Erica Spindler (12 page)

H
unter hadn't set foot in the Cypress Springs Police Department in thirteen years. It hadn't changed, he saw. But then, in Cypress Springs nothing seemed to change, no matter how many years passed.

He had come today because he had remembered something about the other night that might prove useful to the St. Claire murder investigation.

And because since finding the dead woman thirty-six hours ago, he had been unable to think of much else. He couldn't put the image of the dead woman out of his head.

The front desk stood empty. Not for long, Hunter surmised by the steaming mug of coffee and half-eaten doughnut sitting on a napkin on its top. Hunter didn't wait, instead he strolled past as if he still had every right to do so.

He found the door to his father's office open, the room empty. Hunter stepped inside. It smelled like his dad, he realized. And like his childhood.

Hunter scowled at the thought, at the rush of memories that flooded his mind. Of playing under the big, old oak desk, of him and Matt staring openmouthed as their dad chewed out a couple underlings, of his last visit to the office, on his way to college.

Hunter had attempted, one last time, to broach his feelings of exclusion and alienation from his family.

“Dad, just tell me what I've done. Tell me why you've shut me out. You and Mom, Matt and Cherry. It's like I'm not one of you anymore. Talk to me, Dad. I'll do whatever it takes to make it better.”

But his father hadn't had time for him. He had brushed him off, insisting Hunter was imagining it. That the fault lay with Hunter's perceptions, not reality.

Angry, hurt, he had left, promising that he would show them all, someday, somehow he would show them.

Hunter's gaze landed on the desk. A file folder stamped
Photos
lay on its top.

From the murder scene? he wondered, inching toward the desk. He saw immediately that they were; the file's tab bore the name St. Claire, Elaine.

“Hello, son.”

Son
. Hunter turned, feeling that one, quietly spoken word like a punch to his gut. He met his father's gaze. “Dad.”

His father's shifted to the desk, then back to his. “What brings you in this morning?”

“The St. Claire murder.”

The man nodded and ambled across to his desk. He motioned to the chair directly in front of it. “Have a seat.”

Hunter would have preferred to stand, but he sat anyway. “Place hasn't changed a bit.”

Buddy settled into his own chair. It creaked under his weight. “It's been a while.”

“Thirteen years.”

Hunter moved his gaze over the room. His Little League championship trophy was gone, as was the picture that had sat front and center on his dad's desk, of the two of them with the prizewinning fish at the Tarpon Rodeo. He scanned the shelves and walls, taking a quick, mental inventory.

He returned his gaze to the other man. “You've done some redecorating. Looks like you removed every trace of my existence.”

“You left us, Hunter.”

“Did I? Maybe I don't see it that way.”

“Don't you ever get tired of the same old story, bro?”

Hunter twisted in his seat. The way Matt stood in the doorway, as if he owned the place, raised Hunter's hackles. “You're just in time for our little family reunion.”

“Lucky me,” Matt murmured.

“Hunter says he's here about the St. Claire investigation.”

“That so?” Matt ambled in, stopping in front of the desk. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against its edge.

“I walked Sarah around five forty-five, we took our usual route. Saw nothing out of the ordinary.”

“And what's your usual route?”

“Walton to Main, around the square and back.” He paused, then continued. “I was thinking, she…the victim, couldn't have been there yet. Because Sarah would have gone nuts. The way she did later.”

“Why didn't you tell us this last night?” Matt asked.

“You didn't ask. And I didn't think of it until today.”

Matt inclined his head. “Actually, it's fortuitous you dropped by. We had a couple more questions for you.”

“Questions for me?” He shifted his gaze between the two men. “All right. Shoot.”

“Did you know the victim?”

“No.”

“Never heard the name Elaine St. Claire before?”

“Before last night, never.”

“Where were you yesterday, between four in the afternoon and when you came to find us at Gallagher's?”

“Is that when she died?”

“Answer the question, please.”

“You're kidding.” He could tell by their expressions that they weren't. “Am I a suspect?”

“Standard investigative procedure. You found the body, that automatically makes you a suspect.”

He got to his feet. “This is bullshit.”

“Sit down, son,” Buddy murmured, sending an irritated glance at Matt. “Answer the question. Where were you yesterday between the hours of four and eight?”

“I was working. Alone. Sarah was with me. Seems to me she should make a great alibi. She's certainly more loyal than most humans. Present company included.”

“Other than taking Sarah for a walk, did you go out at all?”

“No.”

“On the walk, did you speak with anyone?”

Hunter thought a moment. “No.”

“Did anyone call during that time, someone who could substantiate your being home.”

Again Hunter replied in the negative. “But that doesn't make me a killer, now, does it?”

“But it doesn't rule you out either.”

Hunter longed to wipe the smug expression off his brother's face. “Can I go now?”

“Not quite yet.” Matt glanced at his father, then back at Hunter. “You know how she died, Hunter?”

“Obviously not.”

“A sharp or jagged instrument was repeatedly inserted—jammed really—into her vaginal canal.”

Hunter went cold. “Oh, Christ.”

“She bled to death from internal wounds. It was an excruciating, punishing death.”

Buddy stepped in. “Do you have any idea who might have been capable of such a crime?”

“A psychopath.”

“You got a name to go with that personality, bro?”

Hunter stiffened. “I wish I did.”

“Why's that?” Buddy asked.

Hunter glanced at his father. “Obviously, so you could catch him before he hurts anyone else.”

“Noble,” Matt murmured. “What a guy.”

Hunter stood and met his brother's gaze evenly. “You got a problem with me, Matt? This town too small for the two of us?”

“And here I thought I was the cowboy in the family.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

“I have a problem with disloyalty. And with cowards.”

Hunter laughed without humor, throat tight. “And you see me as both.”

“I do.”

At times like this, he saw his brother so clearly. He'd always had to be right. Have the last word, have it his way. He had demanded the lion's share of their parents' attention. Adoration from the girls. He couldn't be simply part of the team, he'd had to be the
star
.

Hunter hadn't required adulation. He had been happy to let his twin have it.

But he had drawn the line when his brother had wanted him to stop thinking for himself. Matt had expected his brother to like who and what he did, to think like him. No, Hunter corrected, not expected. Required it of him. Of anyone who remained in his circle.

“You're not engaging me in this, Matt. There's no point in it.”

“Like I said, bro, a disloyal coward.”

“Because I won't fight with you?” Hunter demanded. “Or because I left, went on with my life? Because I didn't give one hundred percent loyalty to the great Matt Stevens? Is that it?”

“Boys—”

That one deeply uttered word shattered Hunter's veneer of control; anger burst through, white hot, blinding. Memories with it. His father had intoned that warn
ing a million times growing up, from as early as Hunter could remember.

Only then, he had been one of them.

“You hate that I can think for myself, don't you, Matt? I'm not your dutiful little soldier and that makes you crazy.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, bro.”

“If you tried leaving your personal oyster shell, you would have realized you're not the be all and end all, Sheriff Stevens. But then, maybe that's why you never did.”

Angry color flooded Matt's face. “You were always jealous of me. You still are. Because I got the girl.”

“Leave Avery out of this.”

“She's always been a part of it. You couldn't handle that it was me she wanted, not you.”

Hunter met his eyes. “Wanted you? If that's so, where's she been all these years? Seems to me she left you behind.”

Matt took a step toward him. Hunter curled his hands into fists, ready to throw the first punch. Eager.

Buddy stepped between them before he could. “Thanks for coming in, Hunter. We'll be in touch.”

T
he West Feliciana Parish Coroner's office was located in St. Francisville. An elected official, Dr. Harris served all the parish, one of the smallest in Louisiana. The coroner examined the circumstances of death, performed toxicology tests, called time and manner of death and signed the certificate of death.

Avery had learned all this from the man's wife when she'd called to make an appointment. She had also learned that Dr. Harris had served for almost twenty-eight years. His office employed two deputy coroners, both physicians, and handled an average of eighty deaths a year. If he determined an autopsy was required to establish cause of death, the body was transported to Earl K. Long Hospital in Baton Rouge. There, a forensic pathologist would perform an autopsy. Unlike big parishes in the state, West Feliciana Parish didn't have the funding to employ its own forensic pathologist. That had surprised Avery.

Dr. Harris was a charming sprite of a man, with a wreath of thinning gray hair and a twinkle in his eye. Not what one expected from a parish coroner.

“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Harris. I appreciate it.” He smiled and she went on. “Your wife told me you've been the parish coroner for twenty-eight years.”

“On and off. Took a hiatus to tend to my own practice, can't do it all, you know. Or so the wife tells me.”

“But you came back.”

“Being a perfectionist is a devil of a thing to be. Can't let go. Couldn't stand to see the job not being done right.”

He leaned toward her, eyes twinkling with amusement. “They got a joker in here who called cause of every death cardiac arrest. Didn't look at medical records or any other circumstances surrounding the death. Several times the man had a nurse sign the certificates of death. Couldn't stand it. Agreed to come back. Twice.”

He sat back, then forward again. “The thing is, ultimately we all have cardiac arrest, but that's not always what sends us off.”

“Do things like that happen often?” she asked, thinking of her father. “Cause of death being miscalled because facts slip through the cracks?”

“Not when I'm in charge.” He searched her gaze, then smiled gently. “How can I help you, Ms. Chauvin?”

“As I said on the phone, I'm looking into my father's death.”

His expression puckered with sympathy. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated, searching for the right direction to proceed. “I learned from your wife that you handle about eighty deaths a year. And that you or one of your deputies go to the scene of every one.”

“That's correct.”

“She also told me that neither you nor your deputies perform autopsies, that those are done in Baton Rouge.”

“Yes. By the forensic pathologist. Dr. Kim Sands.”

“And you requested an autopsy on my father.”

“I request one for every suicide. I have her report here.”

“And she classified my dad's death a suicide?”

He nodded. “Her findings were consistent with mine.”

Avery folded her hands in her lap to hide that they
shook. “What did Dr. Sands call Dad's official cause of death?”

“Asphyxiation.”

“Asphyxiation?” she repeated, surprised. “I don't understand.”

“There's no reason you should,” he said gently. “It's a little known fact that most victims of fire die of asphyxiation. In your father's case, with his first breath his airways would have filled with fuel vapors and flames. Death came quickly.”

He crawled a couple feet toward the door.
“Are you saying he died instantly?”

“Death is never instant. In forensics they speak of death coming in terms of seconds to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days and so on. In your father's case we're looking at seconds to minutes.”

She struggled to separate herself from her father's pain and focus on the medicolegal facts. “Go on.”

“The presence of smoke and soot in the throat and lungs is one of the ways the pathologist determines the victim actually died in the fire.”

“Or if he was dead before he was set on fire.”

“Exactly.”

“And Dr. Sands found both in his throat and lungs?”

“Yes.” He reached for her father's file, flipped it open and read. “Yes,” he repeated.

She cleared her throat. “What else would the pathologist look for in a case like my father's?”

“To confirm cause and manner of death?” She nodded. “Hemorrhages in the remaining soft tissue. Evidence of drugs or alcohol in the toxicology tests. We test blood, urine, bile and vitreous fluid. Each serves as a check for the other.”

“And in my father—”

“We found trace amounts of the drug Halcion in his system. It's a sleep medication.”

She straightened. “Sleeping pills? Are you certain?”

He looked surprised by her response. “You didn't know? I spoke with Earl, the pharmacist at Friendly Drugs in Cypress Springs. Your dad had been taking sleeping pills for some time.”

“Who prescribed them?”

He thought a moment, then held up a finger, indicating she should wait. He referred to the file again. “There it is. Prescribed them for himself.”

Avery didn't know what to say.

“Inability to sleep is not uncommon in people who are depressed.”

She struggled to find her voice.
He hadn't been sleeping. Another thing she hadn't known about her father, his state of mind.

What kind of daughter was she?

“Why would he do that?” she managed to say finally. “If he planned to kill himself the way he did, why take sleeping pills before?”

“Pill,” he corrected. “The level of the drug in his bloodstream was consistent with having taking a .25-milligram tablet at bedtime. Which, by the way, was the dose he'd prescribed himself.”

“I still don't understand, then—”

“Why?” he finished for her. “We can't be certain, of course. Could be he wanted to take the edge off, dull his senses. Or that he decided to act after he'd taken it.”

It appeared as if he crawled a couple feet toward the door
.

“Ms. Chauvin?”

She looked up. He held out a box of tissues. She hadn't realized she was crying. She plucked a tissue from the box and dried her eyes and cheeks, working to pull herself together. “Was there anything…suspicious about his death?”

“Suspicious?” He drew his eyebrows together. “I'm not certain I understand.”

“Anything that suggested his death wasn't a suicide?”

When he spoke, his tone was patient. “If you discount leaving a death unclassified, there are only four classifications of death. Natural causes. Accident. Suicide or homicide. We can eliminate the first two. That leaves suicide. Or homicide.”

“I realize that.”

He frowned slightly. “What are you getting at, Ms. Chauvin?”

“I'm just—” She crumpled the tissue. “Frankly, I can't believe he did this. He didn't leave a note. In our conversations, and we spoke often, he gave no indication of being so depressed that he might take his own life.”

Another man might have been offended, might have thought she was questioning his skill or professionalism; Dr. Harris was sympathetic. She suspected he dealt with grieving family members a lot.

“The Cypress Springs police did a thorough investigation. As did I. Dr. Sands is a top-notch forensic pathologist. Toxicology revealed nothing but the Halcion. I found nothing about the body to suggest homicide. Neither did Dr. Sands. Friends and neighbors described him as acting strangely for some time before his death. Reclusive. Depressed. That behavior seemed consistent with suicide. I understand, too, that your mother had died recently.”

“A year ago,” she murmured, shaken.

He got what he deserved
.

You will, too
.

Avery pressed her lips together.

He sat forward. “Is there something you think I should know? Something you're not saying?”

She met his eyes. What would he think if she shared her anonymous caller's message? Would he call it a sick joke—or a serious threat?

She shook her head. “No. Nothing.”

“You're certain?”

“Absolutely.” She stood and held out her hand. “You've been very helpful, Dr. Harris. Thank you for your time.”

He followed her to her feet, took her hand. “If you need anything further, just call. I'm mostly here.”

She started for the door. He called her name, stopping her. She looked back.

“I hope you'll forgive an old man for meddling, but I've done this job for a lot of years. Talked with a lot of grieving family members. I understand how difficult it is to accept when a loved one takes their own life. The guilt you feel. You tell yourself you should have seen it coming, that if you had, your loved one would be alive.

“The ones who do the best get on with living. They accept that the act wasn't about them, that it wasn't about anything they did or didn't do.” He paused. “Time, Ms. Chauvin. Give yourself some time. Talk to someone. A counselor. Clergyman. Then get on with living.”

If only it were that easy. If only it all didn't feel so wrong.

She forced a small smile. “You're very kind, Dr. Harris.”

“Just so you know, I intend to tell your sister the same thing.”

She stopped. Turned. “Excuse me?”

“Your sister. She called after you did. She's coming at three.” At her expression, he frowned. “Is something wrong, Ms. Chauvin?”

“I don't have a sister, Dr. Harris.”