Swing of Death, page 15
Molly lifted Ethan's seventeen-inch computer into her lap. With a quick press of the power button, the screen flickered to life, prompting her for a password. She looked at the bottom of the computer and saw a sticker with a password. She chuckled at its length, thinking she’d do the same thing if she had to have a sixteen-digit key. She hesitated for a moment, knowing she shouldn’t access Ethan's password, then quickly signed in as a guest and navigated to her secure files.
As she opened the folder containing the report written by her technician, Deborah, a wave of frustration washed over her. The report, though meticulously detailed, offered little in the way of insights.
Taking a sharp breath, she leaned closer to the screen, scanning each line and accompanying photograph with renewed focus. The victim’s clothing caught her attention, the photos seeming not to match the report.
As Molly scrutinized every photo, frustration mounted with each missed detail. There, in the report, was a mention of a faint smoke odor clinging to the fabric, but nowhere was any note of the fabric being packaged and sent for an e-nose examination. The department’s electronic nose detected odor or flavors. She’d fought for the thirty-thousand-dollar machine, and they weren’t using it.
Molly's heart raced as she scanned through more photos, her eyes widening with each disturbing discovery. Stains, fibers, damage—evidence overlooked by the reports that now screamed at her from the screen. She fought to suppress a scream bubbling up in her throat.
The reports had failed to declare any of these crucial findings, leaving Molly to wonder how much more had been missed. With a sense of panic, she realized she would have to take matters into her own hands. She would have to sift through everything herself, combing through each piece of fabric for DNA, other biological evidence, trace evidence, and any other physical clues that could shed light on the truth. And if this was all Deborah, she’d have to go through the steps to fire her. What worried her more: if this was a department issue—then it would be her on the firing block.
As she paced back and forth in Ethan's bedroom, her mind whirled with questions and doubts. Had the chain of custody been broken? Were there other oversights lurking? Were other cases in jeopardy? Just the thought of the work threatened to overwhelm her.
The door creaked open, and Ethan's concerned face appeared in the doorway. His brow furrowed with worry. “Molly, what's wrong?” he asked, his voice gentle and soothing as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.
As Molly turned to face him, her eyes widened, showing their whites, and her teeth bared. “Ethan, it's... it's everything,” she managed to choke out, her hands clenching and unclenching. “The reports, the photos... they're missing so much. I don't know where to begin.”
Ethan crossed the room in quick strides, wrapping his arms around her in a comforting embrace. “It's okay, my dove,” he murmured. “We'll figure this out together. You're not alone in this.”
Molly pushed her way out of his grasp.
“Come to bed. We both could use the sleep. I will help you figure out an action plan in the morning.” Ethan took her hand.
Molly’s eyes flared. “The only action plan I need now is for you to screw my brains out.” She lifted his shirt over her head, exposing her naked body. She gave him a soft smile and climbed onto the bed.
He slid into bed beside her, seizing her mouth in a forceful kiss.
Eighteen
Alex Marcel stood halfway down the snowy hill, his breath forming misty clouds in the frigid air. The scene before him was a flurry of activity, illuminated by the flashing lights of patrol cars and the harsh glow of floodlights. An ambulance and the night team from the Waverly County Coroner's Office were stationed nearby, their presence a grim reminder of the tragedy in front of him.
Beside Alex stood Hamilton Spencer of the FBI and the chief of the WJPD, their expressions grave as they surveyed the scene. “She's one of the dancers taken from the convention center,” the chief explained with sadness in his voice.
Alex nodded, his gaze fixed on the body sprawled out in the snow, half covered by a partially torn bag. “How was she found?”
The chief sighed heavily, his breath forming a cloud in the chilly air. “A couple driving home with their dog stumbled upon her,” he replied. “They pulled over to let the dog out for a piss, and he took off, leading them straight to the body.”
Alex's brow furrowed with interest. “Where’s the couple now?” he inquired. “I want to interview them.”
The chief pointed up the road, where a white Toyota Corolla sat with its engine running. “They're up there, waiting to give their statement,” he replied. “We'll have them brought down to the station shortly.”
Alex lifted his camera and began to document the scene in front of him. He shot pictures of the body, capturing every angle and detail. He also turned his lens toward the coroner's team, documenting their work as they photographed and bagged the body. With each click of his camera shutter, he grew angrier at the latest loss of life.
Something wasn’t sitting well with him. Ethan had told him how meticulous the Waverly County Coroner was. She’d almost drowned insisting on examining a scene. He made his way up the hill and sat in his car. Alone, he unlocked his phone and dialed Molly Everhart. He had her number because she was a student in one of his dance classes.
“Err, Dr. Everhart,” she answered in a sleepy voice.
“Mol, who is it?” Ethan asked her.
“This is Dr. Everhart. Who’s calling?” Molly pushed herself up to sitting.
“Molly, it’s Alex Marcel. Did your office call you? They’re picking up one of the missing dancers on Calling Owl Road,” he announced.
“Don’t let them move the body. Alex, stop them.” She climbed from the bed. She was about to run from the room when a set of warm hands wrapped around her waist.
Gently, Ethan took the phone from her hand. “Bro, don’t let anyone move the body. She’ll be there shortly.” He ended the call and turned to Molly. “Call your office for a ride.”
Molly opened her phone. “It’s Dr. Everhart. Please send a car to this address.” She gave Ethan’s address. “I need a ride to the new crime scene—dead female.”
Ethan returned from Joanne's room with an outfit for Molly, carefully selected to match the somber tone of the day. He handed her the clothes: brown leggings, a cream sweater, matching wool socks, and a pair of underpants. Molly, already prepared with her own bra and her boots, stood ready. She swiftly pulled her hair into a ponytail before donning the outfit. After she dressed, she slid into her coat and hat.
Ethan pulled her close, concern evident in his embrace. “Be careful,” he urged, his voice filled with worry.
Molly smiled at him reassuringly. “It wouldn't be cool for my boyfriend to come to the scene,” she quipped lightly, trying to alleviate the tension.
But Ethan's expression turned serious. “Molly, you can trust Alex, but I wouldn't trust anyone else,” he cautioned.
Molly's brows furrowed in surprise. “Not your people?”
Ethan shook his head solemnly.
“That's why you had me call for a ride.” She nodded in understanding as a car pulled into the driveway. Ethan was doing his best to protect his FBI identity and their relationship.
He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. “I'll call you in the morning about bringing my girl breakfast,” he promised.
Molly nodded again. “I know, share no info,” she affirmed before walking out to the waiting car.
Ethan's gaze lingered on the retreating taillights of the car carrying Molly. He whispered a plea into the silence of the room, a fervent prayer that echoed the depths of his soul.
“God, please help me keep Molly safe,” he murmured, his voice tinged with desperation. “Guide her steps, protect her from harm, and shield her from the dangers that lurk in the shadows.”
As he spoke the words, a surge of emotion welled up inside him. With a final glance out the window, Ethan sent a silent vow into the night sky, a promise to watch over Molly with unwavering devotion.
Arriving at the scene of the body dump, Molly wasted no time in taking charge. She demanded to see the police’s list of everyone who had entered the scene. Making her way down the hill, she approached the body with trepidation, her heart pounding in her chest. Relief flooded through her when she realized it wasn't Adeline lying there. However, the sight of the woman in the black duffel bag, her body badly beaten, filled her with a deep sadness and anger.
Turning her attention to the two assistants from her office, Molly exploded in frustration. “Why did you think it was okay not to call me?” she demanded, her voice sharp with indignation. “What in the world were you two thinking? You didn't think it was important enough to inform me about this?” her voice carried with the wind.
“Well, we thought maybe you were busy or—” Ralph, a new-hire, said.
“Busy? This is my job! It's my responsibility to be aware of what's happening. You should have called me immediately, no excuses.”
“We're really sorry, Molly. We just thought—” Deborah whispered.
“You thought wrong. This is not something to be taken lightly. Now, bring me my camera from the truck. I need to document everything myself.”
“Yes, of course, Dr. Everhart. I'll get it right away,” Ralph said.
“And while you're at it, Deborah, gather all the necessary equipment. We're going to do this properly.”
“Absolutely, ma’am. We'll make sure everything is ready for you,” she said.
As she began to document the scene herself, meticulously measuring and sketching, the sun started to rise, casting an eerie glow over the area. When Molly was satisfied with her photos and sketches, she declared the body was ready to be transported to the morgue.
Alex offered to drive her back to her office, providing a moment of respite in the safety of his car. Molly exhaled a tight breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and allowed herself a small laugh as she recounted her soreness from dancing the night before.
Alex's sigh reminded her of the seriousness of the situation. “It's just the beginning,” he warned. “You were considered an amateur before, but Ethan will enroll you as a pro. He's going to work you hard.”
Molly nodded, her thoughts drifting back to the brutalized body she had just left behind. As the car hummed along the road, snow swirled like leaves caught in a gust of wind. She couldn't shake the image of the battered woman from her mind—the brutality of the crime, the unanswered questions surrounding her death.
“Molly,” Alex's voice cut through her thoughts, drawing her attention back to the present. “You're going to need to prepare yourself for what's to come. This case, it's going to test you in ways you can't even imagine.”
Molly nodded, her eyes fixed on the passing scenery outside the window. “I know,” she replied. “But I won't back down. Not now.”
Alex offered her a small smile. “I know you won't,” he said softly. “But just remember, Ethan and I are here for you, every step of the way.”
As they pulled up outside her office, Molly thanked Alex for the ride. Stepping out into the crisp morning air, she braced herself for the job that awaited her inside.
With a deep breath, Molly squared her shoulders and pushed open the door to her building.
Nineteen
Molly unlocked the door to her office, the familiar click echoing through the quiet hallway. Stepping inside, she wasted no time in grabbing a fresh pair of scrubs before making her way to the ensuite bathroom to change.
Throwing a lab coat over her shoulders, Molly made her way down the familiar corridors toward the morgue. She had been working with the day staff since she was hired two years earlier, and despite their initial hesitations about taking orders from a young ME, she had grown to trust them implicitly.
Entering the morgue, Molly greeted Adam, the day medical technician who had been hired alongside her. She asked him to set up the Jane Doe for her postmortem examination. As he went about his task, he inquired about her weekend, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Molly’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the mention of her weekend activities. “You saw it on social media?” she asked nervously.
Adam simply nodded, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips. “You got game, girl,” he teased lightly, earning another blush. “So, are you dating your sexy dance partner?”
Her laughter filled the room as she shook her head. “Nah, just friends,” she replied, a hint of amusement in her voice.
Adam smiled at her response. They were both grateful for the lighthearted banter amidst the somber atmosphere of the morgue. He opened a drawer and pulled the body onto a metal table.
Molly took off her lab coat and exchanged it for an apron and gloves, preparing herself for the job at hand. With a deep breath, she began the autopsy of the approximately twenty-five-year-old female, her skilled hands moving with precision as she examined the external bruising and the crushed trachea likely caused by a brutal beating. With each incision, she peeled back the layers of mystery surrounding the woman's death.
She dictated her report, “The decedent, identified as Jane Doe 116, a female of approximately twenty-five years of age, was brought to the morgue for autopsy examination. The cause of death has been determined to be asphyxiation, with evidence of external bruising and a crushed trachea, indicative of severe trauma.
“Upon external examination, the decedent presents with multiple contusions and abrasions scattered across various regions of the body, including the head, neck, chest, and extremities. Notable findings include bruising consistent with blunt force trauma to the face and neck area. Bruises are consistent in size and shape with a men’s size-eleven steel-tip shoe.
“Internal examination reveals significant hemorrhage and soft tissue injury within the neck region, particularly around the larynx and trachea. The trachea exhibits marked compression and deformity, indicative of external pressure resulting in asphyxiation. No evidence of significant internal injuries or underlying medical conditions contributing to the cause of death is noted.
“Toxicological Analysis performed, results to follow.
“Histopathological Examination: Microscopic examination of tissue samples obtained during autopsy reveals histopathological changes consistent with acute traumatic asphyxiation, characterized by vascular congestion, hemorrhage, and tissue edema within the respiratory tract.
“Conclusion: Preliminary find as to the cause of death for Jane Doe, an approximately twenty-five-year-old female, is determined to be asphyxiation due to external compression of the neck, resulting in fatal trauma to the trachea. The manner of death is classified as homicide, pending further investigation by law enforcement authorities.”
Molly blew a stray hair off her forehead and settled onto a rolling stainless-steel stool. “Adam, I hope you're not offended by this, but I'd like to go over her clothing and any traces that were picked up with our decedent.”
Adam's brow furrowed. “Mol, that’s usually my job. Did I do something wrong?” he asked, his voice laced with worry.
Molly sighed, trying to find the right words. “I studied the pictures of the ten trailer victims and found discrepancies between the e-report and the photographs.”
Adam's expression turned serious as he stepped out of the room. Molly felt nauseated, like she had mishandled the situation. How could she have said that more nicely?
Moments later, Adam rushed back in, a clipboard clutched tightly in his hand. “Well, Doc, look at this,” he exclaimed, shoving the board in her face. “The ten were processed by Debbie.”
Molly swallowed hard. “Okay,” she tried to maintain her composure, “it's going to be a long day. We need to process what came in over the weekend, likely non-homicides, and then we need to go over every other examination of clothing for the ten from the trailer and the three from the shipping container.”
Adam glanced over at Molly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. “We’re going to need a lot of coffee,” he said, his tone half-teasing, half-serious.
She nodded in agreement, a weary sigh escaping her lips. “Oh yeah.”
“What are you going to do about Debbie?” he asked.
“She's been here for fifteen years,” she mused aloud. “Has she always missed stuff, or was this purposeful?” Debbie had been a trusted member of the coroner’s office, her loyalty unquestioned. But why do something like this now?
Molly proceeded to open the evidence bag containing the samples she collected at the crime scene and the clothing removed from their new Jane Doe. “Examination of her personal effects.” She went over her pants. “Pair of size-four Lululemon, according to label on rear seam. Lycra and polyester black leggings. Black two-inch-long thread found on rear seat of pants area does not appear to match the material of her clothing, suggesting it may originate from the perpetrator's clothing or the crime scene.”
She plated it on a slide for microscopic analysis. Next, using specialized lighting and magnification, Molly noticed tiny bloodstains on the strap of Jane Doe’s bra. “These stains appear to have a distinct pattern, indicating they were likely deposited during a specific event.” She grabbed her camera and shot pictures. Then she cut the stain out and secured it.
She continued her exam. Molly discovered a small dried substance adhering to the collar of Jane Doe’s shirt. Again, she cut it away for testing.
Molly turned on every light in the room, in addition to using a handheld wand. While examining the seams of the victim’s clothing, she found a single microscopic hair trapped within the fabric. “Please, please, please.” She tweezed it free, hoping it had an intact follicle. She placed it on a slide and took it over to her microscope.
She closed her eyes and opened them. Looking into the microscope, she shook. Attached to the hair was a follicle. She prayed it belonged to the bad guy and that she’d be able to get DNA.
