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

in next to Rachel’s BMW. Dylan and Rachel were already there, waiting for them.

The station only had one interview room, so all four of them went there. They had just sat down, Fenway across from Rachel, and McVie across from Dylan, when McVie “remembered” they should fill out the stolen car form first, so the two men left the room.

Fenway was left alone in the room with Rachel. “I wish I hadn’t had to say something about the attack, Rachel.”

Rachel put her head in her hands. “I’m such an idiot. I just met you. And I knew you’d be working on the investigation. I gave you a reason to suspect me.”

“You gave me a motive for a lot of people, not just yourself.”

Rachel was quiet.

“But look, when you told me what had happened, I got so pissed off at Walker, I was ready to hurt him for what he did to you. And I just met you, so I can imagine how angry Dylan is with Walker. How angry anyone who cares about you would be.”

“Dylan doesn’t know.”

Fenway tilted her head. “Are you sure? You put one of those flash drives right where he could find it.”

“I told you, he’d barely notice a USB stick in the junk drawer,” Rachel insisted. “He wouldn’t have given it a second thought.”

“How do you know, Rachel? He had more than enough time to look through the video, get fuming mad, and kill Walker on Sunday night.”

“No, that didn’t happen. I’m sure that didn’t happen.”

“Jealous husbands do crazy, stupid things.” Fenway rested her chin in her hand, her elbow on the table. “It’s not much of a stretch.”

Rachel looked down and didn’t say anything.

“Dylan ever been jealous?”

Rachel shrugged.

“So that’s a ‘yes.’”

Rachel sighed, obviously conflicted. “There was a guy who hit on me at a bar a couple of months ago. Dylan was playing darts with his friends, and I was bored so I started flirting with a guy at the bar. He bought me a drink. Dylan didn’t like it and threatened to punch the guy. The guy left right away. Dylan was saying he was going to follow him outside, and I told him to stay at the bar a little longer. Dance with me a little.”

“Did he follow the guy out?”

“No, he stayed with me and his friends.”

Fenway drummed her fingers on the table. “Has Dylan ever been in trouble with the cops before?”

“Not really.”

Fenway’s eyebrows raised. “What does that mean?”

“It means not for a while. Not since he was a kid. He shoplifted some stuff when he was fifteen—had to spend a night in juvie before his mom got him out. Community service.”

“Is that it?”

“That’s all I know.”

“You’re sure there’s nothing in his adult record?”

“I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “Nothing I know about, anyway.”

“Okay.” Fenway stood up. “And you made three copies of the video onto USB sticks?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve got one in your glove compartment?”

“Yes.”

“And one in the junk drawer in the kitchen?”

“But like I said, I don’t think Dylan would even know what it was if he found it,” Rachel answered. “And if he had, he would have confronted me about it, or at least he would have acted differently about it. He would have asked me what was going on at work.”

“All right. Where’s the third one, again?”

“It’s in my purse,” Rachel said. “I was going to give it to Lana on Monday, but now that Mr. Walker is dead, I don’t know what to do with it.”

“I think we need to take it for evidence.”

Rachel rubbed her eyes. “I want this to go away. I don’t want anyone to see that. I never wanted him to touch me. I just wanted it over.”

“I know.” Fenway sat back down. “Believe me, I know.”

Part of Fenway wanted to tell Rachel about what she went through with her Russian Lit professor. She closed her eyes and willed herself not to say anything, but as soon as she closed her eyes, she could see the professor’s face, feel his tongue on the side of her face, feel his hands up her blouse. Putting a bullet in his back would have felt good.

“What did you say?” Rachel asked.

Fenway realized she spoke the last sentence out loud, and she decided to steer into the skid. “I said, ‘putting a bullet in his back would have felt good.’”

Rachel looked horrified.

“Well, I would have liked to. Walker got what was coming to him.”

“He was my boss. You’re in his office.”

Fenway nodded. “Yeah. I guess I’ve already opened my big mouth up too much for one morning.” She paused. “Okay, there are at least two questions the sheriff will ask me about, and if I don’t have answers for him, he’s not going to like it, and I’ll have to take the bus home.”

Rachel still looked put off by Fenway’s comments, but she nodded.

“When I was at your apartment, I told you I’d have to ask you this at some point—and it looks like now is the time I have to ask.”

“You want to know where I was the night Mr. Walker was shot and killed.”

“Yes. I remember you told me you forced yourself to go out, right?”

“Yeah. I cancelled my plans on Saturday, but on Sunday I went to the movies with my friend Jordan. We saw a seven o’clock showing of The Trap Door, and I didn’t want to go home after, so I convinced her to come to Krazy Burger with me, and we got chocolate shakes and onion rings. I got home about ten o’clock and watched a couple of episodes of Hold Your Horses until I got the call at midnight that Mr. Walker had been killed.”

“Will Jordan corroborate that?”

“Sure she will.” Rachel nodded. “Jordan dropped me off and came in to take back a sweater I had borrowed a few days ago. And I probably have the movie stub and the Krazy Burger receipt. Dylan makes fun of me for not throwing any of that stuff away.”

“Okay. I don’t know if the sheriff is going to want any of that, but we’ll need to check it out.”

“I understand.”

“Where was Dylan?” Fenway asked.

“He was out with his brother, I think. I was asleep when he got home.”

“And then I also need to know where you were earlier this morning, between one o’clock and three thirty.”

“I was in bed with Dylan until you came to wake us up.”

“Can anyone else vouch that you were there?”

Rachel shook her head. “No.”

“Do you know if there are security cameras set up at your apartment complex?”

“Um, no, I don’t know if there are cameras. What happened this morning? You said there were some files missing? And Dylan’s truck is gone?”

“The sheriff is already pissed off at me for saying as much as I said at your apartment.” Fenway stifled a yawn. “You’ll have to wait to get the full story.”

“All right. How long are we going to be here? Am I going to make it into work?”

Fenway smiled weakly. “I think your supervisor is aware there are special circumstances regarding your attendance at work today.” She looked at Rachel, but there was no reaction to Fenway’s weak attempt at levity. “But, to answer your question, no, I don’t think we’re going to get out of here in the next couple of hours. Do you want some coffee?”

“I guess so.”

Fenway got up again and left the interview room, closing the door behind her.

She took a deep breath. She had done several in-depth case studies over the course of her graduate program. She remembered in one of the studies, back in January, the victim had committed a crime. The point of the case study was to demonstrate how personal biases can affect how investigators approach cases. Fenway was trying not to let that happen now, but as McVie had said earlier, it’s one thing to know the right way to act intellectually, and quite another to act in the right way in the real world. Rachel had opened up to Fenway, had told her something she hadn’t told anyone else, and Fenway felt like she betrayed Rachel’s trust in order to further the investigation.

But as bad as she felt about Rachel, she felt almost high from the excitement of the investigation; it was like a puzzle—and it was why she had wanted to do forensics in the first place—piecing together the mystery of what exactly happened.

Actually, that wasn’t quite true. She started the forensics program because she kept seeing women in the ER whose husbands or boyfriends had beaten them. She felt like forensics could establish a measure of justice for those women. Somehow. And the more she learned about forensics—the classes on evidence gathering, witness interviews, and chain of custody—the more she found it fascinating. She loved it—the mysteries, even the case studies in her classes, were intoxicating.

She walked over to the coffee maker. It was an industrial machine, with water lines coming into the back, brewing directly into tall, thermos-style carafes that held a half gallon each.