congealing fluid coating the fingers. Marie knelt by the body. The people pushed back into their earlier positions, looking down at her. She looked up in irritation. “You people need to get back,” she said. “This is a crime scene.” Nobody moved. “I said, get back!” she snapped. For a brief second she heard the voice she used when she was at the end of her rope with her son, what she called the “Mad Mommy” voice. It seemed to work; the people edged back. Marie fought back the hysterical urge to laugh. Steady, girl, she told herself. She bent back to the man on the ground. She took the pair of rubber gloves from her back pocket and pulled them on. Gently, she pulled the hands away from the face.
“Oh, God,” she said. She felt her stomach heave. The man’s face was a mess of brain, blood, and smashed bone. I am not going to throw up, I am not going to throw up, she said to herself as she clenched her teeth. Automatically, her hand slid down to the artery at the base of the man’s neck, searching for the pulse she knew she wouldn’t find. The sudden howl of the ambulance pulling in made her jump. She stood up as the shrieking spun down to a rumbling purr. Her knees trembled slightly as she turned toward the two paramedics, a man and a woman, who spilled out of the truck and began jogging toward her. They slowed to a walk as they saw Marie’s face. She shook her head. They came in anyway and she stepped aside. She felt the trembling in her knees begin to spread to the rest of her body. She closed her eyes.
Against the back of her eyelids, like a picture on a movie screen, she saw another body, lying by the side of a road, illuminated by the riot and flash of the lights of her cruiser, her partner’s face looking up at her, frozen in a last look that said What the hell just happened to me…
Stop it. She took a deep shuddering breath and straightened her shoulders. Do the work, her own voice came again in her head. Do the next thing. For a moment, she fumbled for what the next thing might be. Secure the scene, the voice said. And the witnesses. She got to work.
By the time the detective pulled up, Marie had the scene lined off with rolls of bright yellow tape from her trunk and the witnesses corralled over to one side of the parking lot. One of the men had complained that he and his buddy had to get to work and had looked like he was going to make an issue of it. He had even muttered something under his breath about “not taking any shit from any girl deputy.” Marie had just unclipped the handcuffs from her gun belt and stared significantly at him. He had backed down and was now sitting on a stack of boxes.
Marie was bent down, drawing a chalk circle around a shell casing near the body when the brown unmarked car pulled in. There was a mini-gumball light pulsing blue on the dash, but no siren. A man got out.
Marie had once had an art class in high school where they had tried to teach her figure drawing. The teacher had told them to start by sketching the basic parts of the body as rounded shapes: an oval for the head, another for the torso, long thin ovals for the limbs. But the man approaching seemed to have been made out of squares and rectangles. His iron-gray hair was cut across the top of his squarish head in a brush cut. His shoulders were broad and blocky and his body seemed to drop straight from them to the ground with no visible waist. His face was pitted with ancient acne scars and his nose had been broken long ago and badly reset, giving him the look of a prizefighter who had had more losses than wins. She was so new, it took her a moment to place the name. Shelby, she finally recalled. She didn’t know anything about him beyond that. He stopped and looked around at the scene, noting the tape and the witnesses. He looked at Marie for a second, then nodded almost imperceptibly. He walked inside and stood over the body for a moment, looking down. Then he turned slowly, looking things over, before walking back out. He jerked his chin at the paramedics sitting in the open door of the ambulance. “They move anythin’?” he said. His voice was surprisingly high for such a big man and his accent was pure country.
“No sir,” she said.
Shelby cracked a tight grin, showing crooked teeth. Marie decided he was probably one of the ugliest men she had ever met, but there was something about the smile that relaxed her. “Don’t call me sir,” he said. “I work for my livin’.” Marie recognized the non-com joke that must have been old in the time of the Roman legions. Shelby was obviously ex-military. Marie smiled back, relaxing a little more. “Just checked him over. He was dead when I got here.”
Shelby nodded again. “Get any statements?”
“No sir … I mean, no,” she said. “Waiting for you.”
“Awright,” he said. He looked around. “Looks like you got ever’thing pretty well squared away,” he said. “Good work.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He looked back at her, then down at her hands. “Y’better wash that blood off, though. Don’t want to spread it around. Besides, y’might forget and touch your face or your hair.” He grinned mirthlessly. “We don’t know where this feller’s been.”
She looked down. Her gloves were still streaked with gore. “Okay,” she said. “Sorry. Let me find a bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be here,” he said as he turned toward the people standing by.
Marie located the restroom around the side of the building. She grimaced as she looked around at the grimy tile and cracked fixtures. As she reached for the faucet, she noticed a drop of blood on the edge of the sink. She stopped short, her hand a few inches away from the faucet. She looked around. There was another drop of blood, almost too small to notice unless you were looking for it, on the floor. She looked over at the toilet stall, a feeling of dread twisting her stomach. Another body in there? she wondered. Slowly, she pushed the door open. The stall was empty.
Marie breathed out. She had not realized till then that she had been holding her breath. Then the paper towels sticking out of the trash can caught her eye. She walked over and looked down. There was blood there, too, ragged stains soaked into the rough flimsy paper.
Marie’s head snapped up as a scream came from outside. She slammed the door open with one hand and drew her weapon with the other. She skidded to a stop at the comer of the building as another scream split the air. It sounded like a woman.
Marie held the 9MM Beretta in a two-handed grip, her elbows slightly bent to take the recoil. Then she stepped out, planting her feet shoulder-width apart, her eyes hunting for targets.
Bells hanging on the front door jingled as Keller walked into the small diner. A plump waitress with badly dyed red hair looked up from pouring coffee for a table of men in paint-spattered overalls. “Sit anywhere you want, hon,” she called out. “Be with you in just a sec.”
This time of day, with breakfast long over and the lunch crowd petering out, the place was mostly empty. A few older men sat on stools at the counter, nursing coffees or glasses of iced tea, newspapers propped up before them or spread on the counter. The rich smells of coffee, eggs, and bacon still hung in the air. Keller slid into a booth. The red-haired waitress came over, the coffeepot still in her hand. The table was already fully set, and Keller turned the inverted coffee cup upright.
The waitress filled it and handed him a laminated plastic menu. “Thanks,” he said, “but I’ll just have the coffee.”
“Okay, shug, take your time,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. As she started to turn away, Keller said, “You got a minute?”
She turned back, a look of mild surprise on her ruddy, kind face. “Can I hep you?” she asked.
“I’m trying to find Laurel Marks. Anyone know—”
The face shut down, all of the friendliness suddenly evaporated.
