TIL DEATH

by Annette Dashofy

  “But—”

  Pete clamped a hand on Baronick’s arm before the detective could point out the one-armed man from the old Harrison Ford movie did do it.

  Frattini ignored them. “Now Landis says he’s found compelling evidence that a serial killer was in Vance Township at the time of the murder. His new attorney was able to convince the judge of the legitimacy of the claims.”

  “A serial killer?” Pete made no effort to keep the skepticism from his voice. “Wouldn’t we have known about a serial killer in our area?”

  “You would think so, wouldn’t you?” Frattini stood and paced to one of the walls lined with shelves of law tomes. He studied the titles for a moment before facing Pete and the detective. “I want you both on this case. Chief, you worked it nine years ago. You know the details as well as I do. Detective, you’re our fresh set of eyes. I want to rebuild from the ground up. Track down our witnesses. Re-question them. Go over all the evidence. Every fiber. Every fingerprint. Investigate as if it’s a brand-new case.”

  “What about the one-armed man?” Baronick asked.

  Pete winced.

  Frattini gave the detective a look that should’ve left nothing but scorched earth. “If he exists, find him. And find out everything there is to know about him. I don’t want any surprises.” He shifted his focus to Pete. “Got it?”

  Pete gave one subtle tip of his head. “Got it.”

  “Good.” The DA returned to his seat behind the desk. “A jury found Dustin Landis guilty once. A new jury will find him guilty again.”

  By the time a crew arrived from the Emergency Department, Zoe and Doc had removed Franklin’s heavy apron and cut away his surgical scrubs. Zoe had used the AED, a simplified but effective defibrillator, to shock the coroner’s heart back into a normal rhythm. They’d just started him on a dextrose IV and wired him to an EKG when he regained consciousness. By the time they wheeled him into a cubicle in the ER with Zoe tagging along behind—sans her autopsy garb—Franklin was alert and talking. Mostly about getting back to his job.

  “Not happening,” Dr. Fuller, Zoe’s favorite emergency department physician, told Franklin during an initial brief exam.

  The first few minutes in the cubicle passed in a flurry of nurses and techs coming and going. Drawing blood, checking a loose lead that made the EKG squeal, entering information into a computer. Out of habit, Zoe stepped in to help. Most of the staff here knew her well from her years on the ambulance. But one of the nurses pointed out her current career made her presence at a patient’s bedside appear questionable. Banished and feeling like the Grim Reaper, Zoe slipped into the hallway. She spotted the white-haired ER doctor at the nurses’ station.

  “You don’t usually bring us patients anymore,” Dr. Fuller said without looking up from the chart in which he was writing.

  “I know. Now you send them to us.”

  He closed the chart and turned to face her with his easy smile. “Not too often, thank goodness.”

  True. Most of the coroner’s office’s patients came directly from the streets.

  “Do you miss EMS?” He looked at her over his glasses. “You were one of the best.”

  The compliment warmed her as she weighed her answer. Yes, she missed it. The adrenalin rush of careening through the night in Medic Two, lights and sirens, not knowing what she and her partner would be walking into. The race to stop a patient’s bleeding or start their breathing. The euphoria of successfully restarting a heart.

  Like this morning with Franklin.

  There was nothing like it.

  On the other hand, the challenge of her new job offered a different kind of satisfaction. Finding answers—and justice—for those who could no longer speak for themselves.

  Plus, drunks no longer took swings at her.

  “I didn’t think it was that hard a question.” Dr. Fuller’s words jarred her back to the ER.

  “I miss it. But the coroner’s office has its own rewards.”

  He studied her. She felt like he was doing an emotional autopsy on her. “Challenges are good. And for Franklin’s sake, I’m glad you were there. You saved his life.”

  “Speaking of Franklin, what do you think happened?”

  “We won’t know for certain until the bloodwork comes back, but if I were to guess, I’d say he forgot to eat. Or accidently overdosed on his insulin. You’ve been around long enough to know the dangers of hypoglycemia.”

  “But his heart?”

  “It happens. With a sudden drop in glucose levels, the body releases hormones. Epinephrine causes sweating, anxiety, palpitations, and tachycardia.”

  All of which she’d witnessed, right down to the rapid heartbeat.

  “And,” Fuller added, “heart attack.”

  A nurse came out of Franklin’s room, spotted Zoe, and headed her way.

  “What’s wrong?” Zoe asked.

  “Mr. Marshall’s asking for you.”

  Fuller chuckled. “I bet he’s going to order you back to work.”

  “No bet.” Zoe thanked him and the nurse.

  Franklin waved her closer as soon as she stepped through the privacy curtain. His color had improved, but she still hated seeing him attached to tubes and lines.

  “Since they won’t let me out of here, I need two things from you,” he said. “First, get back down to autopsy.”

  Dr. Fuller had been right.

  “I want to know why that woman died.”

  So did Zoe. “What’s the second thing?”

  “Call my wife. My phone’s on my desk downstairs. Her number’s in it.”

  “Your wife?” Zoe had known Franklin for years.

  He wasn’t married.

  She glanced toward the cubicle’s door. Was he having neurological issues as a result of the low blood sugar? Should she call for a nurse?

  He acknowledged her confusion with a wag of his head. “Ex-wife. We’ve been back in touch since I’ve been ill. She would want to know I…” His frail voice trailed off.

  Zoe filled in the blank. She would want to know he almost died. “I’ll call her.”

  Pete and Baronick descended the historic staircase to the courthouse’s first floor, their footsteps echoing all the way to the dome and its stained-glass panels above them. The stately Brunswick County Courthouse, with its dark polished wood and marble construction, harkened back to a time when legal proceedings were more respectful. Less a dog-and-pony show. Or maybe that was Pete’s glossed version of history. More than likely, this venerable structure had witnessed more legal drama and grandstanding throughout the centuries than he could fathom.

  “Looks like we’re working together again,” Baronick said as they hit the landing and turned to take the final flight of stairs to the ground floor.

  Pete didn’t reply. There had been a day when being teamed with the younger, cocky detective would’ve grated on his last nerve. But Baronick had proven to be a damned good cop. Despite being a pain in the ass.

  “Frattini’s right. I need to read the reports again.” Baronick chuffed. “Five or six times. But I really want to hear your take on what happened back then.”

  “You don’t think it’ll taint your ‘fresh eyes’ on the case?”

  “I’ll reserve my fresh eyes for viewing the evidence and interviewing the witnesses.”

  “Some of whom are going to be hard to find. A few are dead.”

  “Which is another reason I want to talk to you.” They reached the base of the staircase. Baronick faced Pete. “I’ll buy you a coffee.”

  Pete headed for the massive oak doors leading not to their cars but to Main Street where some wise soul had opened a coffee shop directly across from the courthouse. “It’ll take more than one.”

  Five minutes later, large coffees in front of them, they sat at a table in the rear corner of the small est
ablishment, their backs to the walls so they could see who came and went. One other customer sat at a table by the front door. Neither she nor the barista paid them any attention, but Pete still lowered his voice. “What do you want to know?”

  Baronick set his phone on the table and scrolled to pull up his notes. “Everything.”

  Pete thought back. Nine years. His first homicide case after his move from the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police to Chief of Police for rural Vance Township. “I have to get back to my station. Nate’s covering for me but only until noon.”

  “All right then. Get me started.” The detective scrolled some more. “I know the body was found in the parking lot of the Route 15 Plaza. The one between Phillipsburg and Dillard.”

  Two

  Nine years earlier

  Pete’s wife, Marcy, was at one of her horse club meetings, so he decided to put in a few hours at the station catching up on paperwork. He had two more reports to enter into his computer when the call came from the County 911 Center at 21:16, about a quarter after nine. Shots fired and a woman down.

  He arrived at the Route 15 Plaza before any other first responders, alert to the distinct pop, pop, pop of gunfire and anyone suspicious leaving the scene in a rush. But the only sound was the frantic cries of a trio of women gathered around the driver’s door of one of the cars and the whoop of sirens approaching from neighboring Phillipsburg. A handful of customers and clerks from the nearby convenience store huddled on the sidewalk, appearing ready to run for cover.

  He climbed out of his department’s Crown Victoria and pointed at the convenience store gang. “Go inside and lock the doors until I or another police officer tells you otherwise.” He or one of the soon-to-arrive detectives would need statements from them.

  One other storefront had lights on. Five vehicles parked in front of it. He approached the car with the sobbing women. The rear passenger door stood wide open as did the driver’s door. The trio parted, allowing him access to the victim who lay half out of the car. Her seatbelt kept her from tumbling onto the pavement. One quick look at the blood and the lack of movement told him she was beyond help. He’d left the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police a year ago with the mistaken idea he’d also left city crime behind. Evidently, the bucolic countryside of Vance Township had its own share of gruesome violence.

  Following protocol, Pete jammed his fingers into a pair of black Nitrile gloves and felt for a carotid pulse. Looking at what was left of her face, he hoped like hell there wouldn’t be one. There were worse things than death. To him, being severely brain damaged topped the list.

  She’d taken a bullet to her head. As best he could tell, the projectile had entered her right cheekbone, just below her eye. Without turning her, he couldn’t see the exit wound, but blood spattered the inside of the windshield, making crimson rivulets on the glass.

  Since he didn’t find a pulse, moving the body was the bailiwick of the coroner. He stepped back, peeling off the gloves inside-out to contain the blood.

  One of the women took the gesture as a final confirmation of what she already suspected and cried out, “Oh, no, no, no,” before collapsing into the arms of one of the others.

  The small plaza barely held all the police vehicles—Pennsylvania State Police, Monongahela County, Pete’s Crown Vic along with the other Vance Township Police unit. Phillipsburg Borough and several neighboring townships also responded. Franklin Marshall’s coroner’s van parked directly behind the victim’s car, blocking the horrific view from passing motorists.

  The various officers divvied up the duties. Some interviewed witnesses, a pair strung yellow tape around the area. Several searched the surrounding area for the shooter or the murder weapon. Pete took the most hysterical of the three women aside, allowing her to sit in her car. Sixty-something with disheveled dark-blonde hair, she sniffled into his handkerchief while he knelt next to the open car door, waiting for her to compose herself.

  Once she did, Pete clicked his pen, resting the tip on his notebook. “Ma’am, can I please have your name?”

  “Cheryl Vranjes.” She spelled it, watching to make sure he got it right.

  “Thank you, Ms. Vranjes—”

  “It’s ‘missus,’ not ‘miz.’ And please call me Cheryl. Everyone does. Missus Vranjes is my mother-in-law.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a tight smile. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “We were at our weekly yoga class. Tuesday evening, level two. It’s my favorite part of the week. Usually.”

  “Who all was in your class?”

  “Besides me?” She rattled off a list of nine women. “And the instructor. Rama. Her real name’s Roberta Rankin, but she goes by Rama.”

  “What happened after class?”

  “Four of the ladies left right away. The three of us—” Cheryl gestured toward the two others who’d been gathered around the victim when he arrived. “We came outside and were over there.” She pointed to the car farthest from the victim’s. “Just gabbing.”

  “What about Mrs. Landis?”

  “She and one of the other gals stayed behind to talk to Rama. I mean Roberta. Which would you rather I call her?”

  “Whichever you prefer, ma’am. Did you see Mrs. Landis come out?”

  “Sort of. I mean yes. I was talking to the gals, but I did notice Elizabeth from the corner of my eye. She came out and went to her car.”

  He looked toward the victim’s sedan. The rear passenger door still hung open. “Did Mrs. Landis bring anyone with her?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see her with anyone else when she left the class?”

  Cheryl’s eyes shifted, and Pete knew she was searching her memory. “No,” she said.

  He scribbled a note. Shooter waiting in the backseat? “Then what happened?”

  “We kept talking until we heard the gunshot. For a second I thought some kids set off a firecracker. Or a car backfired. But it was too loud and too close. I think I may have screamed. Anyhow, we—the three of us—hit the ground.” Cheryl ducked her head in an abbreviated reenactment of the scene. “We hid behind the car until we were sure it was safe.”

  “How long was that?”

  “I don’t know. It felt like a long time.”

  “How many shots did you hear?”

  “Only the one.”

  “Did you see who did the shooting?”

  “Not really. Not well. I mean, I couldn’t identify him. But I peeked over the trunk to see if it was safe and I saw someone running away.”

  “Can you describe him for me?”

  “I didn’t see his face. He was running away.”

  “But you believe it was a male?”

  She nodded so hard, Pete feared she’d dislocate her neck. “Oh, yes. He was tall. Athletic-looking.”

  “Do you remember what he was wearing?”

  “Black. All black. He had on one of those hoodie things.” Cheryl grew quiet, as if she’d run out of energy. When she spoke again, her voice sounded like it too had lost its energy. “Once he was gone, we came out from behind the car and went looking for Elizabeth. That’s when we found…” Cheryl’s voice cracked.

  Pete gave her a moment before asking, “Did you see which direction he went?”

  She pressed the handkerchief to her nose with one hand and fluttered the other toward an overgrown vacant lot with no lighting. “That way.”

  “Did you see a car he might’ve gotten into?”

  She shook her head.

  “Hear a car door slam? Or an engine start?”

  More head shaking.

  “One more question. When I arrived, Mrs. Landis’ car door was open. Had she not closed it?”

  “She had. I’m sorry. I guess that’s my fault. I opened it as soon as I ran over there. I didn’t realize she’d been shot until she…you know…tumbled out.”<
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  “No need to apologize. You did everything right.”

  She sniffed and bobbed her head. “Can I go now? My husband is probably having a cow wondering what’s going on.”

  Pete jotted down her contact information and gave her one of his business cards with instructions to call if she thought of anything else. He then dismissed her to save her spouse from the agony of birthing a bovine.

  Three

  Present day

  Once again wearing her morgue attire, Zoe pushed through the door into the autopsy suite. She found the tech, who’d brought her the AED for Franklin, in the middle of the Humpty Dumpty process of putting the victim back together again. Sort of.

  Doc looked up from the table where he packaged tissue and fluid samples for the lab. “How’s Franklin?”

  “Breathing,” Zoe said. “Conscious and alert.”

  “Good. I hate when I have to autopsy a friend.”

  He said it with a healthy dose of snark, but Zoe winced at the mental picture of Franklin laid open for dissection. One of the hazards of working on the ambulance in a small community was arriving at an accident scene or medical emergency to find the victim was a friend or close acquaintance. Having someone she knew well come through the morgue was worse. Way worse. Case in point—Gina Wagner.

  Zoe veered her focus from the woman being sewn up. “Do you know anything about Franklin’s wife?”

  “Loretta? I never met her. They’ve been divorced a long time.”

  “He asked me to call her. Said they’ve been back in touch recently.”

  Doc grunted. “First I’ve heard of it.”

  “Me too,” Zoe said more to herself than to him.

  With his work completed, Doc removed the plastic splash shield he wore over his face. “I hope toxicology has better luck finding a cause of death than I did.”

  “Do you have an educated guess?”

  “I’m educated enough to not guess.”

  Chastised, Zoe lowered her head.

  He clipped her on the shoulder. “Seriously, I’m stumped. No sign of trauma or medical abnormality. There’s nothing to suggest drug use. Her tissues and organs appear perfectly healthy.”