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

Fenway hadn’t seen Dez scowl before. “I was just on the phone with Barry Klein. He didn’t trust me, so I offered—”

“Wow, you really haven’t investigated any crimes before.” Dez shook her head. “Did you pay attention to anything we’ve said? Everyone’s a suspect. McVie, me, Mark, Rachel—everyone. And that includes Barry Klein.”

“Really? But he—”

“I know you haven’t interviewed him to hear where he was on Sunday night. And you have no idea if he had some sort of business or personal issue with Walker.” Dez folded her arms. “Why in the world would you invite a suspect to oversee your evidence collection?”

“Well—he doesn’t trust me. I thought I was being proactive.”

Dez scoffed. “Look, I like you, Fenway, but you better not give a shit if Barry Klein does. That’s irrelevant to you finding Walker’s killer.” She sighed. “I don’t think McVie expected you to be done so soon. He hasn’t had time to brief you on process—and it’s not like you went to the academy. Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

Dez turned and walked away.

Fenway waited a moment, then logged into the Seattle University website and read over a few of the pages on fingerprint collection. She had a decent handle on the basics. Hopefully, the basics would serve her well enough.

Dez walked in with three boxes of blue nitrile gloves, evidence bags, ID tents, and some other equipment, as well as a manila folder.

“Is that for me?”

“Yep. But first, more paperwork.” Dez pulled a sheet of paper from the folder and put it in front of Fenway. homicide investigation checklist.

Fenway chewed on her bottom lip.

“I like that you want to get started, but we’ve got a right way to do this. The wrong way might get the case thrown out or get us sued.” Dez glared at Fenway. “I’m too close to retirement to get sued, all right?”

“All right,” Fenway muttered. She looked down at the paper and the plain numbered list.

“This is all about how to process a crime scene,” Fenway said.

“You don’t think you need to learn how to do that?”

Fenway shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Not for this investigation. The scene has already been processed.”

“Fine,” Dez said, pulling out another sheet. “Page two.”

Fenway took the page from her and started reading. “Did we notify the next of kin? Oh! The wife’s always a suspect! Rachel said he was married—”

“Mark got ahold of her Monday morning,” Dez said. “She was in Denver visiting her sister. They didn’t have children.”

Fenway nodded and kept reading. Establish movements of deceased prior to death. This was all the boring stuff the cop shows glossed over.

“I think a lot of this has already been done.”

“I hope so,” said Dez. “The Park Police sent everything to the lab.”

“His wallet and ID too?”

“I didn’t see an inventory list, but if he had those on him, then yes.”

Fenway nodded. “Do you know what he was doing on the side of that dark road that late at night?”

Dez shook her head. “Harrison Walker and I weren’t exactly tight.” She took a few more pages out of the folder. “The checklist is pretty long.”

“Okay.”

“It’s detailed, but you don’t know how to conduct a murder investigation yet. This’ll be a crash course for you.” Dez placed the papers above the one Fenway was reading. “And as long as this document is, do you know what’s not on here?”

Fenway nodded. “Letting Barry Klein oversee your evidence collection.”

Dez smirked. “You did say you were a fast learner.” She slid the boxes of gloves toward Fenway. “Read up on grid search. If you’re going to be gathering evidence from Walker’s office, that’s what you’ll have to do.”

Fenway exhaled. “I learned grid search in my evidence class.”

“Tell your instructor to have a unit on not being stupid around suspects. Now glove up and come on.”

Fenway grabbed two blue nitrile gloves, put them on, and stood up.

“I’ve got someone with me,” Dez said. Fenway followed her out of the conference room, taking the evidence baggies and envelopes—then hurried back for her phone, too. At the counter was a tall young white male deputy, wearing the sheriff department’s black uniform, his skin pink from what looked like a mild sunburn, and a military-style short haircut. Fenway nodded to him and felt the heat in her cheeks. She wondered how much of the conversation with Dez the deputy had heard.

He took three giant steps toward Walker’s office, took the key out, and unlocked the door before turning to Fenway. “Okay, ma’am, there you go.”

“Thanks.” Fenway ducked under the police tape. Twenty-eight years old and I got ‘ma’amed.’

He stood there.

“You waiting for a tip?” Dez said.

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, go on then.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he responded in an even