“Thank you all for coming,” Lieutenant George began. “At 1:13 a.m. on the night of December eleventh, 911 dispatch received a call about the presence of a body at the base of the Albertson Bridge. Upon confirmation of the deceased, the Ashby PD forensics team, along with Detectives John Serrano and Leslie Tally, arrived at the scene to find the body of former mayor Constance Wright. According to early forensic analysis, Ms. Wright had been dead approximately two hours prior to the 911 call. Our hearts go out to the family and friends of Mayor Wright. She was a beloved member of our community, a true public servant, a woman who dedicated her life to Ashby. She loved this town with devotion and passion, and it saddens us to speak of her death at such an early age. At this point in time, we are treating Constance Wright’s death as nonaccidental.”
“Was she murdered? Or was it suicide?” shouted one of the reporters. Serrano stared daggers at him. He wasn’t a local.
“At this point,” George said, “I will cede the microphone to the detectives investigating Ms. Wright’s death, John Serrano and Leslie Tally. They will answer any questions you have, but remember that this is an ongoing investigation. We will release further information at the appropriate times. Detectives, over to you.”
Lieutenant George stepped back, and Serrano and Tally took the podium. Tally spoke first.
“Based on the location of the body, along with other mitigating factors, we were able to quickly determine that Ms. Wright’s death was not self-inflicted. We are investigating under the presumption that Ms. Wright was the victim of a homicide.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
A reporter shouted, “Who killed her?”
“Was it her ex-husband?”
“Do you have any suspects?”
“Quiet down,” Tally said sternly.
Serrano recognized Nancy Wiles, anchor for Channel 14. She was cute. Blonde. Serrano had harbored a crush on her for some time. About six months ago she’d interviewed him for a story about a rash of burglaries in the Wooten housing projects, and once the cameras had stopped rolling, he’d asked her for her phone number. She’d smiled and given him the office switchboard line. He’d gone home alone and drunk a six-pack alone.
“At the moment,” Serrano said, “we are still gathering evidence.”
“So you don’t have any suspects,” Wiles replied, fake impatience in her voice.
Serrano deflected the question. “We have not yet made any arrests.”
“Bob Phillips, WPRD. What led you to the conclusion that Mayor Wright’s death was a homicide?”
“The location at which the body was found is inconsistent with a natural—or unaided—fall from the height of the Albertson Bridge, given the weather conditions of that night.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“No, it is not. There were other factors, but that’s all we can discuss right now.”
“Grace Meyerson, TNN. Do you believe Ms. Wright’s death is connected to any of the Wright family scandals? As you know, Eugene and Cameron Wright had numerous legal, personal, and financial troubles.”
“We have not ruled anything out and are examining all possibilities,” Tally said. “Including people connected to the Wright family businesses.”
Serrano continued to deflect questions with evasive or vague answers. Enough for salacious headlines, but little else. Over the next few days, the department switchboard would be inundated with calls from tipsters who claimed to either a) have witnessed Constance Wright’s death, b) have information that could aid in the investigation, or c) have killed Constance Wright themselves (possibly aided by Bigfoot or Lee Harvey Oswald).
So the less information Serrano gave the press, the better. That made it easy to weed out the lunatics and rubberneckers. Not to mention the sociopaths who crank called cops with fake tips and posted the conversations on YouTube for kicks. It took an incredible amount of manpower to weed through those calls, hoping one might be worth more than cubic zirconia.
The truth was Serrano couldn’t wait for the presser to be over. The media could be a useful ally when it came to tracking down criminals who were impetuous and/or stupid. The kind of criminal who might rob a gas station without a mask to hide their facial tattoo. Or mug an old lady in her apartment vestibule and get caught on camera doing it, then wander around the neighborhood like they were King Shit. In those cases, Ashby PD would get a police sketch out and canvass the neighborhoods, and more often than not, dispatch would get a legitimate hit on the tip line within hours.
Serrano didn’t think that would be the case here. Constance Wright hadn’t just happened to be on the Albertson Bridge that night. This wasn’t a random attack. This was planned ahead of time. Serrano knew Constance Wright. She was in good shape, took kickboxing classes while in office. He never saw her drunk or without her wits. During her first mayoral primary, the press had given her the nickname “Cutthroat Constance.” She could fight back. And fight dirty if need be.
Yet Hector Moreno’s examination found no signs of struggle. No defensive wounds. No bruising other than from the fall from the bridge. But her toenails. Constance had rarely been seen in public since she’d resigned her office, but a fresh pedicure meant she’d wanted to look nice. Either for herself or someone else.
And the tooth.
Her jawline was shattered by the fall, and most of her teeth were jarred loose or knocked out. Four were not recovered and presumed to have slipped under the ice. But the third molar on her left side—it was chipped. Not shattered. Like a split ice cube. Just as Rachel Marin had presumed.
Constance Wright’s blood alcohol content was staggeringly high. And Serrano was reasonably certain at least some of that alcohol intake had been against her will, likely while she was unconscious. Otherwise she would have struggled. There would have been defensive wounds.
No, Serrano believed Constance was force-fed the liquor. And with the sheared tooth, it meant the killer—or killers—weren’t on stable ground while pouring. They might have been driving. A pothole causing the bottle, or Constance’s head, to bounce around, the bottle cracking against her tooth hard enough to shear off a piece.
And he hadn’t mentioned it to Rachel, but forensics had found a single Nature Made prenatal vitamin capsule that had fallen behind Constance Wright’s bedroom dresser. Which meant not only did she intend to keep the baby, but somebody had emptied her apartment of all other signs of pregnancy and then wiped the place clean. The goal was to make it look like she had taken no steps to aid the pregnancy, giving credence to the suicide theory.
But still . . . there had been no signs of struggle in her house. No blood, hair, or fibers belonging to anyone but Constance. Which meant there was a very good chance that Constance Wright had known the person who’d killed her.
Serrano and Tally continued to field questions. As the glare grew brighter, Serrano put on his sunglasses. He surveyed the crowd.
Then he saw one face in the press pen he was not expecting to see.
Rachel Marin. She smiled sheepishly at him and waved.
Rachel arrived at the press conference ten minutes before it began. It was a full-on cattle call, reporters and onlookers jockeying for position in the snow, a giant pulsating mass of custom suits, Spanx, and hair gel.