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C A S T I N G S H A D O W S O F
D O U BT
Midwest Murders: Book 1
Alisa Ryan
Doing
Little Press
Copyright © 2024 Alisa Ryan
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ASIN: B0CTP8M7XF
ISBN: 9798878123846
Cover design by: Lecia
Printed in the United States of America
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
CONTENTS
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Acknowledgement About The Author
CHAPTER 1
AColdandUncaring Grave
The crime scene resembles a chaotic circus; police cruiser lights create a kaleidoscope of color reflecting off the wet pavement. An ambulance with its doors flung open waits. Curious onlookers crane their necks while journalists scramble to capture every detail.
I press the button, rolling down my car window. This allows the commotion from the crowd to filter in—voices chatter, engines idle, and a lone dog barks.
Approaching the area, I flash my badge to the officer manning the barrier. “Good luck, Doctor; the side of the embankment is slippery. We cleared a path through the snow for you.” He comments, his shoulders sagging as he waves his hand for me to pass.
A sense of relief washes over me. I’m grateful I don’t have to trudge through knee-high snow, unlike the schoolchildren who stumbled upon the shocking discovery earlier this morning.
Lacing up my tall black boots, I step out of the car. A clip on the dash catches my eye. I grab it, securing my long dark hair back. Since starting this job, I’ve pulled it back more than I’ve left it down. MaybeIshouldcutitshort.
I retrieve a pair of latex gloves from my pocket. The sharp, snug snap as they slide onto my hands clearly reminds me of the task ahead.
Gripping my leather bag, I take in the scene from above. A treacherous ice-covered embankment outlined in tossed snow makes my pulse increase. The sunlight glistens off the cleared path as if encased in glass.
Water plunges over the dam down to the thawing riverbed. It churns in the rocks beyond the shelf directly at the bottom. Not much water is moving down the river this time of year.
The presence of a body below the falls suggests a deliberate lake dump. Decomposing gases would have filled its cavities, causing it to rise and drift over the edge before coming to rest near the bank.
The icy water serves as a cold and uncaring grave.
The morning call disrupted my drive to work. The voice, on the other end, offered limited details. Stating only a body had been discovered near East Side Lake here in Austin.
My instincts say a suicide. These investigations have grown, casting a gloomy shadow over my work.
With a glance, I search for Officer Jennings among the other blue uniforms milling up here and those near the water. Our collaboration on several death cases last year proved helpful.
My gaze catches sight of his blond hair under his hat as he stands by the river’s edge. The path down to him isn’t clear, unlike in the summer when this hill is green with soft grass.
Studying the dark, slick, icy mud outlined in white snow, I hope there is a better way down. A few thin tree trunks stick out of the snow like sentries. Maybe they will add support as I trek to the victim. Otherwise, it’s a much more challenging descent than I anticipated.
Below, Officer Jennings raises a hand as he sees me contemplating my best way forward. Fortunately, I’ve made a wise choice in footwear this time. He teased me about the heels I wore to my first crime scene.
With his infectious smile and piercing blue eyes, such remarks never posed a problem. Instead, they contribute to a professional bond and mutual understanding.
“Wait for me.” He calls out.
His long legs march up the hill without an issue. His bright eyes are dim as he comes to stand by me. A furrow deepens on his brow.
“Hey, Doc.” His usual smile is missing, his mouth pulled down on the edges, replacing it.
“Hello, what can I expect?” I want to say something else. But I shake my head at the thought. A crime scene isn’t the place for pleasantries.
“We’ve got another potential suicide, but it doesn’t appear recent.” His words carry the burden of loss, his shoulders slump.
“Alright,” His eyes drop to his feet before he continues.
“Death notifications, regardless of the cause, always hit me hard. But these cases … I’m not sure I can continue to do them.” Understanding his reaction all too well, I respond with a soft nod and forced grin.
“Me as well,” I whisper.
“Let me assist you.” Officer Jennings reaches out, grasping my elbow. Giving my arm a slight tug, I step off the asphalt and into the slick mud. Together, we navigate with slow, measured steps.
The icy mud slips beneath my left boot, not three steps down. My free hand grasps his jacket as I sway, my balance disrupted. His hold on my elbow tightens.
Pausing for a moment, he turns his face to mine. With a nod, he takes another step and I follow.
With my head lowered, I observe each of his strides, carefully placing my left foot into the imprint left by his right. The indentations created by his boots deepen as we near the bank, marking our path.
Raising my gaze, I spot our destination just a few yards ahead —a vibrant yellow makeshift tent — out of place in this white and brown landscape. It lies nestled at the edge of the slow-flowing river.
In the muddy, icy terrain around the tent, indentations of boots and shoes go in every direction, overlapping. Too many people have tracked around here. I hope they have not disrupted any of the evidence.
“Good luck, Doc,” Deep blue eyes blink twice. “If you need me, let the officer in the tent know.”
With a nod, I thank Officer Jennings before entering. He strides away, and I want to stare in his direction, but the body waits.
Parting the flaps, a pungent stench attacks my senses, distinct and lingering. It’s not the sharp aroma of recent demise.
Instead, it hints at a timeline stretching back, perhaps three to five days. The thirty-degree temps throughout the week may have slowed the decaying process.
The persistent stink permeates the frigid air, visible in white clouds with each breath. Determining an accurate time of death during seasonal changes is a challenge.
My eyes sting, taking in the site, a furrow forming between them. Something glistens below the nose of the assisting officer. Vapor rub?
His eyes catch mine as the tent flap closes me inside.
“Did anyone disturb the scene before I arrived?” I inquire, my gaze locked onto the officer’s face. The heaviness of the odor hangs between us.
“Not to my knowledge, ma’am,” he responds, his voice flat. Maybe he’s good at separating life from work. I’m not.
“The children who discovered the body this morning ran home to inform their parents, who then contacted the police. You think someone moved it here after death?” His response is void of a smile; his eyes scan the area as he shakes his head.
Offering a casual shrug, I sweep my gaze across the entire space. The position of the body, the dead foliage, and the indents of human and animal tracks pressed into the muddy ground catch my attention.
“I’m uncertain. That’s why I wanted to inquire before deciding myself.” My tone is calm, even with apprehension flowing through me inside this tiny place.
I lower myself near the body, being cautious not to touch or disturb anything nearby. Who is this person? What happened to them? Identification might prove difficult.
Dressed in blue jeans, a black hoodie—clothes belonging to anyone. Dark hair, saturated and tangled with organic matter, brings no immediate insight.
The victim is not large. I estimate a height of not much more than five feet. I believe this victim to be female, but I’ll have to wait for more evidence.
The usual signs of submersion in water for an extended amount of time are absent. The remaining flesh is marred but with no discoloration. Jagged, crisscrossed tears in the skin are unmistakable indicators of animal activity.
My gaze shifts upwards at the sound of a bird’s squawk, forgetting I’m inside a tent. It appears the birds who inhabit the trees along the river, as well as small rodents, have played a role in decomposition.
“I need two handbags,” I instruct the officer.
He locates and retrieves the bags, his willingness to assist apparent. His face is unfamiliar to me from previous scenes, which gives me a moment of pause. He may not have extensive experience in this type of delicate task.
“Please locate Officer Jennings for me?” With a subtle nod, I inquire, urging the man to move quickly. Time is of the essence. Every passing minute erodes my ability to determine an accurate time of death.
Responding to my request, he pulls back the flaps, stepping outside. A few minutes later, Officer Jennings enters. As he does, relief washes over me. My shoulders dropping away from my ears, the tension in my limbs releasing.
“I need you to bag the hands,” I instruct. I note he is wearing gloves.
Officer Jennings nods, getting to work. His composure in the face of death is commendable. His mouth a firm line, his eyes staring into mine.
“Like last time,” he replies, indicating familiarity with a similar situation.
“Yes, thank you. When you finish, please gather the team to bag the body. Have the team collect the dirt and debris within a two-
foot radius of the victim.” Watching my steps, I maneuver around the body, evaluating its position and surroundings.
Was the body placed deliberately on this spot rather than dropped from the waterfall? Is this either a disposal site or where this individual chose to end their life? Questions hold my attention, processing the whole scene at once.
Despite the disfigured face, the clothing suggests a young individual. One leg, straight out, stretches into the water. The jeans are dark to the waist. The other bends at the knee with both arms splayed to the sides.
With no covering, jagged tears mar the hands like the face, making it easier for scavengers to tear at the flesh.
Above the overwhelming stench of decomposition, I detect something else. A faint, musty vegetable odor comes from the body. This is an observation that interests me and warrants further investigation.
Leaning in, I take a breath. “What is that?” Asking myself only, Officer Jennings glances up, his blue eyes wide.
“No clue?” His nose and eyes wrinkle as he sniffs closer to the body. “Nothing I recognize.”
Hum
I move back for the team to move in. The damp hoodie sags as the team begins bagging the body and reveals the distinct curves of a female torso. My earlier thought proves correct.
Officer Jennings is efficient as he provides instructions to the team. Satisfied with the organization, he turns to me, his smile still missing.
“I’ve got this covered, Doc. If you need to attend to something else.” He offers me a slight grin, his eyes wide with a nod.
Realizing my initial observations are complete, I formulate my next move. “Thank you for your help today. Please ensure you take detailed notes regarding the circumstances of your arrival before you leave.” I’m not concerned; Officer Jennings is aware of my expectations.
Exiting the tent, I inhale, cleaning my lungs and relishing the scent that signals the return of springtime. Tiny wisps of green break through the dead foliage surrounding the bank, a visual reminder winter is releasing its hold.
Casting a glance around, I discover nothing out of the ordinary. The sun’s spring rays striking the river’s edge have melted the ice, allowing it to flow slowly near the bank. In contrast, the center remains iced over, unmoving.
Maybe the victim fell to the side of the waterfall, being pushed by the current to her present location. The slow trickling movement of the water has me shaking my head. There is no current to speak of today.
Water cascades over the dam, colliding with the concrete shelf below, tumbling white into the rocks directly in front of the shelf. But the river is not more than two or three feet deep at that point.
How did she end up where the children found her? I need to get back to the lab to answer the questions my brain keeps asking.
Glimpsing the hill to my right, I blink. How can it be steeper, higher, and more treacherous than I viewed it from above?
Grass peaks out slick with ice where too many people have walked down today. I’m wary of trudging back up unassisted, but I must return to my lab.
Taking a tentative step, I feel my boot sink into the ankle-deep mud. The ground thawing quicker, closer to the river’s edge.
Panic sets in, my body tensing up, muscles coiling tight. Struggling to tug my trapped foot from the muck only throws off my balance. A small tree trunk seems to reach for me, my fingers brushing it briefly before it slips away.
Closing my eyes, I tense for the impact in the icy mud below.
CHAPTER 2
Nothing is Free in This World
“W
hoa, Doc,” Officer Jennings’s hands sweep under my arms, halting my fall.
His voice breaks through my chaotic thoughts. Opening my eyes, I find his face upside down, yet only inches from mine. Maybe I fell and hit my head without realizing it.
“I’m going to push you back up.”
Okay, “Thank you.” I smile into his eyes as his face disappears over my head. Back to standing, he steps to my side.
“Give me your arm.” His legendary smile returns, illuminating his entire face and extending its infectious warmth to me. “We don’t want you breaking anything.” He chuckles, the sound resonating with a musical quality.
“Yes, I don’t want that either. Thank you.” His arm comes out for me to loop mine in, and our shoulders press close.
Appreciating his practical support, we trudge up the slippery hill together. As we near the top, he steps onto the asphalt and extends both hands. With a swift pull, he hauls me up so fast that we find ourselves standing face to face. His smile fades, his face turning a shade of red.
“Oh ... sorry. Doc, um, Doc. Let me,” Officer Jennings stammers, his voice high and quick. Stepping back, he averts his gaze, his attention fixed on the ground. “I didn’t mean to yank you up so quickly.” The flush of embarrassment remains.
Offering a reassuring smile, I acknowledge the genuine intention behind his actions. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have been able to make it up here on my own. Unless perhaps I resorted to crawling.” I admit with a gentle chuckle. “It’s always a pleasure to work with you, Officer Jennings.”
He shuffles his feet, his eyes still down. After hesitating, he responds, “Yes, you too, Doc.” He looks up with a slight grin, his coloring now a soft pink. “Bye.”
I instruct the pickup team at the lab to bring the body into room two. Setting the stage for the meticulous process of identification, cause of death determination, and further investigation.
Beth, my assistant, sets up the lab before every autopsy. She organizes my tools along the extended shelves spanning three walls of the room.
The lab is bright with white walls and a metal table. It sits in the middle, a bit bigger than a twin mattress. It takes up most of the space.
Beginning the documentation process, she takes photos and X-rays to establish a detailed record for the victim’s file. Dressing in scrubs, gloves, and with a mask, I enter the room.
The body is female, falling within the age range of sixteen to thirty. Not the most helpful in narrowing down her identity. Except to provide a basis to cross-reference the information we gather with the missing person’s database.
Removing the handbags, I scrape beneath her fingernails to collect trace evidence. A ripped thumbnail on her left hand with a small amount of dried blood indicates it occurred before her death.
The suggestion of a struggle?
Many steps are involved in a thorough autopsy, and I cover all of them. Her flesh bears numerous contusions at almost every point. Some are a deep purple, while others have faded to an ugly dark yellow—indicating their age.
After three hours, I remove my mask and gloves washing my hands and face. I find solace in my work. I’m someone not inclined
towards socializing.
The quiet and undisturbed environment of working with the deceased suits me well, except in cases like this. Suicides cause me to reflect, making me question my initial choice of entering this field.
Aspiring to become a doctor, I dedicated myself to excelling in academics. As a result, several colleges extended full scholarships to their pre-med programs. They affirmed my commitment to my chosen path.
Despite my academic pursuits, I also tried to build friendships and enjoy social activities. In high school, I had been popular adjacent, tutoring many sports players and attending loads of parties. My senior year, a few friends and I were voted into the homecoming court.
Until college, I enjoyed being surrounded by people much of the time and even pursued romantic interests. My first semester was the end of all that.
A reliable professor who assisted me destroyed my ability to trust others. I’ll never forget his words after he belittled me about my inability to comprehend them.
Youaskedformyhelp, andIhelpedyou.It’snowyourturnto dosomethingforme.You’renotstupid,Emily. Nothingisfreeinthis world.’
He changed my perception of people. Influencing my interactions, leaving little room for friendships or romantic relationships.
I’m hesitant to trust anyone—particularly those in a place of authority, with the influence to alter my life.
The sound of the lab door opening snaps me back to the present moment. I shake my head as if to dislodge the memories I prefer not to dwell on.
I have chosen to live in solitude, occupied with tasks that demand my attention. The absence of others isn’t noticeable, but a familiar figure fills the doorway this time. Officer Jennings’s broad shoulders and presence direct my thoughts toward him.
Avoiding his sparkling blue eyes, which make it difficult for me to think, I focus on his ear. Where blond hair gently curls. It’s longer than the last time we worked together.
I almost giggle, which is nothing I usually do because it’s amusing his first name has never come up in conversation despite working together for over a year.
On the other hand, he affectionately dubbed me ‘Doc.’ No one addresses me in such a manner. I’m not sure when he started using the nickname, but coming from his sweet face, it doesn’t bother me.
But, if anyone else were to address me in such a way, I would have corrected them immediately. Doctor Aaker is how I am addressed in a professional setting.
“Doc, did you find any answers from the victim?” Taking a deep breath, I return his smile as if it’s contagious. He does it, I do it, he does it, and the cycle continues.
“The victim is a female in her late teens to early thirties.”
My iPad sits on the counter behind me. Twisting the stool around, I grab it. Pulling up her file, I give him the details I have discovered.
“The cause of death remains undetermined. I’ve sent samples and trace evidence to the lab in Rochester. We won’t get results for at least a few days. Waiting is the most challenging part of this job. But the autopsy is complete, and now I need to finalize my notes for the file. Then sift through the soil ...”
Pausing for a moment when his eyes widen, I again become aware of my tendency to ramble when discussing a case. I take a breath, refocusing my thoughts.
“I’ve entered her details into the missing person’s database, but I don’t expect any immediate leads.”
“Okay, that’s a good start. How can I assist?” Officer Jennings lets the door close behind him as he enters the lab.
He leans his hip on the large metal table separating us. His easygoing demeanor and amazing smile make it challenging to ignore his charm. Even so, I remind myself to remain focused on
our professional collaboration, setting aside any personal distractions.
“Yes, do you have your notes ready for me to review?” I ask.
Officer Jennings’s immediate perspective is invaluable. His insights will provide additional details I might have missed once the area became disrupted by personnel carrying out their duties. All while aiming to minimize further deterioration of the scene.
He nods. “I can text them to your phone,” he offers.
I can study his notes during today’s meeting with the hospital administration. It’s always a waste of time. At least with the report to evaluate, I won’t be bored like usual.
“Yes, thank you.” I pick up my phone, unsure if he..., but it buzzes with a message from Officer Jennings. “You - um, I—I’m sorry, but I’ve never caught your first name,”
I fidget, juggling my phone from hand to hand. I do manage to stop my feet from tapping; the awkwardness of the situation unsettles me. Perhaps I’m coming down with something.
“It’s Jake. Your first name is on all the paperwork, but...” Our eyes meet, and I’m at a loss for words. I must be getting sick because this never happens otherwise.
“Um—At ... at work, we should keep everything professional. If we encounter each other outside of work, I’ll refer to you as Jake, and you can call me Emily.”
I start to grin but then remember this is not a social visit but a professional one. Social visits are a rarity in my life, but professional ones I handle well.
“As the tests come back, I will have a better idea of what happened.” Frowning, I blink, wishing things moved faster. “The DNA test will be the most helpful in identifying her. I hope it comes back soon so we can help the family with closure during this difficult time.”
“Please call if you need anything.” Jake’s voice takes on a slight stutter as he shuffles his feet, his eyes on the ground. “You have my personal cell and work number, so please call
if you need anything. Anything at all.” His eyes meet mine on his last sentence, punctuated with a few nods.
“Thank you, I will.” I bite my lower lip as he leaves. It’s not a burden to witness Jake Jennings walk away; in fact, a part of me wouldn’t mind watching a bit longer. But the door closes too fast behind him.
Darn!
Working on the case over lunch, I have Beth give the administration an excuse about having a headache. This way, I can avoid wasting my time in the staff meeting.
Using the information from my notes and Officer Jennings I reconstruct the sequence of events. I started when the children made the distressing call to report the body in the river. This serves as the framework as I piece together this puzzle.
The reports I’ve received align with my initial observations upon arriving at the scene. The photos provide another perspective. If she had plunged down the concrete waterfall, the body would have collided with the bottom at high speed, resulting in significant physical trauma.
Although injuries are evident, they do not appear consistent with an impact from that height. They instead suggest intentional rather than accidental.
Her X-rays reveal several old fractures in her face, arms, and lower legs. Someone treated her like a punching bag for some time before her death.
Many bones were fractured post-mortem, but none of the evidence indicates a suicide attempt.
While thinking, a yawn escapes me, reminding me I need sleep. Memories replay in my evening hours, not nightmares. However, persistent thoughts prevent me from relaxing enough to fall asleep.
Retrieving my coat, I slip my phone into my pocket and make my way toward the exit.
Reaching the lobby, I process the events from today like a fast-forwarded movie. Oblivious to anything around me, I collide
with another person.
CHAPTER 3
You Have a Tell
“S
o sorry,” I apologize to the air. My mind caught up in my thoughts as I continue walking.
“Doc?” I turn fast, strands of dark hair cascade into my face. Brushing them back, I meet Jake’s enchanting blue eyes.
“I’m headed to dinner and wondered if you would like to join me.” His words are fast. I observe he’s wearing a pair of khakis with a fitted button-up shirt.
“Umm…I…” Rubbing the back of my neck, my lip’s part.
I’ve never seen him out of uniform. The blue of his eyes captivates my attention; the pale green hue of his shirt accentuates them.
“After today, some company would keep me from dwelling on the victim and the scene.” He comments, as his eyes scan the floor. “I didn’t sleep well for weeks after our last suicide. It’s hard to unsee something, even when you try.”
“You can never unsee something you’ve seen. Your brain stores everything. Memories have a way of lingering, forever etched in our minds.”
Jake’s shoulders droop his mouth forming a flat line. I quickly remind myself that not everyone enjoys my logical facts, especially when linked to an emotional response.
“Dinner would be lovely, and we can talk about anything but work ... agreed?” I raise my brows with the question.
“Agreed.” He nods the sides of his mouth, turning a tiny bit upwards.
I find the idea of a shared meal and conversation soothing. The weight of our professions bears down on us. When we consult together, our conversations revolve around possible causes, evidence, and sources.
Working with death and its many facets promotes somber thoughts. The brain processes the novel information, finding ways to collect it for further evaluation but never permitting you to delete it completely.
Dreams can result from this, disturbing one’s equilibrium. Perhaps dinner can temporarily relieve the darkness that often accompanies our professions.
“Would you like to pick the restaurant? I have no allergies or preferences, so wherever you’d like to go—I’m in.” I think anyway.
My therapist encourages me to let others make decisions. I tend to take charge, so I’m attempting to give someone else the control. Anxiety creeps a cold claw up my back, but it’s dinner. How bad can it be?
His eyes widen at my request. “Oh, okay, if you’re sure?” I nod, affirming my choice to let him make the decision. “Does Four Daughters sound good?”
Shrugging, with a slight head tilt my eyes widen. “I’ve never been, but I love trying new places.”
My words surprise me. What am I saying? I dislike all change. I prefer familiarity and stability above all things.
“I mean—fantastic.” I catch myself, correcting my initial response.
Jake smiles, giving me a jolt of pleasure, and offers to drive. I suggest I follow him, as I detest being dependent on someone else for transportation.
I always prioritize my safety by meeting people at predetermined locations rather than relying on others. Above all, men—to take me from one place to another.
The journey up I-90 isn’t lengthy, and we arrive at the enchanting restaurant not ten minutes later. The host leads us to our table, and I take in the ambiance of the place.
“This is lovely.” Sitting, I glance around.
Rustic wooded shelves hold white labeled wine bottles, subtly hinting at its dual identity as a vineyard, White pressed tablecloths, with flatware wrapped in cloth napkins tied with a simple bow grace the table.
The room around the tables is ample for a personal conversation without the risk of being overheard. The restaurant exudes romance, especially the twinkling lights wrapped in ivy over our heads.
Catching Jake’s eyes, he smiles. “I remember the delicious food but haven’t been here in some time.” Jake stops as the waiter arrives for our drink order.
The red wine he orders has delicious undertones. They linger on my tongue, hinting at its cost. As a token of gratitude for his help at the scene, I will pick up the bill. It never hurts to acknowledge hard work and effort.
Dinner is enjoyable; the deconstructed menu offers a unique experience. Sometimes, I’m intrigued to learn about the components of a dish; other times, I’m not. Today, my hunger outweighs my curiosity.
“So, DocEmily ... ” His pronunciation of my name is almost correct. The transition from professional to social is complex; the brain craves routine, so adjusting requires time.
“What made you want to become a forensic pathologist?” His warm smile offers a sense of security, encouraging me to share.
Tapping my chin with my finger, I ponder his question. “Growing up, I loved watching police procedurals on television. In most episodes, the autopsy would solve the case.”
My eyes focus on the ceiling, wondering why I’m bothering to explain this to him. “I don’t want to bore you.”
“I’m far from bored, Demily.” This time, my name sounds almost perfect. “Please, go on.”
“I always wanted to be a doctor.” His eyes gaze into my face my heartbeat accelerating. “I worked hard in school to achieve the best grades possible. The University of Minnesota Twin Cities campus offered me a full-ride scholarship.”
A grin spreads across my face. Tugging on my earlobe, I relive the memory of opening the acceptance letter. Cheers broke out upon learning about the financial aid package. It exceeded everyone’s expectations.
It’s funny because my life holds many fond memories. Yet, I often find myself revisiting the negative ones. I drift into those pleasant thoughts until Jake clears his throat.
Focusing my eyes on him, I apologize, “Sorry, I got absorbed in my thoughts.”
He laughs, “I know. You have a tell.
I scrunch up my brow, bringing a tilt to my chin. “A tell? What do you mean?”
“When thinking, you bite your lower lip or tug your ear lobe.” He demonstrates both. “You detach from reality. Your deep blue eyes gaze through walls and people as if they don’t exist for you.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” He laughs. “When you do those things, I’ve lost you. Several times when we wrap up a discussion, I’m sure you’re unaware I’m walking out.” His brows rise, and he shrugs.
That is not true. I’m always aware when he leaves, but I shouldn’t tell him. My mind starts to hum.
Ihatetoseeyougo,butIlovetowatchyouleave.
Well, I do enjoy watching him walk away. He takes care of his body, and it shows.
“Em ... Emily? You’re gone again.”
Sitting back up in my chair, I refocus my eyes. I want to avoid any more ‘lost in thought’ moments while having dinner with someone. Most of the time, I eat solo at the kitchen counter after microwaving something.
“I apologize, I don’t um ... how do I say this without sounding ... ” I finish the sentence in my head.
Inane
“I spend much of my evenings and dinners alone, so no one loses me in thought. I’m sorry.” I look him straight in the eyes. “Let’s order dessert.”
We both indulge, and Jake shakes his head with a chuckle. “I’ve never met a woman who cleans her plate and orders dessert.”
With a shrug, I wonder why because wasting food is unhealthy and costly for the planet. He studies my face, almost as if he is familiar with my thoughts.
Trying to lessen the intimacy of the moment I ask. “Please go on where you left off; I’m listening, I promise.”
Every time he smiles, I’m completely lost. I’m coming down with something. I hope it can wait until this weekend. I despise taking time off for any reason.
He shakes his head. “You were the one telling me about becoming a doctor.”
“Right.” Biting my lower lip, I try to remember where I left off. “Well ... enough about me. Tell me about you.”
Jake’s blue eyes roll up, glimpsing the ceiling with a grin. He laughs when he focuses on my face again, giving me a few headshakes.
“You’ve hardly told me anything about you.”
“Really ... ” I glance at my phone. “Wow, look at the time.” Shifting in my seat, I wave to the waiter. “Tomorrow is a busy day for me, but thank you for ... ” I wiggle my hand between us. “For this. I’ve enjoyed our dinner together.”
The waiter lays the bill between us. Reaching for the case, Jake’s hand comes down on mine. His touch sends an electric pulse up my arm.
“I’ve got it.” My voice is breathy with a nervous lilt.
“I invited you, so I’ll pay.” I glance at our intertwined hands, then meet his gaze as his lips gracefully curl upward.
His eyes light up with little wrinkles forming in the corners. My determination to pay falters, but I remind myself this isn’t a
date. I don’t date. My complicated past and high expectations are too much for anyone to handle.
I tug the case towards me. “I insist since you’ve been so helpful today. Your work is always outstanding, so let me treat you.”
His smile wavers for a moment, but his eyes sparkle in the dim lighting meeting mine. I give him a quick nod, a grin, and a thumbs up with my free hand.
I’mgettingsick,forsure.
“Emily,” His grasp warms my hand, radiating warmth, and heat colors my cheeks.
WhyamIblushing?
“You don’t need to thank me for doing my job.” He squeezes my hand again. “It’s nice to sit with you and not think about our responsibilities. I’d love to have dinner with you regularly.” His eyebrows raise as he speaks.
“I’m...” I scan his face and then cast a glance around the room. “I- I’m not sure if ... it’s a good idea, given that we work together. You’re someone I value as a part of the team.”
I shake my head now. “I wouldn’t want to jeopardize that by pursuing anything more ...” My face flushes with heat. “I ... ”
Jake lowers his smile a notch, giving me space to think before adding. “We can go to dinner as friends every week or so.”
Sensing my indecision, he adds, “You can pay this time, and I’ll pay next time, and so forth. Not a date—dinner with a friend to help unwind and destress.”
“I don’t...” Sure, I would love to, but we work together.
“Dinner as friends.” His hand still covers mine, and with another small squeeze, he moves it back to his lap. “Friends, no strings attached, and no commitments.”
My tongue darts between my lips. “I can do that.”
Taking the bill, I slide a credit card inside for the waiter to pick up. “Is a specific day best for you? If it’s on my schedule, I’ll make it happen. Having a set day of the week would be ideal, as I can plan around it.”
His eyes drop to the table, and I’m sure he’s wondering why he suggested this in the first place if I’m going to make impromptu
plans difficult.
“Thursday evening at six unless something more important comes up. In that case, please call, and we can do it on a different day.” His eyes widen, his brows rise, and he shrugs.
Thoseeyes.
The waiter returns as I begin to agree. My heart beats fast as I sign the check. I need to go. If I don’t, I’m not sure what I might do. He’s causing me to ponder ideas I haven’t contemplated in a long while, and it’s late.
“Thursday at six is perfect.” I stand up from the table. “Thank you for suggesting it, and I look forward to next week, if not before.”
Jake stands as I turn to leave. He touches my arm, the heat causing me to glance back. His chin dipping to his chest, his voice lowering slightly.
“Let me walk you to your car. It’s dark out now.” His brow furrows.
Relationships are messy, and I don’t have time for messy. He’s adorable with his spirited crystal-blue eyes. Every time he smiles, he gives me a jolt of pleasure. He holds his own in our conversations while being charming in his responses.
But I’m set in my ways. I don’t have room for him or anyone else in my life. Squeezing dinner in on Thursday evenings is all the free time I have. Alone is the most comfortable place for me.
“Emily?”
CHAPTER 4
Force-FedHemlock
My focus returns to him. Jake’s eyes and mouth scrunched up. “Of course.”
Smiling, I walk toward the exit. His hand reaches out, opening the door before I have a chance.
He walks in the parking lot at my side but doesn’t touch me. Reaching my car, I open the door, positioning it between us.
“Thank you. Goodnight.” He nods with a grin before stepping toward his vehicle.
“See you soon, Emily.”
Driving home, I reflect on the evening. Instead of retreating when he suggested a weekly dinner, I stayed and listened. The chance to unwind over a meal once a week is a logical way to maintain our sanity.
Having a meal with a friend on a regular basis is an excellent idea. I hope so, anyway.
I arrive at work early on Friday to complete my report on yesterday’s victim. Some lab reports have come back, but not all of them.
When I review my notes, I send a quick text to Officer Jennings.
‘Did they find any drug paraphernalia at the scene yesterday that I wasn’t aware of?’
He replies, ‘No, nothing indicated drug use. Have the toxicology results come back?’
‘Not yet, but the stomach contains a dark, perplexing slurry. So, if it’s drugs, they were ingested. However, I’m not sure. I think I’ll order a few additional tests.’ I reply.
He replies, ‘Numerous reports of drugs come in daily. Any other thoughts?’
‘Once we receive the test results from the evidence collected, I might have more clues. But currently, her death is a mystery.’ I reply.
He replies, ‘I’ll meet with the other officers at the scene to ensure I didn’t miss anything.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply.
He replies, ‘Thanks for dinner last night. I’m available if you want someone to talk to before Thursday.
My phone buzzes with a message from the lab.
What?
My mind races in different directions as I try to comprehend the results.
Hemlock Poisoning. It’s difficult to believe this is her official cause of death. Never have I autopsied anyone with this poison in their system.
Her blood contained lethal amounts. I tested for several poisons due to the green hue of her stomach contents. Her body sustained severe damage post-mortem, but no other evidence leading to a cause of death. Poisoning was my next thought.
ButHemlock?
I try not to be impatient, this being the only test to return. Waiting for results slows investigations; some can take up to eight weeks. Real-life victim identification isn’t as fast as it seems on television crime shows.
Over six hundred thousand people are reported missing every year, with over four thousand unidentified bodies. The limited resources of the agencies investigating missing persons result in too many becoming cold cases.
Our Jane Doe has no distinguishing birthmarks, scars, or tattoos. Finding her in the database may not be possible. She will
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“Well, what do you say?”
“I say do it, Patsy, and be quick about it,” Chick declared, when unable to discover a sign of any person in the front part of the house.
“I’m with you,” Patsy muttered. “Head straight across the lawn to the east end of the veranda.”
They vaulted the wall while he was speaking, then covered the distance at record speed. After waiting and listening for a few moments, they felt sure that they had not been seen. To climb the trellis and reach the veranda roof then was child’s play, and both then began an inspection of the curtained windows.
Chick found one through which he could work his knife blade, thrusting up between the sashes, and in a very few moments he had succeeded in throwing the lock.
Noiselessly raising the lower section, he then pushed aside the curtain and peered in, finding that the window opened into the hall on the second floor. Listening, he could faintly hear voices from below, but could not distinguish whose, nor what was said.
“Come on, Patsy,” he whispered, with a significant glance at him. “Have a gun ready. I’ll lead the way.”
“You won’t be far in advance,” muttered Patsy dryly.
Crawling quietly through the window, one after the other, they tiptoed toward the broad, angular stairway leading to the lower hall.
“Keep on, old top,” whispered Patsy, now with a revolver in each hand. “The sooner we get them the better.”
“I think so, too.”
“They’re in one of the side rooms. Ah, that was the chief’s voice.”
“Come on,” Chick muttered, starting down the stairs.
Patsy followed close at his companion’s heels.
They had made only the first turn in the stairway, when the voice of Mortimer Deland, rising high with the last threatening words he was addressing to Nick Carter, coupled with his fierce commands to his three confederates, fell loud and clear on the two detective’s ears.
Chick Carter glanced at Patsy and pulled out a second revolver.
“Fire the house, will he?” he whispered hurriedly. “There’ll be firing of another kind done here, if necessary.”
“You bet!” nodded Patsy, with brows knitting.
“Shoot to kill, if you have to shoot.”
“Kill goes!”
“They’ll come out this way,” Chick said hurriedly, as they reached the foot of the stairway and paused for an instant near the front door.
“Had we better rush in on them?”
“We might meet them on the threshold and get into too close quarters,” said Chick, after an instant’s thought. “We’d better get them after they come into the hall.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Slip across into that front parlor and be ready to nail them from that side,” Chick directed. “I’ll cover this part of the hall.”
“I’ve got you,” Patsy nodded. “Give a yell when you’re ready.”
He darted across the hall with the last and into the dim, luxuriously furnished parlor.
Chick crouched back of the rise of the stairs.
Both scarce had gained these positions when the four crooks, with Nick in their midst, issued from the dining room and headed toward the front of the hall.
Chick waited until they were midway between the several doors, that no swift leap into either room should save any of them. Then he uttered the yell for which Patsy Garvan was waiting.
“Now, Patsy, get them!”
Nick Carter heard him, and then saw both. As quick as a flash, he shouldered both Deland and Henley to the middle of the hall, then leaped quickly back into the dining room, out of range of a chance bullet.
Chick saw the idea, and a shriek instantly followed his yell.
“Hands up, you fellows! We’ll drop the first man who resists!”
“Every man!” roared Patsy, with both guns leveled.
There were four weapons covering the crooks, with bullets enough in all to have riddled them.
Only one of them acted under the impulse of desperation—Jim Henley. His shotgun, with which he had been prodding Nick in the back, leaped to the hollow of his arm.
Bang!
It was Chick’s revolver that barked. The shotgun fell to the floor, and Henley with it, shot through the head.
Nothing more sanguinary and determined was needed. Deland and his other two confederates instantly threw up their hands—and kept them up till Patsy and Nick Carter were ready to fit them with bracelets.
That ended the sensational features of the extraordinary case. Henley died within an hour, and two hours saw the other three in the Tombs, two to be convicted and sentenced a fortnight later, and Mortimer Deland to return to finish his unexpired term in the State’s prison.
Arthur Gordon was found, as stated, bound hand and foot in an upper room of the old house. Though intensely grateful to the Carters for his rescue and liberation, he was a thousand times more surprised at what they told him. Up to that moment he had not dreamed of the true identity of Pauline Perrot, who had, as Nick had inferred, artfully wheedled him into meeting her on a supposed business matter with a friend that evening, only to throw him into the hands of Henley, Foster, and Brigham.
The gratitude of Mr. Rudolph Strickland, and the joy and relief of Wilhelmina, when Gordon was brought home safely and the truth made known, were all that the most vivid imagination could picture. Their reward to Nick and his assistants, too, was in corresponding proportion.
It afterward appeared, too, that all of Nick’s suspicions and deductions were absolutely correct; and that Deland, in assuming the character of Dayton, had done so only to have a quick refuge from Gordon’s office, if it became necessary, and a character in which he could bury Pauline Perrot at a moment’s notice.
Nick Carter had thwarted him completely, however, and had secured him temporarily, at least.
THE END.
“Blood Will Tell; or, Nick Carter’s Play in Politics,” will be the title of the long, complete story which you will find in the next issue, No. 156, of the N C S , out September 4th. In this narrative you will read of the final round-up of Mortimer Deland. You will also find the usual
installment of the serial now running in this publication, together with several interesting articles.
DEMONSTRATED.
It was a saying of a wise man that we have one mouth and two ears in order that we may listen twice as much as we speak.
A teacher once quoted this remark to his pupils, and not long afterward, to see how well the instruction was remembered, asked:
“Why is it that we have two ears and only one mouth, Brown?”
Brown had forgotten the philosopher’s explanation, but thought the question not a very hard one.
“Because,” he said, “we should not have room in our face for two mouths, and we should look too crooked if we had only one ear.”
“No, no,” said the master, “that is not the reason. You know, don’t you, Smith?”
“Yes, sir,” answered that hopeful. “So that what we hear may go in at one ear and out at the other.”