CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

Washington, D.C.
Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam watched Detective Fletcher’s face closely, looking for signs he wasn’t giving her all the pieces of the puzzle.

“All right. Let’s look at this in parts. On the surface, it looks like Donovan was carjacked, and shot from outside the car, with his own gun?”

“That’s what the report says.” Fletcher’s eyes were hooded. He was skilled at not letting himself be read, but Sam was good at looking past the surface. He was holding something important back from her.

“But the gun was found in Georgetown.”

Fletcher sighed. “Yes. Serial number matched the weapon he had registered in his name. According to this—” he shook the file in the air “—ballistics matched, too.”

“I think we can safely say that this wasn’t a random carjacking.”

“I agree,” Fletcher replied. “So if you’ll get me that report on the sand in his lungs as soon as you can, I’d appreciate it.”

He was dismissing her again. Damn it, she wanted to help. Why couldn’t he get that through his thick head? She needed all the details if she was going to do any good.

There was another way she could stay involved. She smiled, friendly and open.

“Of course. As soon as I have it, I’ll be in touch. Do you have any information on the other victim from Donovan’s unit? I thought I heard you say they were doing the post today?”

“Nocek’s doing it, I think.” Fletcher stopped and eyed her. She saw a glimmer of respect, and the knowledge that he’d just been trumped. Now she was in.

“You wanna post him yourself?”

“I’m happy to lend a second set of eyes, if you’d like.”

Fletcher pursed his lips for a moment, then nodded.

“That would be a help.”

Sam smiled. “I don’t know if they’ll let me attend, but I can ask. I’ll call Dr. Nocek now.”

Dr. Nocek was, of course, happy to have her attend the postmortem. They’d forged a connection over Donovan’s body, professional to professional. She liked him, he liked her. They were a good team, something no M.E. sneered at.

An hour later, Sam found herself back at the OCME, scrubbed, gloved and standing by as a tech got ready to make the Y-incision on Harold Croswell. Fletcher was established two feet to her left, a slight grimace on his face. He reminded her of a greyhound ready to bolt after a stuffed squirrel. Miserable, and desperate to run.

Croswell had been shot at close range twice, once in the chest, once in the forehead. Sam listened with impatience, rubbing her hands together under mental water—one Mississippi, two Mississippi—as Nocek danced around the body with a small ruler and read off the specifics.

“Body is that of an adult male Caucasian measuring seventy-one inches and weighing two hundred ten pounds. Normal presentation … a rectangular ink tattoo in black and yellow with the word Ranger on the upper left biceps … Multiple scars on various aspects of the torso and legs, with darkened areas consistent with old shrapnel wounds … Corneas are cloudy … Three-sixteenth-inch penetrating gunshot wound to the supraorbital ridge … Quarter-inch-diameter distant perforating gunshot on the left side of the chest … Marginal abrasion … No evidence of soot or powder tattooing around the entrance …?. Okay, Frederick, please open him up.

Frederick, a woefully misnamed brute of a man, efficiently slit Croswell from stem to stern.

There was a brief delay while the ribs were cut—the bones snapping in two with a short audible crunch—and the breastplate lifted and removed, then the mess that was the inside of Croswell’s chest appeared.

Nocek poked and prodded in the chest cavity. “Let’s see … Wound track A passes backward and downward through the sixth intercostal space with perforation of the lower lobe of the left lung, the diaphragm and the liver, exits through the tenth intercostal in the back.”

“Shooter was taller than him,” Fletcher muttered, and Sam nodded in affirmation.

Or five feet tall and standing on a box. You could never be one hundred percent certain, but sometimes, police work had to go with the logical answer. Occam’s razor.

Nocek had moved on to the head wound.

“Wound track B slightly downward … Skull fracture, evident fracture of the cribriform plate … Large subarachnoid hemorrhage …”

Nocek looked up, the microscopic lens he wore to see the details inside the brain magnifying his right eye into obscene proportions. He looked a bit like a lopsided fly.

“This was the kill shot, to be blunt.”

“Thank you for that, Dr. Nocek.” Fletcher was looking green. Sam wondered what the problem was. He was a veteran detective, had seen his share of head wounds. This wasn’t particularly gruesome. It was actually rather tidy. Like a large red Milky Way across a gray-matter night sky.

Maybe he was just hungover.

“Let’s take a look at the lungs first, if you please,” Sam asked. Nocek didn’t hesitate; she gathered he was as interested as she was to see if they were loaded with sand granulomas.

Frederick pulled the lungs from the organ scale and set them on the dissection board. It only took Nocek a few moments to lay bare the bronchial tree.

There it was, the same old scar tissue overlaid with fresh granulomas. Just like Sam had seen in Donovan’s lungs.

“That’s the sand you’re talking about?” Fletcher asked.

“Yes,” Sam replied. She took a small swab and ran it lightly across Croswell’s trachea. “There’s more here.”

Nocek took samples, and then broke for a moment, stretching his long arms, the wrists cracking slightly.

“I will let you know what I find with the samples, Dr. Owens. Are you free for a late dinner? I could give you the results then.”

Fletcher coughed into his hand. Sam smiled at Nocek. She didn’t get the sense that he was hitting on her; he wore a wide gold band on his right hand, like many Europeans. Just in case, though, she declined.

“That is a very kind offer, but I’m afraid I have already promised myself tonight. Perhaps another time.”

He nodded. If he was disappointed, it didn’t show. “Then I shall call you with the results. Let us finish.”

Amazing, how quickly a body can share its secrets. Another twenty minutes and they were through. Frederick put Croswell back together, then began to wash the body and table, flicking away the remaining bits of blood and tissue.

Nocek washed up, taking his time before excusing himself. “If you will forgive me, I have another guest to attend to.”

“Of course. Thank you, Amado. I appreciate you letting me help.”

He turned and limped off. Finally, it was her turn at the sink. She got the water a little hotter and felt the warm, calming liquid spill over her hands, almost as soothing as a deep-tissue massage of her neck after a long day. Her shoulders relaxed. Her hands tingled from the heat. She did her best not to think about lungs, the water rushing into the airway, a dead-end street.

Sam took an extra second under the water, ostensibly getting one last bit of soap out from under her nails. It felt so good. So clean. Her eyes closed involuntarily, then flicked back open. Jesus, Sam. Watch yourself. You’re not alone.

The second she realized Fletcher was scrutinizing her curiously, she pulled her hands from the water.

“We need to get in touch with the remainder of Donovan’s unit.” She ripped off a towel and blotted her palms with it. “They may be in danger.”

“You think?” Fletcher was getting his color back.

“I do. Two murders in three days with the same gun?”

“They may be finished. These two may have been the target. Why else ditch the gun?”

Sam thought about that for a second.

“Perhaps Donovan and Croswell are the only two members of the unit living locally. Maybe the killer needs to go to another state. If he’s flying, he can’t take the gun with him.”

“A good thought.” Fletcher stuck out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Dr. Owens. Are you really tied up this evening? I’d be happy to show you around town. Personally, after this day, I could really use a drink.”

Unlike the innocent offer from Nocek, Fletcher’s was tinged with expectation. He was a decent-looking man, not gorgeous, but handsome, in a weary kind of way. He had a square face, with dark, keen eyes. If Nocek looked like an oversize fly, Fletcher reminded her of a crow. One who was looking at her a little too familiarly right now.

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid I am already committed. Besides, there’s a great deal of work to be done on this case.”

“Still gotta eat. You don’t look like you do enough of that.”

“Excuse me?” Sam forced her mouth closed, felt her teeth click together. How dare he?

“Relax. I’m just saying you could use a cheeseburger. You’re a little thin.”

“Thank you, Detective Fletcher. I do so appreciate the observation.”

“What? I thought all women like to be told they’re skinny.”

What was it with men? Cops, especially? Sam would never get used to the ogling, the innuendo, the inappropriate language and actions. She could be bawdy with the best of them if needed, had a decent sense of humor, but she was a lady, and by damn, she expected to be treated that way.

But when things went too far, or she was feeling frachetty and sick of it, she would lash out. Like now.

“Yes, of course we do. All women love their bodies to be the focus of a stranger’s attention. Now, if you’ll excuse me? I have someplace to be.” She shouldered past him, knocking into his arm as she went.

Fletcher looked surprised by her reaction, and grabbed her wrist in an attempt to stop her flight.

“Jeez. Wait. I’m just trying to be nice. Come on, Dr. Owens. Lighten up. If you’re going to work with me, we can’t be at each other’s throats.”

She wrenched her hand from his.

“I don’t want your pity.” The words were out of her mouth before she even thought them. She heard them tumble from her lips and knew she couldn’t take them back. God damn it all.

Fletcher’s brow creased. “What are you talking about? Pity? I’m trying to buy you a drink and some dinner. That’s all.”

Oh, God. He didn’t know. She just assumed he did. The way he was looking at her, watching her … She had expected him to look her up, and if he did, it would be hard to miss the news reports. Maybe he had and was simply good at charades. But no, he looked genuinely confused.

She swallowed. If he hadn’t checked her out thoroughly before, he would now.

“Never mind,” she said. “I need to meet Eleanor Donovan at five. I’m going to have to leave you here. Thank you for including me today. I’ll let you know what the reports say.”

She walked away at last, wrist tingling, embarrassment and dismay flooding her mind. How could she be so careless?