MINKA
Life is hard, and then you die.
That’s how it goes, isn’t it? It’s how most stories go, in my personal experience. And as Copeland City’s chief medical examiner, I have a front-row seat to a lot of ‘the world sucks, and now my gray matter decorates the walls’type of endings.
As I do so often in my line of work, I walk onto a crime scene in the middle of a freezing January night, stifling the yawn working its way through my system, and under my too-thin coat, I shiver because the cold gets into my bones, and my hands shake as they tease toward an unhealthy blueish color.
Tonight, my crime scene is inside a fancy home in an upscale neighborhood where the rich can easily afford central heating. But the house on Coral Lane is wide open. Doors and windows sit ajar, drapes flutter in the breeze, and the cold is enough to make my nose and ears ache.
Aubree, my colleague and closest friend in this city, hands me a cup of to-go coffee the moment our eyes meet on-scene, and though I wrap my hands around the warmth, I’m not sure there’s anything she can do to fix the chill that always slides along my spine these days.
Nothing can fix that.
I keep my eyes on my associate, not on the CSIs moving through the house. And I sure as hell don’t glance up and search for the homicide detectives leading the case.
I don’t know who is working tonight, but the longer I can remain oblivious, the happier I’ll be.
On an exhale, I ask, “What have we got?”
“Paul McGregor.” Aubree falls into step beside me so our shoulders touch and her pink-streaked hair brushes my coat. “Forty-seven years old. Approximately two hundred ten, maybe two hundred twenty pounds. Five-nine. Unmarried. No children. He’s a youth counselor down at the center on fourth.”
“Volunteer or paid?”
“Paid. Big house. Big car. Big income. Kinda feels redundant, but his neighbors say he’s a decent guy who loved well and gave the shirt off his back to anyone who needed it.”
“You’ve talked to the neighbors?”
“No.” Wrapping her hands around her own coffee, she scoffs under her breath. “That’s not my job. But I overheard things on my way in the door. Everyone is sad, everyone is heartbroken, everyone feels violated that this happened on their quiet street.”
“Alright. Where is he?”
“Upstairs, door on the end. Master bedroom.”
“Have you been up yet?”
She makes a sound in the back of her throat as we start up the stairs. “I was saving it for you. Wanted to hit the scene fresh.”
“Good. Blind is best sometimes. So, we know Paul’s a good guy who helps others, and now he’s dead.”
“Brutally,” she inserts as we reach the landing.
She carries a bag in her left hand, and her coffee in her right. And though we both know I have a slight limp to my walk, neither of us mention it as I turn away from the stairs and start toward the main bedroom.
“Word is it’s a mess,” she adds.
“Anyone else live here?” I murmur. “Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”
“Not that I heard.”
“Anyone else regularly stay here?”
Aubree snickers low on her breath. “You sound like a cop, Minka. Trying to solve the case instead of taking care of the body.”
She has no clue who I am underneath the shine. She doesn’t know that I like to solve the crime in my mind, ask the questions, work the steps, because sometimes—often—the cops get it wrong, or the court dismisses evidence that could make or break a case.
If I, as chief M.E., can lock a cell tighter because of my own unbiased findings while attending a crime scene, then that’s what I’m going to do. And if a judge lets a killer off scot-free when I know damn sure they should be behind bars for life, then I need to make certain I have all the facts, just like any investigating officer would.
If I consider myself judge and jury, then before I become executioner, I have to know everything there is to know about a case.