Rocky Mountain Mystery

by Cassie Miles

  The door opened. Jake Zitti! Though his thinning hair was now shaved bald, Blair knew him. There he was. The man who had destroyed her life. She saw confusion in his dark eyes, a nervous quiver at the corner of his mouth.

  As she stared at him, she felt...nothing. She was detached—as if she'd surgically removed this cancerous man from her life. Jake the Snake was nothing to her, less than zero.

  "Where's David?" she asked.

  "Hey, Blair. It's great to see you."

  Not bothering with a polite response, she pushed past him into the town house. "David?"

  He appeared in the foyer, carrying a gun.

  She pointed at the automatic pistol. "What are you doing?"

  "Cleaning my weapon."

  From behind her back, she heard Jake snicker as he said, "Polishing his rod."

  What a jerk!

  Jake continued, "Checking his clip."

  Ignoring him, Blair said to David, "I've decided to observe the autopsy. Come with me. I'd like you to drive."

  "Let's go."

  He came toward her with the Glock automatic still in his hand. Though Blair was concerned about the fishy threat from the Fisherman, she didn't want to drag David into the role of protector. "When was the last time you fired that thing?"

  "Years ago."

  At the Coroner's Office there were dozens of armed police. She ought to be safe "Leave the gun."

  "Right." He handed the pistol to Jake. "Put this away. Someplace safe."

  As they whisked out the door, Jake called after them. "Have fun. See you. Bye."

  "Jackass," David muttered under his breath.

  "Does he live with you?"

  "Temporarily. He moved in about a week and a half ago after his latest girlfriend kicked him out." David flinched as if trying to shake off the sticky tentacles of an unpleasant parasite. "I'm sorry you had to run into him like this."

  "Doesn't bother me," she said. "I always wondered what would happen when I saw him again. Now I know."

  "You've forgiven him?"

  "Not really," she said. "But hating takes too much effort."

  At the curb, David held open the passenger door to a bronze Acura and she climbed inside. She fastened her seat belt and gritted her teeth. Ever since the accident, she was uncomfortable riding in cars when other people were driving. This time, she had no choice; the stink made her own vehicle unbearable.

  David started up the car. "Why did you change your mind about the autopsy?"

  "Why did you have a gun in your hand?"

  He gave her one of his poignant half grins. "I'm the reporter. I'm the one who's supposed to answer a question with a question."

  Blair knotted her fingers together on her lap and kept her eye trained on the road, alert to any potential hazard as he pulled away from the curb. "You first."

  "The gun is for self-defense. I don't know how dangerous this investigation might get, and I want to be prepared."

  "The Fisherman never attacks men."

  "Not yet." He turned west on Eighth Avenue, merging with acceptable expertise. "You changed your mind. It sounds like you're certain that we're dealing with the original Fisherman."

  "Maybe."

  "Less than an hour ago, you told me he was in jail and the current murder might be the work of a copycat. What happened, Blair?"

  A gutted trout in the passenger seat of her car didn't seem so scary now that she was with David. And she didn't want to admit that she'd been terrified by a fish, driven to the brink of passing out.

  She pointed to a minivan that edged too close on the passenger side. "Watch out for this guy."

  David slowed to let the minivan pull ahead on the three-lane street approaching central Denver. "Why did you change your mind?"

  "Gosh, you're persistent." She fidgeted. "Let's just say that I didn't have anything better to do this afternoon."

  "Did you tell Adam you'd be at the autopsy?"

  "I guess I ought to do that." She pointed to the next corner. "I think there's a pay phone at that gas station."

  "Don't you have a cell?"

  The modern dependence on mobile communication was unnecessary in her case, she hardly left her condo. "Anybody who needs to reach me can leave a message on my home phone."

  David reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a ridiculously tiny phone.

  "Pull over," she snapped. "No driving while you're on the phone."

  "Right. Okay. You're kind of a back-seat driver, Blair."

  "Kind of."

  He eased to the curb and put the car in Park while he called Adam. And she concentrated on breathing slowly, calming herself. She certainly didn't want her former colleagues at the Coroner's Office to see her behaving like a crazy woman. The only thing she had left was her previous reputation.

  David ended the call. "Adam says he's glad that you've decided to participate. And he wants us to stop by his office in Golden when we're done."

  She nodded.

  David held the tiny phone toward her. "I want you to take this. To use in case of an emergency."

  She pushed it back toward him. "Don't need it."

  "Give me a break, Blair. You won't let me hire Xena as a bodyguard, won't let me carry my Glock. At least, take the damn phone. You might have to call 911."

  "Fine." Though she didn't like being contradicted, it was nice to have someone fussing over her.

  As they neared the Coroner's Office, where the autopsy would take place, she gave a series of directions, leading to the most convenient parking lot.

  David pulled into a slot and turned to her. "Would it be better if I dropped you off near the door?"

  "Why?"

  "I know you can swim like a dolphin, but I wasn't sure how you are with walking."

  "Not a problem," she said defensively. "My right leg is seven-eighths of an inch shorter than the left, but I have a corrective lift. I'm fine with walking. In the right shoes, I can even jog."

  "I didn't mean to insult you, but I remember what it was like right after the accident." His voice was gentle, without a trace of condescension. "All the pins you had in your leg. All the operations. For a while the surgeons weren't sure you were going to be okay."

  "Guess I showed them."

  His gaze melted over her like warm honey. "I'm proud of you, Blair."

  Basking in his approval, her heart lifted. The day seemed more golden and bright. "I could get accustomed to these compliments."

  "I'm not lying," he said. "You amaze me."

  Her cheeks warmed. "Now you're feeding me a line."

  "Don't get me confused with Jake. He's the slick one, the pick-up artist. I'm the dork who sits in the corner, not drinking so he can be the designated driver."

  "The caretaker."

  She remembered, too. David had always taken responsibility, made sure everybody else was all right. He was kind enough to open his home to an annoying jerk like Jake. He wanted to hire a bodyguard for her. Though his motivation was partially due to a generous nature, she suspected a darker rationale. He took care of others because he hadn't been able to save his sister.

  Losing Danielle was the defining moment in his life. And that worried her. She wasn't sure if David could ever heal from that terrible wound.

  Entering the Coroner's Office where he had come five years ago to identify his sister's body, David realized how much he needed to know the truth about her murder. Throughout the trial of Eddy Adderly and all the way through the sentencing, he had doubts. The evidence was inconclusive. Alibis didn't match. There was a lack of tangible proof for every murder except the last one.

  But he accepted the verdict. For the past five years he tried to convince himself that justice had been done. But now he didn't believe it. The Fisherman had struck again.

  "Excuse me." A tall, thin man stepped up beside them while they were signing in and getting their visitor badges. "Aren't you David Crawford?"

  "That's right." David looked directly into the man's round, black glasses.
"And you are?"

  "Justin Hunter." His smile was shy and somehow furtive. His handshake was the same. "I'm a fan of your work."

  Though some of the magazines that printed David's articles ran a small photo, he wasn't often recognized. "Do you work here, Justin?"

  "I sell medical supplies."

  As Justin continued to stare with a weird intensity, David moved away from him. "Nice meeting you."

  He fell into step beside Blair. As she proceeded down the hall, he felt as if he was escorting royalty. Everybody who had known Dr. Blair Weston before the accident greeted her enthusiastically. New employees approached her with deference. She had a sterling reputation as a medical examiner. Almost legendary.

  The head M.E., a husky man with a ruddy complexion, enveloped her in a bear hug. "Good to see you, Dr. Weston."

  "Back at you, Dr. Reinholdt." Blair's radiant smile was wonderful to behold. "You look hale and hearty."

  "A little too hearty," Reinholdt said, patting his ample belly. "The wife has me on tofu and salad."

  "A wise woman," Blair said.

  "Of course you'd take her side," he said. "You women always stick together."

  Blair winked. "Because we're always right."

  Unnoticed, David observed the interactions of the small but boisterous crew of pathologists. These were people who performed all manner of chemical analysis, ranging from DNA tests to toxicology. They were scientists—smart, well-trained people with high IQs. Also quirky. David noticed a definite nerd gene in their collective personality.

  At the door to the autopsy suite, he encountered a more familiar face—a detective from Denver PD, Homicide Division. His name was John Weathers, and he'd been part of the team investigating the original series of Fisherman killings.

  David had never been impressed with Weathers's abilities. He was a bland, by-the-book cop with beige hair and a brown suit, average height, average weight. He had no imagination when it came to tracking down a killer who was unfortunately near genius in his crimes.

  Willing to let bygones be bygones, David stuck out his hand. "Detective Weather. I was sorry to hear about Pamela Comforti. My condolence on the loss of your co-worker."

  "You're David Crawford, right?" As he shook hands, a realization dawned and his brown eyes narrowed. "The reporter."

  "That's right."

  "Get out," Weathers said. "I don't want the press in here."

  "I'm not covering this case as a journalist," David said. "It's personal."

  "I don't want you here."

  That was too damned bad. David straightened his shoulders. "I'm not leaving."

  It probably would've been smarter to talk his way around the detective's objections, but David wasn't inclined to be reasonable. At issue was his sister's murder. If the cops had screwed up five years ago and arrested the wrong man...

  Weathers beckoned to a uniformed cop who stood farther down the corridor near the metal detectors at the exit. "Escort this man from the building."

  Blair joined them. "Is there a problem?"

  "Dr. Weston," Weathers acknowledged her. "I appreciate your willingness to help out on this case."

  "I'm sure you do," she said, "especially since I'm not on the clock as a county employee."

  The uniform approached with a rolling gait. His meaty fist rested on the gun clipped to his utility belt.

  David braced himself. His adrenaline level surged; he was prepared to take on both the uniform and Weathers. Again, not the smartest plan.

  Blair touched his arm. "Please come with me, David. They're ready to get started."

  "Sorry, ma'am," Weathers said. "This man is press. He's not allowed to—"

  "Then I'm leaving," Blair said.

  Dr. Reinholdt stepped up behind her. His brow furrowed as he glared at Weathers. "What's going on? Detective, I need Dr. Weston's opinion."

  Blair added, "And I won't stay without David."

  "Right," the detective snapped. He turned to David, "If I see one word about this autopsy in print, you'll be sorry."

  Suppressing the urge to gloat, David gave a quick nod and followed Blair into the autopsy suite where the body of the deceased, covered by a sheet, lay on a wide metal gurney under bright lights.

  As Blair slipped into a gown and put on a pair of latex gloves, she whispered, "What was that all about?"

  "Not important."

  David had attended part of one autopsy and had seen the aftermath of another—enough to know he didn't want to stand too close. Edging back, he leaned against a stainless steel counter and folded his arms across his chest to keep from accidentally touching something he should avoid.

  From the opposite side of the room, he saw Detective Weathers's eyes watching him as though David were a dangerous felon. Some cops, like Weathers, had a problem: they got so wrapped up in their own authority that they forgot the real crime and the real criminals. Determining who was in charge was a whole lot less important than the dead woman on the autopsy table.

  Dr. Reinholdt removed the sheet. "We've already completed the external examination and taken photos. There are a few details I'd like to point out."

  Blair and three others—M.E.s and forensic pathologists—leaned forward to study the body.

  Reinholdt said, "The ligature contusions at the wrists and ankles indicate that she was tied up and struggled against her bonds."

  "Nylon rope?" Blair asked.

  "Yes."

  "Cause of death?"

  "Drowning."

  From where he stood, David saw a length of marbled white thigh, slightly bluish. He could also see her head. In profile, her nose seemed prominent. Her cheek sank in. Her hair was a limp tangle of auburn.

  "David," Blair called to him. "Come closer."

  Though he was fine where he was, he didn't want to appear squeamish. David put on his reporter's face. It was his job to observe and make deductions; he could handle this. Stepping forward, he looked where she was pointing.

  "See here," she said, "on the abdomen. There's an oddly shaped circle of pinprick scars. Postmortem injuries?"

  "Yes," Dr. Reinholdt said. "Those puncture wounds were made after death."

  With a gloved finger, Blair probed the flesh. "It's a jagged tear. Not a pin." She looked up at Reinholdt. "A fish hook."

  "Good call, Dr. Weston." He glanced toward one of the forensic pathologists. "I told you she was sharp."

  Blair lifted the right hand to study the pattern of bruises on the forearms. "Her hands were tied in front of her. She lifted her arms to cover her face. Or to lash out."

  "She put up a fight," Dr. Reinholdt said. "But we found no tissue under the fingernails. Matter of fact, we've found very little. No semen. No DNA. No fingerprints."

  "A clean kill," said the pathologist. "Very clean. After death, the body was washed thoroughly with a strong lye-based soap."

  Blair peeked over her shoulder at David. "Except for the circle of wounds on the abdomen, this murder is consistent with the Fisherman."

  "I see." He saw too much. His view of the inert body on the cold metal table churned up a serious revulsion in his gut. He might have puked right here, embarrassing himself badly, if he hadn't also felt a hard burning rage. It was wrong for this innocent victim to be lying here. The man who killed her and terrorized her before death deserved to be caught, tried- and brought to justice. He deserved to be confined for all eternity in his own private hell.

  David stepped back when he saw Reinholdt take a scalpel from a tray of instruments.

  Though the temperature in the autopsy room was cool, a sweat broke across David's forehead. He adjusted the knot on his necktie. His throat tightened; it was hard to swallow.

  Reinholdt made a Y-shaped incision from the shoulders to the middle of the chest, then straight down. The dark red blood had congealed. The heart was no longer pumping. The flesh was opened to reveal the internal organs.

  It wasn't necessary for David to stay in the room. He didn't know enough about anatomy
to notice any unusual clues, and he wasn't particularly interested in learning. He could leave right now and wait for Blair to tell him the important details.

  Struggling to swallow, he glanced across the room at Detective Weathers and the uniformed cop who stood beside him. Neither of them were looking directly at the body. The uniformed officer's complexion had paled and his jaw flexed tight. If they can take it, so can I. David forced himself to watch as Reinholdt removed an organ and placed it on the kind of hanging scale found in grocery stores.

  The autopsy team worked quickly and efficiently, keeping up a running commentary that was recorded by an overhead microphone for later transcription. After removing and weighing various organs, they took tissue samples.

  Blair stepped back beside him for a moment. "Any questions?"

  "What do they do with those pieces?"

  "We preserve the body fluids and tissues for microscopic and toxicological testing."

  "Wasn't she drowned?"

  "Beyond cause of death, the body can reveal a lot of clues."

  When she looked directly at him, David worked hard at being cool. He'd already wiped the sweat off his forehead, but his mouth was cottony, and his lips stuck together.

  She cocked her head and asked, "Are you okay?"

  "You bet." He nodded slowly so his head wouldn't get dizzy and fall right off his shoulders onto the tiled floor.

  She patted his arm and turned back to the autopsy table. The inside of the body wasn't tidy like those neat overlapping transparencies in biology class that showed the layers of sinew and muscle, then different-colored organs, then a white skeleton. This work was messy, and there was a pungent smell that defied description.

  David had to look at something else. He concentrated on the back of Blair's head. Her soft brown hair made a pleasant distraction. She leaned forward to get a better view, and he could see part of her profile—high cheekbones and sharply defined chin. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and her fingers twitched as though she was itching to take a more active part.

  "I'm particularly curious about the stomach contents," she said.

  "When we have the analysis, I'll call," Reinholdt promised. To the pathologist, he said, "Be careful with the liquid from the lungs. We want to know where that water came from."