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Authors: Mark T. Sullivan
Tags: Suspense
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a can of baking powder. She halted, transfixed at the sight of a long-forgotten bottle of cooking sherry.
She stood there for almost five minutes, blinking the way Paula Potter had blinked when she had learned of her husband’s murder. Her breath came shallow and staccato before she noticed the garlic powder next to the sherry. She grabbed it, slammed shut the cabinet door and spun in her tracks to face the room.
‘I’m going to be all right,’ she said out loud in a wavering voice.
But in the rain-streaked glass of the bay window across the kitchen, she caught her reflection. Nightingale’s skin was colorless. Her hands shook with fear.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MONDAY, MAY 11
T HE RAIN FINALLY PETERED after midnight. The wind stilled, the river settled and the sky turned the shattering blue of a freak, late-season Alberta high-pressure system. By 7.30 a.m., the temperature hovered in the high thirties.
But inside the state medical examiner’s office in Burlington, Chief Mike Kerris was not grousing about the weather. ‘I want to know why I wasn’t told about this letter thirty-six hours ago.’
Lieutenant Bowman, Andie Nightingale and Mel Allen, the state’s assistant medical examiner, sat around a simple conference table. Kerris stood. His gray Lawton sweatshirt looked slept in. His stainless-steel eyes were bloodshot and watery. He had guzzled coffee nonstop during the entire autopsy, which had just concluded.
‘We wanted to make sure the finger paint was Potter’s blood so you didn’t get upset without reason,’ Lieutenant Bowman said. She wore a suit of the palest yellow. ‘Now we’ve confirmed it and told you.’
Beyond a match of Potter’s blood type with that on the note and the bridge, the state’s medical examiner had found little of import during the course of the autopsy.
A careful examination of the wounds about the dentist’s head and upper back had given no distinct picture of the type of weapon they were looking for. This much was clear, however: given Potter’s height and physical stature, as well as the angle and penetration of the blows, the killer stood over six feet tall and was extremely powerful. He had struck from behind, possibly during or after the rape. Allen felt that despite the dilution of evidence caused by the body’s dunking in the river, he had gathered enough seminal fluid for DNA matches should a prime suspect emerge.
At the same time, the evidence technicians had found no strange fingerprints inside Potter’s hunting locker, on or in the ammunition cabinet or on the bridge. The blood had been painted on the illustration with a gloved finger. The drawing ink and the sketch paper were of the highest quality, but the sort available in any reputable arts-supply store.
Nightingale had sent her report to the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico, Virginia, but the profilers were carrying a heavy caseload already. A psychological description of the killer was at least a week or two away. The only other strong physical evidence the crime technicians had discovered was the faint outline of size-thirteen boot tracks in the dirt under the eaves of Potter’s chicken coop.
‘Let’s not bicker here,’ Allen said. He had licked his finger and was trying to plaster down a wayward eyebrow bristle. ‘Focus on the evidence. He’s a big man. Big as you, Mike.’
‘I don’t give a damn about his shoes,’ Kerris grumbled. He slid his sweatshirt up his sinewy forearms before crossing them. ‘I’m being cut out of the investigation of the most brutal murder in Lawton’s history.’ The chief snapped his fingers and tossed his chin in Nightingale’s direction. ‘Now I get it. You’re trying to do this yourself so people forget—’
Bowman cut him off. ‘That has nothing to do with it, Chief.’
‘Bullshit,’ Kerris replied. ‘And let me tell you something: Mayor Powell’s gonna be pissed when he finds out about this drawing. He’s in the middle of delicate
She stood there for almost five minutes, blinking the way Paula Potter had blinked when she had learned of her husband’s murder. Her breath came shallow and staccato before she noticed the garlic powder next to the sherry. She grabbed it, slammed shut the cabinet door and spun in her tracks to face the room.
‘I’m going to be all right,’ she said out loud in a wavering voice.
But in the rain-streaked glass of the bay window across the kitchen, she caught her reflection. Nightingale’s skin was colorless. Her hands shook with fear.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MONDAY, MAY 11
T HE RAIN FINALLY PETERED after midnight. The wind stilled, the river settled and the sky turned the shattering blue of a freak, late-season Alberta high-pressure system. By 7.30 a.m., the temperature hovered in the high thirties.
But inside the state medical examiner’s office in Burlington, Chief Mike Kerris was not grousing about the weather. ‘I want to know why I wasn’t told about this letter thirty-six hours ago.’
Lieutenant Bowman, Andie Nightingale and Mel Allen, the state’s assistant medical examiner, sat around a simple conference table. Kerris stood. His gray Lawton sweatshirt looked slept in. His stainless-steel eyes were bloodshot and watery. He had guzzled coffee nonstop during the entire autopsy, which had just concluded.
‘We wanted to make sure the finger paint was Potter’s blood so you didn’t get upset without reason,’ Lieutenant Bowman said. She wore a suit of the palest yellow. ‘Now we’ve confirmed it and told you.’
Beyond a match of Potter’s blood type with that on the note and the bridge, the state’s medical examiner had found little of import during the course of the autopsy.
A careful examination of the wounds about the dentist’s head and upper back had given no distinct picture of the type of weapon they were looking for. This much was clear, however: given Potter’s height and physical stature, as well as the angle and penetration of the blows, the killer stood over six feet tall and was extremely powerful. He had struck from behind, possibly during or after the rape. Allen felt that despite the dilution of evidence caused by the body’s dunking in the river, he had gathered enough seminal fluid for DNA matches should a prime suspect emerge.
At the same time, the evidence technicians had found no strange fingerprints inside Potter’s hunting locker, on or in the ammunition cabinet or on the bridge. The blood had been painted on the illustration with a gloved finger. The drawing ink and the sketch paper were of the highest quality, but the sort available in any reputable arts-supply store.
Nightingale had sent her report to the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico, Virginia, but the profilers were carrying a heavy caseload already. A psychological description of the killer was at least a week or two away. The only other strong physical evidence the crime technicians had discovered was the faint outline of size-thirteen boot tracks in the dirt under the eaves of Potter’s chicken coop.
‘Let’s not bicker here,’ Allen said. He had licked his finger and was trying to plaster down a wayward eyebrow bristle. ‘Focus on the evidence. He’s a big man. Big as you, Mike.’
‘I don’t give a damn about his shoes,’ Kerris grumbled. He slid his sweatshirt up his sinewy forearms before crossing them. ‘I’m being cut out of the investigation of the most brutal murder in Lawton’s history.’ The chief snapped his fingers and tossed his chin in Nightingale’s direction. ‘Now I get it. You’re trying to do this yourself so people forget—’
Bowman cut him off. ‘That has nothing to do with it, Chief.’
‘Bullshit,’ Kerris replied. ‘And let me tell you something: Mayor Powell’s gonna be pissed when he finds out about this drawing. He’s in the middle of delicate
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