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Chapter 5

Special Agent Jack Stone

Fallon follows me for twenty minutes down winding roads as we head to the coroner's office. I stole glances in the rearview mirror to make sure she was still there. But I'll admit, I was tempted to shake her tail, my way of hazing her.

We arrive and I lead Fallon through the brightly lit corridors of the coroner's office. Nothing but a labyrinth of stainless steel with the pervasive scent of antiseptic hanging heavy in the air. The walls are painted a ubiquitous shade of beige designed to soothe yet somehow feel more depressing, and each one is dotted with posters that extol the virtues of forensic pathology.

The buzz of the ventilation system murmurs in the background, and other than that the only sound is the squeak of our shoes until we hit the beehive of activity in the main office.

The place is teeming with bodies and buzzing with an undercurrent of energy as assistants scurry back and forth with a stack of papers in hand. I can appreciate their dedication, a commitment to uncovering the truths that the deceased can no longer voice themselves. That's exactly where my dedication lies as well.

"So, where's the dog?" I try to lighten the mood as we thread our way through the cavernous room. Fallon is stunning, but stunning women are a dime a dozen. Stunning women in this line of work, not so much. Although Nikki is a looker herself. But I have a strict leave my co-workers alone policy. I never said I was smart. "You two seemed pretty attached back at the office."

She rolls her eyes, but there's a hint of a smile there. "Buddy isn't mine. He belongs to Robby—Rob, Sheriff Reed to you."

"I see." I tick my head as I say it. "And what about the boyfriend? Robby?" I shoot her a look as I use his informal moniker, but she doesn't seem amused by my abuse of power. "Should we be expecting him?"

"No boyfriend," she shoots back. "I'm not seeing Rob or anyone else. I'm here for work, not some soap opera subplot."

"Soap opera subplots aren't mandatory in a relationship, you know. I hear a compatible pairing can be useful for companionship."

"I'd rather have the dog."

I swallow down a laugh. "I'd rather have a dog, too, but I got stuck with a cat," I mutter under my breath, but it's true, nevertheless.

I leave out the part where I inherited the feline the day my mother had to report to prison. You know what they say, save some fun for later.

We make our way to the back, passing doors labeled Autopsy Room, Cold Storage, and Examination Room. That last one is where we find the coroner, Miller Thompson.

Miller is a good guy, mid-fifties, tall, beer belly, a swath of dark hair that's quickly dissipating, and an overall friendly demeanor that reminds me of a football coach I once had in high school. He's known for his expertise and knowledge—and we can't forget his unique sense of humor, even if it leans to the grim side. But in a place like this, that's the only side there is.

The room itself is filled with steel walls, mostly drawers filled with the deceased, and a few tables with sheets over bodies. The hum of the refrigeration unit fills the silence along with the faint sound of a phone ringing in the distance.

We find Miller hovering over a cadaver that's been divided into pieces.

Her head has been placed just above her body, and you wouldn't know she was decapitated, save for the two-inch gap that separates them. The woman is a brunette, medium-length hair matted on one side. Her skin is pale, gray to be exact, lips almost non-existent, and the whites of her eyes shine like tomatoes with a hazel iris lost in a sea of crimson. She has a slightly turned-up nose, gaunt cheeks, was pretty.

Her body lies naked, bearing the same pale gray cast as her skin. On the metal tray table next to her, there is an array of scalpels spread out on a bright blue towel.

A Y-incision is carved right down her torso, but Miller has already closed her up. I'm good with that. It's not my favorite part. A magnifying glass lies near her head, and I'd expect nothing less since Miller does a great job of inspecting the minute details.

I glance back at Fallon to gauge her reaction. The first time I saw something gruesome like this my stomach did a revolution and the room swayed beneath my feet, but Fallon doesn't seem to flinch. I'm guessing it's not her first gruesome rodeo.

"Stone." Miller nods my way, clad in a white coat already stained with blood and gore. He nods to Fallon. "Miller Thompson," he says affably. "I'd shake your hand, but considering where it's been, we can save that for another time."

"I appreciate it." She laughs, and I take a moment to frown at her. She didn't laugh with me in the hall. Seems like Miller is suddenly her best friend. "Special Agent Fallon Baxter. I just transferred from Reno."

"Oh." Miller gives a goofy half-smile. "Love that place. What brings you this way?"

I know he's not hitting on her, but something doesn't sit right with me, despite the fact.

Miller has a wife going on three decades and three children, the oldest of whom is wrapping up high school. He's a good dad, and I'm guessing just as good in the matrimonial department.

"Family," she says quickly. "And work." Her cadence slows with that second response as she looks my way.

But the first answer was the correct one. The faster it streams from the mouth, the closer to the truth it is. I can understand the need to be around family, even with a family like my own.

Miller points my way. "Speaking of family—Mitch is here, running around."

"That's my brother," I say to Fallon, not that I would have brought it up myself. Mitch is the only sane one in the family. My own sanity is still suspect even to me. "He runs the morgue out of Elmwood. Probably doing a pickup."

"That's exactly what he's doing." Miller nods to the body before us and his jaw tightens. "Forensics took the prints. You should get a report soon enough. For now, she's Jane Doe Number One. Death was caused by strangulation. You could still see the contusions around her neck before it was severed. And it seems her head was severed after rigor mortis set in, so anywhere from two to twenty-four hours after death. You'll notice the livor mortis, or postmortem lividity, is quite pronounced here." He gestures toward the bluish-purple discoloration on the skin. "It indicates that the body was left in one position for a while after death before being moved. Helps us understand the timeline."

Fallon leans in slightly. "And rigor mortis?"

Miller nods. "Rigor mortis had fully set in, which you can tell by the stiffness of the limbs." He gently lifts an arm, demonstrating its resistance. "It starts around two to six hours after death and can last up to seventy-two hours. Given its state, I'd say she's been dead no less than twelve hours and likely not more than twenty-four when found." He sighs for a moment. "Her backside was covered with fresh black soil, the front half with dark clay. Most of her was submerged when they found her."

"Two different ground soils, you think they moved the body?" I ask.

"It would seem so." He picks up a long metal prong and tilts her knee. "The dark soil stained her clothes and clung to her skin. The clay was caked on her front side."

"Why decapitate the woman after strangling her?" Fallon shakes her head as she examines the body. "Seems brutal even for a killer."

"Why drive her corpse over a hundred miles away?" I counter. "I would have moved the head. A lot less grunt work."

"Easy." Fallon buries a smile in her cheek. "They crossed state lines. They wanted us on the case."

Miller and I chuckle at that one. But there's a level of unease in my stomach.

"Now that would be something," I say. "Although they could have killed her in Colorado and moved her head to Cheyenne. Killed her out in the woods where the soil is richer, dumped her in the river among the clay." Now that I think about it, I'm betting that's exactly what happened. I nod over at Miller. "Any signs of sexual assault?"

He ticks his head to the side. "No signs of forced entry if that's what you mean. She was sexually active, but no tears or contusions to report."

Fallon looks from me to him. "You realize that doesn't mean a whole lot. She still could have been raped. We can't rule it out."

"We won't," I'm quick to tell her. The last thing I want is to put out the wrong impression when it comes to how I feel about protecting women and bringing them justice whether living or dead. I hook my gaze to hers and nod, letting her know I can appreciate the gravity of the situation, but she doesn't look convinced.

When I started out, I was shocked to see how jaded some of my co-workers could be, and I promised myself I'd never get anywhere near that self-righteous emotionally isolative place.

My victims are real people who deserve the exact same brand of dedication to justice no matter who they were or what socioeconomic background they came from. And that's where my commitment lies.

Fallon pulls out her phone and begins to document the scene in pictures and I do the same. I watch as she taps away, jotting down notes as she studies the body, pausing a little too long as she takes in the woman's face.

The woman looks about the same age as Fallon, late twenties maybe. Same bone structures, she could qualify as family. I bet it's striking a chord with her.

"What else have you got?" I ask and Miller purses his lips as he glances at the body.

"There is something about this case that doesn't sit right with typical homicides of this kind," he says, tapping a metal prong against the table. "The precision in the decapitation, it's too clean, almost surgical. You don't see that level of expertise outside of a professional setting."

"Oh?" Fallon pauses to look up from her screen. "Maybe the killer had some sort of special anatomical knowledge."

Miller nods. "Which isn't common among your average perpetrators." His phone rings and he grunts at the screen. "I'd better take this. Stay as long as you like. Nice to meet you," he says to Fallon before taking off into the next room.

"Not your average killer," she says in an almost dreamlike state as she runs her gaze across the body.

"Nothing about this killer makes sense."

We hang around for another fifteen minutes before heading out the door and bump into a tall stack of muscles, dark hair with a brooding face that I know all too well.

"Mitch," I say, slapping his hand before pulling him in for a partial embrace. He's clad in a suit, his usual attire for a pick up, and looks as if he's had a long day already. He's less than a year older than me, miles smarter, and has always had better luck with the ladies.

"Fallon, this is my brother that I was telling you about, Mitch Decker."

Mitch tips his head and moans just loud enough for me to hear as he holds out a hand her way.

"Don't tell me this knucklehead brought you to the county coroner's office for a date."

Fallon laughs once again, a bright belly laugh, and I'm starting to get offended.

"Special Agent Fallon Baxter," she says, shaking his hand. "This knucklehead is my new co-worker. I just landed back in Colorado after a two-year stint in Nevada. Stone and I are working on a case."

He nods. "Great. Maybe you can teach him a thing or two." He winks my way and gives me a look that suggests he'd like to teach Fallon a thing or two before excusing himself and taking off.

"Your brother seems nice," she says.

"You sound surprised." I frown as I lead us out of the labyrinth at hand.

"Well, I did meet you first," she muses and her sense of humor isn't lost on me. Not that I'll be laughing any time soon myself. "So where to now?"

"Whispering Woods," I say, cutting her a look. "We're going home."

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