access the victim’s laptop computer files. The soldier looked up, a full smile spreading across his honey-brown face. “Hey, sir. How’s it going?”
“You tell me, Ray.”
“Should have something for you shortly.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
Nate continued on to the open attic door. Rapid flashes of light confirmed the military photographer was already on the job. Within the hour, photos would appear on Nate’s computer, systematically capturing every detail of the attic scene.
On the opposite side of the hallway, Jamison questioned a military policewoman and jotted down pertinent information she shared, information the CID team would review over and over again until all the facts were in and a determination could be made about the actual cause of death. Foul play needed to be ruled out. Hopefully, the case would be open and shut.
Climbing the stairs to the attic, Nate eyed the rafter and the thick hemp rope wrapped around the sturdy crossbeam. Without forethought, he touched his breast pocket where he had tucked the notebook, containing Maggie’s name, as if to shield her from the grim reality of her sister’s death. Lowering his gaze, he took in the victim’s black hair and swollen face.
God rest her soul. The prayer surfaced from his past. His mother’s influence, no doubt. She had raised him to be a believer, although his faith had never been strong, and for the past eight months, he had tuned God out of his life completely.
Once again, his hand sought the notebook as his eyes refocused on the body.
Death by strangulation was never pretty, yet despite the victim’s contorted features, he recognized the same classic beauty that the very much alive sister sitting downstairs possessed. The deceased, with her low-cut silk blouse and snug-fitting leggings, appeared to be the more flamboyant sibling in contrast to Maggie’s modest jeans and sweater, but appearances could lie, and more than anything else, Nate needed the truth.
A chair lay at Major Bennett’s feet. Classic suicide scenario. In all probability, the victim had stood on the chair to secure the rope around the crossbeam and the noose around her neck. Kicking over the chair would leave her hanging and preclude the major from saving herself, should she have second thoughts about taking her own life.
Staff Sergeant Larry Thorndike stepped forward. The military policeman was mid-fifties with a receding hairline and an extra twenty pounds of weight around his middle.
“The victim worked in Headquarters Company of the 2nd Transportation Battalion,” Staff Sergeant Thorndike offered as Nate glanced his way. “The major redeployed home from Afghanistan fourteen days ago as part of the advance party.”
“Same unit that had two casualties in Afghanistan this week?” Nate asked.
“That’s right, sir. Captain York—the company commander—and his driver hit an improvised explosive device. Now this. It’s hard on the unit. Hard on everyone.”
Nate knew all too well the tragic consequences an IED could cause. Was that what had led to the major’s suicide? Had she felt in any way responsible for the captain’s death? “How long before the medical examiner gets here?”
“The ME should be here any minute.”
“Did you talk to the sister?”
The sergeant nodded. “But only briefly. She’s pretty shook up.”
An understatement from what Nate had seen.
“Ms. Bennett had enough sense to call for help,” Sergeant Thorndike continued. “When I arrived she was white as a sheet and hyperventilating. Said she lives in Independence, Alabama. Received a phone call at approximately 2330 hours from the deceased. The victim sounded anxious, according to the sister. Major Bennett had fought with her estranged husband, Graham Hughes, shortly before the phone call.”
“The major used her maiden name?”
“Roger that, sir.”
“Has the husband been notified?”
“Negative. We’re trying to track him down. Evidently he moved out a few days after Major Bennett arrived stateside.”
“Alert the post chaplain to a possible notification of next of kin. I’ll want to talk to the husband. Let me know when you find out where he’s staying.”
“Will do, sir.” The sergeant unclipped his cell phone from his belt and stepped to the corner of the attic to call the chaplain.
Nate neared the body. He examined the knots that formed the noose and then the victim’s neck and hands, noting her intact skin. No signs of struggle. Blood had pooled in her extremities, consistent with death by hanging and the beginnings of rigor mortis. It all looked like a textbook suicide, and yet… Something about it bothered him, and it took a minute to put his finger on it.
The sergeant closed his cell. “Chaplain Grant will be here shortly, sir.”
Nate pointed to the victim’s bare feet. “Where are her shoes?”
“Main floor, sir. Under a table by the door.”
“It’s a cold night. Why would Major Bennett walk around her house without shoes?”
The sergeant shrugged. “You got me there, sir.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Nate turned as Major Brett Hansen, the pathologist and medical examiner on post stepped into the attic. “Good to see you, Nate.”
“Sir.”
The major nodded to the sergeant and photographer. “What do we have here, gentlemen?”
Nate filled him in on the somewhat limited information accumulated so far. Wasting no time, the doc slipped on latex gloves and began his visual exam of the victim’s body. Once complete, Sergeant Thorndike would lower her to the floor so additional forensic evidence could be gathered.
Knowing the procedure would take time, Nate descended the stairs to the first floor where the bereaved sister sat, legs crossed and head resting in her hands.
Peering into the kitchen, he saw Mills bent over the wine bottle. “Find anything yet?”
The MP looked up. “The glass you pulled from the dishwasher had been wiped clean, sir. We might get lucky on the bottle.”
“Good man.”
Entering the living room, Nate glanced, once again, at the grief-stricken woman. She appeared fragile as a butterfly and, no doubt, was devastated by what she’d discovered tonight. As much as he hated to disturb her, Nate needed information.
Moving closer, he touched her shoulder. The knit of her sweater was soft to his fingertips. “Ms. Bennett? Maggie?”
She looked up, startled. The pain in her eyes cut through him like a well-aimed laser beam.
“If I could have a few minutes of your time, ma’am.”
Fatigue lined her oval face, but her ashen coloring concerned him more. She had found her sister’s body
