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

Toxic fumes kill 2 oil refinery workers

ESTANCIA—Two Ferris Energy refinery workers were killed Tuesday when toxic fumes were released into an underground holding area. The incident occurred about 6:45 p.m. at the end of the employees’ shifts. The two refinery employees were in a holding area when the fumes were released. Neither employee had on a protective suit, and both were found unresponsive by other employees at 7:05 p.m. They were transported to Estancia Regional Medical Center, where they were pronounced dead.

According to witnesses, alarms sounded, and automatic containment procedures were activated. EMS workers were delayed in responding to the victims because the area had to be cleared of the toxic fumes.

The fumes are no longer considered a risk for workers in the Estancia refinery. Air quality outside of the refinery during and after the incident did not register any toxicity. The names of the deceased are being withheld until their families can be notified.

Fenway finished reading the article just as the sound of the door opening made her look up. A sandy-haired blond man, who looked to be in his early-to-mid-twenties, walked through the door. He wore board shorts, a stonewashed blue T-shirt, and a shell necklace. He had a worried look on his tanned face.

“Can I help you?”

“Y-y-yeah,” he stammered. “I’d like to talk to the coroner.”

“That’s me.” Fenway offered a friendly smile.

“Okay, um, so I tried to talk to the sheriff, but he wasn’t available.” His words were all falling out quickly. “I mean, I know I didn’t tell the truth the first time, but I didn’t realize what was going on. I need to talk to someone.”

“Hang on, slow down. First—what’s your name?”

“Sorry, sorry.” He took a deep breath. “I’m Parker Richards.”

“Okay, Parker. You’re Dylan’s brother, right?”

He nodded.

“What did you want to talk to the sheriff about?”

“Listen, he called me earlier this morning. It was really early.”

“Right.” She nodded. “It must have been about five o’clock.”

“Yeah, and Dylan’s wife called me, like, really early, too, before the sheriff did. And she was all, ‘Tell me where Dylan was on Sunday night,’ and I told her Dylan and I were playing pool at the new place downtown. And then the sheriff called me up, maybe five minutes later, and he was all, ‘Tell me where you were on Sunday night,’ and I was like, ‘I was with Dylan playing pool at the new place downtown,’ and it freaked me out a little, because it was really early, and I was still half-asleep, and I thought maybe the two of them were, like, next to each other, so I had to keep my story straight.” He stopped and shook his head. “I don’t know, man, I don’t know what Dylan was thinking. And the next thing I know Dylan is arrested, and I hear it’s for killing someone.”

“He was arrested for killing the coroner.”

A look of confusion on his face. “I thought you were the coroner.”

“I just got appointed to replace him.”

“Did you move here from Boston?”

“What?”

Parker pointed to Fenway’s hat. She had almost forgotten it was on.

“No, but did you have something you needed to tell me, sir?”

Parker’s face became grim. “Listen, I don’t know what went bad, but he wasn’t at the pool hall with me Sunday night. I mean, neither of us were at the pool hall. He told me to tell Rachel that, if she called me. Because he was seeing another girl on Sunday night, but it was all hush-hush. He didn’t want anyone to know about this other girl, or anything—usually he tells me everything about the girls he sees. But he didn’t tell me hardly nothing about this girl. I was thinking maybe he’s really into her, but he thought I’d make fun of him—like maybe there’s something wrong with her, like maybe she’s a midget or whatnot,” he rambled.

“Sure.” Fenway coughed and shook her head. “So, he told you he was seeing another girl, and told you to tell Rachel you were playing pool together?”

“Right.”

“You told Rachel you two were playing pool, and then the sheriff called you right afterward, so you also told the sheriff you were playing pool.”

“Right.” He looked seriously into Fenway’s eyes and put his palms face down on the desk. “But only to keep my stories straight. I would never lie to the police.”

“Only if you had to keep your story straight.”

“Right.”

“Okay, Parker. Any idea who the mystery girl is?”

“Not really. But he gets himself kinda dressed up for her. I don’t know, I’m kinda starting to think she’s sophisticated. He seems pretty into her. Like, he gets all weird about it if I ask too many questions about her.”

“But you don’t know who she is?”

“No.”

Fenway sighed. “I don’t know how helpful that’s going to be, Parker. He’s in a lot of trouble, and unless we can find this woman, and she vouches for his whereabouts, I’m not sure that’s going to change.”

A look of depression crossed Parker’s face. Then Fenway saw him get visibly struck by inspiration. “Oh! I got it! Didn’t they catch the Boston Strangler, or something, because of parking tickets?”

“Yeah. Son of Sam.”

The look on Parker’s face told Fenway he had never heard of Son of Sam. “Uh, right—anyway,” he continued, “Dylan goes to spend the night with this side chick a few weeks ago, and he comes back in the morning all crazy mad because he got a parking ticket.”

Fenway crossed her arms.

“I mean, you can check that, right?” Parker was almost pleading. “Like, you can check his license plate, and find the parking tickets he’s gotten, and the addresses near there? And then maybe find her, and ask if she can say he was with her?”

Fenway blinked at him. “Yes, I think we can do that.” She looked over at Dez, who was looking at her computer monitor, but clearly paying much more attention to their conversation. She saw Dez nod slightly.

Parker smiled, a relieved smile. “That’s awesome. That’s really awesome. Can you call me to let me know if you find her?”

“Um, probably not. But, if she vouches for his whereabouts, and it holds up, we’ll probably release him, so you’ll know soon enough.”

“Sure!” He seemed somewhat excited by this prospect.

An awkward goodbye later, he was out the door.

Dez turned to Fenway. “Well, that was something.”

“It certainly was,” she nodded. “Can I do what I just said I could do? Check the parking tickets on his truck?”

“Sure. I don’t know if they’ve set you up in the system yet, but I can get to it.” She logged in, and Fenway gave her the license plate number—it had etched itself into her brain from seeing it on tape earlier and repeating it to the sheriff.

“All right. Here it is.” Dez pointed to the screen. “April the eighth. He got a street sweeper parking ticket, six-oh-five a.m. Catalina Street and Harbor Park Court.” A thoughtful look crossed her face.

“What is it?”

“Sheriff McVie lives on Harbor Park Court.”

“Oh.”

“And McVie has a teenage daughter.”

“Right.”

“McVie was at a training in L.A. in early April. I think he was gone on the seventh and eighth. And he had picked up a patrol shift for Callahan on Sunday before the call came in about Walker’s body.”

“So, the sheriff was away from the house both the day Dylan got a street sweeper ticket, and the night of Walker’s murder.”

“And Dylan was really secretive about who he was seeing.”

“Ugh.” Fenway suddenly got a bad taste in her mouth. “McVie’s teenage daughter? Is every man in Estancia this disgusting?”

Dez raised an eyebrow. “Not just in Estancia.”

“We’re going to have to talk with her.”

“No wonder Dylan lied to McVie about where he was Sunday night.” Dez pushed herself back from her desk. “If I was screwing an underage girl,