Chapter 9
NINE
Detective Kaitlin Pierce
Four Days Since Allison Clarke’s Murder
The Skagit County coroner’s office is located in a nondescript building on the north end of town.
It is a blue residential-looking building with faded siding and a roof in desperate need of replacement.
It’s located only a few blocks south of the expansive Skagit River.
Upon entering through the front doors, I’m greeted by a series of bright fluorescent lights illuminating a small and worn down sitting area.
The wet soles of my sneakers squeak against the yellowed linoleum floors.
A desk sits across from the front door, where a receptionist types away behind an ancient computer.
Back beyond the front desk is a hallway leading to a series of rooms. The front few rooms I know to be small meeting rooms, used for conversations with families and officials.
In the back of the building there are several examination rooms. Each examination room contains a metal autopsy table and the coroner’s various tools and supplies.
It’s not the most high tech operation, but it serves its purpose.
Skagit lacks some of the financial resources of the surrounding areas, such as King County, and therefore, the government buildings are pretty run down, but luckily, their coroner is one of the most thorough I’ve ever had the pleasure to work with.
The county coroner, Dr. Amanda Lee, looks up briefly, nodding her head in greeting as I enter the examination room.
“This one’s rough, Pierce,” she tells me as her eyes flit back down to the corpse in the table beneath her.
Dr. Lee’s slight stature always made her appear almost comical stretched across the tall exam tables.
At first, I’d doubted her ability to do this job well, but she’s proven me wrong again and again.
She’s the most intelligent and detailed person I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with.
As always, her slicked back black hair is neatly swept into a low bun at the nape of her neck and covered by a blue cap.
Her dark eyes squint as she assesses something inside the corpse.
“What do you got for me, Amanda?” I ask as I pull out my phone and open my notes app.
I pride myself on being good at my job—really fucking good.
As a woman in a male dominated field, I’ve had to work hard, if not harder, than my male counterparts to make my way in this world.
I’ve found comradery in Amanda Lee. Dr. Lee is fucking smart.
Like really fucking smart. But as a woman, a person of color, and part of the LGBTQ+ community, Amanda definitely has faced her fair share of bullshit.
She’s too good for this small rundown department.
Her white male counterparts in the bigger cities surrounding ours are nowhere near as good at their jobs as Dr. Lee.
“I’m not sure we’ve ever worked a case like this one, Kat,” she begins timidly as her dark eyes flit across the body on the metal slab. “She’s practically unrecognizable.”
I swallow down the bubbling worry building in my stomach. How did this sweet young teacher end up here? Like this?
“Cause of death?” I ask her.
“COD was exsanguination.”
“She bled out? From the cut across her throat?” I question, pulling up the files Dr. Lee emailed me and looking through the autopsy photos in the report.
“Yes. The sliced throat ultimately killed her, but before that she’d been beaten. Her entire face and upper body show signs of extreme abuse. Both orbital sockets caved in. Her death would have been slow and painful. The killer had a lot of rage.”
Rage. Who could have hated her this badly?
“Personal then?” I prompt, thinking out loud more than actually asking.
“That I can’t tell you,” Dr. Lee says, snapping off her gloves after pulling the white sheet back up and over the body.
Now that the autopsy was complete, the evidence collected and the coroner’s report finalized, the body would be released back to the family.
However, it seemed there’d apparently been some squabbling among the family over who would claim her body.
Too many people loved her, so much so that they were arguing over who would take the morbid responsibility of making sure she was ushered into the afterlife with care.
How did this woman, surrounded by love and support, end up this way?
“This was truly the Devil’s work, Kat,” Amanda says with her back to me as she washes her hands in the big metal sink across the room.
Dread rises inside me and a chill runs down my spine. Devils come in many forms, but sometimes, the most dangerous one is the Devil you know.
“Damn,” I mutter under my breath.
“Yes,” Amanda nods as she turns off the sink and dries her hands. “She has healed wounds that go back to childhood. This girl has been a punching bag for years.”
That doesn’t track. Allison Clarke had moved away from her hometown in high school. Unknown family. Small group of friends. Quiet, calm life. The only person who’d had access to her for that long was her husband.
“You sure this is Allison Clarke?” I ask to make sure the hunch I have is a valid path to even start to go down.
Investigators should be unbiased, open minded, and driven by evidence.
You never assume that you knew anything about a victim or a suspect.
Unfortunately, many don’t operate this way.
But I’d been on the wrong end of the law before, treated like I’d asked for it by those who were supposed to protect and serve. I’d vowed to be better. To do better.
“Her face was beaten beyond recognition. Her teeth were destroyed. Her finger prints burned off. Unless the county was to magically find the money for a DNA test, which would take weeks or months with our backlogged labs, then the best I can do is give a best guess,” Amanda states with a shrug of her shoulders.
“So, give me your educated guess,” I push.
Amanda lets out a long sigh. I know guessing is against her nature. She’s a scientist, she doesn’t work in anything other than evidence and proof.
“Right height. Same approximate weight. Hair and skin tone are accurate. Family confirmed same piercings. No tattoos.” Amanda lists the circumstances around the identification. “I’d say it’s very likely.”
Good enough for me.
“Thanks Amanda.” I close my app and stick my phone in my pocket. Turning, I walk across the room to leave, but before I can reach out to open the door, Dr. Lee clears her throat.
“There’s one more thing,” she states as I turn back to look at her over my shoulder. “The old injuries, the ones that healed previously, they follow a distinct pattern.”
“What kind of pattern?” I ask her, hoping it’s not what I think it is.
Amanda pauses as if debating the best way to present the information delicately.
“The kind I typically see in cases of domestic abuse.”
Looks like I need to talk to Brody Clarke.