. Plus, if Hurley lets me go along it will give me time with him and might get me out of the blood-gathering duties. I am about to suggest this scenario when things take an unexpected turn.

  From the front of the house, where Al and the baby-faced uniform cop are standing guard over Shannon’s body, we hear loud voices and the sounds of a scuffle. Careful not to tromp on any of the blood evidence, Hurley turns tail and heads back to the porch. I fall into step behind him, managing to nudge Alison out of the way just long enough to take over the lead.

  Out front we find Al and his partner restraining a man who is staring at Shannon’s wrapped body with an expression of disbelief and horror. His face is the color of my dress.

  “Oh my God,” the man mutters, his voice cracking. “What the hell happened to my wife?”

  Chapter 4

  “Erik?” I say gently. I work my way around the blood pool and move to his side. He allows me to take his arm and turn him around so his back is to the horrific scene on the stairs. He blinks hard several times and then looks at me as if he has no idea who I am.

  “Erik, it’s me. Mattie.”

  He nods slowly before stealing a glance over his shoulder. I feel a shudder rip through his body as he quickly looks away, moaning.

  Hurley steps up in front of us. “Mr. Tolliver?”

  Erik nods.

  “Let’s talk,” Hurley says. He takes Erik’s other arm and steers him across the yard toward one of the police cars. I follow along, not only because I want to hear what is said, but because I’m not sure Erik will make the trip without collapsing if there isn’t someone on either side of him. Plus, there’s the whole being-with-Hurley thing.