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But why would he come back and kill Marianne? I pulled the stretcher out and maneuvered it up to the house, past the unusually somber paramedics and cops. Marianne might not have been a cop or EMT, but she’d worked with them for long enough that she was definitely considered one of them. In fact, the law enforcement and rescue community had rallied around her in a touching and awesome display of support after Ed’s shocking flight.
She was lying on her back in the middle of her living room, arms and legs splayed as if she’d tripped and fallen backward. Her eyes were open, and her face seemed calm, but a thin line of blood tracked from the bullet hole almost perfectly centered in her forehead. I swept a glance around the room, oddly puzzled. The house was neat and clean, comfortably furnished with a few knick-knacks on high shelves. An upright piano rested against one wall. A vase on a side table was filled with flowers. Nothing seemed out of place. No sign of struggle. Then again, if it had been Ed, she’d have let him in, right? But why would he kill her?
Detective Abadie had his head down while he made notes in a steno pad. He glanced up as I entered and gave me a slight nod—a far cry from his usual lip curl coupled with mild disdain.
Sean and another crime scene tech were still taking pictures of the body, so I positioned myself by the wall near Abadie.
“Do you think Ed did it?” I asked him under my breath.
His mouth tightened. “We have no suspects at this time,” was his gruff reply, but the grim set of his eyes told me all I needed to know.
I swallowed. “Does Marcus know?”
Abadie gave a short nod. “He’s on his way, though he won’t be allowed behind the tape.” That made sense considering how close he and Ed had been. Abadie gave me a sudden narrow-eyed look as if wondering if it was wise to have me picking up the body since I knew both the victim and Ed. But then he must have realized that pretty much everyone here knew them, so tossing me out would be pointless.
The crime scene techs finished their pictures. Derrel and I moved forward together as if we’d choreographed it and carefully turned Marianne over so that Sean could photograph the back of her head and the other side of her body. Derrel slipped paper bags over Marianne’s hands and taped them around her wrists with surgical tape, just in case she had any evidence on her hands or under her nails that could lead to a suspect. Finally we picked her up and placed her in the body bag. I zipped it closed, clasped the buckles of the straps that held the bag in place, and clenched my jaw against a wave of utter helplessness. Why her? Why the hell would anyone want to kill Marianne?
I began to wheel the stretcher out when Abadie stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Angel…”
I gave him a questioning look.
“I don’t know if you read the newspaper,” he said, “but—”
“I saw it,” I said with a sour twist of my mouth.
“It’s bullshit. Try not to let it get to you too badly. They’re only writing crap like that because it’s election season, and they’re trying to stir up some controversy.”
I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it. Then tried again. “I thought you hated me.”
His lip curled with mild disdain. “I don’t hate you. I just don’t like you. Big difference. But I do hate assholes, and that reporter is an asshole. Airing your shit in the paper like that is bullshit.”
I fought for a smile, but it wasn’t happening, so I settled for a nod. “Thanks.” And then, because I had absolutely no idea how the hell else to respond to all that, I simply nodded again and continued on out with the stretcher.
Marcus pulled up as I reached the van. I yanked the back doors open and slid the stretcher in, then turned to him as he leaped out of his car and jogged up to me, agony written across his features. “Angel, it is true? Is Marianne…?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s her. I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else I could say that could get rid of the grief on his face. And I didn’t know how much was for Marianne or for the thought that Ed had done this.
He gave a shuddering sigh and sank to sit on the curb, burying his head in his hands. “God damn Ed,” he said hoarsely. “I swear I’ll kill him if I ever see him again. She didn’t deserve this.”
I slowly closed the van doors, then leaned back against them. “Why do you think it was Ed?”
He lifted his head, gave me a perplexed look. “What are you talking about? Angel, who the hell else could it have been? We know Ed went off the deep end.”
I frowned but didn’t argue the point. Marcus wasn’t in any state of mind to listen to anything right now. But for some reason I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that Ed had “gone off the deep end,” at least not to such a degree that he would start killing non-zombies. And a single gunshot to the head? If he’d killed her because he was crazy, wouldn’t it have been a lot more violent? Wouldn’t there have been a fight, or struggle, or something?
But those arguments could be raised another time when the emotional wound wasn’t quite so raw. For now I kept my mouth shut, sat down on the curb beside him, and put my arms around him while he wept on my shoulder.
Chapter 9
The autopsy of Marianne was brutal. Not the actual procedure, but the general mood of the room. There was none of the usual joking or conversation that usually helped lighten the atmosphere. The humor that we used as a self-defense against the horror of what we had to do was gone. In some ways it was worse than when we had a kid come through.
Also, we had several observers, which further dampened the mood. Detective Abadie was present since it was his case, but Captain Pierson was also there, silently watching from a discreet distance away while Sean, the crime scene tech, took numerous pictures.
I’d been working with Dr. Leblanc, the parish forensic pathologist, for about two months now, and I prided myself on the fact that I was getting to the point where I could almost anticipate his needs, like a well-trained surgeon’s assistant, or some shit like that. Not that I knew crap about surgery—only what I’d seen on TV—but in those shows there was always some nurse or whatever standing right beside the doctor while he snapped out things like, “clamp!” or “scalpel!” Of course, considering how much the reality of police work and death investigation varied from what I’d seen on TV, there was every chance that the medical shows I watched were just as inaccurate.
I didn’t hand instruments to him or anything, but I knew his routine—which helped keep me from dropping things or doing anything equally idiotic with people watching.
“Why are they all here?” I murmured to Dr. Leblanc at one point.
