for some reason couldn’t remember any of it.”
13
ON THE “COMPLIMENTARY” RIDE back to my house, Joy drove the cruiser so silently and cautiously it was as if the road was paved with eggs. In return I sat in the back seat feeling somewhat like the scolded child, running through the events of Scarlet’s physical examination over and over again in my mind.
My God …
Sitting there with the rain once more coming down steady and hard, I relived the whole thing in my brain. Placing the tips of my latex gloves to her cheeks, gently brushing the still warm flesh. I recalled how the facial skin turned purple where I touched it, the distinct imprint of my fingertip left behind where the dermis blanched, recalled how the sudden discoloration returned to its natural pale, consistent with the shock that always accompanies massive hemorrhage.
A dead body loses an average of a degree to a degree and a half of its heat per hour. In this case, it told me Cain hadn’t been all wrong with his E.T.D. I had conducted the examination (if you want to call it that) at about three-fifteen. The way I judged it, the body had to have been deceased for less than three hours. Probably no more than two, but definitely no more than three. So between one and two o’clock must have been a fairly good call.
Right hand clutched in left, I looked out the window onto the black wet night. I saw myself running my fingers down the length of Scarlet’s torso. From shoulder to pelvis (avoiding the blood leakage), down along the neck, alongside the rib cage, over the pancreatic region to the hip bone, removing for a moment the bit of blood-soaked bedsheet that covered her sex—pubic hair that looked stark and dark against blue-white skin. I had to look away for a beat or two, gaze instead at the blood spatters that stained the wall. As if this would calm me down.
Ever since we’d entered the house, the bile had been shooting up from my stomach.
I had no choice but to swallow it back down.
The whole thing was starting to get to me. Hours before I’d been running these same hands along this very same body, under completely different circumstances. I had been inside her. In a very real way, I was still inside her.
When my breathing returned to normal I continued running my hands down the length of her left leg, feeling for any inconsistencies, bumps or bruises that might suggest she’d been beaten. Or maybe bound and gagged, carried into the room not by her own will.
There was a crucial piece of the puzzle missing.
If I’d had the blade or knife to work with, I could have checked it for prints, latent or otherwise, compared them to anything I might have pulled off the bed frame or the body itself. But Cain was sticking to his story. He told me that Jake had disposed of the knife.
But then, what about Jake?
Apparently, I wasn’t being granted much of an interview. At least no more than I’d already been granted earlier that morning during the drive from my house to the S.P.D.
Jake Montana, my part-time boss.
You don’t bite the hand that feeds you. But you might just give it a slight nip once in a while.
Here’s how I nipped at Cain:
I’m not entirely sure what got into me. Maybe it had something to do with my possible involvement in Scarlet’s death. Or maybe it had more to do with Jake’s possible involvement. But as I raised myself up off the floor, began removing my gloves, I felt a sense of resolve pour over me like the blood that covered my lover’s chest.
I directed my gaze at Joy.
“Tag and bag her,” I said.
Joy turned to Cain, blue eyes gaping open.
“Lieutenant,” he said, as if to say, What do I do?
If this had been a cartoon, Cain’s jaw would have dropped to the floor.
He asked, “What are you doing, old partner? You know the score. We just send her on to Fitzgerald’s for burial.”
“She’s got to be cut open before I can make a final decision on the suicide theory,” I said. “You know all suicides
13
ON THE “COMPLIMENTARY” RIDE back to my house, Joy drove the cruiser so silently and cautiously it was as if the road was paved with eggs. In return I sat in the back seat feeling somewhat like the scolded child, running through the events of Scarlet’s physical examination over and over again in my mind.
My God …
Sitting there with the rain once more coming down steady and hard, I relived the whole thing in my brain. Placing the tips of my latex gloves to her cheeks, gently brushing the still warm flesh. I recalled how the facial skin turned purple where I touched it, the distinct imprint of my fingertip left behind where the dermis blanched, recalled how the sudden discoloration returned to its natural pale, consistent with the shock that always accompanies massive hemorrhage.
A dead body loses an average of a degree to a degree and a half of its heat per hour. In this case, it told me Cain hadn’t been all wrong with his E.T.D. I had conducted the examination (if you want to call it that) at about three-fifteen. The way I judged it, the body had to have been deceased for less than three hours. Probably no more than two, but definitely no more than three. So between one and two o’clock must have been a fairly good call.
Right hand clutched in left, I looked out the window onto the black wet night. I saw myself running my fingers down the length of Scarlet’s torso. From shoulder to pelvis (avoiding the blood leakage), down along the neck, alongside the rib cage, over the pancreatic region to the hip bone, removing for a moment the bit of blood-soaked bedsheet that covered her sex—pubic hair that looked stark and dark against blue-white skin. I had to look away for a beat or two, gaze instead at the blood spatters that stained the wall. As if this would calm me down.
Ever since we’d entered the house, the bile had been shooting up from my stomach.
I had no choice but to swallow it back down.
The whole thing was starting to get to me. Hours before I’d been running these same hands along this very same body, under completely different circumstances. I had been inside her. In a very real way, I was still inside her.
When my breathing returned to normal I continued running my hands down the length of her left leg, feeling for any inconsistencies, bumps or bruises that might suggest she’d been beaten. Or maybe bound and gagged, carried into the room not by her own will.
There was a crucial piece of the puzzle missing.
If I’d had the blade or knife to work with, I could have checked it for prints, latent or otherwise, compared them to anything I might have pulled off the bed frame or the body itself. But Cain was sticking to his story. He told me that Jake had disposed of the knife.
But then, what about Jake?
Apparently, I wasn’t being granted much of an interview. At least no more than I’d already been granted earlier that morning during the drive from my house to the S.P.D.
Jake Montana, my part-time boss.
You don’t bite the hand that feeds you. But you might just give it a slight nip once in a while.
Here’s how I nipped at Cain:
I’m not entirely sure what got into me. Maybe it had something to do with my possible involvement in Scarlet’s death. Or maybe it had more to do with Jake’s possible involvement. But as I raised myself up off the floor, began removing my gloves, I felt a sense of resolve pour over me like the blood that covered my lover’s chest.
I directed my gaze at Joy.
“Tag and bag her,” I said.
Joy turned to Cain, blue eyes gaping open.
“Lieutenant,” he said, as if to say, What do I do?
If this had been a cartoon, Cain’s jaw would have dropped to the floor.
He asked, “What are you doing, old partner? You know the score. We just send her on to Fitzgerald’s for burial.”
“She’s got to be cut open before I can make a final decision on the suicide theory,” I said. “You know all suicides
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