Minka
MINKA
“ T ime of death, approximately seven-forty to seven-fifty pm,” I recite for the recorder. “As an aside, dispatch’s timestamp shows emergency calls received at seven-forty-nine.”
“Can we confirm if she was already gone when they made the call?” Aubree leans over me and takes a dozen photos of the wound on the girl’s side. “It would’ve taken approximately three to five minutes for her to bleed out. By minute one, her friends probably realized she wasn’t part of the show and her blood was real. That makes me wonder if the call to 9-1-1 went out around minute two or three.”
“That’s probably a question for the detectives after they interview the witnesses.” I gently roll the girl so I can view her side. Black, sludgy blood pools on the carpet that the owners of the haunted house will need to replace. “I’ve noticed you’re asking these questions more, Doctor.” I carefully bounce on my legs to relieve the ache of crouching, but while I do that, I glance up and study my second’s bright blue eyes. “You looking to take the detectives’ jobs?”
She grins behind her camera, snap-snap-snapping evidence. “Just getting a fuller picture. The same way you do it. We can run the autopsy and collect the forensic data. But humans intrigue me too. I want to know how everyone acted, and reacted, during this crisis.”
“How would you have acted?” I carefully lay Jane flat again and look up. “You’re walking somewhere with your best friend. You’re?—”
“You’re my best friend.” Snap .
I roll my eyes, because now that information is on the recording that may someday be played in a courtroom, filled to the brim with jurors, a judge, a killer, and a distraught family. “I meant, hypothetically, Doctor Emeri. What would you have done?”
“Well…” She lowers her camera and rolls her lip between her teeth. “I doubt my answer would represent the actions of the majority, considering my very specific vocational experience. But I’d like to think I would act quickly, packing my best friend’s wound and remaining calm and composed until help arrived. I’d hope, even if the first stab wound had occurred, my actions would be fast enough to prevent the second. In Jane’s case, her friends and the killer were so surprised by what happened, no one stopped the second swing of the blade, which in this case, I believe was our kill shot.”
“A lacerated kidney wouldn’t have killed this hypothetical best friend?”
She stares directly into my eyes—because if I was that hypothetical friend, then yes, a sliced kidney would kill me. Very quickly. Irreversibly. But she doesn’t verbalize those thoughts. On this one point, she refrains from presenting my bleeding disorder to a future listening jury.
“If left untreated,” she answers instead, carefully, controlled. “Then sure, that would kill someone. But the vic has a little more time in that case. A knife to the heart, though, is goodnight and see ya later . If someone attacked me and my friend on a night out, I would hope to prevent the attack before the kill shot.”
“At your own risk? Perhaps you would be the one who is stabbed next.”
“I suppose it’s a case-by-case situation. But there’s no way I’d stand around and scream while a dude in a mask butchers my best friend. Which,” she strides to the stair banister on her left and knocks on the wood, “sounds awfully omen-y to me. Especially considering what month we’re in. Make sure you toss salt over your shoulder when you get home.”
Confused, I rise and swallow the groan that wants to roll free as I stretch my legs. “Why would I throw salt? I’d have to clean it up right after.”
“It’s a superstition thing.” She knocks a second time—probably for me—before she comes back and reaches into her pocket to free her phone. “I’m gonna call transport. Are you ready to move her?”
“We’ll flip her first and examine her back-side. But you can call transport now; I won’t be long, and we’ll be ready for them, anyway.” I reach into my kit and take out fresh supplies. “I’m gonna bag her hands, though I suspect all the blood under her nails will be hers. There doesn’t seem to be a great deal of struggle here. This wasn’t a fight to the death where she’s scratching and kicking her attacker. I think she was surprised, just like the rest of them, and went down quickly.”
“The added blood flow due to her pregnancy would have afforded her a few extra moments of lucidity. Though it also means she’d have bled out quicker, because the flow would have been faster. It’s a catch-22.”
“Sucky all around.” I carefully open one bag and place it over Jane’s hand. “She’s halfway through the pregnancy, which means she decided she was keeping it. School, age, relationships with the father and her parents aside, she’s keeping the baby. That means those who love her will grieve more than just one life. More than just one future.”
“I wanna listen to the detectives ask the questions.” Grumbling, Aubree photographs everything I do. Every single time I touch the girl. “I’ve never had an urge this strong to be in the interview room and listen to everything these people have to say.”
Same , I think to myself, straightening out and moving to Jane’s other hand. Same, Aubs .
“This wasn’t an accident.” I pull the seal on the bag and close her hand inside. Then I look at my colleague and attempt to release my tense jaw. “I mean, it could’ve been, if the costume’s knife resembled any old kitchen knife. Unfortunate, for sure. But it could have been an accident. But that one…” I glance at the evidence marker left behind on the floor, right beside the hunting knife. “Regular people don’t have those in their kitchens. They don’t even have them in their garages when they live in the city. That knife was put here intentionally. The killer meant to swap a prop with the real thing and end this girl’s life.”
“The killer, as in, the boy in the mask?”
“No.” I straighten out and smooth the creases in my pants. “The killer, as in, the one who wanted Jane dead. The one holding the knife, if his story turns out to be true, was nothing more than a puppet. A means to an end.”
“Cold.” Shivering, she hits dial on her phone and brings the device to her ear. “Who could be so friggin’ cold, and so ballsy, to set this up, hope it goes to plan, and knowingly kill a girl and her unborn child?”
“Someone who was angry. Or jealous. Or just plain mean.” I turn away and take out my phone, mirroring her actions as I dial Archer.
He answers like he already had the device in his hand and was expecting my call. “You okay, Minnnnnka?”
I close my eyes and exhale as my heart gives a heavy knock. “I’m fine. Aubree’s contacting transport now.” And because I’m making a semi-personal phone call, I remember to grab the recorder from the mirror wall and switch it off. Slipping the device into my pocket, I turn and see thirty versions of myself from every angle. It’s not creepy because it’s not dark in here. But I know, with the lights out, seeing your own murder played out in dozens of angles was cruel and intentional. “Does she have a name?”
“Naomi Alison Wallace,” he sighs. “She has two sisters, her parents are still married, and a little on the poor side. Seems Naomi busted her ass and secured a full-ride academic scholarship to Copeland U. And according to those we’ve spoken to, she was seventeen weeks pregnant, but only found out three weeks ago.”
“At fourteen weeks.” I turn away from the mirrors, the last image I have of myself is of my brows furrowing and my cheeks looking a little pale. Because tonight is infusion night for my bleeding disorder, and I was called out to work when I should have been injecting.
“She missed her first trimester. Found out, and then… what?” I wonder. “Probably talked to the father. Then her parents. Her best friend. The school.”
“A lot would have happened in the last three weeks. Lots of change in the direction she thought her life was heading. Lots of soul searching, considering her parents’ lower middle-class status and the scholarship she was awarded. No doubt, there was consideration about their next steps.”
“Have you talked to the boyfriend yet?”
“Briefly.” He releases a heavy sigh, as though his memories of that discussion have left lashes on his soul. “Mason Morgan. He’s a complete mess. He swore they were going to keep the baby and make a family. He said both sets of parents were supportive. Worried,” he amends, “but reasonably supportive. It came as a shock for everyone, but they were adapting.”
“Like you said—lots of soul searching and discussions had over the last three weeks. Any thoughts on who did this yet?”
I know he shakes his head, even when he doesn’t explicitly say the word no . “We’re only just getting started. I’m skimming the surface on each player for now, just so I can get an idea of what’s going on. Then Fletch and I will dig in. As it stands right now, the kid who held the knife—Connor Samuels—is about to go down for a homicide he never intended to commit. He’s a really fucking unfortunate bystander in someone else’s game.”
“What happens to him? According to the law,” I clarify. “He was still the one who killed her. But intention matters, right?”
“Intentions matter, but a life is a life, and he ended one. He’ll do time. It’s unavoidable. If he can afford a good lawyer, they’ll fight hard for him. Maybe the mayor could be a good resource for the family. As a former defense attorney, he might have advice for them.”
“Can’t you just…” I bring my hand up and drag my fingers through my hair. “He’s seventeen. If this all plays out the way I think it will, then he’s a victim too. He didn’t set out to kill someone today.”
“But he did. It happened, and Naomi is dead. The law is black and white on the matter. Where are you at right now?”
“Still inside the house. We’ll move Naomi to my autopsy room and start the process. Have you talked to her parents yet?”
“No. That’s next. They don’t know anything has happened yet—it’s only been an hour since the calls hit dispatch—but the media is already on the lawn outside. If the parents know where she went tonight, then they’re gonna panic when they catch this place on the news. You need help getting her into the van and away from the cameras?”
“No.” I turn back to Aubs and watch as she ends her call and slips her phone back into her pocket. “We’ve gotten pretty good at this. Naomi won’t be exposed, and she’ll be in-house within the next forty-five minutes. Then we’ll get the formalities dealt with.”
“Official cause of death?”
I scoff, soft and low in the back of my throat. “I need to perform an autopsy and write a report before I can officially make that claim, Detective.”
“But between you and me?” he bargains. “Please. Give me a direction here. I won’t document it in my reports.”
“Exsanguination,” I sigh. “Caused by penetrating trauma resulting from a hunter’s knife. I strongly believe her wounds weren’t deadly, individually. If she’d had access to a surgical team, either could have been repaired. But being here, with her friends, and in the dark, she simply didn’t have enough time. She bled out.”
“Which makes this all really fucking tragic. Three lives have been lost because of someone else’s cowardly need to kill a teenager.”
“Go do your job.” Heading back toward Aubree, I meet her eyes and prepare for our next step. “Find whoever did it. We’ll do our part and get her squared away. She deserves her peace.”
“Yep. Love you. Be safe, and text me when you’re back at the George Stanley so I know you arrived.”
“You’re needy.” But my lips curl a little on the side. “I like that.” Pulling the phone from my ear, I end our call and put my hand and the device in my pocket. “Autopsy isn’t gonna take long. We’ll run it down the line and send samples off to tox because that’s the job. But we know what happened to her. I doubt we’ll find a bunch of answers on our table.”
“Can I run it?” Bright blue eyes flicker between mine. Curiosity. Uncertainty. “It’s a simple autopsy, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to?—”
“You’re not my trainee, you know? You’re young, Aubs. But you’re not new at this. You can run your own autopsy room if you want to.”
“I know. But I prefer to work with you. I like our professional dynamics as they are. But I also miss cutting, so if I could get a couple of those in, especially on the less messy cases, then I figure I have the best of both worlds and everyone is happy.”
“I don’t think everyone is happy.” I turn at the sound of shuffling feet. Then meet the fierce, emerald stare of Timothy Malone the Third as he shoves his phone into his pocket and stops in the doorway of a crime scene he has no right to be on.
How did he get past the tape?
The uniforms?
The crime scene techs?
“Tim.” I dip my chin and barely fight the small grin working its way onto my lips. Then I turn back to Aubree and bounce my brows. Though, the act of spinning away from the mean lumberjack, bartending, former mafioso is lost when the countless mirrors reflect my expression all over the room. “Not sure he’s here to speak to me. So…”
“You can’t be here,” Aubree grumbles. But I’ll be damned if she doesn’t reach up to her hair. She’s not wearing a certain emerald jewel in her blonde locks today. But I think the memory of it is enough for her hands to move on their own accord. “This is a closed crime scene. You’re not supposed to be inside the tape.”
He folds his arms and leans against the doorframe. “I’m just observing. And no one stood at the police tape to tell me no.” He lifts his chin, so although my back is to him, I know he’s talking to me, using the mirrors as a go-between. “I heard transport is on its way. How long?”
“Probably ten minutes.” I stride to the murder bag and drop my recorder inside, so it doesn’t get lost between here and the George Stanley. “She’s working, by the way.” I tilt just my head and catch his burning stare. “I’m her boss. You want her to get into trouble for slacking off on the job?”
“You gonna slap her down for something she didn’t do and can’t control? If anything, me being your husband’s brother might mean I’m here to see you. Might mean you’re the one who gets in trouble.”
“Might mean I kick your ass off my crime scene and have you on every watch list from now until your eventual passing.” I close the bag and lift it with a heft and a grunt that surprises me. “You want me to call your brother and have him deal with you?”
“Archer?” He snorts, his lips hidden in the neatly trimmed beard he’s kept since before I knew him. Of five Malone brothers, most of them keep a short, sexy stubble. One, a beard. And the youngest, just eighteen years old, is still battling with puberty. “Not sure your threat is hitting how you expect it to, Mayet. Archer wants you watched twenty-four-seven. If he can’t be here to do it, he’s not gonna tell me to leave when I can be his proxy.”
“Archer’s need to supervise me around the clock is unnecessary and bordering on domestic harassment. But no,” I turn and smile at the exceptionally tall, objectively sexy bartender who is soooo in love with Aubree it makes him sick. “I meant Felix. One call to the boss, and I can clear any scene, any city, any state, if I so wished.”
Finally, he barks out a laugh that is both cathartic and wildly inappropriate, considering the dead body at our feet. “Wow, Mayet. You sure got used to having him in your life. Wasn’t so long ago, you wanted him three thousand miles away and possibly deceased. Now you think he’s your gun?”
I cast a glance around to ensure we’re alone-enough. Then I refocus on the mafioso and smirk. “Tell me I’m wrong. Then,” I hook a thumb over my shoulder to gesture toward Aubree. “She’d control those same assets, if only she wanted to. So I suggest you watch your step. We’re more powerful than the guy who gave up his throne for a life of peace.”
“Fat load of good that did,” he grumbles. And when the sounds of the transport van pulling up to the house echo from outside and Aubree attempts to walk through the doorway, he grabs her arm, yanking her to a stop and staring down into her eyes. He holds his tongue for a long moment. Tension thickens in the air because he wants her. And she wants him. Some could even argue he asked her to marry him… in a weird, roundabout way, a ’la family heirlooms and silent questions. But finally, he blinks and wets his bottom lip. “Have you eaten yet?”
I snicker, only to drop my gaze and pretend I’m not listening to yet another Malone attempt to feed and control the woman he adores.
“It’s not even eight yet,” Aubree argues. “I’ll eat once we’re done.”
“You’ll eat at the bar, the very moment you put her away and escape the morgue.” He loosens his fingers, allowing blood to flow freely and her arm to find color again. “Text me when you’re ready to leave work, so I can have your meal ready when you sit down.”
“Will you cook for me too, Tim?” I flash a playful smile and wait for his eyes to move my way. “As my much larger, older, big brother by law, don’t you feel a sense of obligation toward me, too?”
“Text me when you leave.” He drags his focus back to Aubree. “I’ll make sure you both eat before you fall on your faces.”
The crime scene techs grow a little louder, and the squeak and roll of a stretcher hitting the house’s not-so-lush carpet alerts us to what’s coming. So Tim releases Aubree’s arm and steps out of the way just as the stretcher moves into view.
“Let’s load her up,” I announce, shaking my head when he stalks away once more, his phone trilling and his hand dropping into his pocket to silence it. “I wanna get her on our slab before rigor sets in.”
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