by B. J Daniels
State medical examiner Henrietta “Hitch” Roberts smiled at the sheriff and the elderly man standing next to him in the entryway of the Collinwood home. “I’m sorry, Sheriff, but the governor himself asked me to handle this one personally. I believe if you check your emails, you’ll find one from him.”
“Is that so?” Sheriff Charley Cortland tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his pants and narrowed his blue gaze at her. A large fiftysomething man with a robust laugh and a belly to match, Charley had been the law for years. He liked to say to anyone who would listen that he’d seen it all. “George here is our local coroner and I’ve already assessed the situation. The wife was getting the hell beaten out of her. She grabbed a gun and shot her husband before he could kill her. It’s cut-and-dried self-defense, the way I see it. Shot him right in the face.”
“Does seem that way at a glance,” Hitch said. She’d dealt with her share of rural law enforcement and already heard about Charley Cortland. As state medical examiner, she was brought into those areas that lacked access to more than a local coroner. On this one, she was lead investigator. “My job is to try to find out what really happened here, if at all possible.”
She’d already called the Department of Criminal Investigation. By now they would have arrived at the Big Timber hospital and taken photos of the wife’s injuries. They would have also collected the clothing she’d been wearing, checked under her fingernails and run gunpowder residue tests on her hands and wrists, as well as getting blood samples to see if she had been under the influence of alcohol or drugs at the time of the shooting—as Hitch had requested. They would have also gotten a video statement from her—if she was able—of what led up to the altercation and subsequent death of the husband.
“We already know what really happened,” the sheriff snapped. “Got proof. She called someone during the fight and he heard the whole thing. I just got off the phone with him. He’s on his way to give me a statement that will back up what I just told you.” She listened to the sheriff describe what the caller had related to him. “So she definitely thought he was going to kill her if she hadn’t shot him.” He had a so-there smug look on his ruddy face.
She pulled out her notebook. “What is the name of the man she called?”
“Ford Cardwell. She married his best friend. He was in the wedding party.”
Hitch looked up at him. “He told you that?”
“He did.”
“I’ll need to talk to him, as well as see the video statement you take from him,” she said, pocketing her notebook and pen. “Also, did you document what you saw at the scene on your arrival?”
“I called an ambulance and got the poor woman to the hospital, if that’s what you’re asking,” the sheriff snapped.
“No, I’m asking if you documented the scene.” Law enforcement was trained to document everything, including the time of arrival, the location and condition of the body, and determining the identity of the person involved. “Did you observe any vehicles leaving the area?”
The sheriff looked put out. “No. There was just the two of them. Look here, young lady. You’re trying to make more out of this than what it is.”
“I’m trying to get to the truth,” she corrected him. “And you can call me Hitch. Did you observe anything at the scene that seemed out of place?”
He laughed. “Practically anything breakable in the kitchen, I’d say.” The coroner he called George laughed with him. “If you just look in the kitchen, you can observe for yourself that they had one hell of a fight, with her pleading for him not to kill her.”
Hitch could see that she wasn’t getting anywhere with the sheriff. He hadn’t documented anything and had, in his mind, already solved the case. She glanced past the large living area to the kitchen. Even from here, she could see all the broken pottery and glass on the floor, along with blood and other matter from the body still lying in the middle of it.
“Someone was angry and took it out on the decor, that’s for sure,” she said. She’d seen this kind of fury before. It often ended in bloodshed.
“Looks like the damned fool had it coming to him,” Charley said. “The wife’s in the hospital. Beat the hell out of her.” He shook his head. “Got to wonder what the two had to fight about, though. Look at this place. Can’t even imagine living on a spread this large, let alone in a house like this.”
“Guess it proves money can’t buy happiness,” Hitch said distractedly as she noticed where the sheriff and the coroner had walked through her crime scene. “DCI should be here soon to process the scene. We’ll know more after that.”
“Seems pretty obvious what happened here,” the sheriff was saying. “Self-defense, plain and simple. Can’t see why the state crime department had to get involved.” He motioned to the body in the other room. “No judge would put her in prison for killing the bastard after what he did to her.”
It certainly appeared to be a case of self-defense, but she preferred to wait until all the evidence was in. She said as much to the sheriff again. “So if you don’t mind letting me do my job, Sheriff, I’d appreciate it if you would secure the crime scene and make sure no one else tromps through.”
The sheriff said something under his breath that Hitch was glad she couldn’t hear.
“Why don’t we step outside, George, and leave the lady to her...work,” the sheriff said.
“It’s Hitch. Or Dr. Roberts. And, George, I won’t need your coroner van to transport the body to the morgue. The DCI unit will take care of that for me,” Hitch said.
Both men nodded sourly and left. She closed the door behind them and took in the scene before reaching into her satchel for her booties and gloves.
The victim lay on his back on the kitchen floor among broken glass and debris that had apparently originated from the couple’s quarrel. The only heads-up she’d been given on the case was an urgent appeal for her to get to the Collinwood Ranch north of Big Timber as soon as possible and take charge of the case. Apparently, there’d been some concern of the crime scene being contaminated.
Fortunately, she’d just finished a case not far away. Otherwise, she was sure George, the local coroner, would have already removed the body. He and the sheriff had already walked into the kitchen. One of them had left a boot print in the blood and then used a paper towel to wipe off the sole.
Along with the urgency of the matter, she’d been told that she would be dealing with what was believed to have been a domestic dispute that had ended in gunplay—and that the wife had been taken to the local hospital with multiple injuries. She hadn’t needed to be told that this was a sensitive case because of who was involved. None of that mattered to her. She treated all cases the same.
But she also knew that because the name Collinwood meant something to someone in power, this one would be under the media microscope, so she’d better make sure she left no stone unturned.
Carefully approaching the body through the broken glass, she could definitely tell there had been a violent argument. As she squatted next to the deceased, she could see that he had been shot in the face at close range. The single bullet had entered a half inch off center of his left eye and exited the back of the skull, taking a lot of brain matter and bone with it.
The husband had been so close... Had he been trying to take the gun away from her? Daring her to pull the trigger? Had he been that sure she wouldn’t shoot?
Hitch rose to take her camera from the bag slung over her shoulder. She wanted to shoot photographs of the scene before even the state lab unit arrived. As she did, she considered the mess in the large, normally white kitchen. It was a cook’s delight with its latest stainless-steel appliances, copper ranch house sink and white marble countertops. The tile floor was also white like the cabinets. It would make the crime scene investigators’ jobs even easier, she thought. The perfect crime scene from a forensics standpoint.
At the
sound of another vehicle, she looked out to see two DCI vans pull up. The sheriff and coroner had apparently managed to stretch some crime scene tape across the railing on the front deck and outside the door. The sheriff now leaned against his patrol SUV, watching the DCI team emerge from their rigs before he climbed behind the wheel and took off in a hail of dust and gravel.
* * *
SHERIFF CHARLEY CORTLAND swore as he roared out of the Collinwoods’ ranch, the coroner eating his dust behind him. How dare that young woman treat him as if he didn’t know how to do his job. He rubbed his neck with a free hand as he took a turn in the road. He was going too fast, but Hitch, or whatever she wanted to call herself, had gotten his temper up. Coming in like she had and finding fault right away with the way he did things.
Had he documented everything? she’d wanted to know. He thought about the notebook and pen he kept in his patrol SUV. He was sure they were still in his glove box. Glancing in that direction, he almost missed the next turn and finally forced himself to slow down.
What he hadn’t realized, but was becoming abundantly clear now that he thought about it, was that this was going to be a big case. The kind of case that could make or break a career. He should have realized that. Hell, he knew the Collinwoods had money once he’d seen the spread—let alone that humongous house they’d had built for themselves.
But lots of rich people bought up the ranches in the area. What made these two so special that the governor would call in the state medical examiner and the DCI?
As he reached the main highway, he stopped and dug out his notebook and pen. From this point on, he would do this one by the book. He could remember well enough the scene when he had arrived, right? He’d put it all down.
The one thing he wouldn’t do was let that woman make him look bad again.
Turning on his lights and siren, he raced back toward Big Timber. Just outside town, he called his office. “There a fella waiting to see me?” he barked into his phone. “Tell him I’m on my way.”
He disconnected, smiling and nodding to himself. Ford Cardwell had heard the whole thing on his phone and was now cooling his heels in the office. Charley would get his story. If that didn’t prove what he was saying about this case, then nothing would. All his years of experience had to account for something, he told himself. Even as he thought it, he found himself questioning his assessment of what had happened with this case.
It was a slam dunk, wasn’t it? He couldn’t be wrong about this one.
* * *
FORD HAD NO trouble finding the sheriff’s department when he’d reached Big Timber. He’d been told to take a seat. Ten minutes later, the sheriff arrived in a flurry of movement. A large, heavyset man with a flushed face, the sheriff waved him back into his office. The room was small, unlike the rotund older man who took a chair behind the desk. He had a head of graying hair beneath his Stetson, which he removed and tossed in the direction of a hook on the wall as Ford entered the office.
“Sheriff Charley Cortland,” the man said as he shifted his weight, making the chair groan under his considerable bulk. “You say you’re Ford Cardwell, right? Let’s get your statement while it’s still fresh in your mind.” He reached for his phone and called in a young man who set up a video recorder, turned it on and left.
“State your name, the time and the date for the record,” the sheriff said, and Ford did.
Charley rocked in his chair and nodded. “So you heard the whole thing,” he said, urging him on.
“I wouldn’t say that. It actually felt as if I had come in toward the end. I heard what I believe was the last of the argument. At first, it was just background noise and then a scream.”
“Can you describe from the start of the call everything you heard?”
He took a moment, reliving it, knowing now how it would end. He went through it, finishing with, “At the time, I thought the call had just been random. I didn’t know the woman was Rachel Westlake—I mean, Collinwood.”
“Right. You knew her in college. So when was the last time you saw her?”
“It’s been years—fifteen, actually. Like I told you on the phone, I only recently reconnected with her on social media and we exchanged phone numbers. I haven’t seen her since college.”
The sheriff nodded, studying him. “But you knew her husband?”
He caught the past tense. “Humphrey? Yes, we all knew each other at college. Wait—so he is...?”
“Deceased.”
He had heard the booming report of the gunshot on his phone. “Humphrey’s dead?” He felt an anxiety attack coming on and had to concentrate on his breathing for a few moments. His plane crash came back, filling his mind with horror just as it had when he’d realized they were going down and there was nothing he could do about it. Just as there was nothing he could do but save the few men he’d been able to drag from the wreckage before it exploded.
The sheriff’s voice brought him out of the flashback with a shudder.
“He was killed this morning during the phone call you overheard. In fact, I believe you heard the shot that killed him.”
Ford closed his eyes for a moment. Flashes of light radiated behind his lids. He opened them, chasing away the flames to face a different kind of horror. Rachel had shot and killed Humphrey.
“You said that he was your best friend.”
“In college.” He couldn’t make sense of this. Humphrey and Rachel? This couldn’t be happening. “Humphrey and I were roommates all four years. Look, if that’s all, I’m anxious to find out how Rachel is doing.” She must be devastated, he thought, not to even mention her physical injuries.
“Cardwell. Why does that name sound familiar?”
“My family owns a barbecue restaurant in Big Sky. My aunt owns a ranch there. Cardwell Ranch.” When the sheriff’s expression hadn’t changed, he added, “Her husband is Marshal Hud Savage.” Why was this man avoiding telling him Rachel’s condition? “Sheriff, is Rachel all right?”
“I’m waiting to hear from the doctor, but she sustained multiple injuries from the beating she got.” The sheriff picked up his phone and called to tell the young man who’d set up the video that they were finished. He said nothing until the man exited with the equipment. “Appears there were only the two of them home. We’ll know more once she can tell us her side of the story. But at this point, it seems clear that it was a domestic dispute that turned tragic.”
Ford’s head reeled. He kept thinking of the call. Of Rachel’s screams. Her pleas for Humphrey to stop. And the gunshot just before the line went dead. That had to be when she pulled the trigger and killed Humphrey. Oh my God, Rachel, how did this happen?
Chapter Four
Hitch did what investigating she could on the premises until she had the body on the examining table for the autopsy. She’d worked with this team of investigators before, so while they processed the scene, she did an inventory of the house. Putting on fresh gloves, she wandered around in fresh paper booties, trying to get a feel for the people who had lived here while she waited for the team to release the body.
All on one level, the house seemed to go on forever. She peeked in each room, not sure what she was looking for. Answers, always. Like the sheriff had said, this one seemed cut-and-dried. Mitigated homicide. So what was bothering her? She couldn’t put her finger on it. Just that something always nagged at her when a case felt...wrong.
She found the master suite and stopped in the doorway to take in the breathtaking view before entering. A wall of windows looked out on rolling hills lush with grass and studded with pines. She tried to imagine the couple waking up to this each morning. Stepping to the bed, she checked the side tables, curious if the two were still sleeping together before everything went south.
There was a book lying facedown on one side of the bed. From the title, she guessed Rachel slept on the right. She pulled open the drawer. It see
med a little too empty, as if someone had gone through it, knowing that detectives would be doing the same thing soon.
Stepping to the other side of the bed, she found a notebook and pen. From the writing and what was written there, she guessed it was the husband’s notes about a work appointment. She photographed the notes. There was much more in his drawers, though nothing that sent up any red flags. Except for the extra clip of cartridges for a .38 pistol. She photographed everything in both drawers, then hesitated.
If Humphrey Collinwood kept the gun in this drawer, how did it end up in the kitchen, where he died? Which one of them took the gun to the murder scene?
She thought of the .38-caliber weapon lying on the floor of the kitchen earlier. By now, the lab techs would have bagged and processed it. The question was, when did the wife take hold of the gun? Was it always loaded? Had she ever fired it before?
There were always more questions than answers at this point, Hitch thought. When the woman had gotten the gun could indicate premeditation, so it was important—and probably hard to prove since only one person knew the truth. The other one was dead.
So, she thought, studying the king-size bed, it appeared they had been sleeping together. But that didn’t mean that things had been copacetic. The bed was huge. They wouldn’t even have to touch each other if they didn’t want to.
She checked out the his-and-hers walk-in closets, as well as looking in the chests of drawers. She found a lot of expensive clothing on both sides. She took more photographs, not sure which ones might prove important.
It was the small, seemingly trivial things that solved a case, she thought as she checked out the bathroom. She saw expensive beauty products and what appeared to be a container of birth control pills, most of the pills already taken, lying on the floor in the back corner, almost out of sight as if dropped there. Or thrown there? That was interesting. At least one of them wasn’t interested in having a child.
