The Reluctant Coroner (Fenway Stevenson Mysteries Book 1) Page 21

  “You know I’ll vouch for where you were last night.”

  McVie pursed his lips. “It can absolutely not get out that we were together last night.” McVie looked around as they entered the plaza, but no one was nearby. He looked Fenway right in the eyes, seriousness radiating from him. “How is it going to look that I slept with the woman I just appointed coroner? Not to mention, my wife would kill me. My daughter would kill me. Your father would kill me.”

  Fenway crossed her arms. “Thanks. I had a great time too.”

  “Damn it, Fenway, this is exactly what I was talking about with this being a bad idea!”

  “This is what you were talking about?” She leaned into his space, her tone acerbic. “That you shouldn’t fuck me because you knew you’d have to come up with an alibi for killing a suspect?”

  McVie glared at Fenway.

  She looked down at McVie’s shoes, taking a calming breath. “Sorry. I’m really sorry. That was out of line.”

  “Damn right that was out of line.” He took a couple of steps back. “I need to take a walk to clear my head. Please don’t follow me.” He turned and walked quickly away.

  Fenway was standing in the plaza, the fog quickly burning away, the sun dappling her face. It didn’t seem like such a beautiful day anymore. She stood there for a few minutes, wondering if she should follow him anyway. She shook her head, not quite believing that it was already almost as crazy of a morning as yesterday.

  She walked back through the plaza and across the street to her office building. The side of the building had been boarded up, over the truck-sized hole, and it looked like they had also put up rebar and galvanized steel chain-link fencing to discourage further intrusion.

  Fenway went back into the office. She picked up her now-lukewarm latte from where she had left it. “Dez, I’m going to go to San Miguelito for Dylan Richards’ autopsy. But there are a few things I need done.”

  “All right.” Dez picked up her notebook. “And did you hear about the other gun?”

  Fenway stopped. “What other gun?”

  “We got an anonymous tip last night; a call from a burner phone. Asked us if we had looked in the Richards’ backyard.”

  “But Dylan and Rachel are in a townhouse. Do they even have a backyard?”

  “It’s tiny, but yes. They’ve got a few plants and a vegetable garden back there. And, lo and behold, we found a Smith & Wesson 4006 buried under the zucchini.”

  “What kind of ammo does that gun take?”

  “Ten millimeter.”

  “Registered to Richards?”

  Dez shook her head. “Numbers have been filed off. We sent the gun to the San Miguelito lab along with the body.”

  “Okay.” Fenway nodded.

  “Something else that was found, too. Underneath one of the outdoor chair cushions.”

  “What?”

  “A parking stub from an LAX long-term lot.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. A parking stub. From the lot where we found Walker’s car. It was time-stamped late Sunday night—about three hours after the murder.”

  Fenway paused. “Doesn’t that seem awfully…I don’t know, convenient to you?”

  “Yep,” Dez said. “Awfully convenient.”

  “Did Mark tell you he found the laptop in Walker’s car?”

  “Yeah. He told me it was wedged in a spot under the passenger seat. He actually wasn’t the one to find it—the crime scene team found it when they were searching it for skin and hair from the supposed killer. They removed the seat, and there it was. We think Walker might have used that spot for a laptop hiding place a lot.”

  “It feels like we’re getting a lot of breaks.”

  “Except for the prime suspect being murdered,” Dez pointed out. “That wasn’t too much of a break, especially for McVie.”

  Fenway looked down again. “That must be especially rough on Rachel.”

  Dez sighed. “I don’t think anybody’s told her yet. I guess I can be the one to tell her, but man, I sure don’t want to.”

  “Did anyone tell her that her husband was having an affair with a married woman?”

  “As if her husband committing suicide isn’t bad enough? I should have a bottle full of Xanax ready when I break all of this to her.”

  They were silent for a minute. Fenway wanted to say something comforting, but she couldn’t think of anything. She finally changed the subject.

  “Hey, who all knows about Dylan and McVie’s wife?”

  “Well, there’s you and me. And Megan and Amy McVie. I don’t know if Dylan told any of his friends.”

  “Well, if he was hiding it from his brother, seems logical to think that he didn’t tell anyone at all.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the sheriff knows, too,” Fenway added.

  Dez looked surprised. “You told him?”

  “He already knew.”

  “He knew before he made the arrest?” she asked, then shook her head. “Ooh, that’s not right.”

  “I know, it’s a conflict of interest, right?”

  “Well,” Dez reasoned, “what’s he supposed to do? Not arrest a suspect just because he’s sleeping with his wife?”

  “I don’t really know the ethics of this. I’m a newbie.”

  Dez scoffed. “Oh, please. Try that ‘newbie’ crap on someone else.”

  Fenway smiled. “One more thing, Dez. So—it’s possible that the missing files pointed to an affair between Lana Cassidy and Dylan Richards.”

  “What?” Dez said skeptically. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

  “No. My dad took me to dinner last night and I grilled him about the files.”

  “Girl, didn’t you say that he might be setting you up?”

  “Yeah, he might be, but I don’t think so. I played the I’m your only daughter and I was shot at because I didn’t know what was in those files card. He seemed genuinely concerned for me, and plus, he had about three bourbons in the first half hour. Even if he had wanted to put one over on me, I’m not sure he could have.”

  Dez still looked skeptical, but nodded slowly. “All right. So, what do you want me to do? Phone records? Maybe see if I can get text messages, emails, that sort of thing?”

  “Absolutely. I was just going to ask for phone records, but if you can get that other stuff too, that would be awesome.”

  “Will do, boss. Who’s giving you a ride up to San Miguelito?”

  “I got a car last night. I’ll be okay getting there on my own.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet, our little coroner got her own car and is all grown up.” She laughed. “Okay then. Get good intel. I’ll text you if anything comes up.”

  Fenway didn’t feel the need to tell Dez that her dad had, in fact, gotten her the car. “Thanks, Dez.”

  Fenway went out to her new Accord and drove to San Miguelito. She used the navigation system to get there, and she was really glad she had it—she had slept through the trip with McVie, so she didn’t notice a poorly marked split in the highway about halfway to San Miguelito. The navigation system beeped to go left at the split, thankfully; there wasn’t even a signpost that San Miguelito was that way.

  Fenway had never had a new car before, and neither had her mother all the time they were in Seattle. Fenway remembered the really good deal they had gotten on the four-year-old Corolla that her mother drove all the way through Fenway’s junior high years, and her first two years of high school, and it became Fenway’s first car after she got her license. When Fenway traded the Corolla in for the Nissan after college graduation, she remembered how disappointed she had felt that she couldn’t afford anything nicer.

  Her phone rang, breaking her from her memories.

  “This is Fenway.”

  “Hey Fenway, it’s Miguel Castaneda.”

  “Hey Migs. Everything okay?”

  “I just called to tell you that they arrested Bradley Watermeier.”

  “Oh good. Hopefully he can tell us so
mething. Where did they find him? Was he at his parents’ cabin? Maybe a girlfriend’s house?”

  “He was at a craps table in Vegas. He was up ten thousand dollars when they made the arrest.”

  “Ooh, tough luck, Bradley.”

  Migs laughed.

  “Is he coming back to be interviewed?”

  “Yes, they’re bringing him back, but the state trooper I talked to estimated the drive to be about six hours. They put him on the road already, though. He should be here by about two o’clock.”

  “Okay. I hope I’ll be back by then, but I don’t know how long this is going to take. I hope Dr. Yasuda will do the autopsy soon, but I guess it depends on how backed up it is—”

  Migs interrupted her. “Oh, I have an update on that, too. The sheriff called Dr. Yasuda. She promised him first priority, and she’s going to put a rush on the ballistics for the gun.”

  “Oh, good! Thanks, Migs.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  There was silence for a moment, then Fenway said, “Hey—any word on the RAT malware, or Walker’s laptop yet?”

  “No progress on either front. Piper’s going to set aside the RAT stuff for now and focus on the laptop. Unfortunately, we’re down half of the IT staff who can work on projects like this. Piper is pretty busy.”

  “Well, I think Walker’s laptop is the right priority. Piper’s the one who set up my laptop? She seems good.”

  “Yeah, she’s pretty awesome,” Migs said, a little moonily. “Okay, I have to get going. Officer Huke and I are going over the rest of the files from Walker’s office.”

  “Who?”

  “Officer Huke. Donald Huke. The one who has the keys to Walker’s office—he was going to meet you at eight o’clock yesterday morning, but you flaked on him.”

  It dawned on her. “Oh, the really uptight one.”

  “Um, Fenway, you’re on speakerphone.”

  “Good morning, ma’am,” said Officer Donald Huke.

  “I really didn’t like that he kept calling me ‘ma’am.’” she continued, a little louder. “I’m twenty-eight. He made me think I needed an AARP card.”

  “Maybe he didn’t like that you didn’t learn his name,” Migs offered.

  “Huke is kind of a funny name, don’t you think?”

  “I’m right here,” said Officer Donald Huke.

  “Nice to talk to you again, Officer Huke,” Fenway deadpanned.

  “Same here, ma’am—I mean Miss Stevenson.”

  “God, Miss Stevenson is worse. I sound like a high school math teacher with thick glasses and a severe bun. Like one of those buns that’s pulled so tight it looks like you just got a face lift.”

  Migs chuckled. “Okay, well, we need to get back, Fenway.”

  “Okay, thanks, Migs. Officer Huke. Bye.” Fenway hung up.

  Just a few minutes later, the GPS dinged, and the voice instructed her to exit the highway. She found a parking spot on the street three blocks away from the M.E.’s office. She hurried—as much as she could in those damn strappy heels—and then waited in the outer office on the same brown plastic chairs she had been in the day before.

  There was a beep at the desk after about fifteen minutes, and the woman at reception looked up. “Miss Stevenson. Dr. Yasuda is ready to see you. Follow me, please.”

  The woman led her down the stairs to the basement, and she used a keycard to open the door for Fenway. Dr. Yasuda was there with Dylan Richards’ body. His body was cut open at the throat, and Dr. Yasuda had gloves on, and was examining inside the throat.

  “Hello again,” Dr. Yasuda kept working on Dylan, but her tone was civil enough, if grim. “Sheriff McVie tells me that this is the prime suspect in the killing of Harrison Walker.”

  “Right.”

  “I got a little bit more background on you from our call this morning. I must apologize for yesterday; I thought you were an experienced coroner, and you were just missing things, or not paying attention. I didn’t realize that you were forced into this job when Mr. Walker was killed.”

  “Forced is kind of a strong word for it, but yeah, I’m babysitting this position until the November election.” Fenway shrugged. “No one wanted to quit their day job just to work a handful of weeks.”

  “Have you ever performed an autopsy?”

  “I’ve done practical work on cadavers in both my nursing and forensics programs. But I haven’t done a real autopsy, no.”

  “Well, it’s too bad that I was well on my way with Mr. Richards before you got here. I miss teaching sometimes. But there are some things I can point out to you.” She put some spacers in the wound to keep it open, then removed her hands and looked at Fenway. “First of all, Mr. Richards had been dead for between three and five hours by the time he was found.”

  “So, time of death between one a.m. and three a.m.,” Fenway said.

  “Yes. I don’t like having such a wide range in time, but the temperature fluctuates in that jail quite a bit overnight. We should be able to narrow it down once we get some test results back.” Dr. Yasuda pulled off her gloves, threw them away, and made a note on her laptop. She picked up a Hagedorn needle, came back to Richards’ body, and pointed out the hyoid bone in the middle of his neck, under his chin. “This bone often breaks or gets crushed in hangings, especially with a short drop like Mr. Richards had from the top bunk in the jail cell.”

  Fenway nodded.

  “But look at the way his bone was crushed,” Dr. Yasuda continued. She walked over and clicked a button on her laptop and three photos of the hyoid bone, all from different angles, appeared on a projected image on the white wall behind her. “What do you notice about it?”

  Fenway went over to the wall and studied the bone photographs. “The angle is wrong for hanging. It looks like there was direct pressure applied from the front, almost perpendicular to the neck.”

  “Yes, that’s right. The bone was crushed from the front, with direct pressure.”

  “Did someone strangle Dylan with their hands?”

  “Well, let’s see.” She walked over and pointed to a section of the crushed hyoid with the needle. “Does this seem like it could have been done with fingers or thumbs?”

  Fenway looked at the photo, and studied it from all three angles.

  “No,” she finally answered the doctor. “It’s too thin, and the crushing is consistent across the bone in a line. I think it looks like it was rope.”

  “Right again. As a matter of fact, indications are pretty good that the rope used to hang Mr. Richards was the murder weapon.”

  “Where do you think Dylan was when he was killed?”

  “The physical evidence indicates that Mr. Richards was lying supine when he was attacked and killed. The blood started to pool in the back of the head for about three to five minutes before his body was placed in an upright position and hanged.” Dr. Yasuda mimed the physical movements. Fenway inwardly winced as the doctor continued. “The rope fibers match the marks on the skin, though there was some care given to make sure the hanging was done so the marks from the hanging would be in a similar location on the neck as the marks from the strangulation.” The M.E. pointed to red marks on either side of the neck. “And although it’s subtle, the angle of the hanging created a second set of rope marks very close to the first, postmortem this time.”

  Fenway nodded. She could see exactly what Dr. Yasuda was talking about. “Whoever the killer is, they must be pretty strong to lift a grown man’s dead body into a makeshift noose and short-drop him. I mean, Dylan wasn’t tall—five-six or so, right?—but still, that’s a good one hundred and fifty pounds to lift up as dead weight then drop.”

  “That’s an astute observation, Miss Stevenson. I was hoping we’d get some clues with the type of rope used as the murder weapon. But we ran tests, and it’s fairly standard issue, available at most home improvement stores. We ran recent orders through the system, and this particular brand of rope is also kept at many local law enforcement offices, Parks a
nd Recreation, CHP, and, unfortunately, the Dominguez County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Unfortunately,” Fenway repeated.

  Dr. Yasuda nodded. “Since the death of Mr. Richards is now going to be ruled a homicide, and not a suicide, I believe Sheriff McVie will be one of the suspects. He found the body, and he was one of the only people who had access to the murder location, the victim, and the murder weapon.”

  Fenway felt her mouth go dry. “Do you think Sheriff McVie would have been able to lift the body and simulate the hanging?”

  Dr. Yasuda didn’t hesitate before answering. “It’s likely. He’s certainly strong enough to lift a hundred and fifty pounds.”

  Fenway thought about how McVie’s strong arms had lifted her up off the sofa when they moved from the living room into the bedroom. McVie was certainly strong enough, Fenway thought: she outweighed Dylan Richards; she was certainly taller by four or five inches, and McVie had picked her up easily as he was kissing her, before he had gently, but forcefully, laid her on her back on the bed. She snapped back to what Dr. Yasuda was saying.

  “At a dead weight, and given the necessary maneuvering he would have had to do to get Mr. Richards in the noose…well, I’ve seen people do a lot more physically demanding activities with significantly fewer physical gifts than the sheriff. Adrenaline and self-preservation are powerful stimulants.”

  “Well, with that said,” Fenway murmured, “yes, the sheriff could have done that.” She paused. “But anyone could have gotten that rope, right? It’s not like those supplies are under lock and key.”

  “Well, here they are. And there aren’t a lot of people who have a key. You’ll have to check if it’s the same in Dominguez County.”

  “But anyone can go to a Home Depot.”

  Dr. Yasuda nodded. “You should tell the sheriff’s lawyer that. Okay, now let’s see how Trevor is coming along with the gun. Which is, this time, the correct caliber weapon.”

  They walked out through the double doors, up the stairs, and around the corner to the ballistics lab. Trevor was there, again, with the microscope and some safety goggles, holding a bullet with a pair of forceps.