Page 20 of The Wolves Come at Night
“Okay,” he said. “Better?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall apart like that. I just…after Richard…I can’t lose her, too.”
“You won’t.” His jaw was tight, dark eyes flashing with anger.
“What do I do?” she repeated. “Call the police?”
“No,” he snapped. “You let me handle this, okay?”
“You’re a baker, Santiago,” she said, praying he would disagree with her.
She felt a little thrill inside at how dark and dangerous he looked when he said, “I wasn’t always.”
Eleven
Nashville
Taylor dropped Baldwin at the airport for the flight that would get him to Fort Lauderdale and the port where the thriller writers’ cruise departed, then grabbed a biscuit and Diet Coke and headed to Forensic Medical for Georgia Wray’s postmortem.
The city was buzzing about Wray’s death, and Huston wanted a quick close to settle everyone down. Taylor wanted a quick close, too, naturally, but wouldn’t have minded a couple more days in the field. She had her weekly staff meeting later, two slogging hours of PowerPoint decks on crime statistics, and already felt the internal yawns starting.
She greeted the new receptionist—Cookie? Callie? Connie!—and headed through the security doors into the heart of the building. Downstairs, Taylor put scrubs and protective gear on over her clothes, wondering just how many times she’d been in this position over the fifteen years she’d been on the force. Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. She’d never kept track of how many murders, accidents, unattended deaths she’d worked, before and after she’d been moved to plainclothes. That would have been much too grim. Forensic Medical was someplace she had spent too much time over the years. Just a part of the job, but one she never relished.
She entered the autopsy suite, glancing over to where Sam was usually setting up shop for the day’s guests. Taylor was never going to acclimate to not seeing Sam’s head bent over the long desk on the far side of the room, the skylights causing warm red highlights to show in her hair. Without Samantha Owens there, everything felt lopsided. Out of place.
Sam had moved on. Why couldn’t Taylor?
All eight stainless tables were occupied. The bodies of Georgia Wray and Justin Osborne were at stations side by side, separated by scales and sluice drains. Their left and right hands trailed off the table and toward one another, a grotesque Romeo and Juliet tableau.
Dr. Fox had proceeded without her and was currently cutting the upper and lower lobes of Justin Osborne’s left lung into squares and triangles.
“Hey, Cap. If you’ve got someplace else to be, I’ll call it now. I’m ruling it a murder-suicide.”
Taylor blew out a breath.
“You’re sure?”
Dr. Fox nodded. “Without any evidence to the contrary? And a witness, and a note? Georgia’s pretty straightforward — the bullet caught her in the face and opened up the back of her head. She had her arm up in a defensive posture, the bullet went through her wrist before it hit her jaw. There’s bruising and lividity, consistent with her falling backward, and she’s covered in dirt and leaves, I assume from the attempted burial. Cause of death was the gunshot wound to the head, manner of death is homicide.
“This guy”—he gestured with his elbow toward Osborne’s pale body—“is consistent with suicide. The bullet lodged in the wall at the perfect angle to show the weapon being held approximately thirty-four inches from the body, angled up, just like I’d expect from a man standing, arm extended, with the weapon pointed toward himself. Could have been aiming at his heart and the gun kicked up, caught him in the face. The gun is the same as the one that shot Georgia Wray, rifling was positive. GSR tests were also positive, and the dirt under his nails is soil preliminarily consistent with the soil we pulled off and around her body, so that puts him at the murder scene. His arm’s reach is about perfect for that shot. Not to mention your witness was pretty clear they were arguing before she was killed, and saw him moments later, gun in hand.”
“Oh, I’m not doubting he shot her, just that he shot himself afterward.”
“Yeah, I mean, it was a weird angle, but it’s not unthinkable. There was a little bit of fabric in the wound, wedged near his jaw, that I have to send out for analysis, but visual inspection suggests it came off his shirt. The collar is missing a small corner.” He popped his own collar, held out his hands, and angled his head slightly to the right. “Bullet could have easily caught it as it went in. Not to do your job for you, but his girl just hit it big-time and left him behind. That causes problems in a relationship. He shoots her, goes home, shoots himself. Murder-suicide feels like a slam dunk to me. I’ve collected a bunch of fibers and a dizzying array of dirt, rocks, leaves, and branches, which I’ll send off, but nothing is standing out. Definitely nothing that would indicate otherwise.”
“Thanks, Fox. I know you’re right. That is what the notebooks seem to indicate, too. He was really upset with her, made threats in person and on paper. I haven’t had a chance to cruise their phones yet, but I’m sure there will be more of the same. Anything on the suicide note? It didn’t come from paper that matched anything we found inside the house.”
“Nope. Run-of-the-mill notebook paper. Find it in any drugstore. You’re sure there was nothing that matched it in the house?”
Taylor nodded. “Positive. He used Moleskines exclusively. We found about a hundred of them.”
“Maybe it was from one of hers?”
Hmm. “Good thought. I’ll check. Nothing else?”
Fox shook his head. “Sorry, Taylor. This one’s pretty straightforward.”
“All right. Thanks. Send me your reports when they’re ready, and barring any unforeseen new evidence, I’ll close it.”
