“That’s okay,” said the deputy. “I can see myself out.”
Until this Sunday morning, Jack Jamison had attended only three autopsies since his promotion to full-time detective, and all three had been on middle-aged men with whom he’d had no personal connection. The first time, he had expected to be queasy and was modestly proud of himself when the experience proved no more gory than the hog-killings he helped with every winter after the weather turned cold enough to slaughter and process the meat before it could spoil. Once a chest and belly are sliced open, entrails are entrails, whether human or pig.
The third one, a victim who hadn’t been found until at least a week after his death, was pretty bad, but the smell of rotting flesh is part of farm life, too, where dogs and possums occasionally crawl up under a house or barn to die and have to be fished out piece by piece.
Disgusting, but bearable.
Today’s session was the roughest yet, though. This was the first woman and the first time he had actually known the victim. He had briefed her about an ongoing investigation just last Wednesday. He had even held the baby girl once, a gurgling little charmer who was only a few months older than his own son. Now her tiny form lay on the next gurney, a small still mound that barely lifted the sheet. And no matter how much he told himself that the baby was beyond any pain or suffering, he’d nevertheless had to look away when those first cuts were made with scalpel and electric saw.
“No surprises here,” the ME had said. “Blunt trauma to the head, resulting in intercranial hemorrhage and transtentorial herniation.”
Now Jamison stood impassively as the ME finished his external examination of Tracy Johnson’s naked body and then nodded to the diener, whose job it was to open her up.
The daycare center had proved just as fruitless as the interview with Marsha Frye, and Mayleen Richards’s Sunday morning drive to interview Nettie Surles down in Makely had not added much more.
Mrs. Surles was slightly hard of hearing, but it was clear that Tracy Johnson had entrusted Mei to her care because she looked like everybody’s dream grandmother: white hair, merry eyes, a comfortable bosom made for cuddling babies, and a house that smelled of cinnamon and vanilla.
“Are you sure you won’t have another sugar cookie,” she urged Richards.
“No, ma’am, thank you.”
“I hope you’re not doing that no-carbs thing they keep talking about. I’m sure so much meat and fat can’t be healthy. These are just made from good pure sugar, flour, and butter. Couldn’t hurt a flea.”
“No, really,” Richards murmured. “I had a big breakfast.”
“Oh, that’s good. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. That’s what I always tell Tracy. You make sure that baby gets her milk and fruit and oatmeal and she’ll grow up healthy as a horse.”
The sudden memory that, no, little Mei was not going to grow up had Mrs. Surles in tears again.
Between sniffles, she described how Tracy had called her on Friday morning. Mei had an earache. The doctor could see them late that afternoon if Tracy could get there before five, so could Mrs. Surles look after her that day? That way Tracy could drive straight to Raleigh without having to swing over to Dobbs to pick up Mei.
“She gave me pain syrup for the baby, and after she was gone I put some warm sweet oil in Mei’s ear. I know it’s old-fashioned, but it does seem to help, and then I let her sleep on my heating pad. That’s what the poor little thing did most of the day. Just slept or watched television. Tracy came for her a little before four and bundled her up and took her out to the car. She cried when Tracy strapped her into the car seat. I know they save lives, but honestly! So uncomfortable for the little ones. Tracy said she’d probably go back to sleep the minute she started driving, but I can never help thinking they’d be better off if they could just stretch out across the seat the way my children used to do.”
Eventually, Richards worked the conversation around to Tracy Johnson’s personal life.
“Well, now, you know, I do think she might’ve had a fellow. Right before Halloween, she had on a pair of new earbobs. Not dimestore stuff either—real pretty gold and turquoise. Looked like Mexican or Southwest. Said a friend gave them to her and I said, ‘Friend? Or boyfriend?’ and the way she laughed, I could tell it was a boyfriend. ‘Just make sure he can love Mei as much as he says he loves you,’ I told her. ‘Oh, it’s nowhere close to that,’ she says. ‘Not yet anyhow.’”
“‘Not yet’?” asked Richards.
“‘Not yet,’” Nettie Surles said, giving a significant nod of her head.
Now, as the hands of the clock on the office wall edged closer to eleven, Mayleen Richards began thumbing through the bank records they had taken from Tracy Johnson’s desk. So far, the only thing of interest were checks made out to Johnson’s cleaning woman, and she sighed as she added that name to her notes.
Across the hall, Don Whitley, one of the department’s drug patrol, looked up from his own report at the sound of her sigh.
“Tough morning?” he asked sympathetically.
“Not really. Just coming up empty.” Richards crossed to stand in the open doorway of the deputies’ squad room and nodded to two uniformed officers who had just come from the magistrate’s office, where they had booked two DWIs.
Whitley was mid-thirties and an inch or so taller than her own five-eight. He wasn’t movie star handsome, but he did possess a certain boyish appeal and Richards found herself giving him a second look. He had come on to her when she joined the department until she made it clear she wasn’t interested. Now, though . . . ? She wondered if maybe she’d been too hasty. Whitley was pretty solid. He was taking courses this fall at the community college. Going for an associate degree in criminal justice.
Divorced, of course, and what else was new? More than half the people in the department had been divorced. The job was notoriously hard on marriages. The constantly changing shifts, the opportunities to fool around, the difficulty of leaving the work at work. Jack Jamison seemed to be handling it okay, but he’d only been married what? Two years?
So maybe Major Bryant’s second marriage wouldn’t last either.
Appalled by where her thoughts had once again strayed, Richards said, “Is Castleman around?”
Mike Castleman, also on the drug interdiction squad, had been one of the responding officers in Friday night’s crash.
