Drown Her Sorrows (Bree Taggert) Page 5

  “Kayla is having a tough time with Mother’s Day coming up.” She leaned on the stall door and waited.

  Luke emerged from the feed room with three plastic containers. He went into each stall and dumped pellets. The barn filled with the sounds of horses nosing in their buckets and munching feed. Next he dumped and refilled water buckets. Bree gave each horse a few flakes of hay.

  Luke stopped in the middle of the aisle. “I’m just trying to keep busy.”

  “It’s OK to be sad, and it’s OK not to be OK.”

  “I know.” He sighed. “The thing is, I’m tired. I don’t want to be sad anymore.” His brows drew together into a low V. “But it feels like I’m being, I don’t know . . .” He struggled for a word. “Disloyal.”

  “That’s natural, but your mom would want you to be happy. You know that. She would want you to have a good life. Your happiness was her priority.” Tears clogged Bree’s throat. “We’ll never forget her. She’ll live in our hearts forever. But we also need to find a way to move forward.”

  “I don’t know how to do that.” Luke looked lost.

  “Me either. Maybe we can figure it out together.” Bree cleared her throat. “Maybe we should think about spreading your mom’s ashes somewhere she loved.”

  The wooden chest full of Erin’s ashes had been in a closet since her death in January. The kids hadn’t been ready to make a decision then, but maybe it was time to lay her to rest. Maybe by doing so, Luke could put aside his guilt over moving forward.

  Luke’s eyes misted. “Yeah. It feels wrong that she’s in a box. She wouldn’t like that.”

  “Think about a place.”

  He wiped a sleeve across his face. “Mom would want to be outside.”

  “I agree.” Bree pushed off the door. As she passed her nephew, she put a hand on his shoulder. “No pressure. There’s no rush. Take your time. I’m always available to talk if you need it.”

  Luke nodded. Bree left the barn, giving him space. Unlike Kayla, the teen needed alone time to process his feelings. She went into the kitchen and left her barn boots by the door.

  Kayla ate half her toast, then slipped out of her chair and carried her pig into the living room. Bree mentally tried to reshuffle her schedule, but she saw no outs. She dragged a hand through her hair, shoving still-damp strands behind her ear. She waited for Kayla to turn on the TV in the other room, then lowered her voice and summed up her conversation with Luke for Dana.

  “This feels like a major move forward for him,” Dana said. “But we should keep an eye on him for signs that he’s not handling it well.”

  “I can’t take off today. I have a meeting with a member of the county board of supervisors.” Bree lowered her voice further. “And an autopsy.”

  “Ugh. Politicians.” Dana clearly thought the meeting would be worse than attending the autopsy.

  “Right?” Bree agreed. “But I have to play nice. This is about the budget, and I need money.”

  “Even worse.” Dana waved a hand. “I’ll hang with Kayla. No worries. All I had on my schedule was a spin class. I’ll go for a run later. Kayla can ride her bike with me.”

  “Thank you. I’ll try to come home on time.” Bree had a whole new appreciation for working mothers. “Unless this new case turns out to be more than a suicide.”

  Dana said, “She needs to learn to adjust to you not being here occasionally. You’re almost always here in the evenings.”

  “I know, but I don’t have to like it.” Bree went into the living room and crouched in front of Kayla, who was snuggling with her pig and Ladybug on the sofa. A cartoon played on the TV.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. I have to go to work.” Bree kissed her head.

  “Is it something bad?” Kayla’s eyes went wide.

  “No, of course not,” Bree said quickly. “I have a very boring budget meeting today. But I’m the boss, and people need me to make decisions.” She kissed her niece again. “I love you. I’ll see you later.”

  Guilt tugged at her heart as she left the house and closed the door. She was halfway across the lawn when her cell phone vibrated. She glanced at the screen. Nick West, a local reporter. No doubt he was calling about the body.

  Bree answered the call. “Hello, Nick. How can I help you?”

  “I heard you pulled a body out of the river last night. I’m putting the story on our social media and online edition shortly. Is there anything you would like to say?”

  “The sheriff’s department is investigating the death.” Bree climbed into her SUV.

  “Can’t you do better than that?” Nick sounded disappointed. “Can you confirm the victim’s name is Holly Thorpe? Did she jump off the bridge?”

  “Sorry, Nick. The truth is, we don’t know yet. The medical examiner hasn’t declared a cause of death.” Bree cleared her throat. “Last night, the sheriff’s department received a report of an abandoned vehicle near the bridge at Dead Horse Road. A search of the immediate area resulted in the discovery of the body of a woman in the river. The cause of death is unknown at this time. The sheriff’s department is investigating. Is that better?”

  “A little,” Nick said without enthusiasm. “I assume the autopsy will be today. Can I call you later for more information?”

  “You can call, but I can’t guarantee what I’ll be able to share.” Bree started the engine.

  “OK.” Nick sighed and ended the call.

  Bree drove to the sheriff’s station on autopilot. Her administrative assistant, Marge, met her in her office with a huge cup of coffee. About sixty, Marge had been with the sheriff’s department longer than anyone else. She knew everything about everyone.

  “Thanks, Marge.”

  “You’re welcome.” Marge looked like everyone’s grandma. But her soft exterior covered an iron will and a mind sharp enough to cut through bullshit like a hot scalpel through butter. “The county commissioners canceled your meeting.”

  Son of a . . .

  “Did they give a reason?” Bree asked.

  “No. They just asked to reschedule.”

  “Again.”

  “Yes, again,” Marge agreed. “If they keep putting you off, they don’t have to make a decision.”

  Frustrated, Bree turned to her computer to type up her reports from last night’s call. On the bright side, now she had time to prepare for Holly Thorpe’s autopsy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ten minutes before one o’clock, Matt parked in front of the medical examiner’s building. In the next space, Bree was stepping out of her SUV. Despite the grim reason for today’s meeting, he was still happy to see her.

  He joined her on the sidewalk and stifled the urge to kiss her hello.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he lied. He would never get used to seeing a human being sliced open like a fish being cleaned. Oddly, looking at the body in the morgue was worse for Matt than viewing it at the crime scene. At the scene, there were often signs of passion, rage, or other motivations that had led to the person’s death. The corpse was a person who’d had a life until something cut it short. With the violence of the crime on display, Matt would experience sadness, anger, or frustration. The morgue’s cold sterility made the victim seem less than human.

  He took one final breath of clean spring air as if he was stocking up and turned toward the building. He held open the door for Bree. As she passed in front of him, the corner of her mouth turned up, as it always did when he exhibited any of the old-fashioned gestures his mother had drilled into him since birth. The manners were ingrained and as automatic as breathing for him. Her expression was surprised but pleased, but maybe also surprised that she was pleased.

  They signed in, made their way to the antechamber, and collected personal protective equipment. Matt drew on a blue gown over his clothes. When the bone saws came out, bodily fluids and fragments of flesh and bone could go flying.

  He glanced through the small window that looked into the autopsy suite. Dr. Jones was bent o
ver the stainless-steel table. On it, the naked body lay faceup.

  “She got an early start,” he said, reaching down to fix the elastic of a bootie.

  “Shit.” Bree pulled down her clear plastic face shield and rushed through the swinging door.

  Matt followed, less upset about missing part of the autopsy. As always, the smells hit him like a blow, immediately turning his stomach. He took two shallow breaths before sucking it up and moving into position next to Bree. His breath fogged the face shield, making him oddly claustrophobic.

  The body was scraped and banged up. The bridge was more than thirty feet above the river. At that height, the fall was survivable and the water deep enough that the jumper wouldn’t bottom out. But a hundred feet downstream, there were boulders and other debris the body could have struck while being tumbled in the current.

  The Y-incision flayed the chest like a wide-mouth duffel bag. The chest plate had been removed, and the internal cavity gaped empty. The organs had been removed, weighed, examined, and samples taken. They would be returned to the body inside a plastic bag before the incision was closed. A block under the back of the neck stretched out the throat, where the skin was neatly excised and peeled back to expose the underlying anatomical structure.

  As they approached the table, Dr. Jones straightened. As usual, she got right to business.

  “I’ll start with where we stand on confirming this woman’s identity as Holly Thorpe.” The ME inclined her head toward the body. “Ms. Thorpe has no dental records that I could find.”

  “Her husband said she hadn’t been to a dentist since she was a child,” Bree said.

  Dr. Jones continued with a nod. “Holly was thirty-four. If she hasn’t seen a dentist since she was a child, it’s possible that dentist is no longer in business or has purged their records. Dentists aren’t required to keep records that long. According to her family doctor, she’s never broken a bone. So, we could find no X-rays to compare. She has no tattoos or obvious scars. While the lack of those things matches this victim, it isn’t enough. We still need scientific confirmation of her identification. Her hairbrush contained several strands with the root still attached. We’re submitting those for DNA testing and will issue an official confirmation of ID as soon as those results are in.”

  “DNA tests can take months,” Matt said. “That’s a long time for the family to wait.”

  The ME wouldn’t release the body to a funeral home until she was satisfied with the identification.

  “I agree.” Dr. Jones nodded. “Out of respect for the family, I contacted the lab to request a rush on the testing. I’m pushing to have results within the week.” She gestured toward the body. “So, based on the information we do have.” The ME ticked off the facts on her gloved finger. “Basic physical characteristics, the identification in her vehicle and purse, and Mr. Thorpe’s recognition of his wife’s wedding ring, we are prepared to issue a presumptive ID that this is Holly Thorpe.”

  Bree said, “I’d like to speak with her family before that information is made public.”

  Dr. Jones nodded. “If you would prefer to issue the press release, that’s fine with me.”

  Matt was impressed with the ME’s thoroughness and compassion. Dr. Jones treated the remains in her care like patients.

  “Time of death?” Bree asked.

  Dr. Jones frowned at the body. “My best estimate based on the condition of the body is that she’s been dead at least three days but no more than five. I’m giving a time of death between noon Thursday and noon Saturday.”

  “Could you determine a cause of death?” Bree asked.

  “Yes.” Dr. Jones faced the body. “First of all, she did not drown. There was no froth in the mouth, nostrils, or trachea. No distension of the lungs. But more importantly, she was dead long before she went into the water.”

  Bree’s posture stiffened. “How long?”

  “Long enough for lividity to become fixed.” Dr. Jones pointed to a purple stain that ran the length of the corpse’s side. At the corpse’s hip, a long, thin white mark was embedded in the dark purple. “Do you see this impression?”

  When the heart stopped beating, gravity caused blood to pool in the lowest parts of the body. This process, known as lividity or livor mortis, usually became fixed around six to twelve hours after death, although being submerged in cold water would have slowed the process. Sharp, pale imprints were the result of dermal pressure and usually meant the body had been lying on an object in the hours immediately after death. The body’s weight pressed down on the object and pushed the settling blood to the surrounding tissue.

  Dr. Jones continued. “Normally, bodies that are submerged after death show lividity in the upper torso, head, and hands because of the position in which they tend to float.” She demonstrated, curling her body forward and dangling her hands and head.

  “So, the presence of a side-lying lividity pattern is atypical,” Bree said.

  “Yes. Now, it’s possible she was lodged against a boulder or caught in an eddy.” Dr. Jones waved a hand along the edge of the purple stain like Vanna White pointing out a vowel. She stopped with her fingertips a few inches away from the pale mark. “But the preciseness of the overall lividity pattern and the starkness and clarity of this mark suggests she was lying on her side on a hard surface for at least six hours after death.”

  Bree’s shoulders dropped. “I think I know what made that mark. The handle of an ice scraper.”

  Dr. Jones tilted her head. “The size and shape would be about right. Yes. Do you have a specific ice scraper in mind?”

  “There was one in the trunk of her car. I have a photo.” Bree stepped away from the table, shifted her PPE gown, and pulled out her cell phone. She stripped off her glove and scrolled. After tapping on the screen, she showed the image to Dr. Jones and Matt.

  In unison, they turned toward the body to compare the shape of the ice scraper handle to the white impression.

  The ME nodded. “I’ll need to confirm with measurements, but that looks like a good match.”

  Silence fell over them as they digested the implications.

  After death, Holly probably had spent hours in the trunk of her own car.

  Bree exhaled. “I’ll have a deputy bring the ice scraper from the impound garage.”

  “Thank you,” Dr. Jones said.

  “How did she die?” Matt asked.

  The ME crossed to a laptop on a table. Removing her glove, she scrolled and pulled up a photo of the victim’s neck. “These scratches on the soft front of the neck aren’t like the rest of the abrasions on the body.”

  Bree squinted. “They look like fingernail scratches.”

  “Yes, and they’re deep,” Dr. Jones agreed.

  Matt stared at the photo. The scratches ran vertically from the soft flesh just under the chin to the hollow of the throat. Recognition swept through him. “She scratched her own neck.”

  “Yes.” Dr. Jones motioned toward the victim’s hands. “She has two broken nails. I took scrapings from underneath them and found some blood.”

  Bree said, “It must have been deeply embedded if the river didn’t wash it away.”

  The ME nodded.

  Matt pictured the victim clawing at her own neck. “Something was around her neck. She was trying to pull it off. I don’t see any ligature marks.”

  “Correct.” Dr. Jones moved toward the victim’s head and pointed into the neck incision. “While all that was visible on the surface of the skin was slight redness, here you can see a band of hemorrhaging and deeper bruising. The pattern of ruptured blood vessels suggests pressure was applied by something rigid, like a forearm.”

  “A choke hold?” Matt asked.

  “Probably.” Dr. Jones pointed out specific structures. “But this was a poorly demonstrated technique. There’s also slight damage to the windpipe and trachea. If the choke hold had been properly applied, there would be no damage to these structures.”

  “So, she was not
strangled?” Bree craned her neck to see.

  “Correct,” Dr. Jones said. “The damage to the windpipe and trachea were not enough to compromise breathing. She died due to compression of the neck.”

  Matt’s brother was a former MMA fighter, and Matt trained regularly at his gym. He was very well acquainted with choke holds. When a trained person applied a blood choke, the crook of the elbow was positioned over the windpipe so the airway wasn’t compressed. The person could breathe. Pressure was applied to the sides of the neck, cutting off the blood supply to the brain and rendering the victim unconscious in seconds. A blood choke was also called a sleeper hold for this reason.

  Dr. Jones stripped off her gloves. She set them on the table next to the body. “In normal grappling, like you see in mixed martial arts on TV, either the person submits before they’re unconscious or their opponent releases the hold the instant they go limp. The blood supply returns to the brain, and the person wakes in a moment or so.”

  In reality, the referee watched closely and called the fight when one of the combatants lost consciousness.

  “And if the hold isn’t released?” Bree asked.

  Dr. Jones gestured to the victim. “You die.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As she backed away from the table and Dr. Jones returned to her work, Bree digested the ME’s information.

  Holly Thorpe hadn’t died by suicide.

  So, who had killed her?

  Bree walked to a nearby table covered with a white sheet. Holly’s clothes had been spread out on the sheet to catch any trace evidence that could dislodge.

  Each item of clothing was tagged, but each piece would be allowed to dry in a special drying cabinet before being bagged to prevent the growth of bacteria and mold that could degrade the fabrics and DNA. Bree would receive a list of items, but she noted the blouse was silk and a designer label. The jeans and boots were more common mall brands.

  Bree led the way out of the autopsy suite. She and Matt stripped off their PPE and exited the office.

  Outside, she turned her face to the spring sunshine. The warmth felt clean on her face but failed to eliminate the bone-deep chill of the autopsy suite.