Page 12 of The Killer You Know

Too bad it’s with her corpse.

9

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

The coroner’s office sits about fifteen minutes from the FBI field office in Denver. Before I headed out this way, I stopped by my mother’s diner.

My sister, Riley, had messaged and asked if I wanted to have breakfast with them. I ran in and gave them both a hug and let them know I had not one but two important cases nipping at my heels. When they found out where I was going, Riley offered to take Buddy to the dog park while I played with the dead. Her words, not mine.

I spot Jack’s truck already in the lot of the coroner’s office before I enter the building.

The smell hits me first—the clinical scent of antiseptics mixed with something colder and harder to define. Somewhere in there is the smell of death, sanitized and contained within these walls. I could never work in this place, at least not any more than I have to already.

The fluorescent lights hum quietly overhead as I thread my way through to the back of the building. There’s a door marked Examination Room, and that’s where I find Jack speaking with Miller in the middle of the room.

Miller Thompson is the coroner who handled our last case as well. I like him. He’s somewhere in his fifties, tall, heavy-set, warm eyes, warm smile, and a warm personality. It’s a wonder all of that warmth manages to survive and even thrive in an environment like this. It’s not exactly the warmest setting in any capacity.

The room is stark and bathed in a harsh light that leaves no shadow untouched. The disinfectant in here smells stronger, and yet layered underneath that is the undeniable presence of death.

Both Jack and Miller look up and say good morning simultaneously.

“Where’s Buddy?” Jack glances past me as if expecting to see him bounding this way.

“With my sister at the dog park.” I nod to Miller. “I inadvertently acquired a dog.”

A deep chuckle strums from him. “That’s exactly how I’ve acquired every single pet in my household. Although I’m pretty sure my kids had more than a little to do with it.”

Jack flexes a half-smile. “I like to think of him as our dog.”

My mouth rounds out, not sure where to go with this one.

“Special Agent Baxter, this way,” Miller says, leading us toward one of the examination tables where a body lies covered with a pristine white sheet.

Saved by the coroner.

The ambient noise of the facility seems to fade as all my attention diverts to that glowing sheet. Miller pulls it back to reveal Robin Hanson with her features at peace despite the violence that ended her life. The blood has been washed from her face and her hair slicked back. Nothing like a day at the spa, even if that spa is the county coroner’s office. Although what was once a vibrant young woman now lies motionless on a stainless steel table. I watched enough videos, looked at endless pictures of Robin’s oh-so-relatable life yesterday to feel as if I know her.

Her skin has a gray cast to it and there’s a slender red line in the center of her chest with a slight gap.

“Stab wound to the chest,” Miller begins, and his voice is clinical yet not devoid of compassion. “Pretty clean and precise. Whoever did this knew exactly how to inflict fatal damage with minimal effort. That or they had some serious aggression to work out. They missed her sternum and veered left. That would have made it more of a challenge. Probably a lucky shot. There is some tearing consistent with a serrated edge. And considering the damage they did when they plunged in, I’m guessing they used a hunting knife.”

My eyes are drawn to Robin’s face, to those odd scratches on her forehead that seem out of place amidst her rather serene expression.

“What about those?” I point to them, and I must say, my curiosity is piqued. I pull out my phone and snap several pictures before he can answer.

“I’ve been looking at them all morning.” Miller leans in, examining the marks with his practiced eye. “Curious, aren’t they? Not deep enough to be defensive wounds. Just a few light scratches. It’s almost as if they were made post-mortem.”

Jack and I exchange a glance and he quickly documents the scratches with his phone as well. We did the same last night, but with the blood washed away it almost looks like a roadmap of some sort.

“Why defile her body after taking her life?” I shake my head. “It just adds a layer of cruelty to the already heinous act.”

“Maybe that was the killer’s way of signing his work,” Miller teases.

“Maybe,” I say. “Although they did a lousy job at it.”

“I’ll say.” Jack sighs as he puts his phone away. “But then again, I get the feeling they were in a hurry to get the heck out of there. And more likely than not this was their first rodeo.”

“But will it be their last?” I say before reverting my attention to Miller. “Any idea what could have caused those scratches? Do you think they did this with the murder weapon?”

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