her upper chest with his scalpel, ready to make the first incision.
Hurley is standing off to one side and has been quiet up to now, watching us with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken every time I look at him. This is my fourth autopsy with him and so far he’s followed a regular modus operandi: standing by quietly, observing, and occasionally asking a question or two about the significance of a particular finding. Today, however, he breaks with tradition just as Izzy is making the first cut. Taking out his notebook, he flips it open and begins a running commentary on his investigation thus far.
“Turns out Erik Tolliver was at work both yesterday and the day before. He met with Shannon at Dairy Airs on the day he said he did and, according to the workers there, things ended on a fiery note when Erik threw the papers at Shannon, called her a bitch, and stormed out. His dinner alibi holds up for the day of the murder but after about six P.M. his whereabouts are unaccounted for.
“Shannon was alive at three o’clock on the day she was murdered because that’s when she left work, but I haven’t found anyone who saw her after that. So that narrows down our time of death to sometime after three P.M. on the thirtieth. Yesterday’s mail was still in the mailbox, presumably delivered sometime after Shannon was killed. The box is out by the street and the mailman said he drove up at about ten in the morning, put the mail inside the box, and continued on. He didn’t pay particular attention to the yard display.
“The only other information I have is that her coworkers said she ate lunch around twelve-thirty on the day she was killed: a roast beef sandwich, some cream of tomato soup, and an order of fried cheese curds.”
Izzy says, “That might help us narrow down the time of death even more once I get a look at her stomach contents.”
Hurley says, “I’m betting she was killed after six that night. The husband definitely has some issues and I think that whole thing with the separation papers set him off.”
I frown and Hurley catches it. “What? You still think he’s innocent?”
I shrug. “I’m having a hard time believing he could do this, based on what I know of him.”
“Want to make a friendly wager on it?”
“I don’t know. It sounds like you already have your mind made up. How do I know you’ll even try to find another suspect?”
Hurley sighs and gives me an are-you-kidding-me? look. “I always keep an open mind,” he says.
“You seem pretty convinced that Erik did this.”
“At the moment I am.”
“See, I knew it.” I look pointedly at Izzy, who wisely shrugs and says nothing. “Taking this wager would be a sucker bet.”
“Then find me someone who looks better for it,” Hurley says.
“Will you let me do some of my own investigating?”
“As long as you keep me in the loop, don’t do anything that would interfere with the official investigation, and promise to share anything you find with me.”
“And you’ll share evidence with me?”
“Tit for tat,” Hurley says with a suggestive grin.
I consider the idea. I’m competitive by nature and something about Hurley brings that trait out even stronger in me. “What are the stakes?” I ask.
Hurley shrugs, thinks a moment, and then says, “How about dinner? The winner picks the place and time, and the loser gets to pay.”
“Deal,” I say without hesitation, so excited over the prospect of dinner with Hurley that, for a moment, I don’t care who wins the bet.
“Good.” He closes his eyes, licks his lips, and says, “Mmmm. I can already taste my filet mignon from Harvey’s, medium rare, wrapped in bacon, with a baked potato on the side.”
I’m so transfixed by the sight of Hurley licking his lips and moaning that it takes me a second to remember that a dinner at Harvey’s will cost me more than half a week’s pay. My hands start to shake and I’m not sure if it’s out of fear or lust. I realize Izzy
Hurley is standing off to one side and has been quiet up to now, watching us with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken every time I look at him. This is my fourth autopsy with him and so far he’s followed a regular modus operandi: standing by quietly, observing, and occasionally asking a question or two about the significance of a particular finding. Today, however, he breaks with tradition just as Izzy is making the first cut. Taking out his notebook, he flips it open and begins a running commentary on his investigation thus far.
“Turns out Erik Tolliver was at work both yesterday and the day before. He met with Shannon at Dairy Airs on the day he said he did and, according to the workers there, things ended on a fiery note when Erik threw the papers at Shannon, called her a bitch, and stormed out. His dinner alibi holds up for the day of the murder but after about six P.M. his whereabouts are unaccounted for.
“Shannon was alive at three o’clock on the day she was murdered because that’s when she left work, but I haven’t found anyone who saw her after that. So that narrows down our time of death to sometime after three P.M. on the thirtieth. Yesterday’s mail was still in the mailbox, presumably delivered sometime after Shannon was killed. The box is out by the street and the mailman said he drove up at about ten in the morning, put the mail inside the box, and continued on. He didn’t pay particular attention to the yard display.
“The only other information I have is that her coworkers said she ate lunch around twelve-thirty on the day she was killed: a roast beef sandwich, some cream of tomato soup, and an order of fried cheese curds.”
Izzy says, “That might help us narrow down the time of death even more once I get a look at her stomach contents.”
Hurley says, “I’m betting she was killed after six that night. The husband definitely has some issues and I think that whole thing with the separation papers set him off.”
I frown and Hurley catches it. “What? You still think he’s innocent?”
I shrug. “I’m having a hard time believing he could do this, based on what I know of him.”
“Want to make a friendly wager on it?”
“I don’t know. It sounds like you already have your mind made up. How do I know you’ll even try to find another suspect?”
Hurley sighs and gives me an are-you-kidding-me? look. “I always keep an open mind,” he says.
“You seem pretty convinced that Erik did this.”
“At the moment I am.”
“See, I knew it.” I look pointedly at Izzy, who wisely shrugs and says nothing. “Taking this wager would be a sucker bet.”
“Then find me someone who looks better for it,” Hurley says.
“Will you let me do some of my own investigating?”
“As long as you keep me in the loop, don’t do anything that would interfere with the official investigation, and promise to share anything you find with me.”
“And you’ll share evidence with me?”
“Tit for tat,” Hurley says with a suggestive grin.
I consider the idea. I’m competitive by nature and something about Hurley brings that trait out even stronger in me. “What are the stakes?” I ask.
Hurley shrugs, thinks a moment, and then says, “How about dinner? The winner picks the place and time, and the loser gets to pay.”
“Deal,” I say without hesitation, so excited over the prospect of dinner with Hurley that, for a moment, I don’t care who wins the bet.
“Good.” He closes his eyes, licks his lips, and says, “Mmmm. I can already taste my filet mignon from Harvey’s, medium rare, wrapped in bacon, with a baked potato on the side.”
I’m so transfixed by the sight of Hurley licking his lips and moaning that it takes me a second to remember that a dinner at Harvey’s will cost me more than half a week’s pay. My hands start to shake and I’m not sure if it’s out of fear or lust. I realize Izzy
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