The Reluctant Coroner by Paul Austin Ardoin (distant reading txt) 📖

Rachel sighed. “Fenway, I know they’re hiring you to investigate his murder, but I have no idea, okay?”

“You didn’t keep his calendar?”

“It’s not like he’d have created an Outlook calendar event for drug deal at the state park.”

“Right. Sorry.” Hmm. Was Rachel just joking, or did she suspect it was a drug deal?

“There’s the Tacos Ami-Gross,” Rachel said. “Get in the turn lane.”

The Scarlet Oaks Townhomes were narrow, two-story apartments with paint and siding mimicking separated buildings. There was an empty parking space right in front of number 19, and Fenway drove the BMW in.

They got out, and Fenway locked the car, reaching out to hand the keys over. “Here you go, Rachel. Hopefully I’ll see you soon if this all works out.”

“Sorry I snapped at you about the calendar thing. I know you’re just doing your job.”

“You just lost your boss. You were probably closer to him than anyone. I should’ve been more understanding.”

“Come on, you heard us at happy hour. No one’s that broken up about it.” Rachel cleared her throat and took the keys. “Thanks for the ride. How are you getting home?”

“An Uber, I guess.”

“Want to wait inside? Dylan’s out for the evening.”

“Your roommate?”

Rachel laughed. “My husband, boss lady. Didn’t I tell you I was married?” She waved her hand at Fenway as she staggered to the front door of apartment 19. “I know, I know. I’m too young to be married. Sheesh.”

Rachel got the key in the lock on her second try and opened the door. Inside the townhouse, stairs led up to the left of the door. A small tiled entry opened into a good-sized living room.

“You play?” Fenway said, motioning to the video game console on the floor in front of the television.

“Sometimes. Not often. Dylan plays with his brother.”

Fenway looked at the pictures on the walls: a Georgia O’Keeffe print above the sofa, three small framed pictures of Rachel and her groom in front of—what? A Las Vegas chapel?

“Thanks for inviting me to happy hour, by the way. It was fun.” Fenway smiled at Rachel, who, for several seconds, wouldn’t lift her eyes from the floor. “I—I didn’t mean it was fun. I know Walker was just killed. Sorry. That came out wrong.”

Rachel burst into tears.

“Oh, hey. Hey, hey.” Fenway walked awkwardly to Rachel, who leaned into her, sobbing.

Fenway had no idea what to do. Finally, she put her arms around Rachel’s shoulders and waited for her to regain control. It took a minute or two of the awkward embrace before Rachel’s sobs started alternating with deep breaths and sniffles.

“Ugh. Sorry. I’m so sorry.” Rachel righted herself and wiped her eyes with her hand.

“That’s okay.” Fenway pulled a tissue out of her purse.

“No. No, it’s not. It was unprofessional. I just met you and you’re going to be my boss.”

“It really is all right.” Fenway didn’t know what else to say.

Rachel sat down on the sofa. “Okay, I guess now I pretty much have to tell you what happened. Why I’m so upset. And if you do become coroner and start investigating Mr. Walker’s death, you’re going to find out anyway.”

Fenway’s eyes widened. She’d hoped to get a name from Rachel of an appointment that didn’t belong in the calendar or a closed-door meeting with someone Rachel didn’t expect in the office. This might be bigger.

Rachel took a deep breath. “He kept harassing me at work.” She paused. Bit her lip. “Sexually harassing me at work.” She looked down at the floor. “First it was some flirtatious talk, and I didn’t really think anything of it because he’s married, and he’s so much older than I am, and I thought he’d get the hint I wasn’t interested, and I thought he was being a creep.” She paused. “But it kept getting worse.”

She took a deep breath and looked up, focusing halfway across the room.

“He kept at it, and he started asking me out. And I kept saying, ‘Mr. Walker’—and he kept saying, ‘call me Harrison,’ and I never did because I never wanted him to think I had any interest—and I kept saying, ‘Mr. Walker, you’re a married man. I’m a married woman. And besides, I don’t date co-workers.’ But then asking for dates turned into asking me away for the weekend.”

“Wait. Away for the weekend when you said no to a date?”

“I know. I know. And he left me a silver necklace with an opal pendant on it, sitting on my desk. That’s my birthstone. And I walked into his office and said, ‘Mr. Walker, I really cannot accept this,’ and he said, ‘Rachel, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ and refused to take it back. I looked under it to see if there was a card from the jeweler, so I could return it and he could get a refund. But underneath the box was a hotel keycard with a room number and a time on it.”

Fenway made a face. “Ick.”

“Yeah, ick. Yeah, ICK. And I went to HR, and Lana—Lana Cassidy, she’s on the third floor—she told me she couldn’t do anything without proof, and I’m like, ‘He gave me a hotel keycard, it’s right here.’ And she’s like, ‘I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.’”

She looked at her hands. “So I set up a webcam on my computer. Clipped it to the top of my monitor. Started recording stuff all the time, whenever he was around. Because I didn’t think he was going to stop.” She looked at Fenway defiantly. “And he didn’t stop.”

Fenway nodded. Of course he didn’t stop. They never stop.

“So about three weeks ago, we had a murder-suicide out by Cactus Lake,” Rachel continued. “A crappy motel out there. Drugs, parties, prostitutes. Anyway, the murder scene was messy. Walker had to go back and forth with the lab before he could finish the paperwork. By the time it was done, it was the end of the month.” Her lip curled. “But he insisted the paperwork be filed by midnight on the thirtieth. I argued with him. We’ve never had an issue like that before. End of December, maybe. Never April. But Walker insisted I work late to finish.

“I cancelled plans with Dylan, and Walker left the office around five thirty. By six fifteen I was alone in the place. Then around seven, just when I was entering the last page of the report, I heard a car in the parking lot.

“A minute later, I hear the outside door, and I know, I just know it’s him. So I turn on the webcam. He comes in, and he has this nasty, determined look on his face.

“I say to him, ‘Mr. Walker, if you’re here to help me with the filing, I’m just about finished, unless you want to take this up to the third floor.’

“He says, ‘Don’t play with me, Rachel. We both know what I’m here to help you with.’” Rachel raised her head and glared across the room without focusing on anything. “Then he comes over and he’s on me.”

Rachel turned her head away from Fenway. “He pulls my blouse open, he bites my neck.” She shuddered. “I scream for him to get off me, but he puts his hand between my legs. He tells me I’ll like it. He commands me to relax. He says no one has excited him this much in years, like it’s some sort of compliment. I yell ‘no’ in his ear, and that surprises him, but he knocks my chair over with me still in it, and then he pins my arms to the ground.

“So I kick him. I get his knee, or his shin, or whatever, and it makes him let go of my right arm. Then I clock him in the face as hard as I can, and he’s off me enough where I can get up.”

“I get across the desk from him, and I grab my purse, and I tell him to stay the hell away from me. He’s bleeding from his cheek where I hit him, and he pulls himself up and says, ‘Don’t bother to come in Monday, you whore.’ Then he spits at me, like full-on spits, and tells me to get out. And I got out. I got out of there fast.”

Rachel’s voice was calm, but it broke a little as she finished her story.

Fenway was quiet.

But inside her head, it was loud.

She remembered being held down too, not being able to get away. She remembered the same ick-ICK feeling.

Freshman year. Her Russian Lit professor.

Fenway blinked and saw his office carpet close up. Face down on his floor, she felt him licking her face as he pushed her dress up.

Fenway blinked hard.

“I got out of there,” Rachel said softly, “and I came back here. And I couldn’t sleep. I came downstairs—so I wouldn’t wake Dylan up. And I watched TV until the sun came up. I made myself a pot of coffee, and then I went to Wal-Mart and bought myself a USB drive. And I drove back to the office, and I copied the recording from the webcam. Then I got out of there again. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I wanted to tell someone, but I didn’t know who to tell. I didn’t want to tell Dylan. I didn’t want to tell my dad. I didn’t want to tell anyone.”

Rachel paused. “I didn’t even want to tell Lana. But I knew I had to. I didn’t think she would be on my side; I thought she’d want me to go away. But I wasn’t going to let him do this to anyone else. Plus, I had it all recorded. The camera was centered on my chair, so you can see