Read Online Retirement Plan by Martha Miller - Free Book Online Page A

to Die, before what turned out to be his last tour in Afghanistan—his last tour anywhere.  “Get past the profanity and listen to the lyrics,” he’d told her. “This guy was a poet.”
    Morgan remembered that day clearly. It had been his last day home and her first day home. She hadn’t even unpacked her things in her old room yet. Her father’s broken leg had left him helpless, and so many things needed doing. Her mother couldn’t take care of him alone. But she started to suspect, when she walked into the house, that things with her mother weren’t right.
    Morgan had attended the kid’s going-away party the day before he left. Tragically, as if their futures were already written, the boy never came home and she never left her parents’ house.
    Instead of toward town, Morgan headed the opposite direction. There’d been a shooting in the county, at one of the parks. The music of Notorious B.I.G. (the kids today simply called him Biggie) kept her company as her car sped through early morning gray and empty streets toward the river road.
    She could see the flashing lights from the entrance to the park, so she tossed the directions she’d written in red pencil on a paper plate into the backseat with the rest of the trash and followed the winding road toward the riverbank.
    Looking old and tired, Henry stood next to his car waiting. He started talking without formality. “Body’s down near the edge of the water. Two kids parked over there”—he pointed toward the parking-lot entrance—“decided to take a moonlight stroll. Found him.”
    “How long’s he been dead?”
    Henry shrugged. “Don’t know. Crime-scene tech is waiting on you.”
    “Me? Aren’t you the primary?” She looked at him more carefully now. Had he been drinking? His eyes were puffy and he needed a shave, but other than that, he seemed okay.
    “Not me. You’ll know why when you see him.”
    She started walking toward the riverbank. The wet grass abruptly ended, and the muddy bank dropped about eight or ten feet down and leveled out at the edge of the river. She cursed, then stepped off the bank and climbed and slid downward. She was thankful for the mud, really. It was the only thing that kept her from losing her footing. Maybe she was primary because Henry couldn’t make the climb down. It was all right with her. But he’d have to take the next two dead bodies, no matter where they were.
    The body was facedown and shirtless, with jeans and underwear gathered around its ankles. As she moved closer, the lab technician—the new girl who got all the crappy assignments—stepped backward.
    “What we got here, Rachel?”
    “Looks like he fell from up there.” Rachel pointed.
    “Then why did the first-on-the-scene call Homicide?”
    “Sorry,” the girl stammered. “I wasn’t clear. I think he was shot up there and, as he fell, he rolled down here.”
    “Any ID?”
    “I checked his pockets. They’re empty.”
    “So maybe he was robbed”
    “I don’t think so. Take a closer look at the entry wound.”
    Morgan knelt. The toes of her shoes were covered with mud—great. She looked closer at the body, then said, “Well, it’s pretty damn big. Are you sure this isn’t the exit?” The wound, just below the left ear, had caused quite a bit of damage. No stippling. Not a close shot. Something seemed familiar.
    “It looks like the entrance wound of an assault rifle,” Rachel said. “I haven’t seen anything like this since that guy on the west end a couple of months ago. Irving, wasn’t it?”
    “Ingram.” Morgan’s voice was flat. Now she knew why she was the primary.  Kneeling beside the body, she patted her pants pockets. Next to her, the slow-moving water reflected the gold of the early morning sunlight. Flies circled and landed on the open wound. “You have any extra gloves?”
    Rachel turned to her kit and rummaged around. She passed the rubber gloves to Morgan, who snapped them on. “You have all the