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Sometimes it took a second for the brain to catch up with what the eyes were seeing. I let the images in my periphery blur and focused on one spot for a moment, just to let myself adjust.
“I was waiting on you,” Jack said. “Plank didn’t touch the body, but he was almost there before he’d assessed the entire situation. Which is why he had to change clothes.”
“You live and you learn,” I said.
Jack opened the umbrella and we stepped inside the room. A wet plop hit the umbrella.
It was a horrible scene. Mentally compartmentalizing was the only way to stay sane. Now wasn’t the time to think about Coach Hargrove the person. Now was the time to take care of the dead and piece together the story of how and why he was no longer with us.
“Wow, look at this place,” I said, still not focused on the body.
It was a room full of trophies, autographed pictures, and game paraphernalia from thirty years of coaching. It was all covered in blood spatter and what I assumed was human tissue and brain matter.
Coach Hargrove sat behind a large mahogany desk in a brown leather chair. He wore a pair of tan khakis and a blue-striped polo shirt. He’d worn a similar uniform every day of school for as long as I could remember. The only difference was the Coach Hargrove sitting in the chair was entirely missing his head.
Plop.
Plop.
“Sawed-off shotgun lying to the right of the victim,” Jack said once we’d moved closer. “After you take the body I’ll get the techs in here to swab and confirm this is our weapon.”
“I think it’s safe to say this is our weapon,” I said. “Sawed-offs make a heck of a mess. As exhibited by the brains all over the ceiling.”
“They’re also illegal in the state of Virginia,” Jack said. “Not that the law has ever stopped people from carrying whatever weapon they wanted to in King George. This is a Second Amendment county. But I generally don’t see high school coaches feel the need for a weapon like this.”
“Maybe it’s not his,” I said.
“Which is a possibility we’ve got to look into.”
Plop.
I sighed and pulled a pair of gloves from my bag, and handed another pair to Jack. “I guess it falls under my jurisdiction to gather all the pieces and try to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.”
“We get the evidence. You get the body. All of it.”
“Lily is going to hate me.”
“You live and learn,” he said, repeating my earlier sentiment.
Lily had been my intern while she’d been finishing up school, but once she’d started her doctoral studies I’d hired her on as assistant coroner. The pay was peanuts because it was a city job, but I supplemented her income when we needed extra hands at the funeral home. And it gave her great hands-on experience. I knew I’d lose her at some point to a bigger operation as she finished medical school and needed more pathology experience, but for now, I was grateful to have her.
I studied the victim with a critical eye. I’d been trained to look for the obvious. The body always told a story, whether you were alive or dead. Were you healthy or unhealthy? Did you drink? Smoke? Do drugs? Did you work at a desk or manual labor? Were you athletic? Accident prone or abused? People thought they could hide who they really were. And maybe to an extent they could to those who didn’t pay attention. But the body didn’t lie.
Since I’d started working with Jack, I’d learned to look at more than just the body. Jack was able to size up a scene like no one I’d ever met before. It took me a little longer, but I was getting better at it.
“He’s dressed for school,” I said. I noted the athletic socks and sneakers on his feet. “Just a regular Friday, and it looks like he was ready to walk out the door.”
“That’s how it looks,” Jack agreed. “His gym bag and leather briefcase are sitting by the front door. Rain jacket and umbrella are on the coatrack.”
“Routine,” I said, thinking of my earlier morning walk. “Any signs of a break-in or robbery?”
“Not as of yet, but crime scene techs are on the way,” he said.
“Body is still warm. Rigor hasn’t set in yet. There would have been a short window of time from when his wife left until she came back. This isn’t looking good, Jack. Weapon placement, blood spatter and body positioning…it screams of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”
“I know,” he said. “But this is Coach. And we’ll follow protocol and treat it as a homicide until you make the official ruling.”
I nodded, feeling the weight of that responsibility. “Seems odd to get everything ready for a regular day, watch your wife leave for the store, and then off yourself while she’s gone. He’d know she’d be the one to come back and find him. Why would he do that?”
