Where the Truth Lives

by Mia Sheridan

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Reed said. “Sure, I’ll take his address.”

  Liza read it off to him and then Reed paused again. Liza felt the weight of the silence through the phone. She gripped it tighter, closing her eyes, somehow knowing that he was wearing that half-worried, half-thoughtful expression on his face, the one that made her want to take her finger and smooth the worry line from between his eyes. You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Reed Davies, and something makes me think you’re happy to do it. “Can you think of any reason the old director might have wanted to harm Mr. Sadowski?”

  Liza laughed softly. “No. And if you do chat with him in person, I think you’ll understand why that’s not possible.”

  “Okay.” She heard a smile in his voice. That heavy pause again, something weighty between them that defied distance. “How are you? After what happened?”

  She sat back. She could give him a stock answer where she tried to convince everyone around her that she was fine, per usual. But she wasn’t . . . and she . . . trusted Reed. Surprising, really, because another man she’d trusted had just tried to manipulate her with a shared truth. “Okay. Rattled. A little scared maybe.”

  “I’m going to do everything in my power to find answers so you don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

  And Liza believed him. “Thank you, Detective.”

  “Have a good day, Doctor.” She heard that smile in his voice again and when she hung up the phone, realized she was wearing one of her own.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Take a look at this,” Ransom said. “This is the footage from the exterior staff door.” He rewound the video and pressed play. “There’s nothing until six fifty-four a.m. and then Dr. Nolan can be seen approaching the door.” Reed set down two paper coffee cups he’d just filled in the staff room as his more tech-savvy partner went through the files the hospital had provided, and leaned closer, watching Liza walk up to the door, reach into her briefcase, look up as if something—or someone—had caught her attention, hesitate, and then turn around.

  “What’s she doing?” Reed murmured, mostly to himself. They’d received the video they’d requested from Lakeside Hospital and had been going through it in the hopes of catching the killer, face tilted to the camera, walking through the halls with Steven Sadowski’s limp, dead body. Of course, no such luck, and there were hours and hours to sift through. Despite that they had his key card being used that morning, there was nothing on surveillance to correspond to its usage. It seemed as if the killer—and the body for that matter—had materialized out of thin air.

  They’d first looked at Steven Sadowski’s movements from the night before to ascertain that he’d left the building.

  After that, they’d watched footage from the camera in the hallway where the body was found, but it was, unfortunately, focused in the wrong direction with only a view of the door several feet away. The corner where Steven Sadowski’s body had been discovered couldn’t be seen at all.

  They were now beginning to look at the video of Liza Nolan discovering the body. Something had to have been caught on camera. Somewhere. Perhaps from some random angle. They just needed to find it.

  Ransom picked up his coffee and took a sip. At six fifty-seven, the video showed Liza return to the door, pull out her key card, and enter the building.

  “Pull up the footage of her exiting the stairwell and finding the body,” Reed said. Ransom clicked through the other files, and it only took a minute until they were both looking at a picture of the hallway door, waiting for Liza to emerge.

  The clock at the bottom of the screen ticked by. One minute past seven, two . . . “How slow does she climb stairs?” Ransom murmured. “It’s only three floors.”

  Apparently, pretty slow. Too bad there was no camera in the stairwell.

  At four minutes past seven, the door opened and Liza emerged. She slipped through quickly and stood with her back pressed to the door, hands flat against it. Reed leaned closer. Her chest rose and fell as though she was breathless, and her eyes were shut. What the hell?

  “That’s weird. She’s acting like she just sprinted up the stairs, but it took her seven minutes to climb three short flights.”

  After a few seconds, her shoulders lowered, and she seemed to pull herself together. From what, it wasn’t clear. But she smoothed a piece of hair back and turned to walk toward the hall that led to the lobby. She startled severely, jerked back, dropped the things she was holding, and let out a blood-curdling scream. Although there was no shot of Steven Sadowski’s body, it was very clear what Liza Nolan was reacting to. She put her hands to her mouth, stumbled backward, let out another scream, and a minute later the man Reed now knew as Chad Headley appeared from around the corner, eyes wide as his gaze faced the direction of Sadowski’s body. He pulled Liza backward and wrapped his arms around her. It looked like she was shaking.

  Reed’s muscles tightened and he took a deep breath. Ransom paused the tape, jotting in his notebook as he spoke. “So she begins entering the building at six fifty-four a.m., changes her mind for reasons unknown, steps out of camera range, and is back at the door at six fifty-seven a.m. whereupon she enters the building, climbs three flights of stairs in seven minutes, which seems excessive, and exits the stairwell appearing flustered and overheated.”

  “Scared,” Reed murmured. “She seemed scared.”

  “Okay, flustered, overheated, and in fear of something. But what? Something she saw in the stairwell? Something that detained her there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He tapped his pencil on his pad. “After a few seconds, she turns toward where the body of Steven Sadowski was discovered, and reacts by screaming, to which Dr. Headley responds. Their statements about what happened when Dr. Nolan discovered the body are confirmed by the video. But I’m curious about what happened to Dr. Nolan in that stairwell.”

  Reed pointed at the screen. “Rewind the video of that exit door in the hallway to six forty or so.”

  “We’ve already determined that no one else entered the building through that door that morning.”

  “I know. I just want to see something.”

  Ransom rewound the video and stopped at six thirty. He let it run for a few minutes. “Now go forward to six fifty,” Reed said. Ransom did and once it’d played for a few seconds, Reed pointed at it. “There. Pause it.”

  Ransom squinted. “There what?”

  “The shadow. See it?” He tapped his index finger on the paused picture of the door and portion of empty hallway. “At six thirty it’s not there, and at six fifty, it is.”

  “Huh, yeah. I think I do see it. It’s small though. What’s making the shadow?”

  “It’s gotta be Steven Sadowski’s foot. Remember how his body was sitting all splayed out? You can’t see his foot, but you can see the edge of the shadow it’s casting.”

  “Could be,” Ransom said, tilting his head. “Hold up.” He reached for the folder with the crime scene photos enclosed and opened it, comparing the shots. “Yeah, definitely could be. The angle is right.” He rewound the tape again and they sat watching for twenty minutes, until the shadow appeared.

  At six forty-seven, the shadow appeared. If they hadn’t had their eyes trained in that spot, they never would have noticed it.

  “So whoever dropped the body in that spot, did it at six forty-seven a.m.”

  “Right. And he used an entrance without a camera and completely evaded the one in that hallway. It’s gotta be someone who knows enough about the hospital to know where cameras are placed. Someone who knew exactly where to walk so they wouldn’t be caught on surveillance or by other employees already there, and exactly where to position the body.”

  They were quiet for a moment as Reed stared unseeing at the grainy video. “Okay, we don’t have anything on video except a shadow. But that helps us narrow down the time. And tells us it had to be the killer who used Sadowski’s card—it fits right into that timeframe.”
r />   “Agreed.” Ransom reached into his pocket and brought out a nickel. “Next up, flip for a visit to the ME or Sadowski’s place to talk to his neighbors. Video, and the guard at the front door has Sadowski leaving the hospital at six thirty p.m. the night before. Maybe one of the neighbors can tell us if they saw him come home or if whoever killed him nabbed him before that. His vehicle is still missing.”

  Reed sighed, rubbing at his eye. He’d slept like shit the night before. He knew very well the loser of the coin toss would be the one visiting the ME and spending more time with the eyeless corpse of Steven Sadowski. And then he’d carry the smell of death on his clothes for the rest of the day. “Tails.”

  Ransom sent the nickel flying into the air, caught it, slapped it onto the top of his opposite hand, and pulled it back to reveal Jefferson’s silver profile.

  “Sorry, my man.”

  “No, you’re not,” Reed grumbled.

  “No. I’m not.”

  Ransom tossed the nickel onto his paper-strewn desk and sat back, regarding Reed. “Before we leave, are we going to address the elephant in the room?” His chair squeaked as he rocked back in it. “What was going on between you and hot lady doc?”

  Reed sighed again. He wasn’t going to insult Ransom’s intelligence by denying what had clearly been obvious to his partner. And furthermore, maybe it would help to get it off his chest. “I met her in a bar two weeks ago. The night of DiCrescenzo’s party. We went back to my place. She stayed the night, skipped out in the morning. The end.”

  Ransom blew out a whistle. “So that’s why you’ve been in such a shitty mood for the past two weeks? You banged the hot doc and she didn’t come back for more.”

  “I haven’t been in that shitty a mood,” Reed grumbled. Only . . . maybe he had been.

  Ransom chuckled. “Pretty boy got dumped on the first date.” He shook his head. “Sad.” He leaned in. “You know, if you need some pointers on satisfying women in the bedroom, I’d be happy to help. There’s this little thing called the cli—"

  “Fuck you, Ransom.” Reed stood, but a smile tugged at his mouth. Leave it to Ransom to help him remember not to take himself so damn seriously.

  “What does this mean for the case though?” Ransom asked as they put their coats on.

  “Nothing. Over before anything started. She’s as good as a stranger to me.” So why didn’t that feel true, other than the obvious—that he’d seen her naked? Which wasn’t what the feeling was about. He decided not to ponder on it—it was already hurting his head. And as far as the murder investigation? She was a witness. And a contact at the hospital if he had a question or two.

  Reed frowned. The whole seven-minute stairwell deal was mildly suspicious. And confusing. Although at this point, there was zero evidence it had anything to do with her finding Sadowski’s body. Her reaction to finding him there—horrified shock—had been 100 percent real. Unless she was the best actress on the planet.

  Still . . . it needled at him. What was she doing?

  “You know what else I want to know?” Ransom asked, as he stuck a few papers in a folder and then picked up a Lakeside Hospital brochure he must have taken while they were there.

  “What?”

  Ransom held the brochure up next to his face. “Where the fuck is the lake?”

  Reed’s gaze moved to the full-color glossy photo of the large white building surrounded by grass and trees on the cover of the brochure, no lake in sight. Before he could answer, Ransom tossed the brochure on the desk. “To call a mental hospital Lakeside when there’s no actual lake?” Ransom shook his head. “Man, that’s gotta mess with some crazy people. Seems like a cruel joke to me.”

  Reed chuckled softly.

  “Call me if Dr. Westbrook has anything interesting to say,” Ransom said.

  “Will do.”

  They each turned, headed for their vehicles.

  Seriously though, Reed wondered, where the fuck is the lake?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Reed pushed open the double swinging doors that led to the coroner’s examination room. Dr. Westbrook turned from where he was standing at a back counter, jotting something on what looked like a pile of forms. He placed his pen down.

  “Detective Davies,” he said, coming forward. Dr. Westbrook was a grandfatherly looking man with a head of thick gray hair and a kindly demeanor who spoke with a slow rhythm, and in low tones as if doing otherwise might wake the dead surrounding him. Reed found him pleasant and warm, the direct opposite of the person he’d expect to work in such a stark, sterile environment, filled with death and stories of depravity.

  Dr. Westbrook had come on as coroner right about the time Reed was graduating from the academy, taking the place of Dr. Cathlyn Harvey, who had been the coroner during the time Reed’s biological father was terrorizing the city. Reed had heard nothing but praise for the previous coroner, but frankly, he was glad he was part of a new generation of Cincinnati law enforcement and forensic science. It was enough that Reed thought of his genetic legacy as often as he did. He didn’t need others reminded every time they saw his face as well.

  Reed offered a slight smile, despite the overwhelming urge to keep his lips pressed together in the midst of the myriad of unpleasant smells. “Doctor, how are you?”

  “It’s difficult to come up with complaints after working with the dead all day.”

  His eyebrows shot up with amusement. But truthfully? He figured that was a pretty good way of looking at things.

  The older man led him to a gurney holding a human form with a white sheet over it. He pulled it back and Reed was surprised that the sight of the man with black, dripping holes for eyes was almost as jarring the second time as the first.

  The coroner pulled the sheet to Steven Sadowski’s waist, exposing the Y-shaped incision on his chest where the autopsy had been performed.

  “What can you tell me about the missing eyes?” Reed asked, gesturing to the black sockets.

  “It was done postmortem, I can tell you that.”

  Reed nodded, glad for some small mercies on the victim’s behalf. “And the black substance? The criminalists on the scene thought it might be oil paint.”

  “They were correct. Spray paint is my guess. Otherwise the holes wouldn’t have been filled so . . . thoroughly and neatly, for lack of a better word. Plus, you can see a film of overspray around the periphery of the wounds. Concentrated in the center, mist at the edges. An aerosol can would do that, a paintbrush, or even pouring it in, would not.” He used his finger to gesture to the black drips tracking down the victim’s cheeks. “These tracks indicate the victim was in an upright position when the paint was applied, and enough was used that it pooled at the edges of the sockets and spilled over.”

  Reed resisted a grimace. “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

  Dr. Westbrook paused. “Enucleation, yes. Unfortunately. Before I took the position here in Ohio, I was working in Texas when a serial murderer known as The Eyeball Killer was on the loose.”

  Reed nodded, thinking. “Yeah, I vaguely remember reading about that. He was murdering sex workers and removing their eyes postmortem.” He paused. “Didn’t he turn out to be a taxidermist or something?”

  “He didn’t do it for a living, but he’d taken taxidermy courses in his youth after his adoptive mother caught him killing small animals.”

  “That’s never a good sign.”

  “No,” Dr. Westbrook said. “But the person who committed this crime”—he gestured to Sadowski’s missing eyes again—“is not nearly as skillful. If I had to make a guess, I’d say, it was his first time.”

  “The murder?”

  “Not necessarily the murder, but the enucleation itself.” He gestured again. “The extraction was not clean in the least. In fact, it appears that the perpetrator of this crime had quite a bit of trouble.” Reed leaned in a little closer, noting the jagged pieces of tissue around the edges, the tearing, even small cuts and slices in the skin around
the sockets.

  “What’d he use?” Reed murmured. “A butter knife?”

  “Not a butter knife, but let’s put it this way, whatever it was, it was the wrong tool for the job.”

  Dr. Westbrook turned around, reaching for something behind him. He held up a baggie holding what looked like two lumps of bloody flesh. He angled the bag and Reed realized what he was actually looking at. Holy shit. “Are those . . . the victim’s eyes?”

  “Yes. I found them stuffed down his pants.”

  “Jesus,” he murmured. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I wish I could tell you.”

  “Have you verified the cause of death as strangulation?” He pointed at the red mark surrounding the dead man’s throat.

  “Yes. I’d guess a garrote wire. His windpipe is crushed and whatever was used dug very deeply into his tissue. Something that would make it almost impossible to dig out if the person behind him was stronger.”

  Reed regarded the frame of Steven Sadowski. He was not a tall man. Slight of frame. Anyone of average size would be larger than he was. Plenty of women would be larger than he was, or at least pretty evenly matched.

  “When did he die?”

  “I’ve estimated time of death to be between seven and ten p.m. Monday night.”

  So, somewhere between nine and twelve hours before his body was discovered by Dr. Nolan. But where did he die? And if it was off the hospital grounds as it appeared to be, considering the man had already left the building for the day, why in the world was he returned there?

  “Anything else you can tell me?” Reed asked.

  “Just one thing.” He gestured Reed over, and Reed walked around the gurney as Dr. Westbrook donned a pair of gloves that he removed from his pocket. He lifted Steven Sadowski’s head and turned it slightly so Reed could see a small red mark about the size of a quarter that appeared to be . . .

  “Is that a brand?”

  “Yes. And it’s fresh, made premortem.”