death warmed over. It’s unfortunate but I’ll live. I hope you’re calling me about a case, because I have to get out of here. If Sophia bangs one more pan I swear…”
“We caught a new case, you’re the lead on it. Meet me at the Chevy dealer off exit 25 and I’ll fill you in. We should get there at about the same time. You gonna be okay? I don’t need you sick when you get there.”
“When have I ever been sick on a scene, Jake? Give me a break. What—you gonna bust my balls too?”
He hung up, ignoring Louie’s complaint.
* * * *
Jake pulled into the car lot and parked by a group of guys standing around with their hands in their pockets. He drew back his jacket to expose his badge as he walked over to the group.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen, I’m Lieutenant Carrington.” It has such a nice ring, he thought.
“Hey, Jake, over here.” His head snapped up at the use of his first name.
Yep, just like a small town, he thought. And crap, Kevin Myers of all people. He and Myers went through Hogan High School together. The guy lived in the past. Jake made a silent bet with himself that Myers would bring up the state championship game from high school. Ah, my glory days, long gone and forgotten—so many other things put that trivial period of my life aside. He should be thankful. The title and his part in winning it gave him a scholarship to UConn, where he played ball, but changed his major to Criminal Justice. Before graduation, he turned down the offer to play pro ball.
He focused his attention back to Myers. Not a violent guy, as he recalled, but people changed. Did Myers? “Kevin, you find the body?”
“No. Mike Murphy did. Hey guys, I want you to meet the man who put Wilkesbury on the map. Remember, Jake?”
“I remember, Kevin. Who did you say found the body?” Jake changed the subject before Myers took him down memory lane. It was another time, another life. One he didn’t want to revisit, especially now.
Kevin motioned to a guy standing alone. Pale as a ghost, Murphy didn’t approach him. Jake walked over to him, Myers on his tail. “Mike, this is Lieutenant Carrington.”
“I don’t have to go back over there, do I?” Murphy said, sweat dripping down his face.
“No, you don’t. Tell me what you saw and if you touched anything.”
“I…smelled something.” Murphy ran through it for him. Jake stepped away a little when Murphy finished up. The poor man looked as if he’d lose his stomach contents again.
“Stay here. My partner, Detective Romanelli, will take your statement when he arrives.” Jake pointed to the first row of cars where the other salesmen stood, and turned to Kevin. “Can you show me the car? Does it belong on the lot?” Jake asked.
“No, it’s not one of ours, though it’s parked between two of our cars in the last row.”
“This is the first time someone noticed it?” Jake looked over at Kevin.
“I can’t say. I didn’t notice it. I’ll ask the other salesmen if they did,” Kevin offered.
“No, don’t, Kevin. My partner or I’ll ask them. Thanks for your help. This one?” Jake pointed, as he walked up to the car. No mistake. The stench of death never left you once you encountered it. It wasn’t something you got used to either. Anyone who said they did, lied. The record-breaking heat for late April didn’t help preserve the body or lighten the odor.
Myers nodded.
“Please go wait with the other salespeople. I’ll get back to you in a little while.” Jake dismissed him.
With the temperatures in the eighties, it would be hard to determine on scene how long the body had been in the trunk. Normal temps for Wilkesbury this time of year should be in the mid-sixties to low seventies. Point in case, last week it was in the forties. If this heat was a prelude to summer, it was going to be a scorcher.
He’d have to wait on the medical examiner for an estimation of TOD—time of death. Someone tapped Jake on the shoulder. Annoyed, he looked up to dismiss Myers again, but it was Louie standing there struggling.
“Man, this is not what I needed today,” Louie said, rubbing the back of hand over his mouth, his skin the color of the Grinch.
“Want something to camouflage it?”
“No, it would make matters worse with that smell. Bad enough having to deal with the body.” Louie pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket.
In unison, with a rhythm of working together for years, they went about their work. Louie took the pictures. Jake dusted the trunk for fingerprints. Louie bagged the items around the car. Jake bagged her hands, her feet, all the contents of the trunk, and marked the evidence bags. They worked together in a reverence born of experience, each absorbed in their individual tasks, until they hit a stopping point. There was nothing else for them to process until the M.E. did his thing. As he waited, Jake called in the license plate and the make of the car along with the VIN. If he was lucky, it would appear on a missing or stolen vehicle list and narrow down their timeline.
The victim looked to be in her fifties with brown hair, and glassy brown eyes now defined by the death stare. It was hard to tell height and weight at this angle. Death stole the rest of a person’s life and had leached the color from her skin. A hole in her forehead was mostly likely the cause of death. He leaned in closer to study the bullet wound. A brownish-orange tattooing marred the skin around the wound. The mark resulted when a weapon fired from a slight distance drove the gunpowder, both partially burned and unburned, into her skin. The shooter couldn’t have been more than three feet away from the victim. Was it someone she had known? He’d have to wait for the M.E. for more information on the cause of death—COD. The M.E. would fingerprint her again once he got her in the morgue in Farmington.
All autopsies for the state, on suspicious deaths, were performed at the UConn Medical Center, the best facility in the country. He hoped they weren’t loaded down. They did have a missing person report on a fifty-three-year-old woman, last seen a week ago Friday. They’d start their search locally, and if nothing turned up, they’d expand it to a statewide search and proceed from there.
Looking up, Jake watched the assistant M.E. approach him. “Hey, McKay.”
Assistant Medical Examiner Tim McKay, MD, stood five-ten, and weighed in around a hundred and seventy, with a belly going to pot. At fifty-six, time had thinned McKay’s wheat-colored hair, stripping his natural color out and leaving behind more salt than sand. The doc didn’t seem to care about the change.
“I hear you’re having a busy week, Jake. Second body, isn’t it? And I also hear congratulations are in order, Lieutenant.” McKay exaggerated the title.
“Thanks, Tim, I’m still getting used to it. Yes, the second one this week. But the first one was an open and shut suicide. This one’s all yours. Once you transport her, I’ll have the car taken in. I want the lab working on it while you work on her.”
“Then I better get started,” McKay said.
“Give a shout out if you find an exit wound.”
Jake
