Chapter Thirty-Two DAWSON

Chapter Thirty-Two

D AWSON

Wednesday, July 17, 2024

9:30 p.m.

The call came in as Dawson was stepping out of the shower. He’d spent the evening rereading all the reports on Tanner, including the job reviews the cops had gotten from the garage where he’d worked as a teen.

Great attitude. Hardworking. Friendly. No real family. And on and on.

As he reached for the towel, no real family kept coming back to him. Lynn said she’d met his cousin, but the investigators had found no girl with dark hair. Given the timing, he was more and more certain now that Lynn had met one of Tanner’s girls. Sandra had had blond hair, but the mysterious Della’s hair was dark.

The phone rang, and he dried off his hands and accepted the call. “Dawson.”

“This is Officer Davis. We’re in the east end. I’m standing beside a red Honda that’s registered to Tiffany Patterson.”

“Is Ms. Patterson there?”

In the background, a horn honked. “No sign of her, but we’re trying to open the trunk.”

“Where’s the car?”

“It’s parked on Nineteenth Bay Street.”

“All right. I’ll be there in a half hour. Call Officer Larsen.”

“Will do.”

Dawson arrived twenty minutes later to a starry sky over the Little Creek. The forensic team had turned on floodlights, and Margo was already on scene, tugging latex gloves on her hands. She appeared cool and composed, ready to take charge. One day she’d be running the entire department.

Summer heat kicked as Dawson rose out of his car. Margo was chatting with Officer Davis, a tall, fit Black man who appeared to be in his late twenties. Her direct gaze was focused on Davis in a way it’d been fixated on Dawson two nights ago.

Dawson reached for gloves in his pocket and worked his hands into the latex as he crossed toward the marked cars and the yellow crime scene tape encircling the red Honda. The forensic crew was on scene, waiting to pry open the trunk.

He glanced in the car and saw fast-food wrappers, soda cans, and snack packages littering the floor along with receipts, and several vivid green pills that he considered might be laced with fentanyl.

“The trunk release doesn’t work?” Dawson asked with a nod to Margo.

“No. Key jammed into the lock, and it looks like someone took a hammer to it,” the forensic tech said. “We were waiting for you.”

Dawson drew in a breath, allowing a quick glance at Margo’s stoic face. “Do it.”

The technician wedged a crowbar under the lip of the trunk. He shoved hard, and metal crumpled and groaned. For a moment, the lid stuck, and then one final jerk popped open the trunk.

A stale scent rose out of the car; he looked inside to find the remains of a young woman. Her legs were tucked up by her chest and her arms folded at her sides. A splay of red hair covered pale features.

The forensic tech began snapping pictures while also sketching out the scene. All homicides were as unique as they were similar. Manner of death could vary, but the process of untangling the crime came with a checklist. Once this scene had been documented, the medical examiner’s technician would arrive and the body would be removed. The trunk and car would be searched for evidence, and the investigation would grind forward.

Margo stood back, her hand masking her mouth as she studied the remains. “We just arrested her.”

Wind caught the vivid thick red hair. The medical examiner would have to make a formal identification, but Dawson knew who it was.

“And someone bailed her out, and now she’s dead.”