Meredith Fletcher - Vendetta

“Overton says the muzzleflashes lit up the room just seconds after she entered,” Keller told Marion. “Says it was like a lightning storm started up in there.”

“Are flashes like that normal?” Marion hadn’t seen gunfire at night.

“Yes, ma’am. Muzzleflashes can be awfully bright in the dark.”

The sound of the shots had rolled out over the motel parking area. At that point Overton had dived behind the counter and dragged the phone down with him.

“The woman was still here when you arrived?” Marion asked when the sheriff finished his summation.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why?”

“You’d have to ask her that.”

“Are you ready to do this?” Keller asked.

Marion stood at the door’s threshold. So far she hadn’t ventured inside the room. But the thought of the corpse lying in wait hadn’t been far from her mind.

Until this moment, the only dead bodies she’d seen had been in funeral homes. She’d still felt uncomfortable around them. There was something about the emptiness of the body and knowing that the eyes would never open that scratched at her nerves.

“Yes,” Marion whispered.

Keller looked at her. “You don’t have to do this,” he said gently.

“Are you trying to protect me, Sheriff Keller?” Marion appreciated that from him at the same time that she resented it. She’d fought hard to earn the respect of the men she’d worked with and she wasn’t going to lose the foundation of that respect by allowing them to be nice to her.

Needing protection wouldn’t further the recognition that a woman could do the same job as a man.

“Yes, ma’am,” Keller answered without hesitation.

“Don’t do me any favors,” Marion told him.

“No, ma’am. If you don’t mind me asking, Counselor, have you seen a murder victim before?”

Marion hesitated. “Only in photographs.”

Keller nodded grimly. “Well this here’s a lot worse than any photographs would be. You can’t smell the blood and stuff through a picture. You might want to rethink going into that room.”

I can’t, Marion thought. If I back down now, if I don’t face this, it’s going to haunt me.

“Let’s go,” she said.

“The reason I’m telling you this,” Keller said, “is that we’ve got news reporters on the scene now.”

Looking over the sheriff’s shoulder, Marion saw a loose semi-circle of people standing out beyond the striped sawhorses the deputies had put up. As she looked, a man lifted a large camera and took her picture. The bright light from the flashbulb temporarily caused black spots to whirl in her vision.

She hadn’t noticed the presence of the reporters.

“They’re always circling,” Keller said. “Like vultures. Somebody else’s bad news is their good news.” He frowned like he’d bitten into something sour.

Marion knew from her studies and her exposure in the D.A.’s office that she would have, at best, an adversarial relationship with the press. Anything less would amount to all-out war.

“What I’m saying,” Keller went on, “is that those vultures would love to hang a picture on the morning’s paper of Phoenix’s newest A.D.A. throwing up.”

“Nice thought,” Marion said.

“I’m just saying,” Keller protested, “that you don’t want it to happen to you.”

Marion thought about that for a moment. “You’re right. But I’m still going into that room.”

Keller eyed her levelly for a moment, nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Whenever you’re ready.”

Facing the door, Marion took a deep breath and let it out.

“When you get inside,” Keller said, “try breathing through your mouth. Not your nose. It helps cut down on the smell.”

“Thank you.” Marion steeled herself and walked into the motel unit.

Kellogg Motel

Off I-17

Outside Phoenix, Arizona

Thursday, May 16, 1968

The Past

The smell of death slammed into Marion as soon as she crossed the threshold. She opened her mouth and started breathing that way. It helped—a little. The nauseating odor still hung in the air.

Marion froze as her stomach tried to rebel. In front of her, a powerfully built man with coal-black hair lay sprawled on the dark green carpet. Blood threaded the man’s hair and pooled out around him. The bullets had nearly destroyed his face.

Without warning, Marion’s legs turned rubbery. Her stomach lurched and the sour taste of bile filled the back of her throat. She swallowed and forced herself to remain standing.

Three other men stood in the room. Two of them were deputies. Another wore a plain black suit and a white beard. All of them watched Marion with bright interest.

Since she’d been with the D.A.’s office, Marion had seen the violence people could do to each other. She’d taken statements from families who had lost loved ones in an altercation and from rape victims and domestic abuse victims in the local E.R.s. The hardest investigations had been those involving children. Those still haunted Marion.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” Keller’s voice was quiet and controlled.

Marion started to reply, then thought maybe her voice wasn’t up to the task. She nodded contritely. Even that made her head swim.

The bearded man in the suit studied Marion. He took a cigar from inside his jacket and lit up. He waved the smoke out of his face.

“You runnin’ sightseein’ tours now, Frank?” the man asked.

“Not hardly, Doc. This is Assistant District Attorney Marion Hart. Turnbull sent her over to cover tonight’s festivities.”

“Oh.” The man’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “He sent a woman to something like this?”

Resenting the man’s question and his attitude, Marion took a breath to keep herself in check.

Be calm, Marion told herself. “Who are you?” she asked the man pointedly.

The man smiled. “Takes her job seriously, doesn’t she?”

Marion waited but made no comment.

“I’m Dr. Benjamin Shetterly. I serve as medical examiner for the state of Arizona. I’m here to assume custody of the body.”

Marion wrote the information down. “You were called out to the murder scene?”

“I don’t rely on a crystal ball, if that’s what you mean.”

The two deputies in the background laughed out loud.

Ignoring the sarcasm, Marion asked, “Who called you?”

“Sheriff Keller. He usually does for one of these. And sometimes he calls me for poker night if he’s got an empty chair.”

“You’ve worked murders before?”

“Of course. I’ve logged plenty of court hours on the witness stand.”

Marion wrote that down. Turnbull would probably already be familiar with Doc Shetterly.

“Dr. Shetterly,” Marion said.

“Call me Doc,” the man requested. “Everybody does.”

“Thank you. What can you tell me about the victim?”

Doc flicked ash from his cigarette into a plastic bag in his pocket. “He was shot to death. Close range.”

“How do you know that?”

Shetterly regarded her thoughtfully. “How strong is your stomach?”

“Strong enough.”

A smile thinned Shetterly’s lips. “I guess we could test it then. If you really want to know the answer to that question, come here.”

That’s a challenge. Marion knew the invitation for what it was. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she tried to ignore the stench of fresh death in the room and crossed over to Shetterly’s side. This is what you signed on to do. Get it done.

The coroner took an ink pen from his pocket. Leaning over the dead body, he pointed toward black spots on what was left of the dead man’s face.

“Do you see this?” Shetterly asked.

Marion had a hard time discerning the black spots at first. All she could see was the gory ruin of Marker’s face. Broken ivory bone showed through the crimson pulp. Blood covered the bed sheets.