Scared Stiff (2 page)
Chapter 2
I
zzy and I pause long enough to don gloves and shoe covers. With that done, he grabs his camera while I take out the digital recorder he gave me a couple of weeks ago for documenting scene observations. I turn the recorder on and put it in voice activation mode. After trying to find a place on my outfit to clip it, I settle for sticking it down inside my cleavage, or what a boy in my high school geography class once dubbed the “hot-and-gentle divide.”
zzy and I pause long enough to don gloves and shoe covers. With that done, he grabs his camera while I take out the digital recorder he gave me a couple of weeks ago for documenting scene observations. I turn the recorder on and put it in voice activation mode. After trying to find a place on my outfit to clip it, I settle for sticking it down inside my cleavage, or what a boy in my high school geography class once dubbed the “hot-and-gentle divide.”
Despite the darkness outside, the yard is brightly lit thanks to Halloween spotlights and the flashing bars atop the cop cars parked in the driveway. At the foot of a huge oak tree off to my right, a man sits strapped into a large wooden chair. On his head is something that looks like an old-fashioned electrocution helmet. Nailed to the tree a foot above his head is a large board that has the words ON and OFF painted on it with a fork-shaped lever clearly placed in the ON position. Wires are running from the lever to the helmet and the clothes on the man appear to be singed.
On closer inspection I see that the helmet is actually a metal mixing bowl turned upside down and the handle on the board is made out of tin foil, but the effect is realistic enough to make me shiver.
On the opposite side of the tree is another body, this one hanging from a thick rope, its face painted a ghastly blue, the body swinging slightly in the night breeze. A third body is half buried in a makeshift grave, its hands and feet protruding from the freshly turned soil. At its head is a gravestone that bears the inscription:
WHO TURNED OUT THE LIGHTS
?
WHO TURNED OUT THE LIGHTS
?
Four more bodies are strewn about, all of them wearing blood-soaked clothes. One has a large butcher knife protruding from its chest; another has its head lying a conspicuous distance from its body. The third one is missing its arms and legs, though they are lying nearby, and the fourth one is splayed halfway down the steps of the front porch, a glistening trail of blood marking its journey from the front door.
This last body is the one I zero in on since there is a trio of police officers—two in uniform, one in plainclothes—grouped around it. I know most of the cops in town either because they’re Sorenson lifers like me, or because we became acquainted years ago when I worked in the ER. I even dated one of them briefly, a sweet guy named Larry Johnson who is the plainclothes officer in tonight’s group. I never felt any reciprocal attraction to Larry, but if I had it would have died some time ago when he came into the hospital for hemorrhoid surgery. I was the scrub nurse on the case, and the sight of Larry’s jingleberries hanging above his dingle-berries would have put a definite damper on future intimacies.
One of the uniforms in tonight’s group is a guy named Al who I’ve known for a decade or so, but the second uniform is new to me, and he looks like he’s twelve. The one face conspicuously absent from the group is Steve Hurley’s.
“Hey, where are Sleepy, Sneezy, and Dopey?” Larry yells as Izzy and I approach. Al and the new guy snigger. I realize they have misinterpreted our costumes, mistaking me for Snow White and Izzy for one of my dwarfs.
“I don’t know,” I say, setting down my scene kit and glancing around the yard. “Where are the real cops?”
“Ouch,” says Larry as the other two groan. “Okay, truce.”
I turn my attention to the body on the stairs and wrinkle my nose. There is a faint odor in the air, one that tells me this body has been here a while. The weather over the past week or so has been uncharacteristically warm for late October in Wisconsin, with temperatures in the high seventies during the day and the low sixties at night. Normally we’d expect highs in the fifties with frost or snow warnings at night, but this year October decided to go out on a high note. This last gasp of summer proved a delightful treat here in a state where snowblowers are considered a necessity five months out of the year, but it also allowed putrefaction to set in a little sooner than it otherwise would have.
“Do you know who she is?” Izzy asks, using his camera to shoot pictures and video of both the body and our immediate surroundings.
“We’re pretty certain it’s Shannon Tolliver,” Larry says.
One of the advantages of living in a small town is that eventually you get to know almost everyone, if not by name, then at least by face. Here the six degrees of separation are often narrowed down to one or two. I’m at a slight disadvantage because of my last job. Even though working as a nurse in the operating room of the town’s hospital allowed me to cross paths with a lot of people, most of them were draped, gowned, bonneted, and drugged into oblivion. As a result, I’m quicker to recognize some people by their navels or knees as opposed to their faces.
Tonight’s victim is someone I do know by face, though it’s hard to be sure it’s her. The body is lying on its back with the feet at the top of the stairs and the head at the bottom. Gravity has done its job. What little blood is left in the body has settled in the head and face, causing gross discoloration and swelling.
“Who found her?” I ask.
Al says, “A couple of trick-or-treaters who got the scare of their life when their parents drove them to this house. The parents rounded the kids up and then called it in on a cell phone.”
I grimace. Kids traipsing near our corpse and running hell-bent through the yard means contamination of our scene.
I note two holes in Shannon’s torso that appear to be bullet entry wounds, both of them surrounded by the blood-soaked cloth of her blouse. Years of working as a nurse have gifted me with the rather dubious talent of being able to estimate blood loss with a reasonable degree of accuracy. A quick estimate of the dried pool beneath Shannon’s body and the trail leading back from it to the house tells me there’s a good chance she bled to death.
Squealing wheels sound behind us and, as I turn to see a familiar black car pull up, my heart quickens and a different kind of shiver goes through me.
Hurley
.
.
He parks right behind one of the spotlights, forcing me to squint as I search eagerly for his long-legged stride. But something is wrong. The silhouette I see has two heads and way too many arms. For a second I think it must be Hurley’s Halloween costume, but it turns out to be something much scarier. It’s Hurley walking side by side with Alison Miller.
I feel a pang of jealousy and mutter a curse under my breath. Alison Miller, a photographer and reporter for the biweekly
Sorenson Journal,
used to be my friend. We went to high school together, and while we never hung out much, we maintained a cordial, if distant, relationship. Our current status is a bit more strained, thanks to her attempts to print a picture of me bare-chested on the front page of the paper a couple weeks ago, and the fact that she has suddenly become the main obstacle between me and Detective Hurley, assuming, of course, that Hurley has forgotten about that unfortunate incident when I barfed on his shoes.
Sorenson Journal,
used to be my friend. We went to high school together, and while we never hung out much, we maintained a cordial, if distant, relationship. Our current status is a bit more strained, thanks to her attempts to print a picture of me bare-chested on the front page of the paper a couple weeks ago, and the fact that she has suddenly become the main obstacle between me and Detective Hurley, assuming, of course, that Hurley has forgotten about that unfortunate incident when I barfed on his shoes.
It isn’t just the sight of them together that bothers me. I knew they had plans to attend a Halloween party tonight—the same party Izzy and I just left—because I was there a week ago when Alison all but threw herself at Hurley and demanded that he take her. What bothers me is the fact that they never made it to the party but are still together. What were they doing while I sat letting Dracula turn me into one of the undead?
Both of them are in costume: Alison looks disturbingly cute dressed as a genie, and Hurley, rather unimaginatively, is dressed like an Eliot Ness–era FBI agent, though the hat does give him a sexy, debonair, I-want-to-bite-your-lip quality. I give their outfits a quick once-over searching for signs of disarray or a fresh-out-of-the-sack look, but don’t find any. It’s a mild reassurance at best, and any relief I might feel vanishes when I see the smug expression on Alison’s face.
Her camera is slung around her neck and she is holding it with one hand, prepared to take a quick snap if something worthy should present itself. Even in high school Alison always had her camera close by and ready. It earned her the nickname Snapper, a moniker that always made all the boys snigger. Nowadays she’s a freelance reporter/photographer and the primary photo source for our local paper, so a camera is still as ubiquitous an accessory as ever. I briefly wonder if she sleeps with it, but as soon as the thought hits my mind, I flash on an image of Hurley naked in bed with her, and my face grows uncomfortably hot.
“Hi, everyone,” Alison says with a perky little wave of her hand. She eyes me and Izzy and says, “How cute. Snow White and Doc. What a clever idea.”
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.”
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.”
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