Page 53 of Dirty Liars

I regretted not grabbing a jacket on our way out to wear over my coveralls, and I wrapped my arms tight around myself. Jack turned up the heater.

Each new body brought us closer to understanding what connected them all—and also potentially closer to whoever was responsible. The thought sent an involuntary shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

We pulled in behind three patrol cars and an unmarked sedan I recognized as Riley’s. The Mercedes was parked at an odd angle on the gravel shoulder, its hazard lights still blinking uselessly into the night like a distress signal that had come too late.

Riley met us at the perimeter tape. He was tall and lanky, and he always looked a little uncomfortable in his starched uniform. He was a country boy at heart, and knew the woods and rivers like the back of his hand. He had sandy hair and plain brown eyes, and he was married to a nice woman named Becky I’d met a time or two.

“Sheriff,” he said. “Doc. Not your normal Sunday night.”

“Show me,” Jack said.

Riley lifted the tape for us, and I ducked under after Jack. As we approached the Mercedes, I could see the rear driver’s side window had been shattered. Glass glittered on the ground like malevolent diamonds in the flashlight beams. The sight of the black sedan stirred something in my memory.

“The vic is in the back seat,” Riley said. “Hands bound behind him with zip ties. Single gunshot wound to the back of the head. Execution style.”

Jack circled the car slowly, his trained eyes missing nothing. “Who found him?”

“Jimenez. He was running radar when he spotted the car. Thought it might be a breakdown. When he pulled up, he saw the broken window and realized something was wrong.”

“Any witnesses?” Jack asked, peering inside the vehicle.

“Not a one,” Riley said. “This stretch of road is pretty quiet after dark. Only traffic is the occasional truck headed to or from the industrial park.”

I pulled on gloves and opened my medical bag. “CSI on the way?”

“They’re here,” he said. “Waiting on you to give them the go-ahead.”

I nodded and circled to the driver’s side rear door where the window had been shot out. The interior dome light cast an eerie glow over the scene, turning everything surreal.

Derek Rogan sat slumped against the door, his head tilted at an awkward angle. Blood and brain matter had sprayed across the beige leather upholstery in a surprisingly neat starburst pattern. His hands were zip-tied behind his back, the plastic cutting deep into his wrists where he’d struggled against his restraints.

“Single penetrating gunshot wound to the occipital region,” I said, noting the neat hole at the base of his skull. “No exit wound. Bullet’s still inside.”

Jack bent down beside me, shining his flashlight along the floor of the car. “Look at this,” he said, pointing to a small shell casing that had rolled under the front passenger seat. “9mm. Professional. Clean.”

“He’s still warm,” I said, touching the area beneath his neck. I pulled out my thermometer. “There are signs of early onset rigor in the smaller muscles of his face and neck. I’d estimate TOD at approximately two hours ago. Maybe less. This was recent.”

Jack straightened up and scanned the surrounding area. “Killer couldn’t have gotten far. Not on foot.”

“There would have been a second vehicle,” Riley said. “This is too isolated for public transportation, and it’s a five-mile walk to the nearest gas station.”

“So at least two people,” Jack said. “One to drive Rogan here in his car, another to follow in a second vehicle for the getaway.”

“Just like Theo and Chloe,” I said quietly. “Two shooters.”

I leaned in closer, examining the bullet wound with my penlight. “Clean shot, close range—probably pressed right against his skull. No stippling or powder burns on the skin around the entry wound, but there’s some on his hair. Shooter was careful.”

“Something’s off,” Jack said, circling the car again. “He’s experienced, former military. How’d they get the drop on him?”

I checked Rogan’s mouth and nostrils. “No signs of drug use or sedation. His pupils aren’t dilated.”

“Check his neck,” Jack suggested.

I gently turned Rogan’s head and spotted a small puncture mark just below his left ear. “Possible injection site. Could be a tranquilizer or paralytic.”

“That explains why a man with his training didn’t put up more of a fight,” Jack said.

I continued my examination, noting defensive marks on his knuckles. “He did try to fight, though. His right hand has bruising consistent with landing a punch. His suit’s expensive but rumpled like he’s been wearing it awhile. And there’s a stain on his cuff that looks like coffee.”

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