with her death?”
McCoy’s lips pulled into a grimace as she nodded. “It’s possible, but Roblin wouldn’t let me bring him in for questioning.”
“Your boss was right. The guy just lost his kid. If he didn’t kill her he’ll be devastated.”
She set her shoulders to argue but he carried on talking.
“I know the stats, McCoy, but let’s gather the evidence before we go making accusations. She was a prostitute—a high-risk profession.”
“It doesn’t make it right.” Her jaw was mutinous.
“I never said it was right,” he replied quietly. He didn’t have time to argue his methods or ethics. He wanted to get home so he could fail at his marriage some more.
A gurney started through the bar with a bone-rattling shake.
“Peshavaria,” Griff shouted. “I want you to accompany the body to Goose Bay and stay for the autopsy. Process any evidence and send it to the lab. Stay until it’s done.”
The ME came around the corner with a tired shuffle. “I’ll do the autopsy as soon as we get to the morgue.” She looked exhausted and pulled off her cap to reveal short-cropped silver hair.
Griff blinked. She wasn’t that old but her hair was completely silver, as if she’d been dipped in mercury. Well shit, he’d gone bald at thirty. Go figure. “Got anything for us, Doctor? Time of death?”
“ Livor mortis suggests she’s been dead at least twelve hours. She’s still in full rigor and she was found at approximately 9 p.m. last night, which combined with body temp suggests TOD between noon and 6 p.m., yesterday. From the angle of the knife wound, you’re probably looking at a right-handed killer.”
“Sexual assault?”
“It’s too early to say for sure.” She had silver eyes too, and enough crinkles around her eyes to induce empathy.
“Thanks. Keep me posted, right?” He included Sergeant Peshavaria in that comment and nodded to the guy as he followed the ME out the door.
“Charlie Watson said he was home with his wife all day,” McCoy said quietly.
“Any reason to think he’s lying?” Griff asked, planting his hands on his hips.
McCoy hiked her trousers up skinny hips. There was no spare flesh to keep them up and they kept sliding down under the weight of her equipment belt. “No. But it only takes an hour with an ATV to get here from Nain, with plenty of bush in between to dispose of the murder weapon. You need to question him.”
Something about her lack of faith in his abilities made him smile. Most of his team treated him like God.
“This isn’t my first time out, Constable.” He held her gaze until she blinked. “Believe it or not, I know what I’m doing.”
She started to stammer an apology, but he didn’t have time.
“Trent. Johnny. Over here,” he called. “I want you on the ground looking for Sylvie Watson’s father’s ATV.” He cocked an eyebrow at Constable McCoy. “Who do we need to talk to to get permission to search the camp? Will we need warrants?”
“Dwight Wineberg, mine foreman.” She adjusted her cap. “They said they’d cooperate, sir.” Fierce color flagged her cheeks again. She reminded him of his fourteen-year-old daughter without the braces. Or the drama.
Griff beckoned his team closer and they formed a conspiratorial circle. “I want you to check all vehicles around here for any blood trace.”
“What type of vehicles?” Johnny asked in a low voice.
“Anything with wheels.”
“What about aircraft?” Trent Weston was a six-foot, six-inch ex-border patrol guard.
Griff shook his head. “I don’t see how someone could move a body from the landing area to here in broad daylight without being spotted.”
“A helicopter could have flown the other side of that ridge, dropped the body in the bush and then landed here.” Trent put in.
“But why bother?” Griff rubbed his ridged brow. “Why not dump her in the woods where the wildlife would take care of the evidence and we might never have found her?”
“They
McCoy’s lips pulled into a grimace as she nodded. “It’s possible, but Roblin wouldn’t let me bring him in for questioning.”
“Your boss was right. The guy just lost his kid. If he didn’t kill her he’ll be devastated.”
She set her shoulders to argue but he carried on talking.
“I know the stats, McCoy, but let’s gather the evidence before we go making accusations. She was a prostitute—a high-risk profession.”
“It doesn’t make it right.” Her jaw was mutinous.
“I never said it was right,” he replied quietly. He didn’t have time to argue his methods or ethics. He wanted to get home so he could fail at his marriage some more.
A gurney started through the bar with a bone-rattling shake.
“Peshavaria,” Griff shouted. “I want you to accompany the body to Goose Bay and stay for the autopsy. Process any evidence and send it to the lab. Stay until it’s done.”
The ME came around the corner with a tired shuffle. “I’ll do the autopsy as soon as we get to the morgue.” She looked exhausted and pulled off her cap to reveal short-cropped silver hair.
Griff blinked. She wasn’t that old but her hair was completely silver, as if she’d been dipped in mercury. Well shit, he’d gone bald at thirty. Go figure. “Got anything for us, Doctor? Time of death?”
“ Livor mortis suggests she’s been dead at least twelve hours. She’s still in full rigor and she was found at approximately 9 p.m. last night, which combined with body temp suggests TOD between noon and 6 p.m., yesterday. From the angle of the knife wound, you’re probably looking at a right-handed killer.”
“Sexual assault?”
“It’s too early to say for sure.” She had silver eyes too, and enough crinkles around her eyes to induce empathy.
“Thanks. Keep me posted, right?” He included Sergeant Peshavaria in that comment and nodded to the guy as he followed the ME out the door.
“Charlie Watson said he was home with his wife all day,” McCoy said quietly.
“Any reason to think he’s lying?” Griff asked, planting his hands on his hips.
McCoy hiked her trousers up skinny hips. There was no spare flesh to keep them up and they kept sliding down under the weight of her equipment belt. “No. But it only takes an hour with an ATV to get here from Nain, with plenty of bush in between to dispose of the murder weapon. You need to question him.”
Something about her lack of faith in his abilities made him smile. Most of his team treated him like God.
“This isn’t my first time out, Constable.” He held her gaze until she blinked. “Believe it or not, I know what I’m doing.”
She started to stammer an apology, but he didn’t have time.
“Trent. Johnny. Over here,” he called. “I want you on the ground looking for Sylvie Watson’s father’s ATV.” He cocked an eyebrow at Constable McCoy. “Who do we need to talk to to get permission to search the camp? Will we need warrants?”
“Dwight Wineberg, mine foreman.” She adjusted her cap. “They said they’d cooperate, sir.” Fierce color flagged her cheeks again. She reminded him of his fourteen-year-old daughter without the braces. Or the drama.
Griff beckoned his team closer and they formed a conspiratorial circle. “I want you to check all vehicles around here for any blood trace.”
“What type of vehicles?” Johnny asked in a low voice.
“Anything with wheels.”
“What about aircraft?” Trent Weston was a six-foot, six-inch ex-border patrol guard.
Griff shook his head. “I don’t see how someone could move a body from the landing area to here in broad daylight without being spotted.”
“A helicopter could have flown the other side of that ridge, dropped the body in the bush and then landed here.” Trent put in.
“But why bother?” Griff rubbed his ridged brow. “Why not dump her in the woods where the wildlife would take care of the evidence and we might never have found her?”
“They
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