Fenway crossed the street to the sheriff’s office. When she opened the door, two figures—Nathaniel Ferris and the imposing figure of Rob Stotsky—were there waiting for her.
Chapter Fourteen
“Fenway.” Nathaniel Ferris’s arms were folded and his mouth was drawn tight. “You’re late.”
“Yes, Dad.” She walked up to Ferris and Stotsky. “You’ll have to forgive me. I was shot at this morning by the widow of Carl Cassidy.” She looked from her father’s face to Stotsky’s, watching for their reactions. “I understand that Carl was one of the employees killed in that accident at the oil refinery six months ago. And I believe that he was the subject of the missing file.”
Stotsky’s face registered determination.
Ferris’s face registered horror. “You were shot at?”
“Yes, Dad,” Fenway snapped. “Carl’s widow thought I was working with you to cover up her husband’s death. She thought I was behind the theft of the files. She accused me of killing Walker on Sunday night.”
Stotsky put his hand up. “Did she say that?”
“Yes, she did. Right before she pulled the trigger.” She suddenly noticed the interested glances of the cubicle dwellers. “Now, let’s go into the interview room before we broadcast this to the whole West Coast.”
Fenway motioned her dad and Stotsky to go in the interview room ahead of her, and she followed them in, slamming the door behind herself. Her father jumped a little bit.
“I don’t want anyone in there watching us.” Stotsky pointed to the one-way mirror.
“Relax.” Fenway did a hand-wave in front of the mirror. “I didn’t tell anyone I was coming over here, and everyone is either dealing with the arrest of Dylan Richards, or the fact that someone just tried to shoot me.” She turned toward the mirror and made silly faces. “See? No one’s there.”
She motioned for them to take a seat on the side of the table farthest away from the one-way mirror. She sat on the near side and pulled her chair in. It made a grinding noise on the floor.
Fenway cleared her throat. “Now, tell me, Dad, why in the world would anyone think that there was a cover up with that accident? And why would they think I was involved?”
Nathaniel Ferris looked at Stotsky’s face and started to mirror the look of steely determination in his own. “I promise, Fenway, I’ll get to the bottom of this. You aren’t going to have to worry about your safety.”
“No, Dad.” She shook her head. “You are not going to get to the bottom of anything. You are not investigating Walker’s homicide. I am. You’re not figuring out what those files have to do with Walker’s death. I am.”
Fenway looked at Stotsky. His eyes were thin slits. His mouth was pursed. His face was getting red with anger.
“What is it, Mr. Stotsky? Do you have any knowledge about these files? Is there anything you might have mentioned to me yesterday morning that would have lowered my chances of getting shot today?”
“Come on now, Fenway.” Ferris’s voice was chiding.
“What, Dad? What is it? I shouldn’t get angry that people all over this county think you’re covering something up?” Fenway folded her arms. “And worse, that I had something to do with the missing files? I didn’t think you were covering anything up before, Dad. I’m starting to think maybe I was wrong.”
Fenway wasn’t sure this line of questioning was doing a lot for father-daughter relations, but she noticed that Stotsky was getting angrier by the second.
“Mr. Ferris.” Stotsky stood and gathered himself up to his full height. Fenway thought for a minute he was going to hit his head on the ceiling. “I believe we ought to head out of here before Miss Stevenson says something she regrets.”
“Nonsense, Rob. Sit down. Fenway has every right. She was shot at today.”
Stotsky turned to face Ferris, his back to Fenway. “And perhaps that is making her overly emotional. Now, Mr. Ferris, I know she is your only daughter. Her life was just in danger. I understand that you might be so concerned for her safety that you feel, shall we say, more open to discussing things of a confidential nature if you think it’s going to keep her safe. But, as your head of security, I’m obligated to point out that these files should not be discussed with anyone outside of the company.” He cleared his throat. “If Miss Stevenson wishes to file a court order, or get a subpoena, we’d be happy to supply our findings, but absent that, I can’t allow you to discuss the contents of those files.”
Ferris looked at Stotsky, and his eyes flashed in anger for a moment, but then he softened. “Rob is right, Fenway. Were you hurt? Are you okay?”
Fenway looked at her father, and in that instant, saw the concern and caring that she had missed her whole childhood. She found it hard to maintain her cool. Not only because she really wasn’t okay, but because she also didn’t have anyone to turn to in town for support.
But Fenway also really wanted, and needed, to discuss those files. And perhaps, Fenway thought, letting herself be vulnerable right now would work to her advantage. Maybe she didn’t have to push down those emotions. If she played it right, maybe their dinner together tonight would be the right time to get some information on the contents of the files, without the head of Ferris security looming over their conversation.
So Fenway gave into her vulnerability.
“No, Dad, I’m not okay.” Her voice broke. “I’m not even on the job twenty-four hours, and I got shot at! I’m scared. And I’m furious at you for not telling me about these files. I’m furious at you because if I had known about the files, I would have known why she was so angry with me. I could have talked her down.”
“I’m sorry, Fenway. I’m really sorry.” He stood up, came around the side of the table, and gave her an awkward hug while she was still sitting down. She could feel the hot tears start to sting her eyes and she let them fall.
Stotsky tapped his fingers on the table. “Perhaps there will be another opportunity for a more productive discussion at a later time.”
Ferris looked at Stotsky, then shifted his eyes to her. “Fenway—look, we were planning on dinner tonight. Let’s have dinner. You can talk about how angry you are at me, and I’m sure it’s not just—” Ferris stopped and cleared his throat. “It’s not just because of the files. I’m sure there’s a lot from the last twenty years, too. I wasn’t a good father. Let’s just have dinner tonight.”
Fenway looked down at the table. “Okay.”
Ferris went back around and clapped Stotsky on the shoulder. “Okay?”
Stotsky moved to open the door. Ferris went out first, Stotsky following.
Fenway pulled the phone out of her purse, sniffling, but getting under control. She started to text Dez that she was heading back over.
The door opened again. It was Rob Stotsky.
“Forgot my pen.” He saw Fenway texting and closed the door behind him. He leaned forward, placing his fists knuckles-down on the table; the table groaned slightly under his weight. “I need to have a chat with you, Miss Stevenson.” She looked up at him. His determined look hadn’t faded, and she couldn’t help but think he looked much the opposite of the helpful man she had first met when she pulled into her new apartment complex. “You haven’t lived here in twenty years, but you’re messing with the reputation of the most powerful man in the area—maybe even the state. And it’s my job to protect him. You can’t accuse Mr. Ferris without proof. The innuendo and leading questions might be one of your investigative techniques, and you might be able to get away with it with him because he’s your father, but they don’t do any good to his reputation or his business.”
Stotsky stood back up and straightened his suit jacket. “You’re his daughter, so of course he wants to protect you, and this coroner job was a way he felt he could help.” He cracked his knuckles. “Now, you may think you’re just doing your job, but I’d advise you to take another route in your investigation. Otherwise, you may find that you’ve killed the goose that’s laying your golden eggs.”
He adjusted his tie and walked back out.
Fenway sat there for a moment, taking it all in. The blood was pounding in her ears, and her heart was racing. Any tears of sadness or self-pity were gone. She took a few deep breaths.
The door opened again, and Sheriff McVie walked in. He nodded at her. “Well, that was pretty impressive.”
“Stop.” She was still looking down at the table. “I didn’t think anyone was watching.”
“Ah, Fenway, someone’s always watching.”
She was silent.
“I’m not being snarky when I say what you just did was impressive. Using your vulnerability to not just get your dad to open up, but also to push Stotsky’s buttons. Coming across as genuine, because it was genuine. That was hard to do. And admirable.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“I talked to Dez, and if it’s okay with you, I’m going to drive you to San Miguelito to see the M.E.”
Fenway shook her head. “I’m sorry, but can we maybe push it to tomorrow? This day has been rough. I don’t know if I can handle playing politics with an M.E. over a dead body.”
“I hate to say this, Fenway, but no, we can’t push it till tomorrow. First of all, someone needs to personally deliver Dylan’s gun to the forensics lab. And secondly, we need those autopsy results. It’s been over 72 hours, and I don’t want the trail getting any colder.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
“I talked to the M.E. and she said that there are a couple of things she’d like us to see for ourselves. I didn’t talk to Mark this morning, so I never asked him to take Dylan’s gun to the San Miguelito lab. I can drop you off at home afterward, but I really think you need to see this too.”
“This is the longest day ever.”
“Yep, for me too. But if those ballistics match the gun we found in Dylan’s closet, we can all go home and sleep for a while.”
Fenway realized that Dez hadn’t informed the sheriff about Dylan’s truck possibly being seen away from the crime scene, or about Dylan and McVie’s wife. She wondered if Dez was hoping that Fenway would talk to the sheriff about all of those things, or if Dez would prefer that she follow Megan’s request to tell her father nothing. Fenway figured she would decide when they were on the road.
“I definitely need to eat.” Fenway picked up her purse.
“We can grab something on the way.”
He stopped at the evidence locker and retrieved a black case, signing it out.
“Is that Dylan’s gun?” Fenway asked.
“Yep.”
They went through a burger drive-through—yet another regional fast-food place Fenway hadn’t heard of. She ordered a spicy grilled chicken sandwich, McVie a deluxe burger.
“This law enforcement diet isn’t going to work too much longer for me,” Fenway said, but she was hungry. She had only had two large lattes all day. She ate her sandwich quickly and drank her diet soda.
McVie looked over at her. “You’re quiet.”
“I was hungry. And I’m exhausted.”
“You can nap if you want. It’ll be a good forty-five minutes.”
Fenway leaned the seat back and fell asleep almost immediately.
When she woke up, they were pulling into a parking space at the San Miguelito County Medical Examiner’s office.
“Morning, sunshine.”
Fenway grunted, waking slowly and sitting back upright.
McVie retrieved the gun case from the trunk, and they walked into the office. They checked in at the front desk and sat in chairs with brown plastic seats and metal legs that probably had once been shiny.
“So, Sheriff, I know this may not be the place to say this, but this is going to be my first autopsy.”
“Didn’t you have to deal with cadavers in your classes?”
“Yeah, but those people all donated their bodies to the greater good. This is my first dead body of someone who didn’t think they’d be getting cut up when they died.”
“Walker probably didn’t think he’d get shot in the back, either. Death is full of surprises.”
A short Asian woman with closely-cropped black hair came out. She wore light blue scrubs. “Michi,” McVie said. “Good to see you again.”
“Good to see you too, Craig.” She shook McVie’s hand. “Dez didn’t make it?”
“No, she needed to stay on the case back home.”
Her face registered disappointment, but quickly changed. “Well, give her my best when you see her.”
“Will do, Michi. So let me introduce you two: Dr. Michiyo Yasuda, this is our new coroner, Fenway Stevenson.”
“Fenway? Like the ballpark?”
“No, I was named after my great uncle Fenwick and my third cousin Hemingway. Sort of a mash-up.”
Dr. Yasuda stared at her.
Fenway cleared her throat awkwardly. “Yeah, sorry, not really. My dad’s a big Red Sox fan.” Fenway gave Dr. Yasuda a weak smile.
Yasuda nodded. “Okay—let’s take you back.” She turned and was gone so quickly that McVie and Fenway had to run to keep up with her.
They went through a couple of hallways to a staircase that led into the basement. After a left turn, there was a set of double doors labelled MORGUE. She swiped her keycard on the black pad next to the double doors, and there was an audible, low-pitched click. She pushed the door open and led them inside.
There was a body on the table under a sheet, and as Yasuda pulled the top of the sheet down and folded it back, Fenway could see it was a Caucasian male, roughly 50 years old, lying supine.
“All right,” Yasuda began, “Before we get to the gunshot wound, I want to show you a couple of things.” Yasuda pointed at Walker’s left cheek. “Note that in his beard, right here, there are two lacerations that are healing. The bruising around the edges are consistent with fingernails.” Yasuda pulled the sheet up from the bottom next, so Fenway could see Walker’s left knee. There was a big knot just below the kneecap which was badly bruised. “And there’s this hematoma. It’s more difficult to tell what made contact here. This was done a couple of days before he was shot and killed, about the same time as the lacerations.”
“Kicked and scratched.” McVie crossed his arms.
“That conclusion would be consistent with the evidence,” Dr. Yasuda agreed.
“I know who kicked and scratched Mr. Walker,” Fenway said. “It happened at roughly seven o’clock on Friday night.”
Dr. Yasuda looked up from the body. “I guess the investigation is progressing.”
“I don’t believe that the woman who did this is the killer, however. She has an alibi for Sunday night.”
Dr. Yasuda turned back to Walker’s body. “Well, getting back to Sunday night, the bullet was a low-velocity 10-millimeter round. Sheriff, if you could assist me.”
Using the sheets as leverage, McVie and Dr. Yasuda turned Walker’s body onto its stomach. Dr. Yasuda pulled the sheet down to expose Walker’s back; there was a hole from a gunshot on his left side.
Fenway looked closely at the hole. “Shot through the heart?”
Dr. Yasuda nodded. “And here’s something interesting that I wanted to make sure you saw.” She picked up a three-foot long fiberglass rod and inserted it in the bullet hole. The angle was about five or ten degrees shy of being perpendicular. “Now, Mr. Walker was five-foot-nine. As you can see from the angle, the shot was fired from slightly above. I believe the gun was roughly three feet away, as there was stippling on the wound, but no burns or soot on Walker’s clothes. It appears that the murderer would have been a bit higher than the victim. The killer may have been tall, or Walker could have been on his knees.”
“Aren’t there pretty steep hills around there?” said McVie. “That might account for the angle.”
“No, not where the body was found.”
“What if the body was moved?” asked Fenway.
“There’s no evidence of that,” Yasuda said. “Blood has pooled everywhere I expect it to pool when a dea
d body stays in place.”
Fenway nodded.
“And, no drag marks were found on the ground around his body or feet, no torn clothing or scuffs on his shoes.” Dr. Yasuda pulled some photos of Walker’s clothing out. “See, there are no drag marks on the clothing, just dirt on his shoulders, arms, and legs consistent with being dead before you fall forward onto the ground.”
“What are we looking at?” McVie asked. “Does this narrow the height of the killer down at all?”
“Yes. Based on the gunshot residue and the stippling pattern, I estimate the shot was fired from roughly three feet away. Assuming the killer was holding the weapon at a normal height, I’d estimate the killer to be anywhere from six feet, two inches to six feet, six inches.”
“And if Mr. Walker had been on his knees?”
Dr. Yasuda checked her notes. “The length of his crus measures just over fourteen inches,” she said.
“His what?” McVie whispered to Fenway.
“Crus. Lower leg from the knee to the ankle,” she explained.
“Subtracting that length from his full height,” Dr. Yasuda continued, “Walker would have been about four feet seven inches tall on his knees. If the killer was standing—which, in my experience, isn’t always the case when the victim is kneeling—the killer is right around five feet tall, give or take.”
McVie chuckled. “We’re either looking for a really tall or really short person.”
“If the killer was standing.”
McVie walked around to the other side of the table. “Okay. Anything else we need to know?”
Dr. Yasuda picked up a file folder. “The rest of it is in the autopsy report and my notes. I wanted you to see the trajectory for yourself. It’s tough for the photos and descriptions to do it justice.”
Fenway nodded again. “Sure, thanks.”
McVie held up the gun case. “And I’ve got Dylan Richards’ gun here.”
“Let’s go up to the ballistics lab.” Dr. Yasuda pulled the sheet up over Walker’s head, then turned and was out the door. Fenway and McVie were caught lagging behind again; Dr. Yasuda was up the stairs so quickly that McVie and Fenway were breathing hard by the time they hit the ground floor. A turn down a hallway, and another fifty feet later they were at the lab.
The Reluctant Coroner Page 17
