Linda Howard - Kill and Tell

Marc tuned out the assistant medical examiner's detailing, for the record, of the victim's many scars. None of the scars looked like a bullet wound, but several of them did look as if he'd had some close encounters with sharp blades. Most of the scars, though, were the sort people collected just going through life: childhood falls that cut the knees, various nicks and scrapes. The most important detail, for purposes of identification, was the tattoo. Not only had he been in the military, but the tattoo narrowed down the branch of service for them. They would soon have a real name for this John Doe. As predicted, the morning television news announcers had waxed eloquent, and in rounded funereal tones so listeners would know how serious the issue was, about the early-morning murder in the Quarter. The New Orleans murder statistics were trotted out again, followed by a noncommittal statement from the police department, followed by a passionate statement from the mayor to the effect that the citizens—and tourists—of New Orleans must and would feel safe in the city. It was a good campaign slogan; he had used it before.

Marc dispassionately watched the autopsy. He had a strong stomach and had never puked the way some detectives did. Like the medical examiners, he could ignore the smells and concentrate on what the body told them. Working homicides, it was a handy knack to have.

This body wouldn't have much to say. A bullet in the brain was pretty obvious. The where, when, and how weren't in question, just the who and why.

The young women who had discovered the body hadn't been any help. None of them could remember seeing anyone else, period, either walking or driving. The shooting had to have happened just minutes before, but no one, not even anyone living close by, had heard a thing. The victim's personal effects, such as they were, hadn't yielded anything except a wedding ring, carefully sewn inside the cuff of his pants. Maybe he had stolen it, but it had fit his ring finger, and he had kept it carefully hidden, which told Marc he had valued the ring beyond what money it would bring in a pawn shop. The guy had once been married, maybe still was.

"You're getting on my nerves, Chastain," the doctor said testily, clicking off the microphone so he could speak off the record. He was a busy man, impatient and harried, and he seldom spoke personally to the detectives who attended the autopsies.

Marc lifted one eyebrow in silent question.

"That's what you're doing." A stained scalpel was jabbed in his direction. "You just stand there, quiet as a rock and about as active. You don't interrupt me to ask questions, you don't turn green and gag, you just watch. Damn it, you hardly even blink. What do you do, go into a trance?"

"If I have any questions, I ask them when you're finished," Marc said mildly. The scalpel jabbed once more. "You're still doing it. You didn't even change expressions. Do me a favor; do something human before I start thinking you're a robot." Behind him, his assistant smothered a laugh.

"If you're in doubt, when you're finished, I'll let you watch me piss." The offer was made totally deadpan, and this time the assistant didn't manage to control the laugh.

"Thanks, but I'll pass on that wonderful opportunity."

"I don't make the offer to just anyone. You're the only man who's ever heard it, so you might want to reconsider. Just don't get any wrong ideas about my sexual orientation." Behind her mask, the assistant's eyes were sparkling. The doctor shot her a sour look. "Don't even think about volunteering for the job."

"Too late," she admitted cheerfully.

Marc winked at her.

"Forget I said anything," the doctor muttered, and switched the microphone on again, putting an end to the discussion. Pity. Marc had enjoyed needling him, and evidently the assistant had enjoyed the exchange, too. It was the first time Marc had seen the brusque doctor interrupt any autopsy to make a personal remark.

Just for the pure hell of it, he stuck his hands in his pockets and began jingling the change. After two minutes, the microphone was clicked off again. "Forget I said anything," the doctor snapped again. "And stop jingling your change, damn it! You sound like Santa Claus." Marc shrugged and took his hands out of his pockets, but his eyes were glittering with amusement. Sometime later, the body of the victim had told them that except for being dead, he was in remarkably good shape. No sign of disease in any of the major organs, no blockage in his veins, good muscle definition, no needle marks on his arms or between his toes to indicate intravenous drug use. The toxicology report wasn't back, and it might indicate some other type of drug use, but overall the victim looked too healthy to have been a user.

Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head, fired at medium range, no exit wound. The penetrating missile was a .22-caliber bullet, which had also sent several bone fragments through the soft brain tissue. The kinetic energy of the tumbling projectiles had destroyed massive amounts of tissue, like a tidal wave rolling through the brain and smashing everything it touched. X rays and photographs of the victim's teeth had been sent to the Marine Corps for identification. Depending on how efficient they were, the victim's identity should be forthcoming within a few days. Marc would begin trying to locate any family, and maybe, just maybe, within a week or two the poor guy could have a burial.

He was surprised when the identification came back the next day. Someone in the vast tangle of military and civilian bureaucracy was on the ball; either that, or by pure chance the victim's teeth had been in the first batch checked for a cross-match. There was a name now: Dexter Alvin Whitlaw, from Keysburg, West Virginia. Next of kin was a wife, Shirley Jeanette Allen Whitlaw, and a daughter, Karen Simone Whitlaw. Marc had their social security numbers and their last known address. He could find them. The message light was blinking when Karen got home from work. She was tempted not to listen to the messages, just to take a quick shower and fall into bed. Since she'd sold the house and moved into an apartment four months ago, the nights had seemed even more lonely; after working all day, she hadn't had either the energy or the interest to do much unpacking, and a lot of her things were still in boxes, which made her feel as if she were living in a sparsely furnished motel room—or a warehouse. The rooms seemed to echo, intensifying her sense of being alone, of missing Jeanette. She hadn't been sleeping or eating well, either, and was losing weight. In an effort to jar herself out of her depression, she had switched shifts with one of the other nurses and was now working nights. The strategy had worked, to some degree. She was so tired when she dragged home early in the mornings that she literally fell into bed and slept like a log. After the first disastrous day, when she had been awakened eleven times by telemarketers and wrong numbers, she learned to turn off the phone. Lately, she had been trying to stay up for several hours after getting home, to mimic the routine of daytime jobs, but not today. This was the morning after the night from hell. She wanted nothing more than to get off her aching feet and just sleep.

She worked on the surgical floor, where noncritical patients were placed after surgery. They were all in pain, but everyone had a different tolerance for pain. Some were so stoic only their blood pressure would indicate whether or not they were hurting; others screamed bloody murder at the least discomfort. Tonight had been a night for the screamers. They hurt , damn it, and wanted something now : another pill, turn up the morphine drip, anything. Of course, the nurses couldn't exceed the doctors' prescribed dosages without authorization; all they could do was take the heat. Tracking down a doctor in the middle of the night to authorize more pain medication was usually an exercise in futility; the nurses practically needed a team of bloodhounds to track down the doctor on duty, who had a genius for being somewhere else and not hearing his page.

Then a patient, a thirty-two-year-old mother of two, had gone sour on them. She was in for a ruptured appendix and had been very sick for several days but was recovering. Tonight, just after supper, she had been walking to the bathroom and suddenly slumped to the floor. A blood clot had lodged in her pulmonary artery, and she was gone, despite all their efforts. It happened sometimes, but the shock never really lessened. The only thing that had changed was that Karen had learned how to work through the shock, to keep going, to push it away. All nurses and doctors had to learn that, or they couldn't function. But the kicker was when some idiot let a nineteen-year-old boy, wacked out on drugs, escape from the psych unit, where he had been taken because of the security. Some security. And where had the kid headed? Straight to the surgical floor, where all the good dope could be found. He had shed his hospital gown somewhere along the way. Stark naked, his pupils so contracted he looked like an alien, hair standing out in wild tangles, he had wrecked the desk looking for drugs. Finally, he had found the locked cabinet, but Judy Camliffe, the floor charge nurse, had the key in her pocket. Security got there as he was trying to tear the metal doors apart. Unfortunately, subduing a naked man is tricky; there are no clothes to grab, and bare skin is slippery. The kid fought free so many times Karen lost count. They wrestled in the halls, upsetting carts, dumping files and charts everywhere, waking patients who then either became alarmed or decided they needed more pain medication. By the time the kid was finally subdued, the surgical floor was a wreck. By the time the nurses finished with their shift, so were they.

The message was probably from a salesman or a charity; she hadn't had time yet to make friends with any of her new neighbors, and all of her other friends were nurses who knew what shift she worked and wouldn't call to chat. She couldn't think of any remotely urgent reason she should listen to her messages, but still she dropped her bag and went over to the machine. She wouldn't be able to sleep knowing that red light was blinking.

Out of habit, she picked up the notepad and pen she always kept by the phone, just in case there might actually be a call she needed to return. She punched the play button and listened to the tape rewinding. After some whirring and a couple of clicks, a drawling baritone voice broke the quiet of the room. For some reason, her breath gave a little hitch. The voice was somehow beguiling, with warm, dark, pure masculine tones that quivered along her nerve endings, almost as if she had been touched. Even disguised by the drawl, there was a hard edge of authority evident as well. He said, "Miss Whitlaw, this is Detective Marc Chastain with the New Orleans Police Department. I need to talk to you concerning your father. You can reach me at—"

He recited the number, but Karen was so taken aback she didn't write down a single digit. Hastily, she punched the stop button, then replay. When the whirring and clicking stopped, she listened again to the brief message and once again was so distracted by his voice that she almost missed the number a second time. She scribbled it down, then stared at the pad in a fog of fatigue and bemusement. Dexter was evidently in trouble and thought she would bail him out. No, he thought Jeanette would bail him out; he couldn't know his wife had been dead for six months. Had the detective said " Miss Whitlaw" or " Mrs . Whitlaw"? His drawl had slurred the word.

She couldn't resist. She replayed the message one more time, as much to hear that voice as to determine if he had thought he was calling her or her mother. Listening closely, she thought he said "Miss," which was politically incorrect of him, but she still wasn't certain.