Now Barry removed the calvarium and the brain, then stripped the dura away from the cranial cavity and examined the interior of the skull, tracking the weapon’s trajectory. “See here … where the bones are shattered in a curved pattern?” He pointed at the site of impact with his scalpel. “This pattern has the same characteristics as the edge of the skillet.” He picked up the skillet and did a side-by-side comparison. “They match almost exactly.”
Luke leaned forward and studied the exposed skull as if it were a piece of sculpture, while Natalie shuddered, no weight in her stomach.
“Method of death?” Luke asked the coroner.
“MOD would be impact with a heavy object,” Barry said, “resulting in the underlying dislocation of the skull. Projectiles of bone fragments penetrated into the brain, causing massive damage. Proximate cause of death is acute blunt-force trauma, resulting in complete and instantaneous disability and death.”
At least it was quick and painless. Small comfort.
Luke crossed his arms. “So a single blow to the skull with a medium-size skillet killed her? How much strength would that require?”
“Upper body strength? Not a lot,” Barry said. “An injury to the back of the skull is statistically more lethal than a blow to the front of the head. Which means, if the skillet was swung with great speed, then speed beats size. Not a lot of strength would’ve been required. I’ve seen this type of injury before in crimes of passion. All it takes is one blow.”
“What’s your TOD?” Natalie asked.
Barry picked up the chart and flipped through the fluid-stained pages. “By the time I arrived at the scene last night, around nine o’clock … the skin was waxy and translucent. Purple striations over the lower extremities. Eyes not yet milky—that usually occurs eight to ten hours after death. Body temperature was incrementally lower. Rigor mortis was just beginning. Limbs were flaccid. Stiffness of the jaw. Clear signs of postmortem lividity throughout the body. I’d say … three to five hours before my arrival.”
“So then … between four and six o’clock?” she clarified.
“I can’t pin it down precisely—nobody can—but that’s my best estimate.” Next he performed the Y-incision and removed and weighed each organ, dissecting the stomach contents and recording his findings. “A few partially digested pecans … the remnants of a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich…” He paused with his instruments hovering over the victim’s pelvic cavity. “Okay,” he said softly. “Now for the fetus.”
The room grew still.
Daisy’s face was disturbingly peaceful.
Forgive us our sins.
The sorrow was stuck in Natalie’s throat like a handful of sand. When they were young, Daisy’s favorite CD was The Monkees Greatest Hits. She was a no-BS kind of girl. She used to give Natalie beauty makeovers. “Hey-ho, future movie star. Get ready for your close-up!” She’d curl Natalie’s long hair with a flat iron and let the little rug rat ask her a ton of pesky questions. But shortly after Daisy and Grace formed a coven with Lindsey Wozniak and Bunny Jackson, they no longer wanted the nine-year-old tagging along. They became supersecretive. Grace even put up a sign on her door that read “Gnats (that means you Natalie) Not Allowed.”
But none of that mattered anymore. Death was final.
The coroner made his first incision into the abdomen.
All of a sudden, for Natalie, it made perfect, haunting sense. One blow. Impulsive. Disorganized. A crime of passion. Sexual problems between Brandon and Daisy. The Breakup Bible. Manicure. Pedicure. A bikini wax.
“We need to confirm who the father is,” she said.
Barry looked up. “Why? Do you think she was having an affair?”
“I’m beginning to suspect it.” She couldn’t help feeling, deep in her gut, that Brandon wasn’t the father. She told Barry, “You’ll be running a DNA test on the fetus?”
Luke nodded. “Good point.”
“It’ll take a few weeks to get the results back from the lab,” Barry said.
For the second time that day, she felt as if she’d betrayed someone close to her. What did the dead think of us? What if they haunted the living out of spite?
13
Thirty minutes later, Natalie pushed through the heavy double doors and entered the bustling intensive care unit at Langston Memorial Hospital. The ICU was one big room where the patients’ beds were separated by royal blue curtains. You could hear the blipping and buzzing equipment, the ventilators whooshing up and down.
She spotted Dr. Russ Swinton over by the nurses’ station. He was a no-nonsense professional in his midfifties, saddlebag-tough and emotionless, which made him exactly the kind of person you wanted during an emergency. His dark bushy eyebrows gave him a perpetually glum look. Twenty-one years ago, Russ had examined Natalie after she’d been attacked in the woods. He was younger back then, with a kinder demeanor, but time and experience had taken away his warmth.
“Natalie,” he said crisply. “How can I help you?”
“I came to see how Riley Skinner’s doing.”
“No change in status,” he said with a regretful shake of his head. “We’ve got him on steroids to help with the swelling. No history of epilepsy or any other neurological disorders. He came to us dehydrated, with an elevated temperature and heart rate. He had a small contusion on his right cheek, but no other signs of injury. No body blows or head wounds. No evidence of a physical altercation of any kind.”
“What happened? Why did he start seizing?”
Russ frowned. “We don’t know yet. So far he’s tested negative for epilepsy, meningitis, encephalitis, parasites, brain abscesses, and various other diseases. We’ve also screened for heroin, cocaine, MDMA, amphetamines, antidepressants, convulsants, and psilocybin. He did test positive for alcohol, and now we’re screening for synthetic drugs, which are much more difficult to detect—”
“Synthetic?”
“It’s a possibility. We’ve seen a number of similar cases in the ER this year.”
Synthetic drugs were unregulated, and the ingredients were unknown. Synthetic marijuana, for instance, had very little in common with organic marijuana. Cheap and easy to obtain, these drugs didn’t show up in the most common drug tests and often contained powerful stimulants—it would be like snorting high-grade cocaine times ten.
“Until we can pin it down, we’ll be treating him with antianxiety medication to slow his heart rate and lower his blood pressure, reduce the frantic activity in his brain. There’s something else you should know,” Russ said. “Riley had about three hundred dollars in his pockets, mostly tens and twenties.”
Which implied he was dealing, she thought. “What’s his prognosis?”
“That all depends.” Russ scratched his neck with his finger. “One of my patients was in a coma for six months before waking up with no deleterious effects whatsoever. Others haven’t been so lucky. We’ll have to wait and see. Every case is different.”
Natalie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Any good news?”
Russ picked up a chart. “The CT scan shows no structural abnormalities, such as a stroke or a tumor. His blood pressure is normal, his vitals are stable. So far, we’ve prevented his organs from shutting down. That’s what I’d call good news. We’ll know more once the swelling recedes. We’re dealing with a dire situation, but we’re monitoring it closely.”
“Thanks, Russ. I’m here to pick up the medical records.” She handed him the subpoena. “And collect the outfit he was wearing last night.”
The doctor skimmed through the paperwork—he knew how thorough the BLPD was. “Looks in order. I’ll have Sofia forward you the patient’s medical records. And Monica will fetch Riley’s clothing.”
“Thanks. When will you get the results on the latest tox screen?”
“Hopefully in a few days. I’ll keep you posted.” He pivoted on his heel and was gone.
Five minutes later, one of the nurses came over with a sealed plastic bag full of Riley
’s clothes—Levi’s, a pair of scuffed Doc Martens, a plaid flannel shirt, and a gray hoodie with pinprick drops of something dark on the right sleeve, along with Riley’s wallet and keys. Natalie signed the chain of custody form and accepted the bundle. She checked the bag for a cell phone, but there wasn’t any. “Did he have a phone on him when he was admitted?” she asked.
“No, Detective. Just what’s in the bag.” The nurse pointed toward the rear of the ICU. “He’s back there. The last bed at the end.”
Natalie thanked her and headed over. She parted the privacy curtain and stood at the foot of the hospital bed with the heavy bundle in her arms.
Riley’s eyes were closed. There was an endotracheal tube taped to his mouth and an intravenous needle stuck in his arm. His scalp was shaved, and over a dozen electrodes on his head were wired to the EEG machine. A monitor displayed his brainwaves—rolling like ocean waves. Maybe that was what being in a coma felt like, she thought—floating in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight. His ventilator made a rhythmic sucking sound, while the IV bag dripped stabilizing drugs into his system.
In a perverse way, Riley was royalty. Riley’s father had once been a formidable force in this town, a drug kingpin on the west side, trafficking in meth and enjoying the sense of power he got from intimidating others. Then Dominic got busted for drug trafficking and was sent to prison for seven years, and now, as a parolee, he was forbidden to own a weapon, fraternize with other ex-felons, or leave the area. But you never knew when Dominic might try to circumvent the restrictions. On the surface, at least, he’d given up a life of crime for the rustic rewards of farming, just like his father and grandfather before him. But Brandon was convinced it was all an act, and they just hadn’t caught him yet. Now Dominic would be coming after Brandon, despite whatever might’ve caused Riley’s seizures. West side justice was nothing to mess with.
Natalie watched the suction ventilator moving up and down as it kept the boy’s heart alive, while his body remained unresponsive. There was a point at which you sensed the personality, the soul, or whatever you chose to call it, had left the building. All that remained was a beautiful corpse hooked up to a machine. She fervently hoped that he would step back from the abyss.
One of the nurses interrupted, murmuring “sorry,” and made a few adjustments, fluffing the pillows, checking the stats, jotting a few notes on a medical chart. Natalie stepped aside and let her perform her duties.
As the nurse shifted the patient’s johnny off his shoulder, Natalie caught sight of a tattoo—a small red rose surrounded by twisted barbed wire. Identical to the one on India’s wrist.
14
Natalie pulled into the high school parking lot and cut the engine. The main building was composed of once-fashionable yellow brick with granite columns and archways. JFK had an excellent reputation. Their SAT average was outstanding, according to Grace, and their ACT average was one of the highest in the state. Sixty-five percent of the graduates went on to college, and every year more than a dozen seniors got into Harvard, Princeton, and Yale. In that sort of competitive climate, the Rileys of this world simply couldn’t cut it.
She checked the time: 2:30 P.M. The final bell rang, the doors shot open, and the yellow brick building burped out an endless parade of students wearing the same elated look. Natalie spotted Ellie and waved.
Ellie said good-bye to her friends and came right over. “Hey, Aunt Natalie,” she said, getting in and slamming the door, depositing her book bag on the floor and buckling her seat belt. “Thanks for the lift.”
“No problem. How’d it go today?”
Ellie’s shoulders slumped. The only touch of color in her all-black outfit were two pink barrettes taming her wild black hair. “We had the remembrance ceremony. Everyone was crying. It was really sad. They told us there was a grief counselor available, but I didn’t feel like talking to a stranger about it.” Ellie chewed on her thumbnail and glanced over at Natalie. “Do they know what happened yet?”
She shook her head. “We’re still piecing it together.”
“But you’re going to find out who did this to her, right?”
“Absolutely,” she reassured her.
Ellie rubbed her wrist and stared transfixed out the window. “I couldn’t find my bracelet. I looked everywhere for it. Chemistry, gym class, homeroom. The lost-and-found box was full of these disgusting sweaters and scarves from last winter.”
“Maybe you left it at home?” Natalie suggested.
She shook her head. “I wore it to school this morning.”
“And you don’t remember losing it?”
“Well, I had gym for second period. When I looked in my locker, it was gone.”
“I’m sorry, Ellie.” Natalie had already decided that she would surprise her niece with another scarab bracelet for her sweet sixteen. She took a deep breath, reluctant to use this ride home as an opportunity for another interview, but she had no choice. “I heard you were at Berkley’s house yesterday afternoon. Did Riley Skinner show up there?”
“No.” Ellie said, wrinkling her nose. “Why?”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Riley?” The girl powered down her window and let her hair blow loosely around her shoulders. “Riley does whatever he wants. He doesn’t live by the same rules as the rest of us. He’s got this…”
“What?”
Ellie stared blankly at the passing scenery. They were driving past the lake, visible through the thinning trees, where road signs warned about the dangers of cliff diving on Devil’s Point. To the north of the cliffs were miles of thick, desolate woods, part of the vast state forest.
“What is it, Ellie?”
The girl shifted uncomfortably, tugging on her seat belt. “When I first met him, he sort of scared me. He was reading this book called American Psycho, mostly to intimidate people, I think. He’s from the wrong side of the tracks, and his father went to prison, so I tried to avoid him. But he and India were friends, so I couldn’t ignore him every single time. And after I got to know him, I realized he wasn’t as crazy or weird as most people thought. It made me realize how much we judge others by their appearances and … I don’t know.” She shrugged. “We’re all so locked into our own tribes. Jocks, geeks, witches, stoners, nerds … it’s depressing, when you think about it.”
Natalie nodded empathetically. “So Riley and India are friends?”
“They used to be pretty close last year,” Ellie said. “But India didn’t want to hang out with him anymore, so she told him to give her some space, and now she treats him like he’s her stalker. No means no, right? But I can sort of understand his confusion.”
“You sympathize with him?”
“A little. She led him on for a long time, then just dumped him.”
“How close were they before? Boyfriend and girlfriend close?”
Ellie gazed out the window while the wind blew her hair around, and Natalie could see the tips of her ears burning. “You know what I hate, Aunt Natalie? I hate how judgmental people can be. Too many kids at school size you up by how much money your parents have. Do you wear the right clothes? Listen to the right music? Think the right thoughts? Are you worthy of their company? There’s this girl in my history class who gets picked on all the time for wearing knitted-by-mom sweaters. But I mean, her mother did it out of love.”
“Some things never change,” Natalie said softly.
Ellie’s hair caught the sunlight. “Was it like that when you were growing up?”
Natalie nodded. “Human nature can be very predictable.”
“It sucks.”
“Big-time.”
Ellie’s phone buzzed, and she checked her messages. “It’s Mom.” Her fingers danced over the buttons. After a quick exchange, she put her phone away.
Natalie glanced expectantly at her niece. “So Riley isn’t part of India’s tribe?”
“She used to really like him. But not anymore.”
“Is that why they
have the same tattoo?”
The girl’s eyes widened with alarm. “How do you know about that?”
“I saw it on her wrist—a rose surrounded by barbed wire. I saw Riley’s, too.”
Instead of answering the question, Ellie asked, “How is he?”
“Stable but critical condition.”
“What does that mean? Is he going to be okay?”
“Dr. Swinton doesn’t know yet. But Riley’s getting the best medical care possible.” She glanced at her niece with deep concern. “Ellie, is it possible Riley could’ve hurt someone? Out of a sense of rejection?”
“No,” she said, hugging her slender arms. “I don’t get it, how people can say he killed Ms. Buckner, because she cared about him and was trying to help him.”
Natalie nodded. “Is there anybody else at school Daisy was having problems with? Any other students or teachers? I’m just wondering if—”
“We had a debate in Ms. Buckner’s class last week about the executions.”
“Executions?”
“Those three witches weren’t burned at the stake,” Ellie said a little feverishly, brushing the hair off her forehead. “It was illegal to burn people at the stake … in England and all the colonies, including America. Which is why at the Salem witch trials they hanged the accused, or else they pressed them to death with huge stones. I mean, they burned witches in other parts of Europe, but not here in Burning Lake. Those three women were hung to death, and then afterwards their bodies were burned on the pyre.”
“Right. That’s true. But what does this have to do with Daisy?”
Trace of Evil Page 10
