From Newsprint to Footprints: A River's Edge Cozy Mystery (River's Edge Cozy Mysteries Book 1) (15 page)

"What's that?" I asked.

"Don't think so," Sandi said.

She almost sang. "Sheriff just issued a press release. Autopsy results are out."

Before Sandi could speak, I said, "I heard they'd be out today. Guess I'll head for the Sheriff's Office." I started for the cash register, and Sandi scampered ahead of me.

"Don't you want to know more about it?" Eliza sounded almost desperate to impart what she knew.

"Need to read it first-hand." I said this over my shoulder, without stopping. I didn't mind ruining her morning.

Sandi and I had paid and were out the door before Eliza and her squeaky cart got to the register.

As we walked out, she asked, "Will you make me a copy?"

"Jeez, Fred'll have to show you that."

Her phone rang as I was talking and she answered it. "Okay. Sure. At Hy-Vee, getting yogurt for lunch." She listened for several seconds. "Okay. See you there."

"Fred," she said, clearly angry as she put her phone in the pocket of her slacks. "He's picking up the autopsy report and says he'll see me at the office. He wants to be sure it isn't too gory for me to see."

"Kind of hard to know more about how he died without seeing it."

"You'll get it right?" she asked. "Dinner at that barbeque place on the edge of town. Fred hates it."

I stood still while she pulled out of the parking space.

Sandi rolled down her window. "Park a couple of blocks away, okay? Seven."

WHEN I GOT TO the Sheriff's Office, Fred was already standing at the counter that separates the public from staff. He was beet red, staring at Sheriff Gallagher.

Fred's voice rose with every word. "That's ridiculous, sheriff. It's public information."

"Information that was released by the medical examiner in Des Moines. The county supervisors said they want people to get it from him, not me." Sheriff Gallagher's expression was neutral, but his posture said he thought Fred was out of line.

Fred's fists were balled at his side. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again to spit out, "Fine."

He turned so quickly he could have bumped into me if I hadn't stepped aside. "Mel. You won't get any help here."

I nodded. "You want me to drive to Des Moines for you?"

He took a breath and spoke calmly. "No. I need to head up there for a quick meeting at the
Register
."

The door to the street was hydraulic, or he might have slammed it. I looked at Sheriff Gallagher.

He spoke quietly. "Sent a copy to your lawyer, since you're so popular with IDI." He pointed a finger at me. "What I do is my business. You don't need to tell Fred that."

I smiled faintly. "Won't come up."

As I turned toward the door, I saw that Sophie and a young deputy, Newt Harmon, I thought, appeared to have paused in mid-activity.

"And Melanie."

I turned to face Gallagher.

"You probably don't want to look at the pictures.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SHERIFF GALLAGHER WAS RIGHT. I looked at the photos and wished I hadn't. But, it seemed important to see them.

The most relevant point, noted after particulars of Hal's age, date of birth and such, was that the cause of death was listed as homicide, blunt force cranial trauma. I thought about not reading more, but forced myself.

The medical examiner's notes started with how the body came to him, so in a black body bag. Hal had been dressed in a long-sleeved blue cotton shirt, khaki twill cargo pants, and black leather shoes.

The body was described as that of a normally developed, well-nourished Caucasian male measuring 70 inches in length, weighing 187 pounds, and appearing generally consistent with the stated age of fifty-eight years. The body was cold and unembalmed with rigor having begun but progressed little.

The only thing that told me for sure was that Hal lied about his height and weight. He wasn't the six feet tall he'd always claimed, and he always said he weighed 170 pounds. Not that it mattered now. What I needed to find out was how soon after death rigor began.

I didn't care what his brain weighed, but did note that his skull was "symmetric and evidences extensive trauma in the occipital region." I looked for a trash can when I read that, "Subdural hematoma and comminuted fractures of the occipital bone are observed."

Fortunately, a few deep breaths settled my stomach. It calmed more when I went to the water fountain for a deep drink and then walked around the conference room for almost a minute.

Hal's cardiovascular system was essentially normal, but while aspects of his respiratory system seemed to be, one thing stood out. "There is no obstruction of the airway, but minute amounts of shredded wood were observed." The medical examiner noted the deceased may have taken a few breaths after being covered in brown mulch.

That information required another walk around the conference room.

Hal's lungs were noted as unremarkable.

Obviously you never had to listen to him yell
.

I deliberately did not read about Hal's male genital or urinary systems, but did note that there were "approximately 125 ml of partially digested semisolid food" in his stomach. This seemed like a lot if a person had eaten supper at a traditional time and nothing after that. I wished it had said what kind of food. On television the medical examiner sometimes finds an item sold only at one local restaurant. In Iowa, half the stomach contents would hold part of a pork tenderloin sandwich, so knowing the undigested food might be no help.

Most toxicology results were inconclusive, but the report did note that he had no carbon monoxide in his blood and his blood alcohol level was approximately .14.

"Wow."

Ken Brownberg had apparently been near the door and looked into the conference room. "What's wow?"

"He had almost two times the legal limit for alcohol."

Brownberg nodded, unsmiling. "He certainly would have had difficulty avoiding an attacker."

"Maybe he had a drinking partner that night. Do you know of anyone he spent time with?"

Brownberg shook his head, slowly. "No direct knowledge. I saw Shirley sit with him at the diner a few times."

"You mean to chat for a second?"

He shrugged. "When she's on break she takes off her name badge."

"Good observation, counselor."

He raised his eyebrows as he spoke. "You know, if you do need an attorney for a defense, it can't be me. I do almost all civil work. The occasional under-the-influence case, but that's about it."

I nodded. "I don't plan to need a defense."

"Let's hope. Stop by on your way out, and I'll give you a couple of names, just in case."

"May I make a copy?"

"I can have my secretary do it."

"I don't, uh, want all the photos. Maybe just one of the injury, one of his head." As I said that, I must have blanched.

"Want some coffee?"

"Nope. Not exactly the calm my stomach craves."

He nodded and walked in the direction of his office.

All that was left was the summary, which described Hal's injuries. "Blunt force traumatic injury with multiple cranial fractures resulting in craniocerebral injury. The narrow wound measures approximately 3 inches high x 1/2 inches wide. Subdural hematoma and comminuted fractures of the occipital bone are observed. Depths of bone fragment penetration range from 1/2 inch to 2 inches. Fatal injury appears to have resulted from a blow administered to the posterior of the head, delivered at an approximate 80º angle to the occipital bone."

I leaned over the waste basket and got rid of the water I'd been drinking.

The most important point was at the end of the summary. Based on the state of rigor mortis, time of death was estimated to be between 12 and 3 a.m.

What had Hal been doing that ticked off someone so late at night?

WORKING IN SYL'S garden would be a good break from thinking of Hal's crushed skull. A glance at my watch as I pulled into his driveway showed two-forty-five. I figured Syl must be in Des Moines. No Stooper, but he wasn't due yet.

I separated plants in eight of the six-packs of marigolds and placed individual plants around the front and side gardens. The daisies being perennials, I wanted to be more certain about where they went. They sat on the front steps.

I surveyed the marigold distribution. They needed to be fairly evenly spaced, but they would soon be ten times larger, spread in any direction they wanted. No spacing would stay precise.

My eyes wandered around the front and side yards. Because of Dr. MacGregor's comments, I had to consider that Hal had been killed at Syl's rather than elsewhere. Why couldn't there be a button from the murderer's coat mixed in with driveway gravel? There wouldn't be. River's Edge wasn't a television show. Besides, between the sheriff's deputies and IDI, they would have found anything lying around.

Did Hal bleed after he was hit? It was hard to imagine that a hard blow would not break the skin, but what did I know? On TV, police sprayed something that made even scrubbed-away blood stains turn bluish green. I wondered whether the area around the former mulch pile had been sprayed? I decided to assume it had. The photos didn't show blood on Hal's clothes, so there might not have been blood on the ground.
Ugh
.

Gravel crunching made me turn.

Stooper was only about three yards from me. "Anyone could sneak up on you."

"You're right." He appeared to have showered, and his hair, which hung just below his chin, was neatly trimmed. His jeans and tee-shirt had holes, but you don't wear good jeans to do yard work. "I brought some bottles of water for us."

Stooper looked slowly around the lawn and flower beds closest to the house. "This how it looked when you found Hal?"

His question surprised me. Partially because he sounded so sober. "Pretty much. I'd cleared some undergrowth near the house. Syl, Mr. Seaton, thought if we spread the mulch and planted a few flowers it would look a lot better."

He glanced at my wheelbarrow, which was near the back of the driveway. "Andy told me he wouldn't put the mulch in the same place."

I sighed, exasperated. "He drove it almost to the barn. We have to cart if further to get to the front."

"Mike at McKinney's Garage said he tuned up that little tractor and oiled the wheels on some kind of cart."

"Everyone knows everybody else's business in this town."

He grinned briefly. "It'll make it easier on my back."

"Of course. I'll show you where…damn! I don't have a key to the tractor."

"Mike said it's taped to the bottom of the seat."

Of course it is
.

Stooper and I walked to the barn together, and he started the tractor with no problem. A pin was almost rusted into its spot on the front of cart, but once it came out it was easy to hook up the cart to the hitch on the back of the tractor.

Two cartloads of mulch later, with me almost forcing Stooper to take water breaks, the stuff was spread loosely over the front flowerbed and the one on the side of the house opposite the driveway.

"Stooper, you need another break!"

"Not that hot," he huffed, using my rake to even the mulch near the front porch.

"It's almost five-thirty," I said.

"Don't have a schedule." Stooper sat next to me on the lowest porch step and took a long drink from a water bottle.

I found his comment curious. Maybe if he had something to do Stooper wouldn't focus as much on beer.
What are you, a counselor
? "How's the stone mason business?"

He smiled briefly. "Waiting for Mr. Harper to decide what he wants on his wife's stone."

"Oh, uh, that's… Wait, isn't he in the Alzheimer's unit in the nursing wing at the hospital?"

"Yep. I give him two options. Nurse said he moves them around on his meal tray."

"God, that's sad."

"Yeah," he grimaced. "Pretty soon I'll just do one and take a picture. Tell him it's what he chose."

"You can do that?"

He shrugged. "No kids. Don't nobody care but me."

"That's depressing." I studied my folded hands, which sat on my knee. "Poor Hal. I wonder if anyone will see he gets a stone."

"You liked him?"

I waited a beat. "No more than anyone else."

"My coat got stolen in the bar once. He got me one at Salvation Army."

"You're kidding."

Stooper shook his head. "Told me not to tell no one. Not like he cares now."

"That might be the first truly nice thing I heard about Hal."

Stooper grunted, and he kept staring ahead. "Yeah, he was…kind of rude most of the time."

I turned my head so I was looking at Stooper's left ear. "You have any ideas about who killed him?"

He grinned. "Present company not included?"

"Funny." I took a swig of water.

"Who was he with that night?"

I spewed water and wiped my mouth. "What do you mean?"

Stooper looked at me. "I was on the curb, by the grate near Farm and More. Hal drove by. I think someone was following him. At least, they honked, like Hal should slow down. Hal was kind of weaving." He paused. "Or I was."

My first thought was random. I knew why it smelled near that grate sometimes. "So you saw him that night. What time?"

"After the tavern shut."

That would be after midnight, and it was probably the best time estimate Stooper would be able to give. "Did you talk to the sheriff about this?"

He looked surprised. "He must know."

"Not this, not if it was that late at night."

"Huh. Well, I was pretty drunk. I guess it could have been one car."

I rested my head on my knees, then looked up. "You should probably tell the sheriff anyway."

"He's kind of mad at me now."

"Why?"

"Threw up in the jail last two times I was in there."

We were both quiet for a moment.

"You grew up here, right?" I asked.

"Yep. 'Bout half-mile from here. Bit north."

"Any family besides your parents?"

His tone was bitter. "You remember my old man?"

"Not a lot, just that he, um…."

"Drank a lot."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be, to sound insulting. I was just thinking there must be people who've known you a long time. Who know you're honest."

He did a sideways glance at me. "What makes you think I'm honest?"

"All the years I was at the paper, no one ever said you so much as tried to skip paying for beer or punched anyone at Beer Rental Heaven."

"Not much of a fighter. And I am honest. But no one would believe a drunk."

"Hmm. Sheriff Gallagher might, but the IDI agents may not give you too much credit." I shrugged. "Would you mind telling the sheriff you saw Hal that night?"

"Spose I could. You think it matters?"

"I'm pretty sure no one saw him after about eight o'clock at his house. Do you remember the direction he was going?"

"Let's see. I was on the curb, facing the street. Hal was coming from my left, so heading out of town. West, that would be."

Toward Syl's place.