Dr. Pruitt stepped between McVie and Fenway toward the double doors at the front of the theater. He pulled out a ring of keys, selected one, and opened the door. They all went into the foyer, then Pruitt nervously led them down a corridor off to the side.
They passed three blue doors with small rectangular windows. Fenway looked through one window and saw student desks and a table pushed halfway into a corner. Ahead of them loomed a large gray door, and Dr. Pruitt approached it carefully, slowing down as he got closer.
He stood in front of the door for a moment, then turned the handle and pulled it open, revealing a stairwell. Whitewashed concrete-block walls and a metal staircase. The foot of the staircase was on the far side from the door, and Fenway could see, partially hidden by the metal stairs, a crumpled form at the bottom. Even at this angle, the pool of blood around the figure’s head grabbed the eye and drew it in.
McVie and Fenway both took several steps forward, and Fenway snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, while McVie slipped on a white pair. “This is Jessica Marquez?”
“Yes,” Dr. Pruitt said, running his hands through his hair.
Fenway squatted down next to the body.
Jessica Marquez lay on her left side, her shoulder blades against the wall, her left arm splayed at an awkward angle behind her head. Her eyes were open, and her lips were slightly parted. Her legs still partially rested on the stairs, with her left foot on the second step and her right foot on the first.
She wore a navy blue blazer and charcoal gray slacks with tan high heels.
“I think she fell,” Dr. Pruitt said.
Following procedure, Fenway felt for a pulse, knowing it was useless. She tried to keep her tone as conversational as she could. “What makes you say that, Dr. Pruitt?”
“I mean,” Dr. Pruitt stuttered, “she’s lying at the bottom of the stairs. Look at those high heels. Surely she caught her heel on something and lost her balance.”
“You’re saying she must have hit her head on the way down?” Fenway asked.
“I suppose,” Dr. Pruitt replied in a low voice.
Taking care not to step in the pool of blood, Fenway took out a small penlight and shined it on the back of Jessica Marquez’s head. McVie stepped forward and craned his head so he could see better as well. The light from the small flashlight reflected off the coagulated blood and the dead woman’s thick, shiny black hair. Fenway could see a bloody wound visible near the crown of her scalp.
“What is it, Miss Stevenson?” Dr. Pruitt said, straining for a look.
“Sheriff,” she began.
“Dr. Pruitt,” McVie said, snapping to life, “perhaps it would be best if you waited outside.”
“Outside? It’s cold out there.”
“I mean anywhere outside the stairwell,” he said. “Until we know for sure that this was an accident, we need to treat it like a crime scene.”
“A crime scene? You think she was—”
“We don’t think anything yet, Dr. Pruitt. Perhaps you would be more comfortable in the theatre lobby.”
“I don’t feel comfortable without someone representing the school here,” Dr. Pruitt said.
McVie stared at Dr. Pruitt. “You’re telling me you want me to put in my report how you insisted on being at the crime scene where you had the opportunity to contaminate the evidence?”
“I don’t—that’s not—” He sighed. “Okay, fine. I’ll go wait in the theater lobby.”
“I’ll join you,” McVie said.
“Hey, McVie,” Fenway shouted.
McVie turned to Fenway.
“Alibi,” Fenway mouthed, pointing at Dr. Pruitt.
McVie rolled his eyes and followed Pruitt out, leaving Fenway alone with the body. Fenway looked for other wounds on the scalp, as closely as she could without touching it, but found nothing.
She gingerly tried to lift the lifeless arm, but rigor mortis had set in; it was cold in the stairwell—maybe fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit at most, something to consider in fixing the time of death.
Fenway stood up and shined her flashlight on the stairs.
The stairs were painted a medium gray with a slight undercoating of yellow, a nauseating combination that was enough to make Fenway a little sick to her stomach. She was glad she hadn’t had breakfast yet.
The stairwell, though poorly lit, was clean and well cared for: the paint on the walls looked a year or two old at most, with no papers, trash, or old gum. The stairs of the nursing education building at Western Washington had been constantly dirty and often full of litter.
Fenway took out a few clear evidence bags and looked carefully on each step, taking care to step around the body as she went up the first set of steps. There was blood on both the wall and a few steps above the body. A small, hard-edged object sat in a large splatter of blood on the fourth step from the second-floor landing. She bent down. It was an off-white, somewhat triangular shape, with a tinge of pink on one edge.
“Maybe it’s a pebble,” Fenway murmured, although she was certain it was a piece of bone. She pulled her phone out and took pictures, both a wide shot and a close-up, and then used a pair of tweezers to pick up the fragment and drop it in her evidence bag.
She continued to scour the steps, and on the second-floor landing she discovered another small object covered in blood. Slightly larger than the previous bone fragment she had found, it lay halfway between the door and the step. She took pictures of it, not sure of what it was as it lay on the floor. Fenway picked it up with tweezers and shined her flashlight on it—a piece of glass or crystal.
She heard the stairwell’s bottom door open and close, and then Dez’s voice. “Fenway?”
“Up here.”
“Oh, damn. That’s a lot of blood.”
“Head wound. Looks like a blow from an object with an edge, possibly glass or crystal.”
“You found a piece of evidence?” Dez stepped around the body and began to climb the stairs.
“I found a few pieces of evidence,” Fenway said. “A shard from the possible murder weapon. Also, body’s in early rigor. That means about four hours given this temperature. We’re probably looking at sometime between eleven thirty last night and one thirty this morning.”
“So this is a murder scene.”
Fenway nodded. “I think she was hit up here, near the second-floor landing. This is where the blood spatter starts. We’d have to get csi here to be sure, but it’s a good bet.”
Dez set her mouth in a line. “All right, thanks for starting me off on the right foot. Now get out of here and get some sleep.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” Dez lowered her voice even though it was only the two of them on the stairs. “I heard what happened to your dad. Go home. You’re dealing with way too much right now.”
Fenway snapped her fingers. “I should have secured the area before now. I’ll go get the police tape and start. I’ll get McVie over here.”
As if on cue, McVie opened the door and stuck his head in.
“Hey, Sheriff,” Fenway began, “it looks like the lethal blow was struck on or near the second-floor landing, so we’ll have to cordon off the whole stairway, and probably part of the second floor—”
“Seriously, Fenway, go home,” McVie said. “Dez is here now.”
“I know. I just wanted to make sure Dez saw what I saw.” Fenway started walking down the stairs, as slowly as she could get away with. About halfway down, she pulled out her phone. “I’ll email you the photos.”
“Thank you kindly.” Dez nodded. “Go home.”
“You know I don’t have my car, right?”
“You want me to drive you home? What are you, seven years old?” Dez folded her arms. “You want me to check under the bed for monsters before you go to sleep, too?”
McVie took his car keys out of his pocket and handed them to Fenway as she reached the bottom. “Take my car. Dez can drop me off at your place to pick it up later.”
Fenway nodded. “Yeah, okay.” She opened the door and stepped into the hallway toward DiFazio Hall, and as the door was about to close, McVie pulled it open and stepped out with her.
“Oh—what is it?”
“Are you okay, Fenway?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because your dad got arrested for murder, and you’re making excuses not to go home.”
Fenway blinked. Of course she didn’t want to go home to the same endless circle of thoughts that had kept her awake for three hours. Of her father in jail. Of her former professor and what he did to her. Of her father knowing about what her professor did.
Of what he might have done after he found out.
Fenway shuddered. “It’s not—I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I didn’t sleep well. I’ll call Charlotte when I wake up. We’ll make a plan. I’m sure he’ll hire an expensive lawyer and make sure my father doesn’t spend another night in jail.”
“Okay.” McVie stepped closer to her, and for a split second Fenway thought he might hug her. “Call me if you need anything. I mean it.”
“Sure.” She turned to go, then perked up. “Does Pruitt have an alibi?”
“Home asleep. He says his wife can vouch for him. Now go on.”
Fenway looked in McVie’s eyes; they were kind and gentle, but Fenway had the strange urge to turn and run away. “Thanks, Craig.”
She went through the foyer, not even stopping to acknowledge Dr. Pruitt where he sat on a wooden bench, and she rushed out the door. Her heart pounding in her ears, Fenway pushed the unlock button on McVie’s key fob before she even got halfway through the quad. She kept on pushing the button until she saw the flash of the Highlander’s parking lights.
She pulled the door open, started the engine, and backed out of the space without adjusting the seats or the mirrors. She heard a squeal and looked down, then released the parking brake. The suv lurched backward, and Fenway slammed on the brakes. She looked through the windshield and turned the highlights on, closed her eyes, and took several deep breaths.
What the hell is wrong with me?
When she opened her eyes again, her vision seemed to open up a little, and she took two more deep breaths before she realized she was shaking. She swore at the top of her voice, drawing out the vowel sounds, feeling her throat go raw, then closed her mouth.
Putting the Highlander in Drive, she navigated the campus roads to Nidever Expressway and the safety of the freeway. A wave of exhaustion flowed over her. Maybe that’s all it was: fatigue.
She hoped she’d be able to catch a few hours of sleep at her apartment.
Chapter Two
Fenway tossed and turned, flitting in and out of a light doze for a couple of hours, then she gave up getting back to sleep. She called Charlotte, who was beside herself that Nathaniel Ferris’s expensive corporate lawyers had failed to get her any information.
“They don’t have to arraign him for forty-eight hours,” Fenway said, “and with someone who’s a flight risk like my father, they might petition for seventy-two.”
“This is ridiculous,” Charlotte snapped. “What do we have these lawyers on retainer for if they can’t even tell me what’s going on?”
“I can ask around.”
“You haven’t already asked around?”
“It’s barely eight o’clock, Charlotte. I’ll call around, see if anyone knows anything.” She paused. “Do you know if he’s being held in the county jail, or did they move him somewhere else?”
“I didn’t ask. I just want him home.”
“Okay. I’ll do everything I can to find out why it’s taking so long.”
“If you find out where he is, please let me know. Maybe you could even go visit him.”
“I’m sure he’d rather see you than me.”
“He’d love to see you, and you can see him outside of visitors’ hours, can’t you?”
Fenway stared at her feet. “Yes. Yes, of course I’ll let you know where he is. As soon as I find out.”
Charlotte’s voice caught, but she coughed and gained control. “Thank you, Fenway.”
Fenway squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. “Sorry you’re going through this. I know how much you mean to him, and I’m sure this is hard for you.”
“He’s your father, Fenway. It should be hard for you, too.”
Charlotte’s words were a punch in the gut. Fenway had gone out of her way to say something nice, something supportive to Charlotte, and all she got was grief that she wasn’t worrying enough. “Yeah, well, we all have different ways of processing this stuff. Doesn’t mean it’s easy for me. Anyway, I need to go. I’ll keep you informed.”
She hung up before Charlotte could get another word in, and she seethed. Everyone does process stressful situations differently. She’d seen plenty of diverse reactions from the families of the injured, or dead, when she worked in the er in Seattle. She hadn’t cried right away when her mom died. She remembered her mother’s hand slipping from her grasp with a shuddering last exhale, then she was driving home from the hospital in a daze, eyes dry. The tears didn’t come until she was in the house her mother had bought, in bed with all the lights out, sensing but avoiding all the voicemails coming in from friends and lovers she didn’t want to see.
She shook her head. She’d gotten through hard situations by herself before. She could get through this too.
Fenway took her time getting ready, daydreaming in the shower, pulling out five outfits before picking the first one she’d touched. She wandered around the kitchen for ten minutes before deciding she didn’t want to have breakfast. McVie hadn’t come to the apartment to claim his car yet, so Fenway figured she’d drive it to work.
It was almost ten as she circled the block. She rarely got to work so late, and with the parking garage unusable, Fenway had trouble finding a parking space. She finally found a spot several blocks away, in front of the Phillips-Holsen Grand Hotel, just outside the valet area.
Getting out of the Highlander, Fenway felt the first drops of rain on her face. She wanted to take cover next to the building, but she didn’t want to deal with the valets who already eyed her suspiciously. She pulled her purse higher up on her shoulder.
Next to the hotel stood a boutique bakery, where a cup of coffee and a pastry would take the chill off the morning. She’d passed the bakery several times—she drove by it on her way to work almost every day—but hardly ever went because it didn’t open early enough. The few times she walked past, it smelled divine. Today was no different.
She ducked into the bakery as the skies opened and it started to pour, and the smell of dough and espresso teased her nose as she went up to the counter.
“Bonjour,” said the woman behind the counter. The white apron offset her dark skin and the multicolored African wrap around her head.
“Bonjour,” Fenway responded, her gaze landing on the pastries. She ordered a latte and a pain au chocolat, and after she paid, she turned from the counter with the pastry in her hand and almost dropped it.
Detective Deshawn Ridley from the Bellingham Major Crimes Unit sat ten feet in front of her.
“Coroner,” he said, nodding in greeting. He had a half-eaten croissant on his plate and a large cappuccino cup in front of him.
“Detective,” she said warily.
“Care to join me?”
Fenway didn’t want to but couldn’t see a way around it without being confrontational—which she considered for a moment.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve heard of your father’s arrest by now. I understand if you don’t want to sit.”
Fenway started to take a step away from the table and then reconsidered. “No, it’s okay.” She walked up to the table, slid the wooden chair back, and took a seat.
“I’ve had breakfast here every morning since I got here. It’s a good place.” He took a sip of his cappuccino.
“You’re staying close by?”
“The Phillips-Holsen next door
.”
“Wow, fancy. I didn’t think you could swing that as a public servant.”
Ridley shrugged. “I stay where they tell me to. I guess November isn’t a busy time of year here.” A corner of his mouth turned up. “But, yes, it is a nice hotel. Nice bar. Swanky. Makes me forget that I hang out in the crappy parts of town all day.”
The woman behind the counter called Joanne, and Fenway went to pick up her latte. She took a deep breath, then promised herself she’d finish her pastry and her coffee and be on her way. She walked back to the table, plastering what she hoped was a calm look on her face.
“Oh,” Ridley said as she sat down, “congratulations on the election, by the way. I read an article that it was the biggest margin of victory by a black candidate ever in Dominguez County.”
“Thank you. I’d like to take all the credit, but it sure helps when you have a weak opponent who can’t get out of his own way.”
Ridley grinned. “And when you have a top-shelf campaign manager.”
Fenway gave him a tight-lipped smile in return. “That too.” She took a sip of her latte. “I see you’ve gotten what you came for.”
“What, finding Professor Delacroix’s killer? I go where the evidence leads.”
“You have evidence that my father hired someone to kill the professor?”
Ridley kept grinning but said nothing.
“Of course, you can’t share with me what you have.”
“We’ll leave that for discovery at trial, or however the district attorney wishes to proceed.”
“You must be eager to get back to your family.”
Ridley chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“Divorce, that’s what’s funny,” Ridley said. “I’ve got a five-hundred-square-foot third-floor walk-up. Wife got the house. My hotel room is bigger than my apartment.” He coughed. “And I’ll be here a few more days, anyway.”
“Why’s that?”
“Just tying up some loose ends.”
Fenway narrowed her eyes.
The Upstaged Coroner Page 2
