The Incumbent Coroner Page 6

  “I threw the receipt away,” said Tracey. “But I’ll dig it out.” She left to go through another doorway.

  “I’m sorry about all these questions,” McVie said, “but I just have one more. Do you have any buprenodone in the house?”

  Fletch set his jaw. “Yes,” he said. “Dr. Sutherland prescribes it for me. Dr. Miriam Sutherland, office over in P.Q. I’ve taken them ever since I got out of rehab. Pretty much the reason I’m a functioning adult.”

  “You’ve taken it for fifteen years?”

  Fletch shrugged. “It’s a lower dose now, but yeah.”

  McVie shuffled his feet. “I’m sorry, Fletch, but I’m going to need to see the last bottle you got from the pharmacy.”

  Fletch sighed. Fenway could see the exasperation on his face, although he tried not to show it. “I just had it refilled a few days ago. I’ll get it. It’s in the bathroom.”

  Fletch walked in a daze around the bookshelf and down the hall, just as Tracey walked back in from the kitchen. “Okay, it’s got some grease on it, but you can read it.”

  McVie took the greasy receipt from Tracey. “You have an evidence bag, Fenway?”

  “I came right from the airport, Craig. I mean, Sheriff.” Fenway winced at her slip-up. “I might have one or two in my purse, but I didn’t take my kit on vacation with me.” She started to rummage through her purse.

  “Thought you might have grabbed a few from Kav.”

  Fenway shook her head. Then she found two evidence bags hiding in a side pocket. “Okay, here’s one, Sheriff.” She handed one to McVie.

  “I don’t know what you’re looking at Fletch for,” said Tracey, as McVie slipped the receipt into the evidence bag. “But whatever it is, he didn’t do it at 2:47 this afternoon. And I bet the security cameras and the workers at Drake’s will vouch for him too.”

  “I appreciate it, Tracey,” McVie said. “Sorry you had to dig through the trash.”

  “Honey?” Fletch called. Tracey walked quickly past the bookshelf and down the hall.

  McVie and Fenway found themselves alone in the living room again.

  “What do you think?” Fenway whispered.

  “I don’t know yet,” McVie said. “It doesn’t seem like he knew she was dead.”

  “No. That seemed genuine.”

  “But drug addicts usually lie pretty convincingly.”

  “True.”

  Fenway stopped and listened for a moment. She thought she could hear urgent whispers coming from down the hall. “What do you think they’re discussing?”

  “I don’t know. Their voices sound worried.”

  Fenway nodded and strained to hear, but she couldn’t make anything out.

  They waited in the living room for another five minutes. The hallway whispers were becoming more urgent. Fenway caught Fletch saying, in a frustrated tone, “Don’t you think I—” before catching himself and lowering his voice again.

  The sheriff took a few steps toward the hallway and leaned over the bookcase.

  “Is everything okay?” He said it loud enough for Fletch and Tracey to hear, but not so loud that the girls would wake up. At least, that’s what Fenway hoped—she listened carefully, but neither little feet nor little voices could be heard.

  Tracey came out of the hallway, holding a small box. “Fletch is still looking for the bottle. We found the box it came in.”

  She handed the box to Fenway. The CVS Pharmacy logo was clearly printed on the top left corner of the label, and to the right, the address in South Estancia. Fletch’s name, the name of Dr. Miriam Sutherland, and the instructions were all neatly printed below. That would explain why there was no label on the bottle itself.

  Tracey hesitated. “The bottle isn’t, um, it’s not where we usually keep Fletch’s meds.”

  “That’s the only place you keep those pills?” McVie asked.

  “Fletch says he put it in its usual place. He’s almost out of the last bottle. I don’t know. I didn’t pick the prescription up, and I wasn’t with him, either. Maybe he put it somewhere else.”

  “Okay.” McVie nodded.

  Tracey bit her lower lip and crossed her arms. She stared at the floor. Behind her, sounds of frantic rummaging could be heard—probably Fletch going through the bathroom drawers and medicine cabinet, Fenway thought.

  Fenway watched McVie, but he didn’t say anything else.

  “Do you know a woman named Rachel Richards?” Fenway blurted out.

  Tracey looked up. “I’m sorry?”

  “A woman named Rachel Richards,” McVie said easily. “I think she went to school with one of your daughter’s preschool teachers. She works in our office. Fenway’s good friends with her. She thought maybe you knew her.”

  “Oh,” Tracey said. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

  “She sometimes volunteers at the preschool,” Fenway offered, trying to extend McVie’s lie. McVie shot her a look and Fenway clamped her mouth shut.

  “I’m going to see if Fletch needs any help,” Tracey said.

  “Listen,” McVie said, “we can get those pills later. I hate to do this, but we’ll need Fletch to come with us tonight to identify the body. I promise, I’ll have him back here as soon as I can.”

  “Tonight? It’s already really late.”

  “I know,” McVie said gently, “but every second counts here. Don’t you want us to figure out who killed your mother-in-law?”

  “Right,” Tracey said. “Of course. I don’t—” and a tear ran down her cheek. “I don’t really know what to do. I liked Alice so much. She was so good with the girls. They’re going to—” her voice caught; she swallowed and went on. “They’re going to be devastated.”

  “We can give you some resources to help you make arrangements. I can’t imagine what Fletch is going through right now. And you too.”

  Tracey nodded, and walked back into the hallway. The frantic scrabbling noises stopped, and Fletch appeared, dead-eyed, in the hallway.

  “You might want to put some shoes on, Mr. Jenkins,” Fenway said gently.

  Fletch looked down at his feet and nodded. “Right. I just need…” And he trailed off. He turned and walked back, returning a minute later with a pair of grey sneakers in his hand.

  • • •

  Fletch, confused at first why they were going all the way to San Miguelito, settled in for the long ride. Fenway talked at length about the funding for the coroner’s office, the agreement that Dominguez County had made with San Miguelito. She talked about Dr. Yasuda, her professional demeanor, and even mentioned the occasional morbid joke that she would tell. Fenway laughed nervously but heard nothing from Fletch in the back seat; she turned around and he was asleep.

  “I don’t think Fletch had—” Fenway said softly, but McVie immediately raised a finger to his lips and shot Fenway a warning glance.

  Fletch didn’t stir again until they turned into the driveway at the M.E.’s office. He looked around; he didn’t recognize his surroundings. He cleared his throat. “Are we here?”

  “We’re here, Fletch,” McVie said. “We’ll try to get you in and out as fast as possible. Get you some information, some resources you can use.”

  “Have you called Ellen yet?”

  “Who?” Fenway asked.

  “I think one of the sergeants is calling your sister,” McVie said. “I haven’t spoken to her yet.”

  They got out of the car and opened the front door. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows on the deserted waiting area. Fletch stood in the middle of the waiting room, blinking, looking lost. McVie pulled his phone out and called a number.

  He waited a moment, then said, “We’re here, Michi.”

  He clicked off.

  “She’ll be right up.”

  Fenway stifled a yawn—it was almost eleven.

  Dr. Yasuda opened the door. “Mr. Jenkins,” she said, shaking his hand. “I’m so sorry we had to meet under these condi
tions.” She shook her head. “Follow me, please.” She turned and quickly walked through the door she had just come out of. Fenway and McVie started to follow her; Fletch rocked back on his heels, caught a bit off guard.

  “She walks fast,” McVie said. “Let’s go.”

  Through the corridors, they walked past the morgue’s double doors into an observation room that had a large window with a curtain pulled over it on the other side.

  “We need to determine if the deceased is your mother, Alice Yeardley Jenkins,” said Dr. Yasuda. “I’m sorry, but we will need a verbal affirmative or negative from you when you see the body.”

  Fletch nodded.

  Dr. Yasuda tapped on the window. A man in scrubs, a medical hat and mask—probably Kav, Fenway thought—pulled back the curtain then stepped toward the table. A body lay under a sheet on the metal table in the middle of the small room. He lifted the sheet and drew it down, uncovering the mayor’s face.

  Fletch’s face crumpled and his hand covered his mouth. “Oh, God,” he said. “Yes, that’s her. That’s my mamma.” He turned from the window, keeping his hand over his mouth, and wrapped his other arm around himself.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Jenkins,” Fenway said.

  “Listen,” McVie said, “let’s go back upstairs. I’ll get you a cup of coffee, Fletch. We’ve got a couple of things for you to take back with you.”

  Fenway nodded goodbye to Dr. Yasuda. McVie and Fenway walked back upstairs, with Fletch dragging behind them.

  “Where do you want to do this?” McVie said. “Do you want to use the break room? Or would you prefer a little privacy?”

  “Uh,” Fletcher said, “whatever, I guess.”

  “Let’s go into one of these side rooms,” McVie said. “It’ll be good for us not to be in the break room, where everyone can see and hear everything.” It was an excuse, Fenway knew; the break room was deserted. But Fletch didn’t pay close attention.

  They walked into a room, about eight feet by ten, with barely enough room for a small table in the middle and two chairs on either side. Fletch staggered into a chair on one side, and McVie and Fenway took the two chairs facing him. Fletch stared at the table, eyes unfocused.

  “I’m having some of the literature brought in,” McVie said. “It’s not much, but it might help you with the next steps. And we partner with several grief counseling services in the area. You know, if you, or maybe the girls, need to talk to anyone.”

  “Thanks, Craig,” Fletch said, seeming to snap out of his state. “So I probably need to tell you… there were some things that my mom and I found out. I think they might have to do with why she was killed.” His eyes, bags under them in spite of his nap in the car, were alert.

  McVie straightened up. “Okay, Fletch, just, really quickly, just as a formality, I need you to know your rights. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and—”

  “You reading me my Miranda rights, Craig? After I just told you I might have some information about why my mother was murdered?”

  “Just a formality, Fletch. I swear I’d rather I didn’t have to. But I can’t skip any steps investigating your mom’s death. You don’t want her murderer to go free just because I didn’t go by the book, do you?”

  Fletch leaned back, a confused look on his face.

  “Okay, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you free of charge. Do you understand the rights I’ve read to you?”

  Fletch’s eyes were tired but wary. “Yeah, I understand.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Not right now,” McVie said, but the door already swung open.

  “Sorry,” Melissa said, holding the pill bottle in a clear evidence bag.

  “Never mind,” said McVie. “Just give it to me later.”

  Melissa nodded, then backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  “What’s going on here?” said Fletch. “Is that a bottle of buprenodone?”

  McVie looked uncomfortable. “That’s just a piece of evidence.”

  Fletch was quiet for a moment. The look on his face changed from open to closed, like window blinds. “What does that bottle have to do with my mom’s death?”

  McVie paused. “It’s for a different case. Now, weren’t you ready to give us some information?”

  Fletch’s mouth went into a thin line. “Are you guys trying to railroad me?”

  McVie cocked his head to the side and looked at Fletch. “We’re not trying to railroad you, Fletch,” McVie said. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because I knew you in high school, Craig.”

  McVie shook his head. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Where did you find that bottle of buprenodone?”

  McVie paused. “I told you, Fletch, it’s for another case. It doesn’t have to do with your mother’s death. Why? Do you know something about that bottle?”

  Fletch screwed up his mouth and tapped his foot. “I think I better come back later with my lawyer.”

  “You sure you don’t want to tell us now? Not even if it can help us find your mom’s killer?”

  Fletch rubbed his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. “Am I under arrest, Sheriff?” Not Craig anymore, Fenway noted.

  McVie paused and leaned back. “Of course not, Fletch.”

  Fletch stood up. “Then I’ll be headed back home. I’ll come back in on Monday with my lawyer.”

  “Okay,” McVie agreed.

  “We can give you a ride,” Fenway offered, hoping that he’d open up in the car on the way back.

  “I’ll take an Uber, thanks.”

  “It’s gotta be fifty miles back to Vista Del Rincón,” McVie said. “Let us drive you.”

  Fletch’s voice was measured and calm. “I don’t care if it costs a thousand dollars. I don’t care if I have to hitchhike back. I don’t want a ride from you tonight. And I’d appreciate it if you left me and my family alone until I come to see you on Monday.”

  He walked out, gently closing the door behind him.

  McVie and Fenway sat at the table in silence for a moment.

  The sheriff sighed. “Dammit.”

  “What do you think about his alibi?”

  “I don’t know,” McVie said carefully. “That could have been Tracey’s receipt, I guess.”

  “Yeah, but he seemed pretty confident that the cashier would recognize him.”

  McVie tapped his fingers on the table, lost in thought. “I suppose we could get video footage,” he mused. “Drake’s has cameras. Easy enough to ask for.”

  “And more useful than a greasy shoe store receipt.”

  Another knock. Melissa opened the door and spoke from the threshold. “Hey, I just wanted to let you know—”

  “Dammit, Melissa,” McVie said. “He clammed up after you brought that bottle in.”

  “You said you wanted—”

  “I know what I said!” McVie shouted. He looked down at the table.

  Melissa looked over at Fenway and raised her eyebows. Fenway pursed her lips and didn’t say anything.

  “Sorry, Melissa,” McVie said. “I apologize. Not your fault. I know I told you to bring the bottle to me.”

  “No problem, Sheriff,” Melissa said, although the tone in her voice suggested otherwise. “I came in here to say that we’re going to have to run the fingerprints in the morning.”

  “In the morning?” McVie asked. “This is the mayor’s murder we’re talking about.”

  “I know that, Sheriff, but the fingerprint database server has a maintenance window tonight. It’s going offline in thirty minutes.”

  McVie screwed up his mouth, annoyed.

  “Everyone’s going home for the night. We’re going to start on this fresh in the morning.”

  McVie nodded.

  “Do
you two need anything else from me?”

  “Nope,” McVie said. “Have a good night, Melissa.”

  Fenway started to say something about enjoying her evening with Officer Huke but decided against it. Melissa closed the door.

  McVie looked at Fenway. “What were we talking about?”

  “Video footage from Drake’s. And then you were going to drive me home so I can go to bed.”

  McVie smiled sadly. “I guess we need to pack it in for the day.”

  They left the small room and walked downstairs. McVie turned and pushed open the doors to the morgue.

  “Hi, Michi,” he said. “I think we’ll be heading back to Estancia unless you’ve got anything else.”

  Glumly, the M.E. said, “No, go ahead. I’m going to do the autopsy on the mayor tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m sorry,” McVie said softly, walking over to Dr. Yasuda. “I wish you didn’t have to.”

  She leaned against him, and they shared an awkward side-hug for a moment. A tear went down Yasuda’s cheek. “She was a really good person,” she whispered.

  McVie nodded. They broke apart.

  Dr. Yasuda cleared her throat. “Are you going to be here too, Fenway?” she asked.

  “I was planning on it,” Fenway said, “but I just realized I don’t have a way to get here. My car is in Seattle.”

  “Seattle?”

  “I drove it up there to get some of my mom’s things out of storage. Flew back when Dez called about the mayor.”

  “Maybe Dez would be willing to drive you back here,” Dr. Yasuda said.

  “I can ask her,” Fenway said. “Or I could rent a car.”

  “Or take an Uber like our friend Fletch,” McVie mumbled.

  “I’ll figure something out. What time will you be starting?”

  “It’s late,” Dr. Yasuda said. “I want to be well rested. I don’t think I’ll get here before nine. Call me when you arrive; we don’t usually staff the front on Sunday mornings.”

  They said their goodbyes and walked up the stairs and out to the parking lot.

  Fenway’s mobile phone dinged. She pulled it out of her purse and looked at the screen. A text from her father read, I heard you’re back in town. Breakfast tomorrow?