Читать книгу Working Stiff - Annelise Ryan - Страница 12

I gasp, and everyone in the room turns to stare at me. Detective Hurley gives me a scathing look, which he then turns on Izzy. “Don’t tell me she’s never seen a dead body before.”

“I’ve seen dead bodies before,” I snap, like this is a good thing. “But I know this one. I mean, I knew her. That’s Karen Owenby.”

Hurley’s eyes narrow.

Izzy looks at the dead woman, then at me, then back at her. “Are you sure?” he says, leaning close and whispering into my left breast. “I don’t see any snakes coming out of her head.”

I give him a shut-up nudge with my elbow and follow it up with the death-ray look I learned from my mother, which zips by harmlessly a good six inches above his head.

Hurley’s eyes narrow even more, tiny slits with their own death rays emanating from them, straight in my direction. “How do you know her?” he asks.

“I worked with her at the hospital. She’s a sl—a nurse in the operating room there.”

Hurley turns and looks at one of the uniformed officers in the group, who nods at him.

Izzy grabs my elbow and steers me a few feet away. “This really is her?” he says in a low whisper.

I nod, too numb to speak. In my mind’s eye I can see David shaking Karen by the shoulders only hours before, an expression of dark fury on his face.

“Look, if you’d rather wait outside, I’ll understand. I didn’t know…”

I swallow hard and consider his offer. But all my mind can focus on is the scene I witnessed earlier. Finally I shake my head. “I’ll stay,” I manage.

Izzy eyes me worriedly. “You sure?”

I nod again, this time with conviction. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay, then. Here’s what we do.”

Izzy first asks Hurley to walk us through what has happened so far. One of the uniformed officers, a guy named Larry whom I know from my days working the ER, explains that a frantic 911 call came in from this address, made by a woman named Susan McNally, the victim’s roommate. Apparently Susan came home from a date and found the victim dead on the floor.

Larry then explains how he and another officer were the first to arrive and he tells Izzy everything they did to determine the victim’s situation and secure the scene.

“This information is critical,” Izzy informs me as he scribbles notes in a small pad, “in establishing what led up to the victim’s death. Plus, we need to know everyone who might have had contact with the body. If we find any trace evidence that isn’t from the victim, we need to be able to determine its source and its significance.”

Izzy walks me through the process of identifying and establishing a perimeter around the body, which includes blood splatters that spread well beyond the immediate area. Someone, most likely the roommate, has already walked through one small pool of blood, tracking it through part of the house before the police arrived. Izzy carefully photographs the blood splatters, the footprints, and finally, the body itself. In addition to the pictures, he draws a sketch of the area in his notebook, showing the general layout of the room, what pieces of furniture are where, and the position and location of the body.

When this is finished, he removes a package from his suitcase that contains a folded, white, paper sheet, which, when opened to its full size, is some ten feet square. We lay it out alongside Karen’s body so that when we turn her over onto it, any trace evidence that might be clinging to her body will be captured on the sheet, which will then stay with the body until it reaches the morgue.

Using rubber bands, we secure brown paper bags over Karen’s hands, labeling them with the date and our initials. Izzy explains that this is to preserve any trace evidence that might be found on the hands or beneath the nails, and that paper bags are used rather than plastic ones to prevent moisture buildup, which can damage certain types of evidence.

As we work, Izzy points out certain details that will help us determine how long Karen has been dead. There is a flattening and clouding of her corneas, and while her skin feels cool to the touch, it still feels warmer than the ambient temperature in the room. Izzy shows me how to assess the degree of rigor mortis that has developed, which in this case, only involves the muscles of the face and jaw. We then turn Karen over onto the sheet and check her back, arms, and legs for livor mortis—a discoloration of the skin caused by blood pooling. This is complicated by the vast amount of congealing blood clinging to Karen’s back. The bullet’s exit wound is here too—a jagged hole three times the size of the entry wound.

After assessing all these factors, Izzy makes the pronouncement that Karen has been dead for at least two hours, but probably not more than four.

I get caught up in the technicalities and science of what we’re doing, forgetting at times that this is the dead body of someone I knew and worked with for more than six years. But every so often the realization that this cooling, empty shell of flesh is Karen Owenby hits me like a cold wave breaking over my back. It is impossible not to identify with her…to wonder if her death was instantaneous, or if she lay there a while knowing she was dying, unable to get help, hoping someone would find her.

I wonder who hated Karen enough to want her dead. A family member? An acquaintance? The roommate, perhaps?

David?

While we work, the people around us go about their own tasks, dusting surfaces for fingerprints, drawing sketches of the scene, taking photographs, and examining every square inch of the place. When we’re finished with our examination, Izzy and I wrap the white sheet around Karen’s body and slide her into a body bag. Two guys from the Johnson Funeral Home have been standing by, waiting for us to finish, and once we have the body bag loaded and closed, they hoist it onto their stretcher so they can carry it to the morgue. They’ve just started wheeling the stretcher toward the door when Hurley hollers out, “Hold it.”

I turn to look along with everyone else and am horrified to see Hurley on his hands and knees in front of the chair that is hiding my underwear. With his gloved hand, he pulls the panties out and holds them gingerly between two fingers, looking at them as if they are some sort of toxic nuclear waste.

As my brain starts scrambling to figure out a way to either fess up to, or dismiss the significance of the underwear, Hurley places a finger inside each end of the elastic waistband and pulls it taut, holding the panties out for all to see. “Look at the size of these bloomers,” he mutters, and from the look on his face, you’d think he was holding up the combined sails for the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. A couple of the cops in the room snigger.

“I don’t think they belong to the victim,” Hurley continues, his brow wrinkling in puzzlement. “She’s smaller than this and the lingerie I found in her dresser is all fancy stuff. Like from Victoria’s Secret. These are kind of plain.”

Maybe that’s what drew David to Karen, I think. She had better underwear. I hear more sniggers from the bleacher section and suddenly fear everyone in the room can read my mind.

“And look how worn the elastic is,” Hurley goes on. He tugs the waistband a few times to show just how far it can stretch. “Izzy, did you see any evidence that the victim was sexually molested?”

“Nothing obvious,” Izzy says. “But I’ll let you know for sure when I’ve completed her post.” He hands me a paper sack and says, “Go bag those.”

I am only too happy to oblige. I walk over to Hurley and grab the panties from his hand, stuffing them into the bag.

“Hey, careful with those,” Hurley says. “They’re evidence.”

Yeah, evidence that I need to start a serious diet. I fold the top of the bag closed while I wonder what the penalty is for tampering with crime scene evidence. No way am I going to admit now that those panties are mine. And if I can figure out how to get away with it, this evidence is going to disappear.

I’m pondering my dilemma and following the funeral home stretcher out the door when Hurley grabs me by the arm. He holds me a moment, giving me a quick scan from head to toe. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he grumbles.

Shit. He figured it out. Took a gander at the broad beam of my ass and made the connection.

“What else do you know about Karen Owenby?” he asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

Oh, that. Well, there’s the fact that she’s a husband-stealing, skin-flute playing, two-timing slut, but I figure I probably shouldn’t speak so unkindly of the dead. Frankly, I’m reluctant to speak at all, the scene I witnessed earlier between David and Karen still fresh in my mind. I’ve seen enough episodes of Murder She Wrote to know things aren’t looking particularly good for David right now. And while I currently consider him a lower life form than pond scum, I don’t think he’s capable of murder. I need some time to sort things out.

Of course, all Hurley has to do is ask questions at the hospital and he’ll know everything anyway. Gossip spreads through that place at warp speed, and by now it’s likely even the dishwashers in the cafeteria know all the gory details, right down to the size and shape of the birthmark on David’s Mr. Winkie.

“Well?” Hurley prompts.

“I think she’s seeing my ex-husband,” I offer as nonchalantly as I can.

Hurley’s eyes narrow. “Ex-husband? You’re divorced?”

“Might as well be. It’s not final yet, but the papers have been filed. Well, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I haven’t actually filed them yet. But I’m going to.”

Hurley scrutinizes my face for a moment and my ears start to feel really hot. “And you think this Owenby woman was seeing your husband?” he asks.

Oh, she’s seen him all right. “I’m pretty sure they had a…relationship,” I mumble.

“His name?”

“Whose?”

Hurley’s eyes fire tiny arrows at me. Man, he’s good.

“Winston,” I tell him. “Dr. David Winston. He’s a surgeon.”

I see Hurley’s mental wheels spinning and can practically smell the burning rubber. “How long you two been split up?” he asks.

“Couple of months.”

“And how long has he been seeing this Owenby woman?”

“I’m not sure,” I say. This answer is an honest one. I have no idea how long, or even if, David was seeing Karen before that fateful night in the OR.

Hurley cocks his head and gives me a funny look. It dawns on me that he might consider me a suspect—the woman scorned and all that—and I am about to act insulted when I remember that a murderous thought or two has crossed my mind in the past couple of months. One of the side perks of having a career where you’re saving lives all the time is that it gives you an endless source of ideas on how to end them. I’d mentally exercised some of my more devious ones on Karen countless times.

Hurley whips a pen out of his shirt pocket and a little notepad out of his jeans pocket—mighty nice fitting jeans, I note—and scribbles something down. “What’s your phone number?”

“I don’t have a phone.” The look he gives me suggests that I better not be lying.

“Do you have an address? Or do you live in a refrigerator box?”

I almost laugh at that one, but something tells me Hurley might take it the wrong way. So I give him my address—Izzy’s address, actually, since the little guest cottage doesn’t have one of its own. Then he asks for David’s address. When I give him that, his eyebrows shoot up.

“You live next door to your ex?” he asks, askance.

“Sort of.”

“That’s a bit masochistic, don’t you think?”

“Are you a detective or a shrink?”

“A little of both, actually,” he says, flashing me a crooked grin.

I’m about to come back with another witty retort but I’m rendered temporarily speechless when my mind conjures up a vision of a psychiatrist’s office with me stretched out on a couch and Hurley standing beside me. He bends down, his face moving closer to mine….

“Anything else, Detective?” I ask, clearing my throat and putting my mental mini movie on pause. I’ll store it for now and play the rest of it out later.

“Yeah. Given your, uh, proximity to this case, I think it would be best if you weren’t involved with the autopsy.”

“Understood.” And fine with me. The thought of doing an autopsy on someone I know is discomfiting, to say the least. I may hate the woman, but that doesn’t mean I want to see her dressed like some hunter’s ten-point kill. Besides, I have places to go and things to do. At the top of the list is getting my underwear back.