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“Probably to feel important,” Aubree responds. “The most recent communication was with that idiot Miranda London, and that was a while back.”
“Anything from Detective Thomas? Henry Wade? Anyone else attached to that case?”
“Nope. Not a thing.” Coming to a pause at the door, Aubree shifts her tone and speaks for the record. “Doctors Mayet and Emeri, accompanied by Detectives Malone and Fletcher, entering Neil Thomas’ private bedroom on the second floor of his residence on Gable Drive, Copeland City.”
“Oh.” Sniffing the air, Minka turns her nose toward the bathroom door. “What the hell?”
“It’s messy,” I warn them both. “Be prepared.”
“Entering Thomas’ private bathroom,” Aubree continues for the record.
While Minka charges through and takes a flurry of photographs, Aubree hesitates just a second longer before stepping in.
“Apparent suicide,” she starts robotically. “Victim is in his full-sized bathtub. Submerged legs, stomach, and up to his chest. His head remains above water. His exposed skin and hair are bone-dry.”
She wanders closer, stepping around a sharp kitchen knife lying in the middle of the floor, and over a river of blood making its way to a drain hole three feet from the tub.
“Right wrist has been lacerated. One slice.” Crouching by the body, she uses her gloved finger to gently lift his hand. “Straight through the radial artery. Right to left. Bled to death.” She looks to Minka. “We’ll establish the exact angle he was cut. The depth. Then we’ll match it to the knife left on scene.”
“Self-inflicted?” Minka asks in her gentle, teaching tone. “Or a homicide dressed up to look like suicide?”
“It’s too soon to say for sure. But the angle appears right. And the lack of defensive wounds builds a case for suicide. There’s no water splashed around the bathroom to hint at a struggle. No blood spatter that would indicate foul play. The only blood, of course, being the trail directly from the vic’s wrist, over the lip of the bath, and down onto the white tile and into the drain.”
Pushing up to stand, Aubree leans over Thomas’ body and presses her fingers to his neck. “No pulse.” She counts it in her mind, just to make sure; she learned the hard way not to assume a man is dead. “His body is cold.” Then she dips her fingers into the bathwater. “Freezing.”
“Which means what?” It’s as though Minka is incapable of standing back and playing second fiddle. She doesn’t feel the need to steal anyone’s spotlight, but she’s sure as shit never going to pass up a teaching moment. “Cold body. Cold water. Dry skin. What does all this tell us?”
“He’s been here a significant amount of time. All day, at least. Possibly all of last night, too.”
“Makes me wonder if he got word about our case,” Fletch mutters. “If he did this to himself, maybe he carries guilt about something. Perhaps about Holly.”
“What are the odds this was a murder covered up?” I turn and wait for Minka’s eyes. “I don’t want your spiel about evidence collection and needing more time. I want to know what your gut feeling is.”
Instead of answering, she looks to Aubree and raises a brow.
“I’m saying suicide.” Clearing her throat, Aubree stands tall once more and takes back her camera. “We’ll need to follow the steps before final reports are drafted, but I’m saying with almost certainty this was genuine suicide. And if I may elaborate with my personal opinion, I think the timing sure is odd that you reopen Holly Wade’s case, and suddenly, this disgraced cop checks out of life.”
“I concur.” Minka folds her arms and nods. “Let’s run the scene and get him back in-house. Toxicology might reveal alcohol or drugs or something else that rendered the vic unable to fight back. But my preliminary thoughts align with Doctor Emeri’s.”
She turns to Aubree. “Let’s run it top to toe. This one will likely be scrutinized publicly, so let’s make damn sure it’s clean.” Twisting back my way, Minka adds, “We’re gonna be here a couple of hours, Detectives. Perhaps you could start by bagging the knife, then check every single door and window in this house to make certain he was locked in here all by himself. Is he married?”
“Divorced,” Fletch answers. “We’ll have to run by the ex-wife’s and make sure she has an alibi. But I think this one’s gonna connect to us more than it’ll connect to her.”
“That’s two detectives down, Malone.” Minka studies the dead man’s body. He’s naked and aging, but she catalogs his every feature with eagle eyes. “Both lead detectives who ruled Holly’s death a suicide have now committed suicide themselves. I feel like we’ve opened Pandora’s box and a whole bunch of snakes are gonna come tumbling out.”
My brows come close in question. “Pandora, or Medusa?”
“What?”
“Snakes.” I chuckle. “Nevermind. Go do your thing. Fletch,” I set the medbag on the floor, then turn to my partner and step out of the bathroom. “Ten bucks says this bullshit,easycase you found for us while I’m on medical leave is gonna give us a massive fucking headache.”
“Youpicked the file.” He heads down the stairs just a step in front of me. “I had two others in contention. Butnooo, you had to go and pick the woman. Because you’re soft.”
* * *
Hours pass. Daytime turns to night, and the press sets up camp in Thomas’ front yard. Neighbors come out to peek at something they’ll probably later regret, and when Thomas’ body is bagged, tagged, and placed on a stretcher to be transported to the George Stanley, the reporters out front zoom in and splash a dishonored cop’s death all over the evening news.
I stay on scene every minute Minka does, so when Fletch checks out at a little past six so he can go home and bang his nanny—or, well, see his daughter, I suppose—I still keep Minka in my sights.
