The Incumbent Coroner Page 8

  Fenway walked over to the laptop and clicked through a few of the images. “Did you see anything?”

  “Four stab wounds. Each wound measures between seven and fifteen centimeters deep.” She cleared her throat. “The wound up here, by her heart, went in nine point three centimeters and appears to be the source of most of the bleeding. The other stab wounds are in her abdomen.”

  “Have you started a tox screen?”

  Dr. Yasuda nodded. “Yes. I mean, I can’t fathom any drugs or illicit material in the mayor’s system. But you never know. I see a lot of things as the M.E. that I can’t explain, for sure. I drew the blood samples yesterday and sent them in for review this morning. We actually have a full staff today.”

  “Okay,” Fenway said. “Are we ready for the incision?”

  Dr. Yasuda looked down and nodded.

  Fenway took a scalpel off the tray, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She had done this several times in her lab classes in both her nursing and forensic programs, and had cut open two cadavers in the last month, both victims of drug overdoses. Dr. Yasuda had to perform the autopsy of the suicide victim; Fenway hadn’t been sure she could do it without messing up the evidence of the suicide.

  She pulled the sheet down and saw the four stab wounds in Alice Jenkins’ torso. The wounds had been cleaned from the blood, and their sharp lines looked sterile, almost academic.

  “The fork of the Y might disturb the aortic wound,” Fenway said. “Is that okay?”

  “We’re going to examine the heart and remove it,” said Dr. Yasuda. “We’ve taken pictures and x-rays. Everything has been marked into evidence. You’re okay.”

  Fenway hesitated to make the initial incision. She looked at Dr. Yasuda’s face; the medical examiner had her eyes closed.

  Fenway turned back and cut, as confidently and cleanly as she could. It seemed to take hours to make the incisions, although it must have been only a minute, maybe less. She noticed she hadn’t cut one of the forks of the Y far up enough on the shoulder. “Rookie mistake,” she said under her breath, and she extended the cut.

  When she finished, she placed the scalpel back on the tray. “Thank you,” Dr. Yasuda said, and a heavy burden seemed to lift off the M.E.’s shoulders. Fenway noticed it; perhaps once Dr. Yasuda focused on the body parts—and not the person—she could relax and gather herself back into the cool, professional demeanor that characterized her interactions with Fenway.

  They weighed the internal organs. Of particular interest to Fenway were the contents of the stomach. “This is probably poultry of some kind,” Dr. Yasuda said. “We can check if it’s chicken or turkey, but I’ve seen enough digested chicken to know that there’s something different about this. We’ll give it to the lab to analyze. Kav should be able to make quick work of it.”

  “Notice the color of the liver and the kidneys,” Dr. Yasuda said. “This isn’t the liver of an addict or an alcoholic. If she does have some sort of drug in her system, it’s not a regular occurrence.”

  Dr. Yasuda worked efficiently, pointing out minor anomalies to Fenway, who assisted. Fenway had started to anticipate Dr. Yasuda’s needs on the last couple of autopsies, and felt especially connected to her as they worked. After two hours, Dr. Yasuda set down her tools.

  “We’ve worked quickly, Fenway. Thank you for helping me through this.” She cleared her throat, and Fenway saw the doctor come back to herself.

  “When can we get the contents of her stomach?” Fenway said. “If there’s a clue to where she ate, we might be able to trace her steps on Friday night.”

  “Sheriff McVie will want to start with that for sure,” Dr. Yasuda said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a little more time with the stitches. I don’t want her to look like a softball when we’re done. You don’t have to stay for this.”

  “Thank you,” Fenway said. “I really should get to the hospital and see how Rachel’s doing.”

  Dr. Yasuda nodded.

  Fenway reached out and took Dr. Yasuda’s hand, gloves and blood and isopropyl alcohol and bile and all, and gave her a reassuring squeeze.

  Dr. Yasuda squeezed back. Fenway started to let go, but Dr. Yasuda held on for a second longer. She whispered, “Will you tell Dez I’m sorry?”

  Fenway was taken aback. She hoped it didn’t show, either in her face or in her hand, still holding the doctor’s.

  “Of course,” Fenway said. “Will she know what you mean?”

  Dr. Yasuda studied Fenway’s face for a moment. She started to speak, then closed her mouth. Finally, she said, “Yes. Dez will know what I mean. I don’t know if it’ll do any good. But she’ll know what I mean.”

  Fenway let go of Dr. Yasuda’s hand, gave her a wan smile, and walked out of the suite, throwing away her gloves, and into the prep room, where she took her scrubs off and put them in the laundry, then scrubbed her hands, face, and arms thoroughly. The gloves and the scrubs had protected her skin, but she still felt in need of cleaning.

  She went to say goodbye to Dr. Yasuda and Melissa, then went back upstairs and outside and stood blinking in the brightness.

  “Sunshine is the best disinfectant,” she muttered to herself, and pulled her father’s car key out of her purse.

  Fenway drove back to Estancia still dazed a little bit, no longer enjoying the experience of the Mercedes. Despite her scrubbing, she felt—and perhaps smelled—death and antiseptic on her skin, and it gave her goosebumps.

  She turned off at the hospital exit. She didn’t know where to find the ICU, so she followed the signs to the main entrance of the hospital. She saw Dez’s red Impala in the lot and figured she was in the right place.

  Cars jammed the parking lot, and Fenway had to park in the rapidly filling overflow lot. Annoyed at first, she got out of the car and realized how much she needed the fresh air and a decent walk to get the stress of the autopsy off her. She looked forward to seeing Rachel, but just anticipating the beeping and sickness and injury in the ICU made her blood pressure rise. She closed her eyes and breathed in, a deep, long breath, that nevertheless caught a couple of times. She exhaled the same way, long and slow.

  She wondered if Rachel would ever regain consciousness, then pushed the thought out of her mind.

  Fenway walked up to the hospital entrance and stopped. She wondered if Dez still held vigil over Rachel.

  She remembered doing the same for her mother in her last days, how quickly the pancreatic cancer had knocked her mother from a healthy, vibrant woman to a morphine-hazed shell of herself. It had been three weeks from diagnosis to death. Her mother had told her a story about how she figured out a recipe when Fenway was little. She had been fighting sleep, and in the middle of the sentence, gave in. She never woke back up.

  Fenway shook her head, trying to slough off that memory, or at least bury it back in the box.

  She heard her phone ding in her purse. She fished it out, wanting to switch it to silent mode before she went into the hospital.

  The notification was a text from Dez.

  Rachel’s awake.

  Chapter Seven

  Fenway found the ICU and rushed into room 9. Dez sat at Rachel’s bedside. Rachel slowly blinked, her bed raised halfway to a seated position. She didn’t acknowledge Fenway.

  “Have you asked her anything yet?” Fenway whispered to Dez.

  “Just asked her how she was feeling. She shook her head at me, then whispered that she wanted some water. I just informed the nurse.”

  Fenway walked out to the nurse’s station and came back to Rachel’s bed with a cup of water and straw, which Rachel leaned forward to take in her mouth and drank gratefully. It took some energy out of her, and she leaned back to her half-seated position.

  “What happened?” she whispered.

  “What do you remember?”

  Rachel shook her head, trying to clear out the cobwebs. “It’s all kind of a blur. I went to the gym in the morning and I remember w
ondering what I wanted for lunch.”

  “I found some containers from Dos Milagros in your trash,” Fenway prodded.

  “Oh, that’s right. Yeah, I stopped there. I ate the tacos in the car on the way home. I remember I spilled some hot sauce on the seat.”

  “What did you do when you got home?” Dez asked.

  “Uh… I think I started watching TV.”

  “Did you have a drink at the taquería? A Coke or something?”

  “Oh, no. I remember now. I had just been at the gym so I thought I should have Gatorade. I threw the trash from the tacos away, and I went to the fridge to get some Gatorade. And then I sat down to watch TV. And… then I woke up here.”

  “Did you see a note on the table when you got home?” Dez said.

  “The kitchen table?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t notice anything there. Did you find a note in my apartment? On the kitchen table?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did it say? Did it threaten me? What do they want from me?”

  Dez shifted uncomfortably.

  “What is it?” Rachel had more color in her face now, eyes going from Dez to Fenway.

  “It was a suicide note,” Fenway said.

  “A suicide note? From who?”

  “From you,” Dez murmured.

  Rachel’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened and closed, and finally she spoke. “I swear to you, Fenway, I didn’t try to commit suicide. I didn’t write that note. I don’t know who’s doing this to me or why.”

  Fenway nodded. “I believe you. We all believe you. Whoever wrote that note didn’t spell your sister’s name right. It’s an obvious forgery.”

  “But who would do something like that?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. And we think it’s got to do with another murder.”

  “Another murder?”

  “Yes,” Fenway said.

  “I’m not sure we should talk about this, Fenway,” Dez said sharply.

  Fenway looked at Dez. “I don’t see how we move forward without it. Whoever tried to kill Rachel will figure out pretty soon that she’s not dead. And if it’s tied to the murder, the faster we catch who did it, the sooner Rachel will be safe.”

  “You think someone tried to kill me?”

  “I do.”

  “And—” Rachel paused, and swallowed, her mouth dry, “they’ll try to kill me again?”

  “I don’t know.” Fenway shook her head. “The police are all over this case now, so maybe not. But if whoever it is thinks you know something you shouldn’t, and if it’s dangerous enough to them, sure, they might try again.”

  Rachel looked horrified.

  “I’m sorry, Rachel. It’s tough to hear, I know.”

  “Especially after just waking up from being unconscious for who knows how long,” Dez said pointedly, looking at Fenway.

  Rachel was silent for a moment. “I don’t think I know anything I shouldn’t,” she said. “Who was murdered?”

  Fenway hesitated. “Mayor Jenkins.”

  Rachel’s eyes widened. “No.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Dez said softly.

  “And I think that whoever tried to kill you,” Fenway said, “also had a hand in the mayor’s murder.”

  “What?” Dez’s head turned to Fenway. “You haven’t told me anything about that.”

  “It’s not anyone’s theory but mine,” Fenway said to Dez. “I just think there are too many coincidences for them not to be connected.” She turned to Rachel. “Did you uncover something about the mayor, or about any of the mayor’s enemies, or, um, family members, anything like that?”

  Rachel was quiet.

  “Think back over the last week, Rachel. Maybe two weeks. Did anyone tell you anything off the record? You’re the public information officer now. People are coming to you for all kinds of official announcements, but did anyone come to you for anything unusual?”

  Rachel hesitated. “Lots of people come to me with stuff that’s off the record.”

  “Anyone in particular? Anything to do with the mayor?”

  “You know there are a couple of councilmembers that are the worst. Dr. Klein especially. He hates everyone on the board, he thinks the police are out to get him.” Rachel laughed ruefully, if a little weakly. “He thinks everyone is out to get him. He’s constantly trying to put out misinformation about Ferris Energy.”

  Fenway had a strange feeling that Rachel purposely evaded her questions. She opened her mouth, but Dez spoke first.

  “What do you do about that?”

  “Maisie warned me about Dr. Klein before she left,” Rachel said. “She would throw him a bone every once in a while to calm him down. You know, so that he wouldn’t completely go off on her either. She played sympathetic, but insisted that Klein release factual information, not innuendo. She told me she could get away with it because she appealed to Klein’s need to, well, cover his ass. She told him if he based his attacks on innuendo and not facts, his ‘enemies’ would turn it against him.” Rachel paused. “Plus, honestly, I think Klein had a big crush on Maisie. He followed her around the office like a puppy when he came in.”

  “Did he try the same tactics with you?” Dez asked.

  “He didn’t know what to make of me,” Rachel said. “He knew you and I were friends, I guess. But he’s only approached me a couple of times.”

  “With what?”

  “Uh… once about the new park opening on the east side.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, I don’t think—oh, right, the new open space off 326.”

  “Did Alice Jenkins bring anything to you in the last couple of weeks?” Dez asked.

  Fenway leaned forward.

  “The last couple of weeks,” Rachel said, choosing her words carefully. “The mayor’s office sends over meeting minutes. I release those pretty much verbatim into the public record and on the website.” She paused. “I don’t remember anything interesting.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t look interesting to you,” Fenway said, “but maybe someone else thinks it’s very interesting.”

  “Worth going through,” Dez said.

  “I got the meeting minutes on Friday,” Rachel said. “I always post the minutes on Monday morning. Guess I won’t make it for this week.”

  “Can’t Natalie do it?” Fenway asked. “Kind of what an assistant is there for, right?”

  Rachel hesitated for a split second; Fenway didn’t think Dez caught it. “Sure,” Rachel said. “Sure, Natalie can do it, of course.”

  Fenway looked at Rachel’s face. Rachel was holding back something important.

  “Anything else about the mayor, Rachel?”

  Rachel shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Come on,” Dez interrupted. “Girl’s been through hell and back the last twenty-four hours. What’s with the third degree?”

  Fenway looked from Dez to Rachel. “Sorry,” she said quietly. “I just want to make sure we’re being thorough.”

  “I get it,” Rachel said. “Not a problem.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Fenway said, nodding. “Oh—and Rachel, one last thing. Do you have a prescription for buprenodone?”

  “For what?”

  “Buprenodone. It’s an anti-anxiety med. But lots of people use it for a sleeping pill.” She paused. “It’s what you overdosed on.”

  “No,” Rachel said firmly. “I’ve never even heard of that. I’m not on prescription anything. Well, birth control. Not that I need it right now.”

  “Okay,” Fenway said. “I’m sorry to bring this up, but what about Dylan? Did he take medication?”

  Rachel paused. “He, um, he wasn’t prescribed anything. But he would take Norco sometimes. When he felt depressed. When he got a bad review at work, or something like that.”

  Dez nodded. “Do you know his con
tact?”

  “Contact?”

  “Who got him the Norco?”

  “Oh,” Rachel said. “Dylan’s brother.”

  “That’s Parker, right?”

  “Yeah. Well—Parker didn’t actually get Dylan the Norco, he just knew a guy at the restaurant who had a connection.”

  “Maybe the dealer knows someone who can get buprenodone,” Dez said.

  “It’s a generic now,” Fenway said. “Every pharmaceutical company produces some version of it. All the major ones, anyway. It’s not hard to get.”

  Dez nodded again, thoughtfully. “Still worth a shot to talk to Parker’s contact, though.”

  “Probably makes sense to talk to the sheriff’s office about local prescription drug rings too.”

  The nurse came in and Fenway and Dez were quiet while the nurse took Rachel’s vitals.

  “You gave us quite a scare, Miss Richards,” the nurse said to Rachel. “It looks like you’re not going to have any permanent liver or kidney damage. And it looks like you’re getting your strength back.”

  “When can I go home?” Rachel said.

  “First things first,” the nurse said. “Let’s get you transferred out of the ICU and into a regular room. We’ll keep you for observation tonight for sure. Then let’s see how you’re doing.”

  Rachel nodded, her eyes drooping.

  “All right, ladies,” the nurse said. “Rachel is too polite to tell you to get out, but I’m not. So get out.” She smiled, but Fenway knew she was serious. “She needs her rest. She wants to go home tomorrow, and she won’t get to do that if you’re interviewing her like she’s on some damn awards show.”

  Fenway and Dez both went over and hugged Rachel before they said goodbye. They exited the hospital into the warm, still air.

  “Who do you suppose is around to talk to?” Fenway said. “And where do you want to start?”

  “I think we start with Parker’s co-worker at the restaurant,” Dez said. “That buprenodone didn’t appear out of thin air.”

  Fenway and Dez stopped at the Impala. “I actually think we’ve got a good idea where the buprenodone came from,” Fenway said. “Did McVie tell you that we dragged Fletcher Jenkins to San Miguelito yesterday to question him?”