“Soshedidn’t think it was suicide?”
When Aubree comes back in with two glasses of sparkling water, I stop and wait for her to place one in my hand. She’s not gentle, but I knew she wouldn’t be, so I keep my arm steady and my drink from sloshing to the side.
I watch and wait as she hands the second to Chant. Gently.
She’s afraid.
“Doctor Chant?” I prompt. “Holly’s sister didn’t think it was suicide?”
“Lacey Trainor was a loudmouth hippie who didn’t believe in mental health or the medications one would take to manage it.” Bringing her glass up, she sips, scowls, and sets the unsatisfactory drink on the small table to her right. “I believe in psychiatrists, Chief Mayet. I trust their findings. I trust in science, and I celebrate advancements in medicine, when those who would otherwise suffer get access to medication that will help treat their condition.”
“As do I.” I bring my drink up and sniff, lest Aubree laced it with poison… or peanuts. “When those diagnoses are correct and the medication is warranted.”
“Are you questioning the validity of Doctor Brown’s professional opinion?” Snide, Chant looks down her nose at me. “Are you implying you know more than the woman’s specialist?”
“Of course not. I’m not qualified in that field of medicine, nor did I ever meet the woman while alive. But her sister seems to think—”
“Her sister was a crackpot who was banned from our facility after her one and only visit.”
“Alright.” Daring to be brave, I bring my water up and take a small sip.
No poison. No bleeding from the eyes.
Curious, I look across to find a smug Aubree watching me with pressed lips. “Uh…” Glancing back to Chant, I ask, “What of her husband?”
“Henry?”
She hardly remembers the case, but she remembers the grieving widow’s name?
“He was quiet. He didn’t talk much at all, to be honest. Book-ended by the best friend on one side and the sister on the other. And while they fought like cats in heat, he merely observed.” Softening her voice, she adds, “He visited with Holly. He cried a little.”
Catching herself, Chant shakes off every morsel of emotion attempting to invade her senses. “One said there was no way it was suicide. The other howled that she was sorry she couldn’t support her friend in her time of need. The third held Holly’s hand and sat in silence until I asked them all to leave. Holly’s body was in our building for six days before she was finally released for burial.”
“Only six days?” Linking my fingers together, I set them in my lap. “Short time, considering there was an ongoing police investigation.”
Chant shrugs. “Henry wanted to lay her to rest. As her husband, he had that right. And frankly, the way Holly’s body was mangled and bruised?” She shakes her head. “I didn’t blame him one bit. No one wanted to look too long at the way her head was disfigured in the collision.”
“Naturally.”
My mind swirls. Spins. Plots and wonders.
“Since we’re on the subject; can you recall why so few death scene photographs were taken?” I sit forward and point toward the few in the file. “None of those included even show her head or face—which, by your own admission, was disfigured.”
“She was dead.” Chant pushes up to stand. “She ran head-first into a twenty-thousand-pound semi-truck, Chief.Face-first. And since she was the only person on scene besides the innocent truck driver, I did not find it necessary to document the destruction for all time. The family deserved better—even if I thought certain members of that family were ridiculous, loud, and uneducated.”
* * *
Letting ourselves out of Chant’s home and moving down the porch steps, I keep my lips clamped shut. Not a sound. Not a damn peep, lest the woman has security all over her property.
Waiting for Aubree to unlock the car, I slide in on the passenger side and close the door, then I sit patiently, waiting for Aubree to do the same.
The moment she’s in, she spins on me with a savage snarl. “How—”
“Nope.” I press a finger to my lips and shake my head. Then I grab her hand and place it on the steering wheel. “Drive.”
“Minka, I—”
“I said drive.” Taking out my phone, I move to my text chat and pull up Archer’s name. While Aubree huffs and jams the key into the ignition barrel, I type for Archer:How are you doing on Holly’s case? Do you have permission to dig her up yet?