“…sharp force injury to right side of neck, transecting right internal jugular vein. Injury begins on the right side of the neck, at the level of the mid-larynx, over the right sternocleidomastoid muscle, measuring three inches in length.”
Nessa felt her stomach lurch as Iris described the grotesque injuries laid out so pitifully before her on the sterile white sheet. She struggled to keep down the potful of coffee she’d downed in her efforts to stay awake this morning after pulling an all-nighter.
“…hemorrhage along the wound…transection of the left internal jugular vein…dark red hemorrhage in the adjacent subcutaneous tissue...”
Nessa’s feet started moving before her mind registered that she was going to be sick. She made it to the stainless-steel sink just in time to spew up what felt like a gallon of warm, brown liquid. Wesley stood behind her, holding a clean towel when she turned around.
“Don’t worry about it, Nessa, it happens to the best of us.”
“I hope you didn’t get that little episode on tape,” Nessa said, her cheeks flushed and sweaty.
Wesley just laughed and went back to stand beside Iris, who stood waiting over Penelope’s body, nonplussed by Nessa’s reaction. She continued to dictate notes, Wesley close behind her with the recorder, Nessa hovering a few feet away. Finally, Iris turned to Wesley and motioned for him to stop the recorder.
“We still have some wrap up to take care of, but you don’t need to stick around for that. I think I can call cause of death at this point.”
Nessa nodded, trying not to show her relief that the ordeal was over. Iris stepped away from the table, pulling down her face mask.
“The manner of death is clearly homicide. Although it is possible for someone to commit suicide by cutting their own throat, I found no evidence at the crime scene to support that theory, and there’s clear indications on the body that the injury was not self-inflicted.”
Nessa’s eyes widened, surprised by the notion someone could actually cut their own throat. She’d never even considered the possibility.
“I found no hesitation marks on the neck, and the injury was perpetrated by someone using their left hand. When I notified Penelope’s mother about her death, I verified that Penelope was right handed.”
Nessa nodded, glad that Iris hadn’t jumped to conclusions and was investigating all possibilities. She knew from experience that if they ever did get the killer into a court room, the defense would try anything, even accusing the victim of cutting her own throat, to get their client off.
“Cause of death was exsanguination, or in common terms, massive blood loss,” Iris continued. “The perpetrator cut her throat, slicing the jugular, so she bled out quite quickly.”
“Sounds as awful as it looks,” Nessa said, her mind whirring at the words Iris had used to describe the cause of death. She’d seen those words recently, in the old case files she’d gone through for Barker.
“Iris, are you able to access the autopsy files from 2006?”
“Yes, of course. Why do you ask? Is this homicide linked to an earlier case?”
Nessa hesitated, not wanting to drag Iris into the mess she’d created, but knowing she had no choice. She had to find out if whoever had killed Penelope Yates might have been responsible for the murder of Natalie Lorenzo or Helena Steele.
“I’m not sure, but we’ve received a tip that two murders in 2006 might be related to the death of Penelope Yates. One of the 2006 victims was Helena Steele. Her throat was also cut.”
Iris looked over her shoulder at the table, then back at Nessa.
“Let me finish up here, and then I’ll pull up the files for you. You can wait in my office if you like.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Nessa listened to Jerry’s recorded greeting again before hanging up without leaving a message. He must still be sulking. She’d gotten home from the crime scene at three o’clock in the morning and left again before breakfast to attend the autopsy. Safe to say Jerry wasn’t a happy camper.
Struggling to keep her eyes open, Nessa looked around the small, cozy office. Iris had furnished the space with a simple oak desk and matching credenza. The polished desktop was clear of the papers, files and clutter that routinely collected on Nessa’s desk, holding only a laptop computer and docking station.
Two picture frames stood on the credenza and Nessa leaned over to study them, suddenly curious about the medical examiner’s personal life. Iris had lived in Willow Bay for the last two years, but Nessa still hadn’t met her family, or had an opportunity to socialize with the quiet woman who always seemed so serious and composed.
Why would a talented woman like Iris move to a small town like Willow Bay? Was she running away from big city crime like me, or was it something else that brought her here?
A man in a loose white shirt, jeans and sandals gazed out from one of the photos. He was standing on the beach, a shy smile playing around his lips, his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets. Nessa recognized Iris’ warm brown eyes and dark, glossy hair.
Her father? Maybe an older brother? Whoever he is, he’s earned a place of honor in her office; he must mean a lot to her.
The other framed photo showed Iris in a graduation cap and gown. She beamed at the camera, one hand holding up a roll of paper with a red ribbon, the other hand draped over the shoulder of a woman even shorter than Iris, who Nessa estimated to be no more than five feet, two inches tall.
Nessa jumped when Iris suddenly opened the door, feeling a little guilty, as if she’d been searching through the desk drawers instead of looking at a few framed photos on display.
“Nice pictures. Those your parents?”
Iris nodded, her eyes resting on the man with the shy smile.
“Yes, my father loves the beach,” Iris said, sitting in the desk chair and switching on the laptop. “That’s one of the reasons he and my mother moved to Tampa after he finished medical school.”
“He’s a doctor?”
“He was. He’s…retired now.” Iris looked at Nessa, her expression grim. “He has Alzheimer’s. It’s hard for him, and for my mother.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Iris. I bet it’s hard on you, too.”
Iris shrugged, but Nessa saw her swallow hard as she answered.
“Yes, it’s hard to see him losing…himself. I moved to Willow Bay so I could be close to them. This was the closest city to Tampa that had a position available. I was very lucky to find it.”
A flicker of shame flashed through Nessa.
Well, now you have your answer as to why she’s here, Nessa.
Iris cleared her throat, turned to the computer, and rested her hands on the keyboard.
“Let me pull up those files. You said 2006?”
“Yes, in May. Natalie Lorenzo and Helena Steele.”
Iris raised her eyebrows as Nessa said the names but kept typing.
“Okay, I see Natalie Lorenzo’s autopsy file.”
Nessa kept her eyes on Iris’ face as the medical examiner read through the details of the report. Iris grimaced and shook her head.
“What is it?” Nessa asked. “Is something wrong with the file?”
“No, it’s fine. I just get frustrated when I look through some of these older files. The previous medical examiner wasn’t very…thorough. His notes are sometimes hard to decipher.”
Iris turned the monitor to show Nessa the scanned copy of the official death certificate. Sloppy, handwritten notes filled several boxes, above the signature of Archibald Faraday, Chief Medical Examiner. Nessa wrinkled her nose.
“Oh yes, I remember him,” Nessa said, recalling the old man that had been so difficult to work with, wishing she knew Iris well enough to tell her how she really felt.
I sure am glad that old bastard finally retired.
“I hate to talk ill of people,” Iris said, a blush rising in her cheeks. “But…suffice to say it doesn’t seem as if he was concerned with doing a high-quality job. I’m not sure he was properly trained
.”
“Talk as much as you want, Iris. The old guy was a real piece of work. Rude to everyone but the chief and the mayor.”
“Yes, that’s what I’ve heard from my team,” Iris agreed. “They weren’t exactly sad to see him go.”
Archie Faraday’s dour face flashed through Nessa’s mind. He’d been the chief medical examiner when she’d first moved to Willow Bay. His family had helped establish Willow Bay at the turn of the twentieth century, and he never let anyone forget it.
“If you look up Good Old Boy in the dictionary, you just might see Archie’s picture,” Nessa said, shaking her head in disgust. “Along with the mayor, the chief and practically everyone on the city council.”
“I certainly got the feeling that he wasn’t too happy to be turning over the reins to a woman, and a Vietnamese woman at that,” Iris replied, and Nessa thought she saw a shadow of anger in her eyes.
“Well we’re all glad you’re here now. We need someone like you to help us solve the tough cases.”
Iris dropped her eyes back to the computer screen and sighed.
“Okay, here it is…Natalie Lorenzo’s manner and cause of death listed as homicide by ligature strangulation. The notes in the report indicate signs of sexual assault.”
Iris frowned at the screen, then looked up at Nessa.
“This doesn’t seem to fit with the Penelope Yates case.”
Nessa felt doubt creep in as she watched Iris’ fingers tap out more words on the keyboard.
“Okay, I’ve got Helena Steele’s file open.”
Iris studied the file, her eyes widening as she read.
“Archie Faraday again, so not much to go on, but he does list the manner of death as homicide, and the cause of death exsanguination due to a cut throat.”
“Does it say if the injury was inflicted by a left-handed perp?”
Nessa held her breath, knowing the answer wouldn’t prove anything, but would shed light on the theory that all three murders were linked.
“No, it doesn’t include the details needed to determine that,” Iris said, her mouth set in an angry line. “This is pretty basic stuff. It’s outrageous that Faraday was allowed to submit this type of inadequate report.”
Nessa let out the breath she’d been holding.
“So, there’s no way we can tell if the killer was left-handed?”
“Let me try one more thing.”
Iris browsed through a library of folders, finally double-clicking on one. A collection of thumbnail images appeared, and she scrolled through the autopsy photos, stopping on a close-up picture of Helena Steele’s throat. Nessa instinctively turned away from the grisly wound as Iris bent closer to the screen to view it.
“If I had to give an opinion based on this photo alone, I’d say the wound was very likely inflicted by a left-handed perpetrator. See the sharp-force entry to the right-side of the neck?”
Nessa looked at the photo, nodded weakly, then looked away.
“That’s where the perpetrator stuck in the knife before drawing the knife back to the left, slicing the throat. It’s indicative of an attacker coming up behind a victim and using their left hand to cut the victim’s throat.”
Nessa’s head began to ache as she absorbed the information. Questions flooded in.
Was Helena Steele’s husband left-handed? Did anyone even think to check that the man they’d convicted could have committed the crime?
She knew she should be excited to have uncovered a lead that might help her find Penelope Yates’ killer, but for the moment she felt only fear. The information she had might end up revealing the police department had convicted an innocent man, and that they had allowed the real killer to go free, and to kill again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Terri Bellows looked out of her office window trying to catch sight of the sky. She’d been keeping a watch on the weather forecast and was getting worried about the tropical storm that was showing every sign of strengthening into a full-fledged hurricane in the next twenty-four hours. The storm was barreling toward the Gulf of Mexico with a predicted landfall on Florida’s west coast, although no one knew for sure how close the storm would come to Willow Bay.
A metallic blue Prius slowed down in front of the house, then pulled alongside the curb. Terri watched a big man in baggy pants and a sports coat step out of the car. He took a minute to survey the house from behind dark sunglasses before walking up the driveway. A loud rap on the door caused Terri to start rolling. She maneuvered her wheelchair through the office door and down the hall.
“Who’s there?”
Doc had warned her not to open the door to strangers, especially after the spate of murders in the last year, but the man didn’t look like a criminal. Of course, he could be a door-to-door salesman trying to talk her into buying something she didn’t want or need, but something about the way he’d studied the house, as if scoping out the place, made her think he must be someone official.
“Hello, Mrs. Bellows? I’m Peter Barker.” The man’s voice was firm but polite. “I’m hoping to speak to your husband. Eden Winthrop told me I might be able to find him here.”
Terri smiled even though Barker couldn’t see her through the door. If the man was from the Mercy Harbor Foundation he must be harmless. She opened the door and pushed back her wheelchair to allow the man to step inside.
“Hi there, I’m Terri Bellows.”
She held up a small, soft hand.
“And I’m Pete Barker, but everyone just calls me Barker.”
Barker took the offered hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m hoping to speak to your husband. Is he at home?”
As he spoke, Barker’s eyes peered further into the house, and Terri blushed in embarrassment.
“Forgive me for being rude,” Terri said, waving Barker past her and into the living room. “Please, come on in and make yourself comfortable. Doc isn’t here, but I so rarely get to meet anyone from the foundation, it would be nice to have a chat.”
“Will your husband be back soon?”
Terri wished she knew the answer. Doc had gotten a call from Ace early that morning and had left to meet his old friend. He’d been gone for hours without a word and had promised to bring back plenty of sandbags and any supplies needed to ride out the storm.
“Doc went out to help a friend, and then he’s going to round up supplies ahead of the storm.” She smiled up a Barker, but he didn’t smile back. “You work with him at the foundation?”
“No, but I am working on something for Ms. Winthrop and was hoping Dr. Bellows could help answer a few questions about the community health center where he used to volunteer.”
His reference to the old center surprised her. She sat up straighter in her chair and cocked her head.
“Wow, that’s a blast from the past. What did you need to know about that old place? I volunteered there as well before my…my accident.”
Barker cocked his head as if considering the idea.
“You volunteered there, too?” He finally offered her a smile. “Is that where you met your husband?”
“No, but we did volunteer there together soon after we met. He’d just moved to town after his residency, to open his practice. I was visiting a friend. The rest is fate.”
“He must be pretty dedicated to volunteer work.” Barker raised his eyebrows as if impressed. “I mean, to be in the midst of opening his own practice, and still have time to search out volunteer opportunities.”
“Yes, he’s very community-minded. But he had worked at the community center when he was here before.”
“Before?” Barker looked interested.
“Yes, Doc came to Willow Bay after he left the military. One of his air force buddies grew up here, so Doc came to visit and ended up doing some volunteer work at the community center. That was before he was a real doctor, before med school. Although he had been a medic in the service.”
“Really? Wow, your husband
gets around.”
Terri narrowed her eyes at Barker, suddenly feeling as if he was mocking her. His comments about Doc were all complimentary, but something about his demeanor suggested he wasn’t being sincere.
“So, you volunteered at the community health center with your husband back in 2006? What did you do there?”
Terri nodded, relieved that Barker hadn’t asked another question about Doc.
“Yes, we worked there together right up until my accident. I was a nurse practitioner, specializing in women’s health. I still am, I guess, although I don’t practice anymore.”
Terri felt the blush rise in her cheeks again. She hated that she sat at home all day when she knew she could be out in the world making a difference. But Doc worried too much. He wouldn’t allow it, as he’d said many times. He wanted to keep her safe at home.
“So, you’ve been in the wheelchair how long?”
Terri counted backwards in her head, finding it hard to believe it had been twelve years since she’d woken up in the hospital, paralyzed from the waist down and unable to remember what had happened. Before she could reply to Barker, the front door banged open and Doc’s angry face appeared in the hall.
“What the hell are you doing in my house?”
Terri blinked in surprise at the rage in her husband’s normally quiet voice.
“Doc, honey, this is Peter Barker. He said Eden Winthrop sent him. He was just waiting for you to get home.”
“And he can show himself out,” Doc spat, striding to the door and opening it wide. “My wife isn’t well enough to have visitors, so please leave. Now.”
Barker turned toward Terri and nodded.
“Thank you for the chat, Mrs. Bellows. I hope you start feeling better real soon.”
Terri had to bite her lip to stop herself from replying that she was feeling just fine. She glanced at Doc’s face, confused and scared.
No, best not say that. Doc wouldn’t like that at all.
Doc watched Barker walk out the door with narrowed eyes, his chest heaving in and out as if he’d just come back from a run. Once the door closed behind the man, Doc turned to Terri.
Girl Eight: A Mercy Harbor Thriller Page 14
