What We Bury

by Carolyn Arnold

  But, if she could prove those cops were keeping company with the mob, that would be more than enough probative cause for an IA investigation. Maybe instead of trying to dig dirt on the officers directly, she should focus on the mystery woman.

  She brought up the picture that Leland King had taken. She would have had another photo of the woman tonight if it hadn’t been for Claws showing up. Madison zoomed in on her face. Beautiful, delicate features and brown eyes. But she was nameless. And it wouldn’t matter how much staring Madison did, she couldn’t conjure one up out of nowhere. She didn’t have the “gift” Claws did.

  She shut down her computer. It was time to call it a night and get under a showerhead.

  Maybe when she woke up tomorrow morning, she’d have some grand epiphany about how to identify the mystery woman without involving Leland King.

  -

  Fifteen

  Madison could stay this way forever. Shrouded in a fluffy comforter, her head on a soft pillow, the gentle snores of Hershey on his dog bed in the corner of the room. She was so tired, she felt drunk. Even with her eyes closed, her head was spinning. But she was aware of her surroundings, including Troy’s hard body lying next to her, his warmth reaching out and closing the distance between them.

  Her stomach clenched and heaved.

  She jumped from bed and made it to the toilet just in time to puke her guts out. She sat on the ceramic floor afterward, getting as close as she could to the porcelain throne. She wasn’t confident she didn’t have any more offerings on board.

  A soft knock on the door, followed by, “You all right, Bulldog?”

  “Yeah, I’m—” She put her head over the bowl and purged again.

  The door cracked open. She waved him away, but his steps came closer, and he put a hand on her shoulder. His touch soothed her, but she didn’t want him seeing her this way. Nothing sexy about vomit.

  “You can—” She was going to say “go,” but she gagged. Chunks were lodged in her nose. She snatched a few squares of toilet paper and blew, using all her willpower not to spew again. She was really regretting the late night/early morning burger she’d picked up at a drive-thru on the way home.

  “I’ll be out there if you need me.”

  Yep, tried to warn ya!

  The door clicked shut. Thankfully, with Troy on the other side.

  She popped the TP in the toilet and flushed. She put her mind elsewhere, far from the smell lodged in her sinuses and the sour taste coating her tongue. Her resolve went to work. She had to pick herself up off the floor and get to the station to meet up with Terry for the autopsy.

  She eventually convinced herself to move, her stomach calmer for the time being. She just hoped that feeling would last. After splashing cold water on her face, she met her eyes in the mirror. She really looked like shit. This was the first time the nausea had caused her to hurl. What was going on with her? She’d guess pregnant if she were talking about anyone else, but she and Troy took precautions. It had to just be some flu going around.

  She made herself brush her teeth, coaxing herself that she’d feel far more human getting it done and over with it as fast as possible. She was in the middle of the process when her cell phone rang back in the bedroom. She poked her head out the door and mumbled around a mouthful of paste to Troy, “Can you get—”

  “Hello,” Troy said, and the ringing stopped.

  She spat out the paste, rinsed, and spat some more, patted her face with the hand towel. She stepped into the hall and almost tripped on Hershey, who was lying right outside the bathroom door. “Good dog,” she told him and hurried to the bedroom.

  Troy was standing next to her nightstand, her phone to his ear, appearing to be having himself a good ol’ chitchat. “She’s not feeling well this morning.”

  She went to him and held out her hand, wiggling her fingers. “Phone.”

  “Here she is.” Troy complied with her wishes.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “You’re not feeling well?” It was Terry.

  She glared at Troy. “I’m fine.”

  Troy shook his head. He didn’t smile easily, but she would describe the slight curl to his lips as nothing less than an expression of amusement. He was finding her ridiculous for wanting to deny how she felt, but Troy didn’t know Terry as well as she did.

  “Are you still coming in?” Terry asked.

  “Yeah, just let me—” She caught the time on the alarm clock. 7:30 AM. “Shit—”

  “Really?”

  “Sorry.” She tried to censor her speech around him. “I’ll meet you at the morgue.”

  “Okay.” Terry didn’t sound like he quite believed her.

  She tossed her phone on the bed and went for her dresser. “You never should have told him I’m not feeling well,” she said to Troy, who was hanging in the doorway. She looked over at him. “You hear…me?” The question broke up because she finally noticed him. How she hadn’t before now—well, she must have been ill. He was standing there in boxers, chest bare, with his six-pack abs and muscular shoulders. Completing the picture was his tousled blond hair that begged for her fingertips.

  He narrowed his eyes seductively and came over to her. “And why couldn’t I tell him that? He’s your partner.”

  “It’s just not something we talk about.”

  “You’re a strange one sometimes, you know.”

  “Thanks,” she said drily.

  “Don’t take that the wrong way. I love that you’re unique and you have these quirks, but—” he cupped her elbows in his big, strong, manly hands “—why can’t he know you’re not feeling well?”

  “Why?” she pushed out. “Because he won’t let it go. I had that cold a few weeks ago—you know, at the time of Cynthia’s wedding.”

  “Sure…”

  “Yeah, well, Terry has a way of making me feel worse.”

  “How?” His brow knotted.

  “He just…” She rolled her hands not even sure how to put it into words. “He gets in my head. Psychosomatic.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t say it like you think I’m crazy.”

  “Well.” He smiled and didn’t hide the fact.

  She nudged him in the shoulder but made the mistake of letting her palm lay flat against his bare flesh. She put her mouth on his and was ready to risk getting locked out of the autopsy when he pulled back.

  “I thought you had to go,” he said.

  “What? No, I never said—”

  He tucked some of her hair around her ear. “You told Terry you’d meet him at the morgue.”

  She let out a long sigh, also remembering last night when she’d hoped to greet a new day with a grand epiphany. That hadn’t happened, and apparently sex wasn’t happening either.

  -

  Sixteen

  Madison hustled through the corridors to the morgue. She was moving so fast that her legs could barely keep up, and it had her torso leaning forward. She must have looked hilarious.

  “Finally!” Terry flailed his arms when he saw her. He was positioned in the morgue doorway. “Standing here so Richards won’t lock the doors, but I was starting to fear him coming along and pushing me into the hall.”

  “Oh, Terry, you scare easily.” She smirked and entered the morgue. She went straight over to Cole Richards who was next to a gray slab where Chantelle Carson was draped with a white sheet from the breasts down. Her face appeared soft and relaxed, an observation Madison often made of the dead and found just as unusual every time. It often made her question if heaven or another spiritual plane did exist, but she didn’t get too caught up in philosophy. Who could really say for sure?

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “Morning.” Richards didn’t say anything about how close she was to being locked out, but his gaze and tone of voice certainly
did. “I’ve reached out to the victim’s friend, Lana Barrett,” he said, “and she’s coming in to make the formal ID this afternoon.”

  It was just procedure because Carson hadn’t been found with identification, but they were certain she was the woman on the slab. Basically, if they didn’t hear anything to the contrary from Richards, the ID held. In this instance, they’d proceed as if it was verified unless advised otherwise. “Okay, thanks.”

  Richards dipped his head. “All right, so I’ve done a preliminary. Lividity told me that she died lying on her back.”

  Lividity was how blood pooled to the lowest gravity points in a body after death. It was a good indicator of body position.

  “She died in that shed, as we thought,” Madison said.

  “I believe that’s safe to say.”

  Madison remembered the drops of blood leading from the door to where Carson had come to rest. “Do we know what items were used as a murder weapon yet?” She recalled Richards had thought a couple things could have been used.

  “One weapon. A five-inch blade, non-serrated. Possibly a kitchen knife.”

  Madison glanced at Terry, back at Richards. “Sounds like you got that narrowed down.”

  Richards smiled and moved toward Carson. He lowered the sheet, exposing Carson’s torso. The stab wounds had been cleaned but appeared raw. “As you know, I often x-ray the bodies before starting on the internal examination. Something turned up in the first wound.”

  “The first?” Madison asked, curious how he determined which came first.

  Richards pointed with his gloved finger from one stab wound to the next and, as he went along, said, “One… Two… Three.” He returned to number one.

  She leaned over the body, the suspense killing her, but it was the smell of decomp that did her in. It shot straight up her nose and roiled her stomach. Bile started up her esophagus. How could she have anything left to puke? She stepped back and swallowed roughly.

  Richards stopped all movement. “You all right?”

  “Yeah…I…” She held up a finger and stared across the autopsy suite. She just needed to focus on the case and get the smell out of her— Another mouthful of bile, too much to swallow. Shit! Shit! She slapped one hand over her mouth and held up her index finger on the other hand. She hustled to the nearest sink and let it out. As she rinsed the basin and saw the last of her vomit go down the drain, any relief she felt physically was overridden by absolute embarrassment.

  She turned slowly. Both men were watching her.

  “Go ahead.” She gestured toward Richards.

  Richards didn’t question her, didn’t pry with his gaze. If only Terry worked that way; he was staring at her.

  The ME pressed a finger next to wound one. “This is the cleaner cut as you can see. No hesitation marks.” He paused and waited for Madison to nod in acknowledgment. He continued. “I collected this from the wound track.” He grabbed a vial from a side table and held it up for Madison and Terry to see. A small silver object was inside.

  “Looks like it could be the tip of the knife,” Terry said.

  “I’d say that it is. Stainless steel. And it’s because it broke off in the first stab that the other two appear to have hesitation marks, but that was an error in judgment.”

  “So her attacker didn’t hesitate?” Madison asked.

  Richards shook his head. “Not that I see, and they also made the stabs in quick succession.”

  “Well, then, we just need to find a kitchen knife missing the tip,” she tossed out and glanced at Terry.

  “Yeah, that’s all.” Terry rubbed the back of his neck as he often did when he felt overwhelmed.

  “Is there any way to tell from that what brand the knife was?”

  “Not sure we could go that far with it, but the grade of stainless could be determined. Might even be able to narrow it down to type of knife, once we have something to compare it to anyway.”

  “The needle in the haystack,” Terry lamented.

  Madison ignored the cliché and continued. “The grade of stainless could tell us if it was a high-end knife, though?”

  “Should.”

  “Then we’d have an idea of the wealth of our killer…to have that certain knife on hand,” Madison concluded.

  “Not really.” Richards pressed his lips together. “Someone without much money could have been gifted an expensive knife set.”

  She nodded, and said, “Fine, I get that.”

  “And that’s also making the assumption it’s not your run-of-the-mill stainless steel, which it very well might be.”

  “Again, the needle in—” Terry clamped his mouth shut when she leveled her gaze on him.

  “Were there any defensive wounds?” she asked.

  “None.”

  “Her attacker could have surprised her,” she suggested.

  “Or she didn’t have a chance to protect herself—with a waving knife coming at her and all,” Terry countered with raised eyebrows.

  “Or that,” she conceded. “As for time of death, do you believe that—”

  Richards nodded and set the vial back down. “I stand behind my original summation that she died between nine Friday night and two Saturday morning. Cause of death was a nicked artery.” He pointed to wound three and continued. “The other two wounds, if they had been treated in time, are in nonlethal areas. If she had gotten help…”

  “Except number three would have killed her anyway?” Madison wagered.

  “It’s possible if she got immediate help, surgery could have stayed the bleeding.”

  “Now we’ll never know,” Madison mumbled and licked her lips, feeling all pasty-mouthed. Gum would have been nice. “What does the angle of the wounds tell us about the height of the attacker?”

  “Angled slightly upward, and I’d estimate her attacker would be no more than six feet.”

  Lana Barrett had described Saul Abbott as six foot. “It would seem she knew her attacker. It could explain her lack of defensive wounds. Maybe she never viewed them as a threat.” Madison paused, mentally piecing together Carson’s final moments. If Carson knew him or her, that meant the letters GB really could have been intended to identify her killer. If so, that seemed to eliminate Saul Abbot, but they didn’t really know if that was his real name. Madison added, “And being stabbed by someone she trusted really would have put her into a state of shock.” She glanced at Richards, who nodded in agreement. “The shock could have been what enabled her to walk to the Bernsteins’.”

  “She would have been in delusional state, pumped with adrenaline. Though I don’t hypothesize.” Richards flashed her one of his toothy smiles, his pearly whites whiter than most people could hope for, even with a treatment.

  She turned to her partner. “I think it’s more important than ever to find out what GB stands for, and if it is a person, we might very well have our killer.”

  -

  Seventeen

  Madison and Terry stayed a while longer with Richards, but nothing seemed to come back as enlightening as the fact Chantelle Carson had likely known her attacker and wasn’t the victim of a random mugging. They also dropped off the framed photo obtained from Lana Barrett to the lab, securing it in an evidence locker. Cynthia would probably be in later. If she hadn’t been in a hurry last night, she would have run it up to Cynthia in Carson’s apartment.

  “We need to find Saul Abbott, like, yesterday.” Madison huffed it back to her desk.

  “Through this Carl Long guy?”

  “That’s the plan.” She dropped into her chair.

  “We could have started last night.” He looked at her and held eye contact. “Surprised we didn’t.”

  “I had to go home. Troy missed me.”

  “Uh-huh. For some reason, I think Mr. SWAT can manage on his own.”

  She turned on her m
onitor and started the search for Carl Long. She wanted to forget what Terry had just said. Because maybe he was right, and Troy could manage on his own. Maybe that’s what he really wanted. Her stomach clenched as the results filled in on the screen. She scribbled down the addresses for the three Carl Longs in the city and said, “Let’s go.”

  “So, what’s going on with you?”

  Madison had just pulled out of the station’s lot and merged into traffic. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Pfft. You’re not fine. You’ve never been sick at an autopsy before.”

  “Just forget about it.”

  “Well, if you’ve got the flu, I don’t want it.” Terry shifted closer to the passenger door as if to emphasize his point.

  “I don’t have the flu.” Not that she really had a clue what was going on. It seemed like everything—and nothing—churned her stomach these days.

  “How long have you been feeling off?”

  “I’m fine, Terry,” she stamped out.

  “Not sure about that. Troy said you were sick this morning.”

  She twisted her hands on the steering wheel. Troy hadn’t understood why she didn’t want Terry to know, but now she was dealing with it. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Ah—” He held up a finger. “You will be, but you’re not.”

  She kept her gaze straight ahead.

  “I don’t know how long you’ve been feeling sick—”

  “I just ate something that didn’t agree with me. That’s all.”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  She slammed the brakes at a yellow light, and the nose of the car dipped down. “No, I’m not pregnant.”

  “Whoa!” Terry held up his hands. “Okay, just a thought. Otherwise…” His face became shadowed.

  “Otherwise what?”

  “Remember when we were concerned about the mole on Annabelle’s back?”