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“You Travis Devine with Homeland Security?” she said shortly.
“I am.”
“Let me see your ID,” she demanded.
He showed her. “And you?” he said.
“Sergeant Wendy Fuss. Chief’s with Françoise and the body. This way.”
They began walking down the hall.
“Françoise?”
“Dr. Françoise Guillaume. She’s the medical examiner for this area. Her grandfather and his brother started this funeral home. Passed it down to their sons. Now her brother, Fred Bing, runs it. But Françoise works here, too, in addition to being the local doctor.”
“Busy lady. So did Dr. Guillaume perform the autopsy?”
She stopped and turned to him. “You shitting me?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“The fact is there was a pissing contest between your folks and ours. They brought someone up from DC to do the postmortem over in Augusta at the OCME, the Office of Chief Medical Examiner. Dr. Guillaume assisted because the chief medical examiner for Maine insisted. Jenny was killed here, making itourjurisdiction,notfederal.”
“Are the people from DC still here?”
“No, they flew in on a government jet, did the postmortem, and flew right back out. Showed me how my tax dollars are being spent.” She looked Devine up and down in a disgusted manner. “And now you’re here to do the job we’re already doing.”
“I was hoping we could collaborate.”
“Sure you do. Feds are all the same. Think you’re better’n the locals.”
“Have you had much experience with the federal government?”
“The IRS. That was enough to last me the rest of my days.”
She picked up her pace and Devine followed. He noticed that she was pigeon-toed and her left shoulder hung a bit lower than her right. Her gun belt squeaked as she walked, as did her rubber-soled shoes over the soft linoleum. That could give away your position and get you killed, but Devine did not think Fuss would be receptive to suchfederalcriticism right now.
She reached a door down a short hall, pushed it open, and motioned Devine inside.
Fuss put out a blocking hand as he started to cross the threshold. “You seen a dead body before?” she asked in a brusque tone. “Don’t want you puking on my shoes or passing out.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you,” said Devine tightly.
Two people were waiting in an interior room off the one they had entered. They were standing next to a metal gurney with a sheet over the body. The room held the potent smells of death and chemicals.
Devine was introduced to Chief of Police Richard Wayne Harper, who was quick to tell Devine that he went by Richard, not Rich or Dick.
“Or ‘Chief’ will do just fine,” he quipped, though the look he gave Devine held no humor.
He was in his late forties, paunchy, and around five ten. But he seemed light on his feet and moved with the nimbleness of a far younger man. His hair was thick, and the original brown was mixed liberally with gray. He wore no gun, but he did have a metal baton in a holder on his belt. His thick fingers hovered near it at all times. He seemed to exude electrical pulses of confidence with every breath.
Françoise Guillaume was also in her forties, an inch taller than Harper, and athletically lean, with auburn hair pulled back at her nape and secured with a band. Her eyes, active and intelligent, scanned Devine from behind tortoiseshell glasses strung on a synthetic cord. Her white lab coat only partially obscured her dark blue jacket and slacks.
She looked no-nonsense and proved it by saying, “Ready to get to it, Agent Devine?”
“I thought the autopsy was done in Augusta.”
“It was. We transported Jenny’s remains back here so that you could examine them.”
