“People who take their own life are referred to as victims. Based on our initial findings we’re not ready to make an official statement as to the cause of death.”
“The Albertson Bridge has an unfortunate reputation for attracting those who wish to take their own life,” Willemore added. “Is it possible this woman leapt to her death?”
As soon as Willemore said the word woman, Serrano’s eyes widened in surprise.
Willemore wasn’t supposed to know it was a woman, Rachel thought. Somebody leaked that information to the media. Another cop, no doubt.
“It is possible. We’re not ruling anything out. Now, you’ll need to wait for an official statement, which will come once we’ve completed our preliminary analysis.”
Serrano left the interview. The camera followed him. Rachel could see that one of his fists was clenched.
The camera cut back to the tent. The female detective moved to the side. In that moment, Rachel saw the victim’s hand. On her left index finger was a silver ring with a large topaz gemstone.
Rachel had seen that ring before. She remembered what the woman had said.
This one is for family.
It didn’t make sense. She wouldn’t have killed herself. Not now. Not after everything she’d been through.
When you survive the fire, you don’t let the winter kill you.
Rachel rewound the livestream and took several screen grabs of the scene before pressing play.
“There you have it,” Willemore continued. “Sad news in Ashby today as a woman seemingly took her own life in the early hours of this wintry day at one of our city’s most beloved monuments. Back to you in the studio.”
The female anchor said, “Our prayers are with her friends and family, whoever they may be. We here at Channel 8 know the holidays can be a difficult time, so please, use these resources. Help is waiting.”
Several phone numbers appeared on the screen below the news desk: the National Suicide Prevention Hotline, Gamblers Anonymous, and RAINN.
“Now on to sports,” the male anchor said, and they cut to a basketball game as if they hadn’t been reporting on the gruesome end of someone’s life just seconds prior.
Rachel sent the screen grabs to her email and opened the photos. Studied them. Made some mental notes. Opened the Calculator app on her phone. Within seconds, she knew that Constance Wright had been murdered.
Rachel got into her car and checked the time. An hour before she needed to be at work. She’d be cutting it close. But it needed to be done. She didn’t trust cops. And somebody inside the Ashby PD had clearly tipped off the media to the crime scene. But Serrano had seemed surprised, and the reaction felt genuine. Maybe he was on the up-and-up. But she needed to know for sure.
Rachel took a left down Merrybrook Lane and headed downtown. Southern Ashby consisted primarily of businesses and municipal buildings, all old brick and new steel. Despite the cold, the sun was bright in the sky, the glare off the snow blinding. Rachel slipped on her sunglasses.
She turned onto Isenberg Boulevard and headed west. Traffic toward the Albertson Bridge was a nightmare. Even though the bridge had reopened, the crime scene would still be taped off with rubberneckers backing up traffic for miles. But Rachel wasn’t heading toward the bridge. She already knew everything she needed to.
She took a right on Branch Avenue, drove several miles south past the Westerby Mall, then took I-74 South toward Peoria. She drove twelve miles, then pulled off at a strip mall. She parked next to a silver Buick and got out of the car.
She approached a filthy pay phone nestled between a Chinese take-out restaurant and a check-cashing joint. A group of teens loitered outside, performing skateboard tricks. One of the kids filmed the stunts with his cell phone.
Rachel took a packet of disinfectant towelettes from her pocketbook and wiped down the phone and handset. She opened an app on her cell and tested it several times for clarity, pitch, and tone. Then she put on her gloves and dialed 911. Time to see if the Ashby Police Department was worth a damn.
When the dispatcher picked up, Rachel said, “This message is for Detective Serrano of the Ashby PD. It’s regarding the body found at the Albertson Bridge last night. He needs to know this was not a suicide.”
CHAPTER 5
“Detectives Serrano and Tally, thanks for coming down. It’s good to have some company. It’s usually dead in here.”
Hector Moreno smiled and waited for a laugh. Serrano and Tally simultaneously rolled their eyes.
“Good to see you too, Hector,” Serrano said. “Thankfully for the Ashby PD your comedy career isn’t in any danger of taking off.”
Hector Moreno had been the chief medical examiner of Ashby County for sixteen years. He was a good-looking Hispanic man of about fifty, with warm brown eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a neat salt-and-pepper goatee. He wore a bolo tie with a silver cow skull inset with a turquoise stone over his scrubs.
“The less you see of us, the better,” Tally said. “Means people aren’t getting dead in suspicious ways. How are Camila and the kids?”
“Camila is wonderful. Just wonderful,” Moreno said. “Two of her paintings are going on display at an art gallery in New York City. Can you believe that? She’s flying out there in a few weeks for the grand opening. She could be the next Rembrandt for all I know.”
“Good for her,” Serrano said. “But it begs the question as to why she married you.”
“I know, right? Ten years ago she tells me she wants to try painting, buys some acrylics and canvas, turns the garage into a rainbow-colored mess, and now she gets weekly calls from some guy who calls himself Gulliver and speaks with a British accent even though he’s from Sheboygan. I looked him up. It’s only a matter of time before she leaves me to shack up with some cornrowed bohemian poet she meets at a hookah bar in the East Village.”
“Even so, I give her six months with the poet before she realizes how good she has it with you,” Tally said. “Never date a writer. I made that mistake once.”
Moreno laughed. “I’d pay to see the reaction she gets when all those hoity-toity artists ask what her spouse does for a living. ‘My husband? Yeah, he spends his days covered in guts.’ Hey, Serrano, you still reading those books about witches and magic beans? Learn any spells that can bring Mayor Wright here back from the dead? I’m not kidding. What happened to her a few years back was a travesty.”
“I agree,” Tally said.
Serrano remained silent.
Tally said, “So what have you got for us?”
Moreno snapped his fingers and beckoned for the detectives to follow him. He brought them into a well-lit gray chamber lined by sterile metal shelving containing forensic tools: scalpels, retractors, bone saws, rib spreader, enterotome, forceps, Hagedorn needles, and more. On a table in the center of the room was a body covered by a four-by-ten-foot white sheet. Serrano noticed a toe poking out from underneath the sheet. The nail was painted cherry red.
“Look there,” Serrano said, pointing to the toe. Tally came over to inspect.
“Coat of polish looks fresh,” Tally said. “She got a pedicure within the last week or two.” Tally lifted the sheet higher and felt underneath. “And she shaved her legs recently.”