Page 3 of Overkill

“Thanks for coming, boys.” Her husky voice seemed as if it had never known an upward inflection; it was deep and a little roughened by shouting—or perhaps smoking. She had a stressful job, so maybe it was the latter. Then again, with her muscularity of a fitness buff, maybe she was just built that way.

Her narrow brown eyes landed on me before drifting over to my partner. She cringed. She tried to hide it, but I saw it. Just a tiny flinch, then the cover-up as she looked away from Ian’s pale, almost green, face.

Probably his first dead body.

And he couldn’t have picked a more morbid day for it. The river, the black, soggy dirt at our feet, the rushing river—it made for a dismal vision straight out of a murder-mystery film. And we even had a dead body to show for it. If it weren’t for Ian looking as if he were about to puke, I’d have almost enjoyed the aesthetic.

Poor kid. Probably not what he thought he’d be doing when he signed up to be a volunteer firefighter.

“What can we do for you, ma’am?” I wiped my mouth with my hand, trying to massage away my less-than-appropriate smile at his expense.

The sheriff politely cleared her throat, likely wondering if she should ask if he was alright. Then she shook her head and turned to me, all business once again.

“Thanks for coming, gentlemen.” She nudged the brim of her hat; her strong jawline and willow-leaf shaped eyes looked right through me. “I’m gonna need your extra hands to help me get him collected with as minimal damage as possible. Can’t leave him in the water much longer, or we might lose more of his parts. I already tried to fish him out, and well…” She tugged an ziplock evidence bag from her cargo pocket. Several strips of skin floated in the clear plastic like the most disgusting chicken strips I’d ever seen. “I’m going to need help getting him out before he ends up getting washed downriver. Our friends down the Hudson won’t appreciate this in their waters.”

“Yeah, boss,” I mumbled. “I’m your huckleberry.”

“What the heck do you want me to do about this?” Ian looked terrified.

He was here for the college credits and was pretty damn arrogant about it. Like most young men, he had already accomplished the things he hadn’t accomplished yet. He took credit for things he’d do in the future like they were already written in stone. He was going to college, he was going to be rich, he was going to get a great job, and change the world. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t graduated yet. He wanted to be treated like his future greatness wasn’t an aspiration, but a done deal.

And he definitely thought he was better than an old rube like me.

I went back to the truck, pulled a large heat blanket, and put on some latex gloves. This was going to be a disgusting task, but hey, at least no one was dying—the guy was already dead.

When I returned to the sheriff, she was standing on a rock outcropping, staring at the body still wedged between the rocks.

I couldn’t pick out any stab wounds; his head looked normal, without big, unnatural dents. While I wasn’t a medical examiner or forensic pathologist, I liked to think I had some idea of what to look for. Especially because I was familiar with gunshot wounds, having both inflicted them on others and having had them inflicted on me.

Out of curiosity, I asked, “See any signs of trauma?”

“Doesn’t look like it, does it?” Whitlaw answered in that rural accent that was not quite southern nor midwestern, but a weird combination that only really existed in this part of the Adirondacks.

She snapped on a fresh pair of gloves and helped me unfold the blanket as we squatted on either side of the corpse. It seemed we both slumped, not at all looking forward to this.

There was something very, very slippery about this guy, and the sheriff had already shown us the skin that had slipped right off him when she’d tried moving him on her own. If he were already breaking apart, we’d need at least one more set of hands.

“You wanna help me out here, Ian?” I said, gesturing at the middle section where we’d likely need help with twisting onto the blanket.

“You’ve got it covered.” His face scrunched in disgust. “R-R-Riley?”

“Captain Lyons,” I corrected him.

I didn’t care if these townies had known each other since they were in the cradle like Whitlaw and Lyons. It didn’t matter that their families had been intertwined since the flood. In a professional setting, Captain Riley Lyons deserved respect. He was a hard worker. Ian Gray? The kid was a hard lurker. As useless as tits on a bull.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, took a deep breath that made me dizzy with the scent of a wet, dead body, and looked up. The captain, looking exhausted, hadn’t finished his coffee yet. The kid, other than being yellow-bellied, was as fresh as a daisy.

When I glanced at the sheriff, she was looking away, her fist covering her lips. I couldn’t blame her for laughing.

She straightened and was about to say something, but I beat her to the punch.

“Hey, brother,” I said, my voice stern. “Strap some gloves on and get your ass between me and Sheriff Whitlaw. Grab the dead guy’s belt. Help us flip him onto the blanket.”

He groaned like a child told to eat his peas or brush his teeth.

“He’s a good kid,” Captain Lyons mumbled. At my skeptical look, he amended, “He’s an okay kid.”

At Whitlaw’s lifted brow, he changed it again. “He’s a kid.”