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I exhale my dread through my nose. “Dunno. But why do I get the terrible feeling it’s one of those little girls?”
* * *
“This is Doctor Minka Mayet.” I speak for the record and slowly walk around the body of a woman only trying to protect her babies. “On scene and acting as medical examiner for a suspected homicide. Body is physically identified as Carlene Thoma. Confirmatory identification via fingerprints and DNA will take place once we arrive back at the George Stanley, but visual identification is enough for me in this case. Primary cause of death appears to be blunt force trauma to the head.”
Kneeling in the middle of the Thomas’ kitchen, I take care not to step in the pool of blood coagulating on the tile. With gloves on, I gently turn Carlene’s head to the side and grit my teeth when a section of her skull falls away and gray matter drops to the floor.
Glancing up, I spy the corner of the counter, and on it, blood spatter. “Angulation of the fracture in her skull indicates Mrs. Thoma’s head made contact with the corner of the counter before she hit the floor.”
“Is that not… Is that…” Aubree kneels close by and murmurs, “She could have fallen or tripped on her own, no? Not that I… I don’t think…”
Clamping her lips shut, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Opening them again, she restarts. “I believe this to be a homicide too. But it’s not unreasonable to wonder if she fell on her own.”
She’s learning not to assume.
“True. She might have fallen on her own. But here,” releasing Carlene’s head, I slide my hands down to her arms. “Defensive marks. Bruising on her forearm. Bruising on her neck and face.” Carefully, I lift Carlene’s arm and study the underside. “Handprints on the backs of her arms. Someone’s hands wrapped around from here,” I point at her bicep, “to here,” her triceps. “Someone much larger than her.”
“A man?”
“A logical guess. Though we’ll wait for more information to make that assumption. Whatdon’twe see?” I hold Carlene’s arm up.
Archer stands just a few feet back. His right arm is folded across his chest, his left hand raised to roll his bottom lip between his fingers. His eyes are dark, dangerous, the way I remember them being in our first moments of knowing each other.
“Doctor Emeri?” I bring my attention back to her. “What else don’t we see?”
“I don’t…” She leans closer. “I’m not sure.”
“No marks to indicate she tried to catch herself while falling. Typically, we reach out to stop ourselves from injury, often bruising or scraping our hands in the process; breaking a wrist, smacking an elbow. There would normally be something here, Doctor Emeri, to tell us the victim was conscious as she was falling.”
“Since there are none…” Horrified, she brings her eyes to me. “She was already out when she fell?”
I place Carlene’s arm back on the floor. “If she fell on her own, or tripped over something, it goes against all logic that she wouldn’t try to twist and catch herself.”
Taking a pen light from my bag, I gently pry Carlene’s mouth open. “Her throat is red and swollen, indicating irritation prior to death.”
Fletch steps a little closer. “She was unwell?”
“No. I suspect there was a lot of shouting and crying in this home since we were last here. Where are the little girls?”
“They’re outside with their maternal grandmother and paramedics.”
“Unharmed?”
Fletch nods. “That’s the word we’ve got so far.”
Putting my pen light away and taking out a thermometer, I accept the scalpel Aubree offers, push the fabric of Carlene’s shirt away, and make a small incision just under the arch of her ribcage. Sliding the thermometer into place, I watch in my peripherals as Fletch and Archer angle their heads away.
Squeamish cops? Or men attempting to give Carlene a modicum of privacy?
It takes only seconds for me to get a temperature, then I start the math in my head. “Ninety-four-point-three. Can anyone tell me the temperature in this room?”
“Thermostat is set to seventy-one,” Archer murmurs. “It’s cooler in here now because all the doors are open.”
“Alright. I’ll test more thoroughly when we get her in house, but algor mortis tells me Carlene has been dead for between one and three hours. Rigor confirms that.” Removing the thermometer, I slide my hand along Carlene’s neck and note the way her muscles turn more rigid. Her fingers are already stiff, and as time goes on, rigor will spread throughout the larger muscles. “Who called it in?”
“Neighbors heard shouting earlier this morning,” Archer says, “but they knew this was a tough time for the family. And it’s no secret Garry and Carlene had troubles, so they left it alone. Neighbor on the left, Mrs. Jefferson, dropped by this morning to see Carlene. When no one answered, she called it in.”
“Same Mrs. Jefferson who called in Louisa’s death Monday night?”
