have we got?” I ask, finally awake enough to remember that my job now entails messing with dead bodies.
“A residential break-in, possibly a robbery. There’s one victim—a woman.”
I nod thoughtfully, as if such a scenario is a part of everyday business, but the truth is, Izzy’s words strike fear in my heart. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen in small-town America. I console myself with the thought that it probably happened in a bad section of town, the result of bad people doing bad things, like a drug deal gone wrong. But then Izzy pulls up in front of a house at the end of a cul-de-sac in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. Several police cars, an ambulance, and four or five other cars are parked willy-nilly out front, the darkened, quiet light bars on the official vehicles serving as a grim testament to the situation inside. On a nearby lawn, a small cluster of neighbors congregate, whispering and gawking.
After I climb out of the car, Izzy reaches over, opens the glove box, and removes a small, plastic wallet. He hands it to me and says, “Keep this with you at all times. You never know when it might come in handy.”
I flip the wallet open and see an ID card with my picture on it—the same picture that is on my driver’s license, I note. It identifies me as a deputy coroner for the county but lest there be any doubt, there is also a shiny, brass-colored badge in the wallet with DEPUTY CORONER written across the top in bright blue. Izzy obviously didn’t waste any time once I agreed to go out on a call with him, and I’m tempted to act annoyed at his presumptuousness. But the badge is kind of cool looking and, in an odd way, it makes me feel important. So I hook the wallet in the waist of my pants with the badge showing and follow Izzy toward the house.
Normally, my long-legged stride puts me yards ahead of his stubby-legged one, but tonight it is all I can do to keep up. I think my bowling ball may be crowning and the numbness in my right leg is rapidly receding—something I’m not at all sure is a good thing. Izzy pauses on the porch, reaches into the black suitcase he is carrying, and hands me a pair of latex gloves.
“Put these on,” he says. “Then stick your hands in your pockets and keep them there unless I ask you to do something. Don’t touch anything.”
I do what he says, thrusting my hands into my pants’ pockets and trying to look like I know what I’m doing. A uniformed police officer meets us at the door, nods at Izzy, and then waves us into the house. Two steps later I catch my first whiff of death—a smell I’ve come to know during my years working the ER. It’s a distinctly unpleasant scent, a mix of blood and other bodily excretes that are released when sphincters relax.
The house is a nice one, tastefully decorated in a contemporary fashion with thick carpet that cushions my aching feet. As we pass through a formal living room into a family room, I feel something odd near my injured ankle where the nerve endings are now rapidly coming to life. I glance down to see the bottom eight inches of my pant leg bulging on one side, as if my calf is sporting a woody. Only, this woody is composed of white cotton edged in elastic, a small portion of which is peeking out just above my shoe.
I’ve found my missing underwear.
After a quick glance around to be sure no one is watching, I do a little Riverdance maneuver and the panties slide the rest of the way out, settling on the floor between my foot and a nearby chair. I am about to snatch them up when I hear a voice say, “Hey, Izzy!” and sense someone approaching.
With one quick flick of my foot I kick the panties under the chair, and then look up to see who’s coming. My eyes lock in on a tall man with a craggy but handsome face and a head of thick, black hair. He steps up to Izzy and briefly shakes his hand, then turns his gaze toward me. As I take in blue eyes, black lashes, and a stature of at least six-four, my heart rate speeds up a notch or two.
“This is Mattie Winston, my new deputy coroner,” Izzy says, making the introductions. “Mattie, this is Detective Steve Hurley. He’s with Homicide.”
Kill me now.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I say, extending a gloved hand over Izzy’s shoulder and praying I won’t drool. Hurley grabs my hand and gives it a brief squeeze. My face flushes hot, then the heat spreads. I wonder if Detective Hurley has ever investigated a case of spontaneous combustion before, or if I’m about to become his first.
“Have you ever processed a homicide scene before?” Hurley asks.
“No, I—”
“She’s a nurse,” Izzy says. “Worked at Mercy up until a couple of months ago.”
I can’t figure out if this is a good thing or not, or even what relevance it has. Apparently, neither can Hurley. His brows draw down in puzzlement for a second, but then he shrugs and says, “Whatever. Just be careful what you touch.” With that, he turns away and heads toward a group of people huddled together in the middle of the room.
I steal a glance toward the floor, relieved to see that my panties are well out of sight, and then follow Izzy into the room as I wonder how I’m going to get the panties back. A second later, the huddle of people opens up to let Izzy through and all thoughts of my underwear flee my mind.
Lying on the floor in front of me with a bullet hole in her chest is Karen Owenby.
Chapter 5
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
