Secret Alibi. Lori L. Harris
Читать онлайн книгу.
new recruit looked up as Jack stepped into the foyer. The officer, who stood in front of the chest against the opposite wall, was sifting through what appeared to be mail, and used his head to motion toward a set of double doors. “Body’s in there.”
“Who called it in?”
“The ex-wife. Fitz is in the kitchen with her now.”
After the week he’d had, Jack would have liked to bypass the room with the body—to spend time with the living instead of the dead. But no matter how much he wanted to, he wouldn’t. Because when it came right down to it, homicide investigations weren’t about the living. They were about the dead—about attaining justice for those who were beyond needing it.
Jack stepped inside what appeared to be a home office. Every lamp had been turned on and additional lights had been brought in to flood the space.
It wasn’t the type of room you expected to see in one of these older homes. The wood floor had been left bare and the walls were a stark white, as was just about everything else in the room. Even the large brushed-metal-and-glass desk seemed too cold and sterile for the space.
The body was slumped over the slick surface and belonged to a white male with his head—at least what was left of it—resting on the desktop.
It was always the odor that hit Jack the hardest. With a new body, there was the raw, metallic scent of fresh blood, sometimes so strong that when you opened your mouth to speak, it seemed to collect on your tongue. If the victim had gone undiscovered for a longer period of time, the odors were even stronger, but no more unpleasant. Death was simply death.
Two men worked the room. Detective Frank Shepherd was a 30-year veteran of Deep Water PD. A tall, rail-thin man with sharp features. Even though the department had relaxed its dress code for detectives, Shepherd continued to wear starched shirts and neckties. And freshly polished shoes. Jack liked him for his intellect and his thoroughness—both important qualities in a detective. At the moment, Shepherd was shining a flashlight at an oblique angle, looking for prints around the front window.
“Window’s unlocked. And I have what appears to be a decent thumbprint,” Shepherd called over his shoulder. Neither man had yet seen Jack.
The other man was 26-year-old Andy Martinez, the only crime scene tech currently employed by Deep Water PD. Where Frank wore a starched shirt and a necktie, Andy wore a white T-shirt, with CRIME SCENE printed on front and back, and jeans. A black ball cap turned backward and athletic shoes encased in paper covers completed his uniform. At the moment, Andy was digging through the large, black case that he liked to call his toy chest. The box contained everything he needed, from pencils and pliers to dusting powder and a strong flashlight.
“Been expecting you, Chief,” Andy commented without looking up.
Everyone in the department knew that Jack showed up at every homicide. Mostly to make sure his detectives were getting what they needed to do their jobs. Sometimes, especially if there was DNA evidence involved, that meant contacting the Florida Department of Law Enforcement lab in Daytona Beach, and other times it just meant handling the media and running interference with several town councillors.
“I didn’t get the call until the plane hit the ground,” Jack said.
Shepherd had turned as soon as Andy had spoken, and nodded a greeting in Jack’s direction before going back to studying the area near the window.
“That explains the suit,” Andy said as he walked across the room to hand Shepherd dusting powder and lift tape.
“How’d it go in Philly?” Andy asked as he passed Jack the second time.
Jack had flown up to Philadelphia to be at his brother’s side. Not because Alec wanted company, but because Alec’s eight-months-pregnant wife, Katie, had wanted Jack there.
“Jury deliberated for six hours before coming back with a guilty verdict,” Jack said. “Penalty phase starts next week.”
“Let’s hope the bastard gets what he deserves,” Andy said.
The man on trial was responsible for the brutal slaying of Alec’s first wife nearly two years ago. At the time of her murder, Alec had been a criminal profiler with the FBI. He’d retired only months after his wife’s death so that he could, with his usual tenacity, devote every moment of his time to bringing down her killer.
Alec didn’t know how to fail at anything. It was one of the things Jack admired about his brother. It was also one of the characteristics that at times could get under Jack’s skin.
He moved farther into the room, careful to stick with a straight path that he could later backtrack. “What do you have so far?”
Andy had closed in on the body’s right side and seemed to be examining its position. “The victim is a 36-year-old male. Cause of death appears to be gunshot to the head at very close range. By the look of it, he didn’t go right away. Too much blood.”
“I assume we have a name?”
“Dan Dawson. Local doc.”
At the name, Jack looked up from the body, everything inside him tightening. If this was Dr. Daniel Dawson, then that made the woman in the other room… Not a stranger.
Andy, who had been examining the floor beneath the victim, stuck his head above the desk edge, but didn’t seem to record Jack’s reaction to the name.
“I completed the video and sketches, as well as the preliminary 35 mms and a few digital shots. There was a nickel-plated .357 revolver on the floor on the victim’s right, and I found powder residue on the victim’s right hand, right cheek and shirt collar.”
“So you think it was self-inflicted?” Jack asked, and waited tense seconds for Andy’s answer.
“You’ll have to ask the medical examiner that one.”
“I’m asking for your opinion, Andy.”
The crime scene tech looked up from what he was doing. Jack wasn’t surprised to encounter speculation in his eyes. Andy was probably wondering what was different about this murder, why his boss had just asked him to comment on an aspect of the scene that was clearly the M.E.’s territory.
After nearly a half minute, Andy looked down at the corpse. “I obviously haven’t moved the body, so the most I can tell you is that the bullet appears to have entered just behind the right condyle and then exited low on the left side of the skull.”
“Not the usual positioning of the weapon for a suicide,” Jack said.
Shrugging, Andy started to collect items from the desktop. “The bullet trajectory pretty much did away with any chance of survival. Which is usually the goal.”
“Damn,” Jack whispered. “What drives a man, a seemingly successful one, to just give away his life?”
Andy picked up a photo that had been facedown on the desk. Blood dripped from the frame edge as he held it for Jack to see. “Maybe losing something like that.”
Both men knew who she was. Andy because he would have seen her when he arrived, and Jack because they’d met once before—under very different circumstances.
The photograph was a close-up and had been cropped so there was no background—just hair and face. An interesting face with a strong chin and steel-gray eyes so direct that some would find them intimidating. Then there was all that dark gold hair, not smooth and neat, but full and, from the looks of it, hard to restrain. What the picture didn’t show was the supple, well-muscled body. Jack’s fingers curled into a loose fist as he tried to forget the warm, satiny skin.
Andy placed the frame in the box with other items that would be transported to the lab for evaluation.
Jack scanned the room again. With the exception of the evidence markers scattered about like a toddler’s toys, the space looked tidy. Definitely no signs of a struggle.
“Were