That’s where Pete headed.
He parked in front of the barn. With no other vehicles around, he assumed he’d have the place to himself.
The sun had come out, offering a rare warm day. A tease of spring. Two of the five horses in residence hung their heads over the fence, expecting treats to be forthcoming. The other three dismissed him as the human least likely to offer an apple or carrot. Or one of those peppermints he’d seen Zoe carry in her pockets. All of the herd looked the same right now. Wooly in their winter coats and caked with mud.
Several large boxes filled with other flattened ones sat on the porch, evidence that unpacking was in progress. He had his keys out, ready to unlock the kitchen door when it swung open. By reflex, his hand went to where his holster would be, had he been in uniform. He relaxed—only slightly—at the sight of Kimberly.
“How is that young woman?” she asked, uncharacteristically concerned.
“Hanging in there.” He entered and looked around for a place to deposit his keys. After living in the same house and having the same routines for the last ten years, this new home was going to take some getting used to. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“I’m decorating my daughter’s house.” She lifted her chin as if daring him to protest. When he didn’t, she asked, “What’s that mean? ‘Hanging in there.’ Is she going to be all right?”
He stuffed the keys in his coat pocket. “The doctors are optimistic. They’ve stabilized her heart rate and blood pressure and are trying to find out why her sugar levels dropped so low.”
Kimberly opened her mouth to ask more, then closed it and nodded. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”
Pete eyed her. Zoe’s mother had changed last November on that snowy night in Erie. Or maybe she’d always had the capacity for compassion and had rediscovered it while under duress. He slipped out of his coat and hung it on the hall tree that had been relocated from inside the door of his house.
“I hope you’re planning to do some work here this afternoon.” Kimberly crossed her arms. “I have no intention of unpacking all of your stuff by myself.”
And there was the Kimberly Jackson he knew so well. “I’m looking for a couple of folders. Autopsy reports. Have you seen them?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Autopsy reports? Heavens, no. What would they be doing here?”
“Your daughter is the county coroner.”
“Well, I certainly hope she doesn’t bring her work home with her. That’s disgusting.”
“Sorry to say, she did, this time.” He surveyed the boxes marked “kitchen” piled along the opposite wall and doubted the files would be in those. The boxes in the living room were less precisely labeled. The lids on some gaped open, revealing assorted items he’d collected over the years, a few of which had been placed on the mantel and end tables. He spotted his eight-point buck antlers in an otherwise empty box shoved in the corner.
After searching the first floor, he headed upstairs to the bedroom. His gaze fell on the antique washstand, which seemed much better suited for this room than where he’d had it in his house. He crossed to the old piece of furniture and opened the drawer. Both files lay inside, where someone had no doubt shoved them during the move.
Perched on the edge of the bed, he opened the John Doe folder. Zoe had covered the bulk of what Pete found. He read and reread Marshall’s handwritten notes. Old track marks indicated a history of drug use. The only fresh needle mark on the body was that used for the fatal injection of heroin laced with fentanyl. According to Zoe, Abby interpreted this to mean he’d fallen off the proverbial wagon with deadly results. And she was probably right.
Pete scanned the rest of the report, setting pages aside as he went, until he came to a series of photos. The intake ones fit Doe’s homeless status. Filthy clothes, short but scraggly beard, long hair. Later pictures showed the man stripped and washed. Pete couldn’t help but think the pre-autopsy cleansing may have been the first shower this guy’d had in quite some time.
Zoe said Abby remembered the man as tall and fit. She’d been right. Even in death, John Doe’s physique was above par. Not a bodybuilder by any means, but he definitely had the hard, wiry look of a marathoner.
Pete tucked the rest of the pictures and pages back into the folder, keeping the headshot out. “Who are you?” he mused to the photo. “And what connection do you have to Elizabeth Landis?”
Twenty-Seven
Zoe shuffled into the new office mid-morning on Monday after completing the autopsy on yesterday’s traffic fatality. Paulette greeted her with a look Zoe couldn’t quite identify. Something between a tight smile and a pained grimace. Either way, she didn’t like it. “What’s wrong?”
Paulette squirmed in the seat of her brand-new chair. She opened her mouth, changed her mind, and bit her lip. When she spoke, she asked, “Is there any word about that young cop?”
“Abby? I stopped in to see her while I was at the hospital. She’s awake and complaining about the food.”
“That’s a good thing. Are they going to release her today?”
“I doubt it. They’re still running tests to figure out what the heck happened yesterday.” Zoe slipped out of her coat and tossed it over a pile of still unpacked boxes. “But Abby isn’t what you were fussing about when I walked in. What’s going on?”
“Two things. First, you owe me.”
Zoe scrambled to think of a reason. She didn’t have to think long.
“Loretta called demanding that we…and by ‘we’ I mean you…release Franklin’s body to Hulton’s.”
Zoe swore. “What did ‘we’ tell her?”
“I told her what you said. His death is still under investigation. She was livid. Said she’d have everyone from the police to the Supreme Court knocking on our door.
