Redemption (A Joe Burgess Mystery, Book 3) (9 page)

Christ, they weren't ready to die; they were barely nineteen. Once Reggie was loaded and the chopper lifted off, he'd gotten down on his knees in a frigging rice paddy, deafened by the whomp overhead, and prayed that Reggie would make it. He'd been pulling for Reggie to make it ever since. Until he'd given up on the church, he'd spent plenty of hours on his knees, praying for Reggie. Now he faced the indisputable evidence that Reggie
hadn't
made it.

"Going to sample some of this water in the lungs," Lee was saying. "And some from his sinus cavities." He dictated some notes on the frothy fluid in the airways and lungs, the congested lungs, and fluid in the paranasal sinuses and went to work on the organs, carefully drawing blood from the heart.

As Lee recorded a steady stream of comments about his findings, he cast the occasional assessing look at Burgess. When he pulled out the liver and weighed it, he paused.

"He hadn't gone in the water, this would have killed him. Soon. Certainly accounts for the emaciation." He looked at Burgess. "I think I should see his medical history." Burgess made a note. Lee made some comments as he sliced and sectioned the liver for further study. "You said he was a drinker?" Burgess nodded. "Could just be that, but I'm going to take a closer look. I've seen a lot of cirrhotic livers. Something different about this one. Funny necrosis."

So it went. Burgess hanging by a thread, Wink watchful, and Lee coolly professional until he'd carefully replaced the removed and sectioned organs. Then he nodded at Albert, and stripped off his gloves.

"You've definitely got a death by drowning, Joe," he said. "Beyond that, I've got some things to look into. Take a look at the lungs and that liver. The water in his lungs and his stomach. Toxicology. Analyze the heart blood. Get that bruised tissue under the microscope. If you're looking for something to tell your bosses..."

He arched one dark brow, as though he knew which boss was waiting to write off the guy on the table. The Maine law enforcement community was small. Burgess's history with Cote, and everyone's frustration with the man, were well known. "You can say that the initial autopsy results were inconclusive but that there are a sufficient number of oddities suggesting it wasn't a natural death, that the case warrants further study."

There was a trace of a smile on the thin mouth. "Enough to keep you working?"

"It's enough," Burgess said. "Thanks, doc."

Again, that trace of a smile hovered. "You want my unofficial opinion, Joe?"

This was unusual. Dr. Lee rarely theorized about anything. "I do."

"I won't go on record until I have some testing to corroborate this, but I believe those bruises will prove to be pre-mortem." Lee paused, unable to resist a bit of drama. "There's no laryngeal spasm to suggest he went into cold water. There isn't lividity in his face and head. The initial report says he wasn't found in a fetal or semifetal position. I've got that hair I found in his lungs. And some of the changes in the lung tissue suggest that when we test the water from his lungs, his sinuses and his stomach, we'll find this was a freshwater drowning."

Chapter 6

On his way to see Reggie's brother, Burgess checked in with Melia, alerting his lieutenant that the autopsy was inconclusive and they were still dealing with a suspicious death. Then he left a message for Captain Cote. Cote insisted on getting regular reports, even on weekends when he wasn't there to receive them. He often paid no attention when he was. Despite his inattention, Cote had a habit of holding press conferences and blurting out details they wanted kept under wraps. Burgess had found the best way to keep information confidential was to bury it in the middle of reports.

Here Burgess wanted it up front. When he was flipped to voicemail, he said, "It's Burgess. About the Reginald Libby case. The autopsy was inconclusive. ME thinks we're looking at a suspicious death, pending test results." Then he pushed Cote and associated aggravations out of his head.

He headed west from Augusta toward Belgrade, a part of the state dotted with beautiful lakes, some nice farming country, and a lot of evidence that whatever economic boom might have raised the rest of the country, rural Maine was still pretty heavily into making do. That evidence included the number of aged cars and trucks by the roadside with "For Sale" signs. Dooryards littered with the junk of perpetual yard sales. Foundations banked with hay and attic windows lined with plastic in preparation for winter. Vehicles on blocks with people working on them, and enough worn, peeling, and blistered paint on dwellings to suggest a mass exodus of house painters to more lucrative climes.

There hadn't been a frost yet and the gardens he passed bloomed with fall flowers, explosions of color against the still green grass. Gardens his mother would have loved, that woman who could coax Eden out of the meager yard of a cheap three-decker. The summer had been dry and hot but fall rains had revived wilted gardens and sustained a late crop. Farm stands still offered baskets of ripe tomatoes alongside apples, raspberries, pears, melons, potatoes, pumpkins, and squash. Big signs announced homemade pies and cider. Occasionally, a capped truck along the roadside advertised "Whoopie Pies."

Nina and Neddy, great lovers of whoopie pies, always clamored to stop, and Chris was happy to join them. Burgess didn't have a sweet tooth; he had a meat tooth. Not the best thing for preserving heart health when he was overweight and under-exercised. He was less overweight than when he'd met Chris, and better exercised. But salads, however healthy, couldn't sustain him through missed meals. When he was on the road or coming off a ten-hour crime scene, he never longed for mixed lettuce or a handful of baby carrots.

Today, though he was an appetite-driven man, he had no appetite. He longed for anesthesia—the kind that came in a bottle and had ruined Reggie's life. The kind that had destroyed his own father and caused his mother so much pain. He knew better. He rarely drank during a work day, even when that day became night became day again, and a quick shot offered tempting relief. The exception was those times he'd drink with someone to get information. If sitting down with a bottle was going to lower someone's guard and loosen their tongue, he might do it.

Willpower only negated the action, though, not the urge. Sometimes, when the urge was strong, he could almost taste bourbon's sweet heat and bite, feel the way a thin slick of it would coat his mood like an antacid, spreading out along his nerves, soothing as silk. Like now, when his weekend, his mood, his relationship—hell, his whole life was so fucked up.

The general public might not know it, but this, too, was a big part of the cop's reality. Asked to live with these crazy hours, horrific sights, screwed up family life, and never exhibit any emotion. Cops were expected to have self-control. Right now, a corrosive mix of anger at Cote's dismissive "nothing but an old wino," the pain of seeing Reggie carved up, and the ugly possibility that someone had taken Reggie's life was eroding his self-control, filling him with seeping black rage.

He jerked the wheel suddenly, pulling off onto a side road and bumping to a stop in an abandoned gravel pit. He slammed the Explorer into park, grabbed two big orange traffic cones from the back, duct-taped two of Cote's glossy black and white official photographs to the cones, and set them up against a high gravel embankment. Then he backed off and emptied a clip into the first one, stenciling a perfect cross on his boss's face. Probably as close as that asshole would ever come to religion.

He wondered if anything in Cote's miserable, paper-pushing life had ever sent him into a church to pray. Whether Cote had ever asked for anything for someone else. Maybe a heartworm cure for his dog? Cote was very attached to something allegedly canine that resembled a fluffy rat. CID had had a photo of him kissing said canine up on the wall until Melia made them take it down.

He shoved another clip in the gun, backed up farther, and shot again. Only half done, he walked back to the truck, reloaded the clip, and finished the job. There wasn't much left of Cote's face under the peace sign, but Burgess felt better. He threw the massacred cones into the back, shredded Cote into confetti and let the breeze take him. Then he drove to Clay's.

It was going to be like two guys rubbing themselves with sandpaper, but he had to go. He owed Clay the decency of a face-to-face about Reggie's end. He tried to do for people what he'd like done for him, to show respect for the dead and for the living. He also needed to learn what Clay knew about Reggie's recent activities, health, and job. Clay hadn't said much on the phone, but a lot of times, people weren't aware of what they knew. On the phone, he'd had to let Clay go have his grief. Face-to-face, he could take his time. Watch and listen and follow up. He'd told Chris not to expect him for dinner.

Traveling the long dirt driveway to Clay's farm made his bones ache. Not only because potholes from the recent rains made it a jarring ride. This road, lined with tired split-rail fences and fading roses, reminded him of all the times he'd brought Reggie here. Sometimes in good shape, talkative and optimistic, ready for his summer of work on the farm. Other times just out of the bin, or so strung out on drugs and booze his pores reeked of alcohol and he was alternately nodding off or incoherent. Between them, he and Clay had patched Reggie together countless times, always hoping this would be the time it would finally take, the wounds would heal, Reggie would stay on his feet. It was like bailing an emotional sea. But when you care for someone, when you're bound to them like he and Clay were to Reggie, you always let hope triumph over experience.

A dog, some smart, sturdy, middle-sized country dog mix, met him at the road and trailed him up the drive to the house. It positioned itself between the truck and Clay as Burgess parked and got out, giving a few warning barks so Burgess knew what was what.

Clay sat on the front steps, staring out at nothing. He stood when Burgess climbed out of the truck, a heftier, grayer, slightly stooped version of Reggie. He had his hands in his pockets, his head just slightly tilted to one side, like he was listening for something. He quieted the dog with a murmur. When Burgess got closer, he saw Clay's eyes were red.

"So what happened to my brother?" he began without a greeting. "Was it an accident or did he finally decide he'd had enough?"

Procedure was to not answer the question. Say what you need to say, don't share anything more than you have to. Just deliver your news, ask your questions, and get the hell out. A good cop absorbed the training
and learned how to make judgments about it—reading situations and deciding when to follow procedure, when to be more open. "ME isn't certain yet. He's got more tests to do. But his tentative opinion...?"

Reggie's brother leaned forward, his lips slightly parted, holding his breath the way people did when they anticipated bad news.

"He thinks it's a suspicious death."

Clay gasped, half to get some air and half in shock. "Suspicious? You mean someone did this deliberately? Like murder?" Burgess nodded. "Oh, no. No!" Clay shook his head vigorously. "It doesn't make any sense. Why would anyone want to hurt Reggie?"

"I'm hoping you can help me figure that out."

Clay swung his arms wide, Reggie's eyes staring from his brother's face, a reddened muddle of incredulity. "I don't see how I can help with that, Joe. You know he wasn't the confiding type, but I wouldn't have thought Reggie had enemies. You'd better come inside. I'm feeling like I need a drink. Pour you one, too, if that's okay. Mary's still away, and drinking by myself last night? Shoot, Joe, you know, by about half past twelve, I wasn't sure I was me or I was Reggie."

Burgess nodded, knowing it was only because Chris and the kids had been there that he hadn't done the same. As it was, he'd been awake half the night, thinking about Reggie. His eyes were probably as red as Clay's. "A drink would be good."

Inside the homey old kitchen, Clay sagged heavily into a chair while Burgess found glasses and grabbed the bourbon bottle off the counter. Next to the bottle was a framed photograph of three children: Clay, Reggie, and a little girl. Burgess brought it to the table, poured them each a drink, and settled into his own chair. To get the conversation going, he asked, "Who's the girl?"

"Our cousin Cindy. Dad's brother's daughter. She pretty much grew up with us through junior high, when they moved away. She's around here somewhere but I don't see her anymore. She's gotten real weird. Into herbs and tarot. Calls herself Star now."