FORTY-ONE
Ben sat at the top of the metal bleachers overlooking the soccer field where Abigail was practicing with her team. He looked at his watch. Practice should have ended ten minutes ago. He had an appointment with the coroner, and he didn’t want to be late. The coroner who had signed off on Vernon Doherty’s autopsy report had since passed away. But Melissa Erickson had been trained by her predecessor and was willing to go over the report with him.
The coach called the players into a huddle, one arm around the goalie, the other around his daughter’s shoulder. Eyes narrowed, Ben stood, his gaze locked on the coach as he made his way to solid ground and walked by the other parents waiting for their children to come off the field.
The coach’s thumb brushed against his daughter’s neck. She didn’t flinch, didn’t seem to notice. The coach flashed a wide smile at Abigail before the team straightened and said in unison, “Go, Pink Panthers!”
The coach was giving the girls high fives by the time Ben reached Abigail. “Come on. Time to go.”
Abigail gave him the side eye. “The coach wants to talk to me.”
“No time,” Ben told her. “Grab your things.”
The coach came between them and offered his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Henry Rogers, Emily’s father.”
Ben had no idea who Emily was, and he had no interest in talking to the man. Bright eyes, phony smile. Instant dislike.
“Dad,” his daughter reprimanded when he didn’t move to take his hand.
Ben sighed and shook the man’s hand. “Gotta go. Late for a meeting.” As Ben turned away, he gave his daughter a stern look, a warning she knew well, which got her moving again.
“You didn’t have to be so rude,” Abigail said the moment they were out of earshot.
“How long has he been your coach?”
“Ever since Mr. Jacobs had a stroke.”
“You need to be careful around him.”
She grabbed her things and then marched ahead to the car.
He slid open the van door.
Abigail angrily tossed her things into the back seat.
Once they were both in the van, he started the engine and waited for her to buckle her seat belt. Her face was red, and he wasn’t sure if it was from running around for the past hour or if she was truly angry. “What’s going on?”
“Why don’t you tell me, Dad? You and Mom hardly speak anymore. You walk around in a weird daze half the time. And then you embarrass me in front of my friends and my coach. Are you and Mom getting a divorce?”
“What?” He backed out of the parking lot and then drove slowly to the exit. Abigail waved and smiled at her friends, trying to pretend that nothing was wrong.
He didn’t understand his daughter lately. His wife constantly reminded him that she was at that age. Hormones were raging. She’d be smiling one minute, moody the next. “Your mother and I are fine,” he tried to assure her. “We love each other, and we’re not getting divorced.”
“Well, that’s hard to believe, since you’re never home.”
“Your mother and I both work long hours every day to keep a roof over your head and to pay for that uniform and those new soccer shoes on your feet.”
“Mom stays late at the hospital because she’s helping to save lives, but what’s your excuse? You’re writing stories about dead people.”
He did his best to reel in his frustrations. “I’m going to let that one go, young lady.” He frowned as he kept his eyes on the road. “I want you to keep your distance from Henry Rogers until I’ve had a chance to talk to him.”
“What does that even mean? He’s my coach. Why do you need to talk to him? Because he’s friendly? Emily will find out, and nobody will have anything to do with me.”
“He’s too hands-on with you girls.”
“Hands-on? Are you serious? That’s disgusting. If you talk to him, I’ll quit soccer and never talk to you again.” She crossed her arms and sank lower into her seat.
Less than fifteen minutes later, he was pulling into a parking lot outside of a one-story brick building.
“Where are we?”
“At the county morgue. I need to talk to someone. It won’t take long.” He climbed out of the van and told her to do the same.
“I’d rather stay in the car.”
“No can do.” He gestured for her to get out.
She pulled a face, then climbed out and stomped toward the entrance.
Inside, Ben was told his daughter would have to wait in the front area while he went to the back of the building. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
Abigail plopped down into a plastic chair in the corner and grunted.
Ben’s footsteps echoed off the walls as he made his way down the corridor. The place smelled of antiseptics. He was offered a face mask but turned it down before he was led into the autopsy room, where Melissa Erickson was expecting him. The floor was tiled, and everything else was stainless steel. The room could be compared to a big industrial kitchen.
Melissa Erickson tossed a blue paper sheet over the corpse lying on the steel table, then pulled her face mask to her chin. “You wanted to talk about an autopsy concerning Vernon Doherty—is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Terrel Manderly, the coroner you asked about when you called, was my mentor.”
“I see.”
“I looked over the report, and I feel confident in saying that I knew Terrel well enough to tell you he would have included smoke inhalation as cause of death if it in any way contributed to Vernon Doherty’s passing.”
“But he didn’t list it,” Ben said. “What does that say to you?”
“Well, first I’d have to point out that the number one cause of death in any fire is smoke inhalation. Smoke is a mixture of heated particles and gas, which are often toxic. Once you breathe that in, there is no room for oxygen. Small particles are inhaled deep into the lungs. Vernon Doherty showed no signs of carbon monoxide in his blood, which tells me he was dead before the fire started.”
“What about bruising and lacerations on other parts of his body?”
“Hmm. Even if the outside of a body is charred, the inner organs are usually fine. If the skin splits, muscle can be exposed. But lacerations, unless deep, won’t usually be revealed. Broken bones, on the other hand, would show a pattern that would be distinguishable.”
It was quiet for a moment before she asked, “Is there something else?”
“This might be a strange question,” Ben said, “but bear with me. In your professional opinion, could Vernon Doherty have been dead before first impact?”
“Other than the driver’s blood alcohol level, there are no other indications of cause of death,” she said. “No heart attack or anything like that, if that’s what you’re alluding to?”
Ben shook his head. “Not exactly. Let’s pretend for a moment that someone else was driving. Hypothetical, of course.”
“Of course.”
“In that case, could Vernon Doherty have been dead for up to an hour or two before the crash occurred?”
She frowned. “It’s possible, but difficult to determine because of the time it took to pull the wreckage and get to Vernon’s body. Rigor mortis is normally the first thing noted by an ME. Rigor normally starts in the smaller muscles in the face and neck within hours of death and then lasts up to thirty hours or so.”
“And rigor mortis had set in,” Ben said.
“By the time his body was examined, yes.” She raised a brow. “Does that help?”
He nodded. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me. You’ve been a big help.” She was knowledgeable and helpful, but unfortunately, he still wasn’t any closer to the truth about that night.
Jessie kept her eyes on the road as she thought about Arlo and the hopeless look she’d seen on his face at the police station. It bothered her to think she’d been so easily fooled.
She used Bluetooth to call Colin, letting him know she was headed to Woodland. There was no answer, so she left a message. After she hung up the phone, she thought about the image of the man in Zee’s sunglasses.
Had Zee become infatuated with Forrest Bloom and run away with him? Or perhaps he was taking advantage of Zee’s mental instability.
Intent on finding out, she got off on Exit 33, following the directions on her phone, which took her down a seemingly endless country road. She passed by an equestrian facility followed by a variety of crops, finally making a right onto a gravel driveway.
By the time she parked and shut off the engine, she realized that even if she headed home now, she wouldn’t be back before Olivia returned from school. She picked up the phone and left Olivia a message, letting her know she’d be home soon after Bella’s mom dropped her off.
In front of her was a faded blue farmhouse with peeling paint and a crumbling roof. She grabbed her pepper spray, climbed out, and slipped it into her back pocket.
The bottom of her shoes crunched against the pebbly rocks as she walked along, breathing in the scent of manure mixed with honeysuckle. Two wobbly wooden steps brought her to a wraparound porch. She knocked, waited, and then looked around before pressing her face next to the only sliver of glass not covered by the flowery-print curtains hanging inside. With her hands cupped around her eyes, she could see past a couple of worn couches. There was a round wooden table circled by four high-back chairs. The placed looked neat and well taken care of.
After knocking again, she walked over to one end of the porch, where she could see fields of tall grass dotted with trees. She walked back down the steps toward her car, plunked her hands on hips, and stood there for a moment. Zee, she thought. Where are you?
Looking over her shoulder at the house, she decided it would be crazy to leave without taking a better look around. With her mind made up, she turned around and followed the dirt path that led around the side of the house. Maybe someone was in the backyard. Surely Forrest Bloom would understand her concern once she explained that Zee was missing. Judging by how happy Zee had looked in the pictures, Forrest and Zee were friends, at the very least.
When she got to the backyard, she took another long look at her surroundings. The only movement was a horse in a distant field. About twenty feet away was a barn. It was wrong to trespass, but she’d come all this way, and she hated to leave knowing he might be nearby. “Hello!” she called out.
A strangled cry floated through the air.
She stopped and listened, then figured she was hearing things.
There it was again. In the distance she saw what looked like a pigpen. Figuring an animal might be pinned or trapped within the fence, she headed that way, hoping she could help. As she passed by a crudely built wooden box, she heard the noise again.
Her skin prickled.
It took her a few seconds to realize the noise was coming from inside the rectangular box. Both sides of it were warped, but the top looked newly constructed with fresh plywood. Jessie leaned over and struggled to lift the lid before she saw that the plywood had been nailed shut. Heart pounding, she dropped to her knees. “Is someone in there?”
This time she heard the muffled screams loud and clear.
Her adrenaline roared to life. She jumped to her feet. Oh my God. Her only thought was to get whoever was inside out of there.
“Help me!”
Her stomach quivered as she tried again to open the lid. It was no use. The barn. There had to be tools inside. “I’m going to get you out of there. I’ll be back!”
She turned and ran for the barn in hopes of finding a crowbar, anything at all to remove the lid. When she stepped inside, she slid her phone from her back pocket to call for help. By the time she heard movement behind her, it was too late.