by Debra Webb
Her fingers raked through the leaves and decaying ground cover until she encountered something cool and hard but not metal or plastic. Definitely not her phone. She stilled, frowned in concentration as her sense of touch attempted to identify the object she couldn’t see without sticking her head into the bushes. Not happening. She might have chalked the object up to being a limb or a rock if not for the familiar, tingling sensation rushing along every single nerve ending in her body. Her instincts were humming fiercely.
Assuredly not a rock.
Holding her breath, she reached back to the same spot and touched the object again. Her fingers dug into the soft earth around the object and curled instinctively.
Long. Narrow. Cylindrical.
She pulled it from the rich, soft dirt, the thriving moss and the tangle of rotting leaves.
Bone.
She frowned, studied it closely. Human bone.
Her pulse tripped into a faster rhythm. She placed the bone aside, reached back in with both hands and carefully scratched away more of the leaves.
Another bone...and then another. Bones that, judging by their condition, had been here for a very long time.
Meticulously sifting through the layers of leaves and plant life, she discovered that her cell phone had fallen into the rib cage. The human rib cage. Her mind racing with questions and conclusions, she cautiously fished out the phone. She took a breath, hit her contacts list and tapped the name of Winchester’s chief of police.
When he picked up, rather than hello, she said, “I’m at the lake. There’s something here you need to see and it can’t wait. Better call Burt and send him in this direction, as well.” Burt Johnston was a local veterinarian who had served as the county coroner for as long as Rowan could remember.
Chief of Police William “Billy” Brannigan’s first response was, “Are you okay?”
Billy and Rowan had been friends since grade school. He had made her transition back to life in Winchester so much more bearable. And there was Herman. He was more like an uncle than a mere friend of the family. Eventually, she hoped the two of them would stop worrying so about her. She wasn’t that fragile young girl who had left Winchester twenty-odd years ago. Recent events had rocked her, that was true, but she was completely capable of taking care of herself. She would never again allow herself to be vulnerable to anyone.
“I’m fine, but someone’s not. You should stop worrying about me and get over here, Billy.”
“I’m on my way.”
She ended the call. There had been no need for her to tell him precisely where she was at the lake. He would know. Rowan DuPont didn’t swim; she never came near the lake unless it was to visit her sister, and she hadn’t done that in a very, very long time.
Strange, all those times Rowan had come to visit Raven, she’d never realized there was someone else here, too.
* * *
Barely fifteen minutes passed before Chief of Police Billy—Bill to those who hadn’t grown up with him—Brannigan was tearing nosily through the woods. Rowan pushed away from the tree she’d been leaning against and waved. He spotted her and altered his course.
“Burt’s on his way.” Billy stopped next to her and pushed his brown Stetson up his forehead. “You sure you’re okay?” He looked her up and down, his gaze pausing on the boots she wore. Pink, dotted with blue-and-yellow flowers. They were as old as dirt but she loved them. She’d had them since she was a teenager. Frankly, she couldn’t believe her father had kept them all those years.
Billy’s lips spread into a grin. “I like the boots.”
She rolled her eyes. “Thanks. And, yes, for the second time, I’m okay.” She pointed to the throng of bushes where she’d dropped her phone. “But the female hidden under those bushes is definitely not okay.”
He moved in the direction she indicated and crouched down to take a closer look. “You sure this is a female?”
Rowan squatted next to him. “You can see the pelvis.” She pointed to the exposed bones that were more or less in a pile. “Definitely female. I can’t determine the age—probably over fourteen. I tried not to disturb the positioning of the bones—other than the couple I pulled up before I recognized they were human remains.” She leaned in, studying the remains as best she could. “From what I see, it doesn’t appear the bones have been damaged by any larger animals.”
She indicated the smooth surfaces. “No visible teeth marks. Judging by the positioning, I’d say she was dumped here exactly the way you see. On her left side, knees bent toward her chest, arms flung forward. As tissue deteriorated, the bones settled into a sort of pile and the plant life swallowed them up.”
Billy held out his arms in front of him. “Like she was carried to this spot, one arm behind her back, one under her legs—the way a man might carry a woman—and dumped or placed on the ground in that same position.”
“That’s the way it looks,” Rowan agreed.
“You think she was dead when she was left here?”
She made a face, scrutinized what she could see of the skull. “It’s difficult to say. There’s no obvious indication of cause of death. No visible fractures to the skull or missing pieces, but there’s a lot of it I can’t see without disturbing the scene.”
He hummed a note of indecision. “How long you think she’s been here?”
“A while. Years.” Rowan shrugged. “Maybe decades. There’s a total lack of tissue. The bones I picked up are dry, almost flaky. If there was any clothing, it’s gone. To disappear so completely, it would certainly have had to be an organic material of some sort. Maybe when they dig around they’ll find a zipper or buttons—something to suggest what she was wearing.” She looked to her old friend. “But I’m no medical examiner or anthropologist. I’m merely speculating based on a small amount of knowledge and a very preliminary examination.”
“I appreciate your insights.” Billy shook his head. “Damn. I can’t believe she’s been here that long and no one discovered her before now.”
“It’s a remote, overgrown area.” Rowan looked around. “No reason for anyone to come through here.” She kept the except me to herself. “I suppose it’s a good thing I dropped my phone.”
When she’d left the funeral home this morning, she’d tucked her phone into the pocket of her jeans. She hadn’t bothered with her purse or even her driver’s license. Just her phone and, of course, the pepper spray she carried everywhere. The drive to the lake was only a few miles. She had a handgun but she hadn’t bothered with it this morning—not for coming here.
But then, she hadn’t expected to stumble upon human remains.
In fact, she hadn’t expected to see anyone. If she’d had any idea she would be running into Billy and the half a dozen other official folks who would now descend on what was in all likelihood a crime scene, she would have dressed more appropriately. She spent most of her free time in jeans and Ts nowadays. The cotton material was breathable. Perfect for wearing under all that protective gear when working in the mortuary room and easy to launder afterward. She wouldn’t be winning any awards for her fashion sense, but she was comfortable.
When working with the dead, it was always better to be as comfortable as possible.
Most of her time on the job in Nashville had been spent in heels and business suits. It was a nice perk not to have to dress up anymore. Since taking over the family business, she’d discovered that she preferred a ponytail to a French twist or a chignon any day of the week. And sneakers rather than heels were always a good thing.
Or maybe she’d grown lazy since returning home. She gave herself grace since she was still adjusting to the loss of her father. Of course, she dressed suitably for meeting the families of lost loved ones, for the viewings and the services. The business suits from her years with Metro came in handy for just those purposes. As her father always said, there were certain expectations when ov
erseeing such a somber occasion.
“I’ll need an official statement from you.” Billy stood and offered his hand. “I can come by the funeral home later and take care of the statement if that works better for you.”
She took his hand and pushed to her feet. “That would be my preference, yes.” She glanced toward the road. “Does that mean I can go?” Rowan really did not want to be here when the media showed up. And the media would show up. As soon as word about finding human remains spread through the police department, someone would give the local newspaper a heads-up. It was the natural course of things. The possibility of a homicide was a secret hardly anyone could keep. Rowan had endured enough of the spotlight after the release of her book, The Language of Death, and then the very public unmasking of her friend and colleague, Julian Addington, as a new breed of prolific serial killer.
Not to mention this was the second set of human bones to be found in Winchester in as many months. The other bones had been identified and the old case solved. Still, a steady stream of homicide cases was never a good thing for the chief of police.
He glanced around. “I don’t see any reason for you to stay.” He studied her a moment, those dark brown eyes of his searching hers. “If you’re sure you’re okay?”
Billy Brannigan was a true hometown hero, always had been. First on the football field and in the local charity rodeo circuit, then for more than a decade and a half as a cop and eventually as the chief of police in Winchester. Folks swore Billy was born wearing a Stetson and cowboy boots. He was a year older than Rowan and he’d made it his mission to take her under his wing after her sister’s death. Rowan had been totally lost without her twin, and at twelve she’d had enough insanity in her life with adolescence anyway. Billy had watched over her, threatened to pound anyone who wasn’t nice to her. And when her mother died only a few months after her sister, Billy had taken care of Rowan again. He was the only other person on the planet who knew her deepest, darkest secrets.
He and the bastard who’d murdered her father.
“I’m fine. Really. I’ll see you later.” The sound of traffic on the road warned that she needed to get moving.
“Hey.” His fingers curled around her upper arm when she would have walked past him. “Next time you come out here, bring that big old dog of yours and your handgun or ask me to come. You shouldn’t be in a remote area like this alone. We both know he is still out there.”
He. Rowan pushed the image of Julian from her head. She patted her other pocket. “I have my pepper spray.” She glanced around again. “And somewhere nearby there might even be a special agent from the FBI’s special joint task force keeping an eye on me to make sure I don’t aid and abet Julian.”
Though at this point the FBI had stopped surveilling her, the very idea made her feel ill. But the Bureau had its reasons in the beginning for suspecting her—all of which were circumstantial and utterly misleading—but nothing she said or did was going to change their minds completely. Her name and the possibilities of her involvement with Julian on a sexual level as well as the suggestion that she might have been part of his extracurricular activities had been smeared across every news channel, every newspaper and online news source. How could she be so close to the man and not see what he was? Particularly considering her formal education and training?
The taint of suspicion would likely follow her the rest of her life. This ugly reality no doubt pleased Julian immensely. At least the folks in her hometown had ignored the rampant rumors for the most part. Business hadn’t dropped off and no one looked at her any differently than they ever had. Then again, she’d always been considered strange.
Basically, not much had changed.
Billy nodded, a sad smile on his lips—lips she had fantasized about kissing when she was fourteen years old. So very long ago. A sigh slipped from her. Life would never again be that simple.
“The pepper spray is good, but you should bring your weapon next time,” he said, “and Freud, okay?”
She drew in a big breath and let it out dramatically to show him that she was indulging his protective instincts. “Okay, Billy, I will not go to any other remote locations alone and without my dog and my handgun. No matter that I’m a grown woman and completely capable of taking care of myself.”
For the past six weeks she had worked diligently at honing her self-defense skills. For the first time in her life she owned a handgun and, more important, she knew how to use it. Billy had insisted on giving her lessons. Maybe she was a fool, but she was not afraid of running into Julian. She was prepared for that encounter...looked forward to it, actually. Killing him wasn’t her goal—at least not at first. She wanted answers. Then she wanted him to spend the rest of his days in solitary confinement being prodded and poked and tested by forensic psychiatrists.
Billy dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I’m aware, but do it for me.”
She rolled her eyes. “For you. Okay.”
She gave him a salute, then moved cautiously through the dense bushes until she reached the road, where she’d left her car. In truth, rather than acquiesce to his wishes, she would have loved to tell Billy he was overreacting, being overprotective. Overdoing the big brother thing. But that would be a lie. Julian had murdered all those people, some in ways so heinous that it shocked even seasoned homicide detectives. He had promised Rowan that before he was done, she would want to end the agony of living with all the guilt.
He wasn’t the sort of man to make idle threats.
But Rowan intended to see that he was the one who wanted the agony to end. She wasn’t the only one who had shared secrets during their lengthy friendship. It was true that she hadn’t suspected for a moment that he was a killer, but she did know many, many of his most personal thoughts. He had worries just like any other person. He had hopes and dreams. Obviously it was possible he had made up much of what he had told her. Psychopaths oftentimes lied when the truth would serve them better. Still, he was a mere human with human frailties.
She climbed into her car, started the engine. Let him come.
The sooner, the better.
She was ready to show him all she’d learned.
Two
Rowan had washed, disinfected and moisturized Geneva Phillips’s body. Generally she would leave that step to her assistant, Woody. As was the usual protocol, upon taking possession of a body and then again before starting the process of embalming, she carefully checked for vital signs to ensure the deceased was indeed deceased. No pulse in either the carotid or radial artery. Obvious lividity, clouded corneas and, of course, rigor mortis. All indications that life was no longer present were apparent.
There was no question that Geneva Phillips had passed.
Everyone had heard the stories about people waking up in funeral homes. Some were mere folk tales but others were not. All the more reason for the second vitals check just before starting the embalming process. There was no going back after that step.
Now Mrs. Phillips lay on her back on the preparation table, her head resting on the head block. After massaging and moving her limbs to relieve the remaining rigor, which helped with drainage and distribution of the embalming fluid, Rowan sealed her eyes and capped them, locked her jaw into position with wire and sealed her lips. Her face was set in a natural-looking expression. Rowan was ready to begin embalming.
With the necessary incisions made and the tubes inserted, Rowan would turn on the pump, which would drain the blood vessels and pump preserving chemicals into those same veins and arteries. The dyes and additives in the embalming fluid would help the body to take on a more florid appearance. This step took a bit of time. As she reached for the switch, Rowan hesitated. She studied the body once more, then stepped back from the table. She removed her protective gloves and set them aside on the instrument table, then reached for the face shield she wore, placing it there, as well. For a long moment she scrutinize
d the body, walked all the way around the table to confirm what she had only just now noticed.
The lividity suggested Mrs. Phillips had died on her back, similar to the way she lay right now, and had stayed in that position for several hours, more than six in all probability. Burt had told Rowan that the elderly woman died in a slip and fall in the bathtub, probable skull fracture based on the indention on the lower portion at the back of her head.
This scenario was quite possible; however, the lividity did not bear out the theory.
Not unless Mrs. Phillips had a very long bathtub. The lady was about Rowan’s height, five foot six, which would require a tub considerably longer than the standard size to allow her to lie completely flat so that the blood would settle along the sides of her body from her head to her heels as if she had been lying flat on her back when her heart stopped beating.
Before Rowan went any further with the embalming, she needed to be certain. She tugged her gloves back on, removed the drain and arterial tubes from the body and closed with tape the insertion points she had made in the carotid artery and the internal jugular. She then wheeled the table carrying Mrs. Phillips back into refrigeration until she was ready to resume the embalming.
Rowan glanced at the coffin already in refrigeration. Ronald Whitt’s viewing was tonight. It was after 11:00 a.m. now. She would need to check on this bathtub situation and return to the funeral home as quickly as possible to prepare. She removed her gloves and apron and then grabbed the items she would need—her keys, cell phone and a tape measure—and locked up. As she made her way to her car, she fished out her cell and tapped the contact to put through the necessary call.
Cause and manner of death were no longer a part of her work as they had been in Nashville. Whatever happened to Mrs. Phillips wasn’t actually within the scope of her responsibility. Certainly she didn’t want to step on any toes, particularly those of friends like Burt, the duly elected coroner.
