“Means she was still grooming as of this week. Not exactly the behavior of someone getting ready to end it,” Serrano added.
“Let’s contact local nail salons, see if we can find the one Wright frequented,” Tally said. She turned to Hector. “You ready?”
Moreno nodded. “Just to warn you, it isn’t pretty.”
“Death never is,” Serrano replied.
“No, it is not. This woman deserved better.” Moreno slowly peeled off the sheet to reveal the body of Constance Wright. Tally took a sharp breath but said nothing.
Serrano studied the woman laid out before them. Constance Wright’s body was shattered. That was the first thought that came to his mind. She looked like a rag doll tossed haphazardly on the floor by a careless child, its limbs bent at horribly unnatural angles.
“Ice is an unforgiving bastard,” Moreno said. “I’ll walk you through it.”
“Go ahead, Hector,” Serrano said.
“The cause of death was blunt-force trauma to the head,” Moreno said, slipping on latex gloves. Wright’s entire face was caved in, from forehead to jaw, the bones dislocated. “Fortunately, she died immediately on impact. No pain.”
“Thank goodness for small favors,” Tally said.
Moreno nodded. “All twenty-four of her ribs are broken. Four pierced her heart and seven her lungs. Both her liver and spleen were punctured as well. Even if the head trauma hadn’t killed her, those injuries would have almost instantaneously.”
He moved on to her mangled limbs.
“Compound fractures of the left radius and right ulna, as well as both tibia and fibula in both legs. Her pelvis is basically dust.”
“Toxicology?” Serrano said.
“Blood alcohol level of .43. No traces of any other narcotics in her system.”
“BAC of .43? That’s inordinately high,” Tally said. “She must have really tied one on last night. Think she was numbing herself for the plunge?”
“Maybe. But there’s one more thing.” Moreno paused. “She was pregnant.”
Serrano’s jaw dropped.
“How far along?” Tally said.
“Her HCG levels suggest she was about nine weeks.”
“Meaning she more than likely knew she was pregnant,” Serrano said. “We’ll check her apartment for pregnancy tests, prenatal vitamins, anything that could let us know her frame of mind.”
Tally moved closer to Wright’s body, put out her hand, let it hover over the woman’s abdomen. She clenched her fist. Serrano put his hand over hers, gently brought it down to her side.
“I know,” Serrano said. “I know.”
Tally took a long breath. “Sorry. Just . . . the waste of life.”
Serrano said, “Can we determine the identity of the father from the fetal tissue?”
Moreno shook his head. “At nine weeks the fetus only weighs about a tenth of an ounce. There’s very little tissue to speak of. And a DNA test can’t determine paternity unless you also have a sample from the partner to compare it to. The fetal tissue alone won’t reveal paternity.”
“It’s also possible she did it on her own with a sperm donor,” Serrano said.
“But why would she go through all that trouble to conceive and then jump off a bridge two months later?” Tally replied. Serrano didn’t have an answer.
“First things first,” Serrano finally said. “Both of Wright’s parents are deceased. No children. No other living relatives. We’ll need to bring in her ex-husband, Nicholas Drummond, to make the ID.”
“Those were some ugly divorce proceedings, if I’m remembering correctly,” Moreno said. “Drummond is not going to be happy to be dragged into this.”
“Ugly doesn’t begin to describe it,” Serrano said. “I also want to check his DNA against the fetus.”
“He can refuse to comply without a court order,” Tally said.
“If he refuses, that answers our question.”
“You think Constance Wright might have had one last roll in the hay with her ex and gotten knocked up?” Moreno said.
“It’s not uncommon,” Serrano said. “Drummond remarried soon after the divorce from Constance was finalized. Exes rekindle the spark, have an affair, get pregnant, and the husband tries to hide it from his new wife.”
“That’s why I made sure to hold on to some A-plus blackmail material in case Claire ever leaves me,” Tally said. “We’d settle in arbitration in five minutes flat.”
“Smart,” Moreno said. “And cold blooded. Not sure cold blooded makes for a healthy marriage, but hey, I’m not judging.”
“So, your initial thoughts?” Serrano asked.
Moreno replied, “Well, at this point, given the abnormally high blood alcohol content and the victim’s messy personal life, it would be hard not to chalk this up as a suicide. If the pregnancy was unwanted, that may have been the last straw.”
“Let’s be thorough,” Tally said. “The toenails bother me. And I want to talk to Nicholas Drummond.”
“Nicholas Drummond walked away from that marriage with a heap of Constance Wright’s money,” Serrano said. “The man already got paid. Why kill her now?”
“The pregnancy . . . that gnaws at me,” replied Tally. “Presumably Wright knew. But we’d have to get a court order to see her emails and texts. If Wright was already walking the razor’s edge, and she didn’t want the child, that could have been enough to push her over. Or perhaps she did want it, Drummond didn’t, and that’s your motive.”
“If it was even Drummond,” Serrano said.
“If it was even Drummond. Still, it shouldn’t have come to this,” Tally said. “Never cared much for that wackadoo family of Wright’s—or for Nicholas Drummond himself. Always seemed like the kind of guy who hated being overshadowed by his wife. But damn, this woman had a good heart. She didn’t deserve what all those people did to her.”
Serrano nodded absently. Then the cell phone clipped to his waist began to ring.
“Don’t tell me,” Moreno said, rolling his eyes. “That’s the theme from . . .”
“Lord of the Rings,” Serrano replied. “One ringtone to rule them all.”
“See? This is what I deal with on a daily basis,” said Tally.
Serrano ignored them. He answered his cell and said, “This is Serrano.”
“Detective Serrano, this is Wanda Bremmer from Ashby 911 dispatch. I have something you need to hear.”
“Detectives don’t respond to 911 calls,” Serrano said brusquely. She must have been new.
“I understand that. But trust me, you need to listen to this,” she said. “I’m patching you through. This person called 911 twenty-six minutes ago. I wouldn’t normally forward along a 911 call, but . . . you need to hear it, Detective.”
“All right,” Serrano said, exasperated. “I’m listening.”
Serrano heard a crackling sound as a recording began to play. Then a voice began speaking. It was a distorted male voice. Deep, husky, and robotic. The caller had clearly used some sort of voice modification tool.