Cassie Miles - Rocky Mountain Mystery

Losing Danielle was the defining moment in his life. And that worried her. She wasn’t sure if David could ever heal from that terrible wound.

ENTERING THE CORONER’S OFFICE where he had come five years ago to identify his sister’s body, David realized how much he needed to know the truth about her murder. Throughout the trial of Eddy Adderly and all the way through the sentencing, he had doubts. The evidence was inconclusive. Alibis didn’t match. There was a lack of tangible proof for every murder except the last one.

But he accepted the verdict. For the past five years he tried to convince himself that justice had been done. But now he didn’t believe it. The Fisherman had struck again.

“Excuse me.” A tall, thin man stepped up beside them while they were signing in and getting their visitor badges. “Aren’t you David Crawford?”

“That’s right.” David looked directly into the man’s round, black glasses. “And you are?”

“Justin Hunter.” His smile was shy and somehow furtive. His handshake was the same. “I’m a fan of your work.”

Though some of the magazines that printed David’s articles ran a small photo, he wasn’t often recognized. “Do you work here, Justin?”

“I sell medical supplies.”

As Justin continued to stare with a weird intensity, David moved away from him. “Nice meeting you.”

He fell into step beside Blair. As she proceeded down the hall, he felt as if he was escorting royalty. Everybody who had known Dr. Blair Weston before the accident greeted her enthusiastically. New employees approached her with deference. She had a sterling reputation as a medical examiner. Almost legendary.

The head M.E., a husky man with a ruddy complexion, enveloped her in a bear hug. “Good to see you, Dr. Weston.”

“Back at you, Dr. Reinholdt.” Blair’s radiant smile was wonderful to behold. “You look hale and hearty.”

“A little too hearty,” Reinholdt said, patting his ample belly. “The wife has me on tofu and salad.”

“A wise woman,” Blair said.

“Of course you’d take her side,” he said. “You women always stick together.”

Blair winked. “Because we’re always right.”

Unnoticed, David observed the interactions of the small but boisterous crew of pathologists. These were people who performed all manner of chemical analysis, ranging from DNA tests to toxicology. They were scientists—smart, well-trained people with high IQs. Also quirky. David noticed a definite nerd gene in their collective personality.

At the door to the autopsy suite, he encountered a more familiar face—a detective from Denver PD, Homicide Division. His name was John Weathers, and he’d been part of the team investigating the original series of Fisherman killings.

David had never been impressed with Weathers’s abilities. He was a bland, by-the-book cop with beige hair and a brown suit, average height, average weight. He had no imagination when it came to tracking down a killer who was unfortunately near genius in his crimes.

Willing to let bygones be bygones, David stuck out his hand. “Detective Weathers. I was sorry to hear about Pamela Comforti. My condolence on the loss of your co-worker.”

“You’re David Crawford, right?” As he shook hands, a realization dawned and his brown eyes narrowed. “The reporter.”

“That’s right.”

“Get out,” Weathers said. “I don’t want the press in here.”

“I’m not covering this case as a journalist,” David said. “It’s personal.”

“I don’t want you here.”

That was too damned bad. David straightened his shoulders. “I’m not leaving.”

It probably would’ve been smarter to talk his way around the detective’s objections, but David wasn’t inclined to be reasonable. At issue was his sister’s murder. If the cops had screwed up five years ago and arrested the wrong man…

Weathers beckoned to a uniformed cop who stood farther down the corridor near the metal detectors at the exit. “Escort this man from the building.”

Blair joined them. “Is there a problem?”

“Dr. Weston,” Weathers acknowledged her. “I appreciate your willingness to help out on this case.”

“I’m sure you do,” she said, “especially since I’m not on the clock as a county employee.”

The uniform approached with a rolling gait. His meaty fist rested on the gun clipped to his utility belt.

David braced himself. His adrenaline level surged; he was prepared to take on both the uniform and Weathers. Again, not the smartest plan.

Blair touched his arm. “Please come with me, David. They’re ready to get started.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Weathers said. “This man is press. He’s not allowed to—”

“Then I’m leaving,” Blair said.

Dr. Reinholdt stepped up behind her. His brow furrowed as he glared at Weathers. “What’s going on? Detective, I need Dr. Weston’s opinion.”

Blair added, “And I won’t stay without David.”

“Right,” the detective snapped. He turned to David, “If I see one word about this autopsy in print, you’ll be sorry.”

Suppressing the urge to gloat, David gave a quick nod and followed Blair into the autopsy suite where the body of the deceased, covered by a sheet, lay on a wide metal gurney under bright lights.

As Blair slipped into a gown and put on a pair of latex gloves, she whispered, “What was that all about?”

“Not important.”

David had attended part of one autopsy and had seen the aftermath of another—enough to know he didn’t want to stand too close. Edging back, he leaned against a stainless steel counter and folded his arms across his chest to keep from accidentally touching something he should avoid.

From the opposite side of the room, he saw Detective Weathers’s eyes watching him as though David were a dangerous felon. Some cops, like Weathers, had a problem: they got so wrapped up in their own authority that they forgot the real crime and the real criminals. Determining who was in charge was a whole lot less important than the dead woman on the autopsy table.

Dr. Reinholdt removed the sheet. “We’ve already completed the external examination and taken photos. There are a few details I’d like to point out.”

Blair and three others—M.E.s and forensic pathologists—leaned forward to study the body.

Reinholdt said, “The ligature contusions at the wrists and ankles indicate that she was tied up and struggled against her bonds.”

“Nylon rope?” Blair asked.

“Yes.”

“Cause of death?”

“Drowning.”

From where he stood, David saw a length of marbled white thigh, slightly bluish. He could also see her head. In profile, her nose seemed prominent. Her cheek sank in. Her hair was a limp tangle of auburn.

“David,” Blair called to him. “Come closer.”

Though he was fine where he was, he didn’t want to appear squeamish. David put on his reporter’s face. It was his job to observe and make deductions; he could handle this. Stepping forward, he looked where she was pointing.

“See here,” she said, “on the abdomen. There’s an oddly shaped circle of pinprick scars. Postmortem injuries?”

“Yes,” Dr. Reinholdt said. “Those puncture wounds were made after death.”

With a gloved finger, Blair probed the flesh. “It’s a jagged tear. Not a pin.” She looked up at Reinholdt. “A fish hook.”

“Good call, Dr. Weston.” He glanced toward one of the forensic pathologists. “I told you she was sharp.”

Blair lifted the right hand to study the pattern of bruises on the forearms. “Her hands were tied in front of her. She lifted her arms to cover her face. Or to lash out.”

“She put up a fight,” Dr. Reinholdt said. “But we found no tissue under the fingernails. Matter of fact, we’ve found very little. No semen. No DNA. No fingerprints.”