They wouldn't think of cluttering the homicide desks with it.
Rhett said, "The uniform who called it in's a rookie, got a little spooked. You'll see. And there's no note. I don't see a problem, so I'm about ready to head out as soon as evidence is finished."
Almost as a punctuation, there was a flash from the area of the bathroom where the evidence tech was taking full color shots of the scene.
Because the scene was contaminated enough with the people who'd already waded through it, Molly took care of her own housecleaning at the door. Shaking the wrinkles out of her jacket, she reached up and hung it over the top of the open doorway.Then she laid her case on the little round table by the window and opened it to pull out her gloves.
"Victim's in the bathroom?" she asked, pulling them on.
"Aren't all victims in the bathroom?" Rhett demanded. "I swear, I'm gonna do a study on it some day. 'The propensity of humans to migrate to the john to die.' You think it's an instinct, like elephants, or a societal problem?"
Molly looked up from the paperwork she was pulling out. "You're really hung up on this, Rhett."
He glared—well, as much as Rhett could glare. "This is my third dead body in two days, and every damn one of them has been wedged in between a tub and a toilet. Do me a favor, Molly. If you ever answer a sudden death call and it's me, make sure I'm not in the bathroom."
Molly began cataloging the scene before she headed on into the bathroom. "I promise, Rhett," she answered. "I'll drag you out by your heels with your pants around your ankles."
"You're a pal, Burke."
The bed was unmade, the pillows bunched up as if the victim had used them to read or watch TV. There was a pair of black alligator pumps by the bed and a red Ann Taylor suit crumpled on the chair. Hose, hairbrush, handbag.
This one hadn't arranged herself in bed like Juliet waiting for Romeo to come find her. This one, evidently, had gone out like a man.
"Suicides," Molly protested with a shake of her head. "What's the rush, all of a sudden? I mean, suicide season doesn't even open until the first frost. Don't these people know they can be fined?"
Rhett, still busy with his own facts and figures, grinned. "I think they've bagged more than their limit of lawyers, too."
Molly stopped and stared at him. "Another one?" she asked, really surprised.
His grin got a little too feral for that poor kid on the stairs to see. "Wanna know the difference between a lawyer and a dead skunk on the road?"
"I know it." She was doing another quick scan of the room. "I don't suppose this was a cross-dressing lawyer."
"Why? You hopin' to recognize somebody?"
Molly's smile was no prettier. "A small, select list. All of whom have flies in the front of their shorts."
"Then this one definitely doesn't meet the height requirements."
Molly nodded. "That makes it, what, then? Two men and two women?"
Four lawyers. Molly wondered if there was some ethics investigation going on. Something that would explain this more than the simple "things happen in bunches" theory. After all, as she'd said, summer wasn't suicide season. It was murder season. Then she reached the bathroom and stopped theorizing.
Molly saw the arm first, outthrown as if trying to escape the disaster that was about to befall. She saw the gun, a heavy, large bore semiautomatic that had spatters of blood on it. She saw the silk and lace slip, the creamy bra beneath, the porcelain, pampered skin and long legs that were now stiff and soiled. She saw the mess that the poor maintenance crew was going to have to clean up after everybody left. Because whoever their victim was, she'd put that big gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. And ended up wedged right between the toilet and the tub, what was left of her head against the wall.
"Jesus," Molly whispered, the smell in the close little room overwhelming. Musky and sharp, a little sweet, like old chicken left out in the trash. "She was serious."
Rhett looked
Rhett said, "The uniform who called it in's a rookie, got a little spooked. You'll see. And there's no note. I don't see a problem, so I'm about ready to head out as soon as evidence is finished."
Almost as a punctuation, there was a flash from the area of the bathroom where the evidence tech was taking full color shots of the scene.
Because the scene was contaminated enough with the people who'd already waded through it, Molly took care of her own housecleaning at the door. Shaking the wrinkles out of her jacket, she reached up and hung it over the top of the open doorway.Then she laid her case on the little round table by the window and opened it to pull out her gloves.
"Victim's in the bathroom?" she asked, pulling them on.
"Aren't all victims in the bathroom?" Rhett demanded. "I swear, I'm gonna do a study on it some day. 'The propensity of humans to migrate to the john to die.' You think it's an instinct, like elephants, or a societal problem?"
Molly looked up from the paperwork she was pulling out. "You're really hung up on this, Rhett."
He glared—well, as much as Rhett could glare. "This is my third dead body in two days, and every damn one of them has been wedged in between a tub and a toilet. Do me a favor, Molly. If you ever answer a sudden death call and it's me, make sure I'm not in the bathroom."
Molly began cataloging the scene before she headed on into the bathroom. "I promise, Rhett," she answered. "I'll drag you out by your heels with your pants around your ankles."
"You're a pal, Burke."
The bed was unmade, the pillows bunched up as if the victim had used them to read or watch TV. There was a pair of black alligator pumps by the bed and a red Ann Taylor suit crumpled on the chair. Hose, hairbrush, handbag.
This one hadn't arranged herself in bed like Juliet waiting for Romeo to come find her. This one, evidently, had gone out like a man.
"Suicides," Molly protested with a shake of her head. "What's the rush, all of a sudden? I mean, suicide season doesn't even open until the first frost. Don't these people know they can be fined?"
Rhett, still busy with his own facts and figures, grinned. "I think they've bagged more than their limit of lawyers, too."
Molly stopped and stared at him. "Another one?" she asked, really surprised.
His grin got a little too feral for that poor kid on the stairs to see. "Wanna know the difference between a lawyer and a dead skunk on the road?"
"I know it." She was doing another quick scan of the room. "I don't suppose this was a cross-dressing lawyer."
"Why? You hopin' to recognize somebody?"
Molly's smile was no prettier. "A small, select list. All of whom have flies in the front of their shorts."
"Then this one definitely doesn't meet the height requirements."
Molly nodded. "That makes it, what, then? Two men and two women?"
Four lawyers. Molly wondered if there was some ethics investigation going on. Something that would explain this more than the simple "things happen in bunches" theory. After all, as she'd said, summer wasn't suicide season. It was murder season. Then she reached the bathroom and stopped theorizing.
Molly saw the arm first, outthrown as if trying to escape the disaster that was about to befall. She saw the gun, a heavy, large bore semiautomatic that had spatters of blood on it. She saw the silk and lace slip, the creamy bra beneath, the porcelain, pampered skin and long legs that were now stiff and soiled. She saw the mess that the poor maintenance crew was going to have to clean up after everybody left. Because whoever their victim was, she'd put that big gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. And ended up wedged right between the toilet and the tub, what was left of her head against the wall.
"Jesus," Molly whispered, the smell in the close little room overwhelming. Musky and sharp, a little sweet, like old chicken left out in the trash. "She was serious."
Rhett looked
Similar Books
