Rogue Justice (24 page)

"I still can't believe it," Zora said, shaking her head.

"Yeah, it's tough. Listen, Mickey mentioned that you left Katrina's lab at, what, six or so?"

"Yeah, I met another friend for dinner. He's a fisherman from up my way. His boat's in dry dock over in Port Angeles."

"Mind if I ask the nature of your business?"

"Shop talk," Zora lied. Part of her wanted to tell this man everything. She ran through the different scenarios again and again in her mind, decided the smart thing to do now was remain silent.

Rosekrans said, "Okay, so she died sometime between six and eight-thirty when her body was found. Did she say anything about going for a jog?"

"No. She said she needed to wrap up a few things at the lab before heading home. I planned to meet her back there later and spend the night."

"It's all very strange," Rosekrans noted, stroking his chin. "Look, did you—"

He never finished the thought as Mickey appeared in the doorway. He pocketed his cell and said, "No luck. Supposedly the guide over there has a satellite phone, but he's not picking up for some reason. Jesus, I hope something hasn't happened to them, too."

Zora was thinking the same thing, but said nothing.

* * *

Rosekrans pulled his gray, four-door sedan away from the front of the Courthouse, Zora riding shotgun. Mickey sat in the back seat. The DA turned right off Jefferson and headed west. The sun had long since set and a light drizzle began to fall, seeming to capture the somber mood inside.

At the bottom of Sims Way, the vehicle was met by two police cruisers and escorted up the winding hill. At its crest, a small lawn sign on the corner read: "Kosec Funeral Home & Life Tribute Center." The nondescript, single-story structure occupied a half-acre of land in a quiet residential neighborhood. A posse of baying reporters had already arrived, establishing base camp in the parking lot. Gathering crowds of locals looked on from across the street and from every other vantage point they could find. Four deputies assigned to control the mob were doing their level best, but clearly losing the battle. What was already a chaotic scene then became worse when four news choppers swooped in from the south, the deafening thud of their engines making the misty air reverberate.

"Jesus," Mickey said. "This is nuts. How did the press find out so fast?"

"Radio scanners," Zora said matter-of-factly. She knew the drill all too well. After word had spread about her daredevil encounter with the sharks, she'd been forced into hiding by eager television producers stalking her like bloodhounds in a prison-break movie.

Rosekrans added, "Thing is, since the story broke on those monster whales, we've had reporters crawling all over the place. It's been absolutely crazy around here. The whole town's going bonkers."

A squat, pudgy deputy moved two stanchions allowing both cruisers and Rosekrans's sedan to proceed up the circular driveway to the front entrance of the building. Moments later, a pair of double glass doors swung open revealing a fit-looking, dark-haired man with a boyish face. He wore wire-framed glasses and was dressed in slacks, cable-knit sweater, and beige jacket.

"The owner," Rosekrans said. "Real Robles is his name. Good man, knows his stuff. He doubles as my Deputy Coroner."

As they stepped inside, the doors closed behind them, muffling the shouts of the screaming reporters. Zora lingered in the foyer, looking around. The interior of the building looked much like the exterior—non-descript—and smelled of yesterday's roses.

It took several moments before the trembling began, her breaths now coming in short gasps. As quick as the back turn of a page, she was twelve-years-old, staring into her father's coffin, looking down at a man she both loved and loathed. Then the memories came flooding back in a torrent of emotion, the somber faces, the disapproving looks, the cruel innuendos. What could possibly compel a man to take his own life, they whispered? How could he leave behind such a charming little girl and her lovely mother? Zora felt like screaming. A comforting hand touched her arm. She looked up, startled.

"You all right?" Mickey asked.

"Huh? Yeah, sure," she said, glancing over his shoulder at Rosekrans and Robles. She wished she could wave a magic wand and make this all go away, for both Mickey and her.

Rosekrans approached. "Listen," he said quietly. "I need Mickey to make a positive ID, okay? We'll be right back."

Zora nodded, watched after them. They moved slowly down a narrow hallway to a door marked "Private." Robles punched in a four-digit code into the keypad and the lock clicked open. Mickey looked back mournfully then disappeared inside with the others.

He and the DA returned less than a minute later. All color had drained from Mickey's face. Zora slid over beside him, took a hand in hers and squeezed gently. There simply were no words for times like these.

Rosekrans looked at Mickey with narrowed eyes. "I'll do my best to find some answers tonight. I should know something one way or another in half an hour or so... maybe less."

Chapter 26

31 March, 11:30 PM PDT

Port Townsend, Washington

Minutes later, the DA-turned-coroner was back inside the prep room, the awful smell unmistakable. Once experienced, he'd often said, it was never, ever, forgotten. The windowless room was twelve feet by twenty feet and illuminated by stark fluorescent lighting. The floor was gray linoleum with a drain in the middle. A body hoist, dressing table, and several rows of cabinets took up the near and far walls. Two poster-sized anatomy charts hung on an otherwise bare side wall. There was a small sink in one corner, a red Craftsman six-drawer tool chest in the other, and beside that, a rolling cart with two open boxes of protective gloves sitting on top.

Katrina's body lay on a stainless-steel table in the center of the room, a PERK—Physical Evidence Recovery Kit—next to her left arm. She was covered with a white sheet, her head supported by a rubber block. An embalming pump, aspirator, organ scale, overhead spray hoses, and various other instruments of death were neatly arranged on a shelf directly behind the table. Next to all that was a larger sink.

Robles handed Rosekrans a disposable blue gown, plastic face shield, and shoe covers. He suited up then pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Next he pulled back the sheet and began the examination, slowly circling the body, leaning in, looking close. Katrina was still dressed, arms straight by her sides, fingers slightly curled, her limbs still somewhat supple. Rigor mortis, he observed, had only begun to set it, noting that it typically commenced anywhere from two to six hours after death. Rosekrans estimated Katrina been dead for something less than that. Upon further examination, he saw no obvious signs of sexual assault, nor did he find any visible knife wounds or bullet holes. He then checked the pockets of her warm-up jacket. One was empty. In the other he found a driver's license and four twenties tucked into a money clip.

Rosekrans held it up. "Well, Real, if we
do
find evidence of foul play, this effectively rules out robbery as a motive, wouldn't you say?" The DA trusted the funeral director's instincts even more than his own. He'd asked Robles once what attracted him to the business of death. He said it was all he ever wanted to do, even as a young kid. Something about growing up watching
Quincy, M.E.,
a popular TV series that ran for seven seasons beginning in the mid-70s.

Robles answered the question with a nod.

Rosekrans then examined the victim's hands, front and back, checking for broken finger nails, lacerations, or any trace evidence that might indicate a struggle. There were more cuts and bruises, including a shattered left wrist bone that protruded an inch through the skin. "Take a look at this, Real. Probably the result of the fall, but it looks like she was already dead at the time. What do you think?"

Robles moved closer, inspecting the blanched skin. "I agree, Scott. There would obviously be redness if she'd been alive."

"Exactly," Rosekrans said. He didn't need to be Quincy to differentiate antemortem injuries from the postmortem variety. The key was bleeding. Broken skin around an injury sustained
before
death appeared red in color because the heart was still pumping blood. If the same injury occurred
after
the heart had stopped, it looked pale, blanched. "Let me check something else." He picked up a lens and examined Katrina's face. It was a web of bruises and lacerations, dirt and debris embedded in the deeper cuts. He gently lifted her head with both hands, turning it from side to side. It was then that he noticed a gash at the base of her neck. Some of the skin had peeled away and the color was reddish brown, noticeably different from the other wounds.

"Looks like a burn," Robles noted. "First or second degree, I'd say."

Rosekrans nodded. "Yeah, and she was still alive when she suffered that injury. Real, my friend, we've got a murder on our hands."

* * *

Zora and Mickey paced nervously in a small waiting room, sipping hot tea. Zora fiddled with her phone and wandered out into the hallway. She had tried reaching the shaman twice already, only to have both calls kicked to voice mail. This time she left a message. "Hi, my name is Zora Flynn. I'm a commercial fisherman, a friend of Katrina Kincaid. I
really
need to speak with you, so please get back to me as soon as you can." She left her number, the time of the call, and continued pacing.

As Zora pocketed her cell, Rosekrans turned the corner at the far end of the hall.

Jesus,
she thought.
He might as well have the word "murder" stamped on his forehead
.

Mickey saw him coming, too, and rushed out of the waiting room.

"Well, unfortunately, your instincts were right," he said. "This was definitely not an accident. I'm really sorry, Mickey. The ME will need to make it official, but I believe he'll concur."

Mickey stared ahead blankly.

"We found a deep cut on the back of her neck," Rosekrans added. "And there appear to be burn marks on the skin. Can you think of anything that might have caused that type of injury?"

"Not offhand, no," Mickey said. "Is that what killed her?"

"I think so. Again, we'll know more after the post."

Mickey shook his head, his voice hushed. "Kat didn't have an enemy in the world. I can't believe anyone would want to hurt her."

Rosekrans seemed to feel his pain. He put a hand on Mickey's shoulder. "Look, I can't bring your sister back, but I promise you we'll find whoever did this to her. I put in a call to Seattle PD right after I completed the exam. Dispatch is trying to reach the chief as we speak."

Zora listened without saying a word, not exactly sure what to do next. She turned to comfort Mickey, but he had already retreated to the waiting room.

Moments later, Rosekrans's phone buzzed. He excused himself, and ambled back down the hall to the foyer.

Zora stared silently at the floor for a long moment, her mind spinning in a hundred different directions at once. That's when she heard the DA's voice ratchet up a notch. He began walking in tight circles, a puzzled look on his face. He then snapped the phone shut, signaled her over with a nod of his head.

"What's going on?" she asked, hurrying up to him.

"There's been a change in plans."

"What kind of change?"

"Let's just say that call wasn't from Seattle's police chief."

"Who was it?"

Rosekrans's face blushed red, the veins popping on his forehead. "I'm not at liberty to say, except that the case has been turned over to a special unit operating out of the governor's office."

"The
governor's
office. What does that mean?"

"It means I'm persona non grata," Rosekrans hissed. "At least as far as the investigation goes. They're sending a team up here tomorrow, CSI, the whole nine. Until then, I've been told to secure the victim's home, like I wouldn't have done that already."

The DA's words hung in the air and Zora suddenly felt like Alice looking down the rabbit hole. She stared at her hands as she thought about what to say. Finally, she looked up with trusting eyes and said, "Can I tell you something off the record?"

Rosekrans hesitated. "That depends."