Body Of Evidence. Debra Webb
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Blood had puddled on the pillow behind his head and oozed down onto the sheet behind his shoulder. His dark hair was matted at the back of his neck. This could not be happening. She leaned closer to determine the source of the blood—a small hole at the base of his skull. The flesh around it was puckered and purplish. The life-giving fluid no longer seeped. Heart and pulse racing, her mind screaming at her to do something, she touched her fingers to his carotid artery.
Nothing.
Dear God, he was dead.
His skin was cool. Gray.
No. No. No.
He couldn’t be dead. Not here. Not like this. Not possible.
She pushed him onto his back and ripped open his shirt. Buttons flew across the bed and the floor.
Pressing her cheek to his chest, she listened for a heartbeat, tried to feel his chest rise and fall.
Nothing. No heartbeat. No rush of blood.
Would CPR do anything?
She stared at his ashen skin. Cold. No pulse. Somewhere on the periphery of her consciousness, she noted the darkened area along the right side of his body where he’d been lying...livor mortis. The blood had pooled at the lowest point when his heart stopped beating. His eyes remained open, his unseeing gaze now fixed on the ceiling.
Feeling completely numb, she fought to summon some sort of emotional distance as she picked up his hand, felt the stiffness in his fingers and in the entire length of his arm.
He had been dead for several hours.
Trembling, she placed his hand on the sheet and scooted back to her side of the bed and off. She stood and grabbed for her cell on the table next to the bed. A quick tug pulled it loose from the power cord. She hit the three digits that would bring help.
When the dispatcher finished her spiel, Marissa spoke with remarkable calmness. “My name is Marissa Frasier.” She provided her address. “My husband—ex-husband,” she amended, “is dead. Please send the police.”
The brief blip of calm deserted her, and Marissa collapsed onto the floor as she answered the rest of the woman’s questions. Was she injured? No. What was her ex-husband’s name? William Bauer. Had there been a violent encounter? No. What was the nature of the victim’s injuries?
“He’s been shot.” The words were whispered. How could this be? She’d been sleeping in the bed right next to him.
For that matter, how had her husband been shot and ended up in her bed? Did he even have a key to this house? She had never given him one...
More questions from the dispatcher. Was she armed? No. Was there anyone else in the house? No. Wait. Her heart slammed into a frantic rhythm once more. She didn’t think so. Marissa scrambled to her feet and moved slowly through the second floor of her home. She thought of the only weapon she owned. It was in the lockbox in the drawer of her bedside table. Should she go back for it?
The front doorbell sounded from downstairs and the dispatcher informed her that it was the police and emergency services; she should answer the door now. Marissa descended the stairs, disbelief swaddling her like a thick fog. Every creak of the century-old staircase echoed in her brain, seeming to ask how anyone—even William—climbed these very stairs to her room without her hearing. How had he climbed in bed next to her without her rousing?
She’d been tired, for sure. She’d slept hard. Even had a bit of a sleep hangover. Still, when they were married and working different shifts, she never failed to wake up when he came home. In college, she’d always awakened when her roommates came in—no matter how quiet they had tried to be.
As she approached the front door with its three-quarter glass panel, she realized she should have changed or grabbed a robe. Her lounge pants and tank covered her, but the fabric was thin. She suddenly felt exposed and so very cold.
Two uniformed officers stood on her stoop. The flashing lights of an ambulance sat at the curb. Another couple of uniforms hustled up the steps to join the group. This was real. William was dead...in her home.
Steadying herself, Marissa twisted the dead bolt to the unlock position and opened the door.
“Ma’am.” The first man in uniform gave her a nod. “I’m Officer Jacob Tolliver. One of my fellow officers is going to stay out here on the stoop while another has a look around outside. My partner and I are coming inside to have a look around. Do you understand?”
His question warned her that she apparently appeared as much in shock as she felt. She nodded. “Yes. He—he’s in the bedroom. Second door on the left upstairs.”
“You’re certain there is no one else in the house?”
“Just me and...my...him, and he’s dead.” She tried to remember her precise steps. “I didn’t check the third floor.”
Officer Tolliver nodded, then he and his partner walked past her and headed for the stairs. Marissa blinked slowly as the paramedics from the ambulance came inside next. She leaned against the wall and slid down until her bottom hit the floor.
William was dead.
He’d said he was going to kill himself.
The location of the bullet hole—and she was certain that was what it was—wasn’t consistent with a self-inflicted gunshot wound. She had seen her share. But, even if he had somehow managed to shoot himself in the back of the head, how did he get into her room? Into her bed?
She had no idea how much time passed before one of the officers helped her up and escorted her to the sofa.
“Dr. Frasier,” he said gently, “first, is there anyone we can call for you?”
Marissa’s lips parted, the reply on the tip of her tongue, but then she closed her mouth. There was no one to call. Her brother, her only living relative, was in South America with a group of doctors who were donating the next two weeks to areas with little or no available medical care.
William was dead...not that she had been able to call upon him for any sort of help in ages.
Eva...the Colby Agency.
“I should send a text to one of my colleagues and let her know what’s happened.” Dear God, she needed to call William’s family.
“Why don’t you let us take care of that?”
Marissa provided Eva’s number to another of the officers who appeared, and he assured her he would make the call. She wasn’t entirely certain why the officer preferred to make the call himself rather than have her do it. She supposed it had something to do with ensuring she didn’t share the details of William’s death, since there would be an investigation.
Investigation. Murder. Someone had murdered William.
Her lips trembled. This was a homicide investigation, and she was a person of interest. Her hand went to her mouth, and the urge to vomit was nearly overwhelming. Dear God.
“Dr. Frasier, can you start from the beginning and tell me what happened?”
Her mind still steeped in disbelief, she recounted all that had happened since she woke up. Twice he stopped her and urged her to take her time. The clearer the details, the better. She tried her very best to speak slowly and not leave anything out.
More people came into her home. The latest two were fully clad in disposable garb—gloves, white coveralls, matching hair covers, masks and booties. Forensic techs, she realized. They were here to collect evidence of the crime that had taken place in her home.
The shooting. The murder.
How in the world had William been shot right next to her without her hearing it? Wouldn’t there have been a struggle?
No sooner had she finished her story to the officer than another pair of official-looking men walked in. These two wore business suits.
“Dr.