I can tell right away the small-framed woman lying at the bottom of the stairs, still wearing one fuzzy slipper on a foot, has been dead longer than just a handful of hours. Her body is in full rigor mortis, indicating at least twelve hours have passed, putting the time of death at eleven or earlier last night. No way for anyone to have seen her up and about this morning before he left for work.
I confirm as much with Ramirez, who was evidently called in as well.
“She’s been gone twelve hours at least.”
The woman’s fine birdlike features are frozen in death, both eyes and mouth open as if in shock. She also landed face up, which is unusual with trips and falls. Most people would land facedown, often with fractures of wrists or forearms as they try to break their fall. There’s no sign of that on this lady, her arms are intact, one folded over her chest and the other flung out to the side. The only thing broken is the nail of her index finger, which looks to have partially torn off. The back of her skull is a different story, spongy and soft, and without a doubt the cause of her death.
“If you look at her position, the lack of injury to the front of her body, and the torn nail on her right hand, I would say she was pushed.”
“Goddammit,” Ramirez swears with a grim look on his face. “She can’t weigh more than a buck twenty, wet. Bastard,” he adds and heads for the stairs. “Doc?” I turn and look at him. “Do you mind bagging her hands and collecting nail clippings?”
“No problem. Ready for us to take her?”
“Yeah, get her out of here.”
With that he disappears upstairs, presumably to track down the woman’s live-in grandson.
The poor thing indeed weighs next to nothing. Paul and I manage to carry her strapped to a backboard up the stairs without an extra pair of hands. There we place her on the gurney and cover her with the heavy drape to hide the body bag underneath. A collective gasp goes up when we step outside, and my heart aches for the woman’s daughter who is being comforted by neighbors.
Back at the office I leave Paul and Lauren to prep the autopsy room and the body, while I head upstairs to grab a quick bite at my desk. I likely won’t get a chance later.
I hear raised voices when I get to the top of the stairs. Instead of heading straight to my office, I turn toward the lobby where I see the young officer pinning a familiar man spewing profanities, I’m sure he doesn’t use from the pulpit, against the wall. Then I notice Janey sitting on the floor behind her desk her hand to her face.
“You!” Pastor Dunwoody bellows when he spots me and struggles against the young man’s hold.
“What is going on here?”
“You had to stick your nose in and ruin my reputation—my life!”
While he goes on to rant about my not being a virtuous woman, a godly woman, being amoral, I kneel down beside Janey and pull her hand from her face. The imprint on her cheek is already swelling and her split lip is bleeding.
Oh, hell no.
Fuming, I surge to my feet and walk up to the men, Dunwoody still spewing hatred over Collier’s shoulder.
“You call yourself a man of God? Hitting an innocent woman? That’s assault, you motherfucker!” I spit the words in his face.
“Doc…”
“You’re a pathetic excuse for a human being, do you know that? Standing up on your pulpit every Sunday preaching to your flock about loving thy neighbor, when you carry nothing but hatred in your heart yourself.”
I’m so angry I could deck him. I swear smoke is coming from my ears.
“Doc Carter…” I finally turn to Collier, who appears to be exerting some effort to keep the pastor restrained. “Maybe you could call for backup? I kinda have my hands full.”
Fifteen minutes later Dunwoody is led out of the building in cuffs, and the paramedics are having a look at Janey, who is more pissed for being caught off guard than actually hurt. It appears Dunwoody showed up right before we came back from the call. He hit her hard, taking her to the floor. He thought she was lying when she said I wasn’t available. Then Collier had come in the front door and pulled the older man off her.
Jay and Blackfoot are standing by the door, talking to the younger officer. Something Collier says has Blackfoot laughing but when Jay’s eyes find mine, I can tell he’s pissed about something. Moments later he stalks over and leans in.
“You got in his face? What were you thinking?”
I straighten my back and pull myself up to my full height.
“I was thinking I had enough of that misogynistic piece of crap coming in here, foul-mouthing me, throwing his weight around, and hitting my staff.”
By now I’m in his face and my anger is in full flare. This is still my office, and I’m responsible for my personnel. But when I poke a finger in Jay’s chest, he covers my hand with his and I swear I see a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. I don’t think I’ll take well to being laughed at right now. I feel positively explosive.
Luckily—although I’m not so sure for him or for me—the muted buzzing of his phone breaks the tension. Still holding my hand pressed against his chest, he fishes his phone from his pocket with the other. Without taking his eyes from my face he answers.
“Yeah.”
Then I see his face go slack and his color drain.
“Tamara?”
Chapter 24
Jay
“Everything all right?”
She looks at me with those pretty green eyes full of concern when I come back inside. I’d left her and walked straight outside when I heard that voice. Too many fucking ears in that lobby. Left Meredith standing there, her eyes burning between my shoulder blades. I know she heard me say that name and it was clear she recognized it.
God, I wish I could unload. Just lay it all at her feet, but right now I can’t even think straight, let alone share all the garbage spinning around my head. I can barely breathe. I feel claustrophobic and need to get away from all these eyes on me.
So instead of saying something that might alleviate the worry in her eyes, all I manage to grind out is, “Gotta go. Stay inside and call me when you’re done here.”
I ignore her open mouth, as well as Blackfoot’s pointed look, brushing past him and out into the street. Keith drove when the call came in so I start walking, in the opposite direction from the station. I need some air.
When my heart rate settles down and rational thinking returns, I take my phone from my pocket and pull up a number I haven’t touched in three years.
“VanDyken residence.”
I clench my jaw at the sound of my mother’s voice. The pretentious way she speaks is like nails on a chalkboard for me.
“It’s Jay.”
The silence on the other side is loaded, no surprise, no gasp, no reaction at all, and I wonder whether my parents were aware.
“She called you,” my mother finally says, confirming what I already suspected.
“It’s Alex’s, isn’t it?”
“We don’t know that,” she returns right away. “He’s two and a half, he could be yours.”
I snort bitterly.
“Really? A paternity test would clear that up quickly, but I can guarantee you if that kid was mine, that woman would’ve been after me all along. And, Mother, I would’ve made sure he was taken care of.”