Shelby's Secret (Once a Marine, Always a Marine Book 4)

by David, Kori

  Shelby’s Secret

  By: Kori David

  This is an original publication of CoKeA, LLC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. CoKeA, LLC or the author, does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2015 by Kori David

  ISBN 978-0-9960623-3-6

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Contact koridavid27@gmail.com for permission.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  www.KoriDavid.com

  Dedication

  I want to give many thanks to Lt. Lynn Koliboski of the Mesa Police Department for all the help in understanding police procedure when it comes to crime scenes. And for all the times that I just snuck into your office for chats about guns, bad guys, and officer mindset. You’ve made this book so much better because you care.

  To Sgt. Kevin Baggs, of the Mesa Police Homicide Division, thank you so much for making the details of my crime scenes so much more interesting and gory. And for the stories and the steps involved in solving a murder, you will never know how much your time meant to me. Thank you.

  There is also a certain, shy, Officer in Internal Affairs of the Mesa Police Department that was gracious enough to let me grill him about what happens when the public makes a complaint or when an officer gets into trouble. He didn’t want to be named, but you know who you are and I appreciated all of your wisdom.

  And to all my friends in Communications, this book is for you. For every day that you show up to make sure the citizens and our officers are safe, I thank you. The general public will never know how stressful and yet rewarding your job is. Being the first, first responder isn’t for everyone and you all do it with grace and style. You’re all amazing!

  Chapter 1

  Sergeant Mike Hanson was about dead. More zombie really . . . the walking-barely-talking dead when he got the call.

  Another homicide.

  The scene was bright, lit by the light bars on the patrol cars. A couple of early-bird reporters trying to make a name for themselves were off to the side, attempting to get a shot of anything interesting and occasionally yelling out a question to the officers passing by. He parked, and Patrol Sergeant Dave Martineau approached his F-250 before he had the door open.

  “Hey, Mike. Sorry to get you up again or did you even sleep?”

  “Two glorious hours. Whatcha got?”

  Dave shook his head. “Not a normal one, that’s for damn sure.”

  They fell in step as Mike headed toward the large warehouse already cordoned off with yellow crime tape. An officer stood on the side of the building, one hand bracing against the brick wall and the other on his hip. Hard to tell in the dark, but it looked like he was heaving his guts up.

  “New guy?” Mike asked, pointing toward the officer.

  Dave chuckled and nodded. “It’s his second week out of academy, and he wanted to see a dead body to prove he could hang with the big boys.”

  Mike shared a tired laugh. Every time an officer-in-training went to the scene of a homicide one of two things happened—either they ran and puked, or they stayed to gut it out and turned a pearly shade of white. They didn’t always pass out, but a good portion of the younger ones ended up face planting anyway.

  Turning his attention from the rookie, he noticed most of the seasoned guys looked more disturbed than he would have thought. “You said it’s not normal?”

  “It’s fucking sick,” Dave said. “Almost twenty years on the street and I’ve never seen something like this.”

  That didn’t sound promising. They’d had their share of some fairly gruesome crime but if Dave said the scene was sick, then Mike didn’t want to look. He really didn’t. Not that he hadn’t seen some fucked-up shit over in Iraq during two tours with the Marines, but that was war and to be expected. This was home, and he still didn’t get how people could butcher one another the way they did. And for the petty reasons they came up with. “What’s the ETA on the medical examiner?”

  “Anytime now. I told them they’d need at least two on this one, but I asked for Casey specifically.”

  “That’s good. She’s the best. What’s the scene like?”

  “Staged.”

  Mike threw a look at his friend. Dave actually looked spooked, and that was odd because the man wasn’t squeamish. “Staged how?”

  Dave pursed his lips and then shook his head again. “It’s something you just have to see.”

  The smell hit him first. He’d once tried to describe the scent of decomposing flesh in a report and gave up. There just weren’t enough words. Or maybe he didn’t know the right words. But the stench was a slap to the face and made his eyes water. The fast food burger he’d choked down four hours ago churned.

  The warehouse was old construction and had two main areas, split down the middle by a cement wall. Broken roll-up bay doors stood open, as was the single regular-size door occupying the center of the wall. The music playing softly puzzled him. Like a tune he was supposed to know but couldn’t quite place. He shot a questioning look at Dave.

  He just pointed. “I felt the scene should be kept the way it was, music included.”

  The music got louder as he continued into the room.

  And found himself in Hell.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, struggling to breathe through his mouth. His stomach flipped more violently this time, and he had to choke down the bile that rose. Mike hadn’t had such a visceral reaction to a crime scene in years.

  Dave wasn’t even bothering to hide his revulsion. He had a handkerchief pressed to his nose and mouth. He was the smart one. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

  Mike was too stunned to answer. The scene before him was like something out of a twisted Grimm’s Fairy Tale. “Staged” was the word Dave had used. He wasn’t kidding. Everything about this scene was placed to elicit a response.

  The victim was female—maybe—it was difficult to tell. She was in a turn-of-the-century-style dress with bonnet, hands and feet tied to the ropes of a homemade wood plank swing that hung from the twenty-foot ceiling. Long, kinky, curly, blonde hair held its shape on her head. Probably a wig. Dead flower petals made a carpet beneath her, as if to cushion a fall that the ropes around her wrists and ankles prevented.

  Her face was missing.

  The skin peeled off—showcasing muscle and tendons and murky white eyeballs that stared sightlessly forward. The image was creepy as fuck.

  “Well, this is about the weirdest thing ever,” a female voice said from behind.

  Mike didn’t turn. He’d worked with Casey Henderson on too many cases over the years and instantly recognized her wry tone. She was the spunky kid sister that he’d never had, and they’d hit it off at their first crime scene together. “What do you think the walls are coated with?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say blood. It’s overwhelmingly copper smelly in here. From the desiccation of the face, I’d say she was exsanguinated at some point so that’s probably the vic’s blood.” She walked past Mike and pointed at the walls. “And since I just repainted my living room, I can tell you that looks like about a gallon.”

  “I hope it wasn’t red,” Mi
ke said.

  Casey turned and smiled, seemingly oblivious to the smell and gore. “Nope.” And she didn’t elaborate.

  She never did. The one thing Mike really knew about the senior medical examiner was that she lived for death. She was too young to stare at corpses and scenes like this, but she was a near genius at forensics. She had more degrees than most doctors, and a morbid sense of humor.

  Casey talked and dressed like she’d recently escaped from a grunge band. Her short hair was black with streaks of red and blond, and the pierced eyebrow gave her an exotic look that turned more than a couple of heads.

  “Oh, are you done puking?” Casey directed the question over Mike’s shoulder with a big false smile plastered on her face and an evil look in her eyes.

  Mike turned to see the young officer standing in the door, misery written on his pale greenish face. He nodded and tried to smile back. Mike was proud of the young man. Not a drop of vomit had landed on his uniform.

  “Great, I need help gathering up all these fat little maggots.”

  The poor guy’s throat worked, and he turned and ran out of the room—the sound of imminent projectile expulsion of anything left in his body ringing through the empty space.

  “That was mean,” Mike said. He nodded toward Dave, letting him leave the nasty scene as well. One too many people inside could mess up evidence.

  Casey circled the swing, snapping shots of everything she could see and sweeping wide arcs in case the camera could catch something they all missed. “I met him last week while examining that dead homeless guy they found over off of Van Buren. He’s all brawn and no brains.”

  “He hit on you right away?” He walked the scene, pulling on latex gloves as he went and making sure to stay on the outside perimeter of Casey’s circle. Casey didn’t date cops. But watching the rookie try was always fun.

  “Yep, and then acted as if I should be grateful for the attention.” She stopped taking photos long enough to roll her eyes. “Is he even old enough to shave, much less carry a gun?”

  Mike smiled. Whatever man ended up with the fiery little examiner would have his hands full. “You can’t blame the guy, Case. You’re gorgeous and smart. It’s an intriguing combination.”

  Hitting the button on the mini boom box shut off the song that was on repeat. He moved to the other side of the room and turned to take it in. He realized Casey was staring.

  “Was that an actual compliment?” She wrinkled her nose and turned back to continue taking pictures.

  “When you take swabs of blood, make sure to get this spot.” Mike pointed to the area on the wall that looked a little darker than the rest.

  “Will do. I’ll get Lyle to take swabs of everything.” she said. “Thanks for shutting off the music. I like Shelby Lynn’s music, but the same song over and over gets on your nerves.”

  “Oh, hell,” Mike cursed quietly.

  Casey looked up in surprise. “What?”

  “Dave said the scene was staged. I thought it was maybe some twisted way of getting a reaction , but it’s a different kind of stage.”

  “What am I missing?” Casey rarely missed anything so she looked annoyed.

  “You don’t watch music videos, do you?”

  Casey shrugged. “It’s not like anyone actually plays videos anymore. All that’s on is that reality-show crap teenagers binge watch, and I don’t have time to sit around on YouTube all day.”

  An uneasy feeling crept up Mike’s spine, raising the hair on the back of his neck. “This scene is out of Shelby Lynn’s first music video. Back when they did show music videos. But what’s the message? Or is this a threat?”

  “Oh shit. Isn’t she coming to town soon for a concert?”

  Mike nodded, the whole scene before him taking on a new and even more sinister meaning. “Her last concert stop for this tour. She’s playing three nights.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “My friends’ wives love her music and all have tickets to go. The concert is all they’ve talked about for months now.”

  “Then let’s hope this is just some sick fan art, and doesn’t mean anything else.”

  Mike moved closer to the woman in the swing. She was small but full figured, and with the wig on, she could be Shelby Lynn’s body double. But something was wrong with the face. Otherwise, why remove it?

  ***

  Shelby Lynn Collins was physically exhausted, but also stuck in the vortex known as insomnia. She hadn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours. Thank God for make-up artists because she had an interview in roughly five hours, and she looked like road kill.

  It had been a long drive from the concert in Austin, Texas, to her home town of Phoenix, Arizona. And, being home was great. She was a desert rat deep down, and the heat of the summer night sunk into her bones in a good way. Her manager had rented a luxury mansion on Camelback Mountain, giving Shelby a view of the city at night that few could afford but no one should miss.

  The hour was a couple of minutes past four a.m. and the night was quiet as Shelby relaxed on the patio.

  The ping of an incoming email from the open laptop on the patio table intruded. She almost didn’t look at it, but she was up, and the message might be something important like a schedule change. Not that her manager wouldn’t handle the issue. The woman was militant in her efficiency.

  She opened the email, belatedly realizing she probably shouldn’t have since she didn’t recognize the address and no subject line existed. But she was tired, and her finger got click-happy.

  Her very first song started to play from the speakers. Then her lyrics crawled up the right side as the music played, and the screen wasn’t blank any longer. It was filled with a likeness of her video.

  Shelby’s hand froze over the keyboard as the screen turned from black to something else.

  The camera was hand-held, and it wiggled and bounced as the person filming moved. The subject matter caused the instant horror. Shelby hoped to God it was a sick joke. Maybe some kind of prank by a budding special effects student. Because if the woman in the swing was real, then she was dead and it looked like blood dripped from the walls.

  “What in the hell are you doing up? You’re supposed to be sleeping.” Margaret ‘Madge’ Henner’s stern voice cut into the night like a sonic boom and made Shelby jump so violently she almost fell out of her chair.

  “Jesus,” Shelby said, her hand flying up to her chest to keep her heart from beating right out of her rib cage.

  “What’s wrong?” Madge asked. Her brow furrowed as she waited for Shelby to speak.

  But she couldn’t.

  The fist-sized lump of dread had lodged in her throat, and all she could do was point. Point to the screen that had paused, cutting off the song, but leaving a close-up of the poor woman’s mutilated face.

  Actually, not even a face was left. It had been peeled off, leaving something straight out of a horror flick, staring sightlessly into the now-still camera.

  Madge wasn’t a small or petite woman, in fact she could have easily played football professionally. Wide, thick shoulders tapered to a trim waist kept in shape by clean eating and a workout regimen that professional athletics would have a hard time completing. But when she came around the table and played the video again, she turned into the fussy mother hen Shelby had first met all those years ago in Nashville.

  Those long arms wrapped around her from behind, and Madge hugged her hard, while simultaneously slamming the laptop closed. “That was sick.”

  “Was that real?” Shelby hoped that it wasn’t, even if the hope was naive.

  “I don’t know, but if it was—"

  “We should call the police,” Shelby said.

  Madge nodded. “Maybe they’ll be able to do something or maybe not. We don’t even know where that is.”

  Shelby stood on shaky legs. She held the edge of the table until she was reasonable sure she wouldn’t collapse in a heap. It was a good thing she hadn’t been hungry for dinner, t
he way her stomach churned. “I’ll make the call.”

  “Go lay down. I’ll make the call.”

  “Won’t they need to speak to me, since the email was sent to my account?”

  Madge shrugged. “Possibly. But no one will rush right out to see an email, no matter what I tell them is on it.”

  “Who would do that?”

  “Who knows, but I’m hiring more security.”

  Shelby shook her head. “We have enough, Madge. I already feel like I’m living in a prison. Just tell the guys to be especially vigilant.”

  “Was there anything else with this email?”

  “That was it. I was so tired I didn’t even think, just opened it and—you saw the rest.”

  Madge grabbed the laptop and ushered Shelby inside the cool interior.

  Suddenly, the glass walls facing Phoenix didn’t seem as wonderful as they had when she’d first seen them. Now she felt vulnerable. Exposed in a way that she hadn’t before. She’d done TV, sold-out stadiums, award shows—you name it. But with one email she was stripped naked with no protection around her at all. “And cancel that interview today. I want to be here and available if the police need to speak to me.”

  “Will do. And, Shelby?”

  Shelby had already turned toward her wing of the behemoth home, but she looked back over her shoulder at her manager. “Yeah?”

  “Actually sleep this time.”

  She tried to smile but by the look on Madge’s face the gesture probably looked scary. Madge didn’t have to worry, Shelby was suddenly so tired she couldn’t keep her eyes open. Maybe if she went to sleep, she’d wake up with perspective. In the cold light of day, the email wouldn’t be what it looked like. The message would be some bad prank and not a dead woman dressed up to look like her.