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  “Estimation of post-mortem interval in water is difficult.” Ward continued to remove the sheet. “But temperature is likely to be the more reliable factor governing decompositional changes . . .”

  Ward pointed at the woman’s hands.

  “Palms of the hands show effects of immersion consistent with my initial estimate.”

  The skin there was wrinkled and looked . . . loose. Tom struggled to not back away. He tried to be clinical, detached. He noted how the hair was falling out. And how the fingernails were close to slipping off.

  “Water permeates sweat ducts and alters electrolyte composition . . .”

  Tom thought Ward was enjoying himself, the change in demeanor subtle, but there.

  “Autonomic nerve fibers in the digits are triggered.” Ward took gentle hold of one of the body’s hands. “Ah, see here, the vasoconstriction has caused this negative digital pulp pressure.” He gently flexed the fingers back and forth.

  “What does that mean?” Tom felt dizzy. Get it together, man. “It means wrinkles? I need to know if this woman died of natural causes or was murdered.”

  Ward moved toward the feet, as if he hadn’t heard. Tom looked over the bloated and bluish body and took a step closer.

  “What about a SAFE kit? Even if any serological evidence was washed away, if she was raped there could be internal cuts, scarring—”

  “Patience, Agent Lange.” Ward hunched over the feet.

  Due to the discoloration of the skin, it was hard to see if there was any bruising, but Tom’s eyes kept roving over the body. “What about the head, have you checked the head?”

  Ward stood upright and looked across the corpse at Tom, his eyes now obscured by the reflective goggles. He walked to the other end of the body, trading looks with Andrea. Tom should have smeared the damn cream under his nose — the odor was threatening to knock him over, the room was too cramped. He was getting edgy.

  Ward started going through the hair and then stopped, beckoning to Andrea who came closer with the camera. He lifted some hair out of the way and she took several pictures.

  “What is it?” Tom wanted a closer look but they crowded him out.

  Ward answered into the recorder. “Two short lacerations have been identified where the parietal and occipital bones meet.” He peered down, pushing more hair aside. Some of the hair was coming off on his gloves. “There is some bruising, a significant abrasion along the Lambdoid suture.”

  Blunt force trauma, Tom thought. The excitement eclipsed his discomfort. “She was hit in the head.” He leaned in, still trying to get a closer look, his revulsion overcome.

  “The cuts are old,” Ward said. “One should not immediately assume that blunt force trauma is the cause of death.”

  “But, she was struck.”

  “Or, she fell.” He raised his voice a tick, Tom thought, for the benefit of the recording. “For purposes of death certification, it should be noted that blunt force trauma may be the proximate cause of death. But the immediate cause of death could be a natural disease process.”

  Still groping her head, Ward’s eyes zeroed in on Tom’s. Their faces were inches apart. “For example, individuals may die of infections, thromboembolism, or organ failure that occurs as a delayed result of previous blunt force trauma. In some cases, the injury may have occurred many years before death.”

  “You think this occurred years ago?”

  Ward retreated, and looked the body over. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t.”

  * * *

  When Blythe arrived, Tom was sitting in the breezeway next to the gardens, his mask removed, head in his hands.

  He looked up at Blythe. “How did it go with the press?”

  “Oh they’ll be camped there all day, reporters standing in front of the water, swatting mosquitos.”

  Blythe had a sense of humor after all.

  “Are we going to release a statement?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  She surprised him by sitting down next to him. “Well, that depends on what we think. We can work with Heather Kibble, the ADA for the twentieth circuit. She’s with the Homicide Unit, and she’s waiting on our word. How is the autopsy coming along?”

  “The victim has bruises and cuts at the back of her head. They did an X-ray and her skull was cracked, probable brain swelling. They did the rape kit and sent it to the crime lab, but it doesn’t look like there was a sexual assault. He’s not sure though. He’s not sure about anything.”

  Tom looked at the white mask he was holding, turning it around in his hands.

  A silence developed and Tom was afraid of how he looked — petulant, even afraid. “You know, I understand that—”

  “Forensic pathologists like Ward are specially trained to perform autopsies. Thirteen years of schooling, including a four-year residency in anatomical and clinical pathology and one year in a forensic pathology fellowship. You’re not the only one top of his class — like I said, Ward is the best. And the District Medical Examiner’s Office primarily handles death investigation.”

  “Until there’s evidence of homicide,” Tom challenged. “And I think there is. I think someone hit that woman in the back of the head. Then they dumped her in the water.”

  “So you don’t think the estuary is the primary crime scene.”

  “No.”

  She nodded.

  “But we have no suspects,” he said.

  “It’s early yet.”

  Tom looked at her. She was like a different person this afternoon. This morning she’d been icy and all-business, now she seemed almost friendly. He wondered what had changed.

  “What do you want to do, Tom?”

  She seemed to be testing him. He thought of the way Ward had gently prodded the body in the water. She was prodding him now, seeing what he would do. While this was an investigation, it was also his proving ground.

  He stood up. He’d had plenty of time to think while Ward had performed the painstaking examination.

  “Well, obviously we need to identify her. No personal effects have been located, no wallet or phone, her skin is mush for fingerprints. So, I want to get a forensic artist here. Have them do a sketch of the victim’s face, add the eyes, make her alive. Then I want to get into NamUs and start searching demographics, physical characteristics, distinguishing marks.”

  NamUs — the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System — was the latest national system, crossing state, county, and municipal borders, reaching between different law enforcement agencies. NamUs was unique because the general public had equal access.

  “Maybe someone on the public side of NamUs is searching, too, like her family. So we need to get the victim in there, get the sketch, details, assign a case number.”

  Blythe seemed pleased. He was about to continue when his phone rang.

  It was Machado. Blythe made a nod, indicating he take it.

  “Hey there,” Machado said. “So, here’s what I pulled from the past week. I focused on 10-44s and sexual assault. Demographically, Caucasian women, ages twenty to thirty-five.”

  “What did you get?”

  “A bartender named Darlene DeMerse reported an assault five days ago. Didn’t press charges, though, so we don’t have a name for the assailant, just her address. Then there is Joan Prentice, a school accountant, and she did file charges for sexual assault. His name is Bob Sturgess. That was two days ago. Most recently, a woman named Kimberly Monroe was hospitalized for a concussion, apparently told the medical staff her husband did it, but ended up withdrawing charges. These are all within a three-mile radius of Rookery Bay. That’s it, that’s what I’ve got for County. Naples PD might have more.”

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  “You got it. I’ll send you the info in an email.”

  He hung up and relayed the information to Blythe. He waited for her to come to terms with the morning, the autopsy, the possibility of blunt force trauma as enough to officially launch t
he investigation.

  “Here’s what,” Blythe said. “When’s the last time you ate?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Okay. Go home, get something to eat. Take a shower. And wash your clothes — the smell is hard to get out.”

  She handed him a light, black binder, not much in it. “That’s your copy of the murder book. You can start your NamUs case from home, or go to the field office. Whichever you want. Keep on it all night. County is working the bay, going through the volunteers and conservation officers. And for those assault cases, we’ll have County do some door to door.”

  “We should look at Kimberly Monroe first,” he said. “She was hospitalized for a concussion. We ought to talk to the husband, see where he was last Wednesday through Friday.”

  “I’ll handle it. And tomorrow, eight a.m. sharp, we’ll meet at the lab and go over the clothing, alright?”

  “Alright.”

  “We’re going to call this a homicide, at least unofficially. I’ll tell the commissioner and contact ADA Kibble. We’ll give the press conference tomorrow afternoon, with or without an ID.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A car blared its horn and Tom realized he was sitting at a green light, lost in thought. He stomped the gas and continued down 41 until the traffic slowed for the Fifth Avenue junction. Fifth Avenue was clogged with more traffic inching along past the ritzy shops. Then it all faded in his mirrors as he drove to the outskirts of Naples.

  Tom lived in Lely, a large plot of land subdivided into golf courses and condo complexes and neighborhoods with single-family homes. He wound through the residential streets with tall palm trees brown and brittle in the stolid heat. He turned into his complex, hit the button on his visor and rolled the Jeep into the garage.

  Blythe was right: the smell of the morgue clung to his clothes. He could still feel the grit of sand between his toes. He took his copy of the murder book and went inside.

  He scrubbed thoroughly in the shower, taking a good ten minutes longer than usual, shampooing his hair twice. He dried, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and took a seat in the living room. While he waited for the laptop to boot up, he stared at the sign hanging above the wall-mounted TV.

  Congratulations, Tom!

  The celebration had been Charlene’s idea. Charlene was a retired teacher who lived with her ailing husband and tiny Pomeranian a few doors down. Tom mostly kept to himself, but Charlene had special powers when it came to finding out information.

  First, in casual conversation she’d learned of his enrollment in the basic recruiter program in Fort Myers. Next, Charlene had intercepted him on the way back from the mailboxes and spied an envelope from the ROC containing the results of his State Officer Certification Exam. After she’d hounded him for the results, in the sweet way she had, he told her he’d passed. He didn’t share that he’d gotten a perfect score. He was in, his pending application with the state bureau sure to go through. Charlene had baked a cake, brought her enfeebled husband and their dog over. She’d also invited her friend, Alicia, a single mother with a four-year-old daughter. Charlene was trying to play matchmaker, she had been since Tom moved in eighteen months ago.

  His brother, Nick, had got him the condo. It had been an incredible deal, in a buyer’s market, and Nick had some decent connections. Fort Myers was an hour away and home to the ROC and crime lab, but there were field offices in Sarasota, Sebring, and Naples. Tom could work from home or drive ten minutes to the Naples field office when needed. Plus, living in the same city as his older brother, he could keep an eye on him.

  The laptop was ready, and Tom opened up NamUs and logged on.

  The most recent entry had come in just a minute ago.

  Case#: 5091702 UP# 6857

  Date of Death/Discovery: 04/20/17 (Wooded area at 11431 U.S. Highway 19, Port Richey, FL 34668) (USA Flea Market)

  Law Enforcement Agency: Pasco County Sheriff’s Office #09-67244

  Physical Description & Other Information: Adult white/male found decomposing and partially burned. Estimated age 39–65, height 5’10”, wearing bright colored “Joe Boxer” underwear size L and light colored shirt, also found with battery powered blanket.

  Sounded like a homeless person. Florida was full of them, and Everglades had more than any other county. Wherever you had woods, you had people living in them. Tom had considered the possibility that their victim had been homeless.

  He spent the next hour searching the missing person side of NamUs. He’d set his parameters for female, aged 20–40, height 5’6”, light brown hair. He cached a dozen reports that came close to fitting the description, then initiated a new file for the victim. NamUs assigned it a number and Tom had just started to populate the fields, clicking away at the keys when his phone rang. The incoming number was Nick’s.

  “Tommy! I saw the news. Are you on this case? Where were you? You weren’t standing there — some woman was. Smokin’ hot for an older lady. Who is she?”

  Nick liked to ask more questions than could reasonably be answered. He also rarely engaged in small talk.

  “My supervisor,” Tom answered.

  “Sweet, bro. Holy shit, pretty big case, huh? I mean, what’ve they got you doing?”

  “I’m working the body. And doing a missing persons search.”

  “The body? You? Dude, you hate that shit. Did they cut anything open? Pull all the body parts out? Was she raped? I mean, they have tests to determine that sort of thing, don’t they?”

  “I can’t really say.”

  “Alright, alright. Yeah, I get it. So — what, you’re like probably totally swamped, huh? Yeah. Alright I won’t bother you. Oh — but hey, did you have a party? I got a message on my phone from Charlene. I was in Tampa yesterday and didn’t check my messages. What the hell, man?”

  Tom rested his head on the chair and looked up at the ceiling. Already Nick was overwhelming him. Nick had been that type of kid — full of life. He’d been into sports, clubs, anything social. A true extrovert. Nick loved the real estate business for introducing him to wide range of folks. And as an artist, Nick was phenomenal with a pen, he loved doing portraits. Lately, though, Nick’s upbeat moods could border on mania. And when he went the other direction, when he got down, the lows were low.

  “The party was just a little thing, Nick. Honestly, I think Charlene just wanted to get Alicia over here.”

  “Alicia, huh? Sounds hot. Sounds nice. How did that go? You lay some pipe?”

  “Went okay. No.” He quickly diverted the conversation. “Hey, while I still got you on the phone — you ever volunteer for the Reserve again? You did like a year ago, right? You still do it?”

  “No, no. I did the one thing, the one project. We picked up all those shells for a week. Fuck, dude. I mean, great to give back and everything, but kinda tedious.”

  Tom got up and went up to his bedroom. “How’s work?”

  “Real estate?”

  “No, dipshit, aeronautics.”

  “Hey now . . . Well, I’ve got a decent property showing tomorrow. Right in your area. Things are okay. Little slow right now. But listen, Tommy, you know, you don’t have to beat around the bush. You got a big new case, you just started as a special agent. You’ve been wanting this since we were kids. I get it. If this weekend is too busy, you know, just tell me.”

  Tom winced. Nick sounded sincere, but if Tom broke plans, he’d be hurt as hell.

  Nick had never recovered from what happened to them as kids. And he’d stopped visiting their shrink, Dr. Camden, before Tom had. For one thing, Nick was two years older and once he’d hit eighteen, the court could no longer mandate him to see a psychiatrist.

  Tom walked across the bedroom to grab his cigarettes from the top drawer. As he pulled them out he glanced at the photograph. They were only boys, Nick eight and Tom six, both of them shirtless. Nick had a huge grin, baby teeth missing, jutting his chin for the camera. He had his arm around Tom. Tom smiled softly, a distant look in his eyes. They were st
anding on the bank by the lake, birch trees behind them.

  “I don’t know,” Tom said. “Yeah, things are busy. So . . .”

  “Okay.” Nick was abrupt. “Well, good luck with the job, Tommy.”

  Tom opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out.

  “You there?” Nick asked.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  Tom suddenly felt like he couldn’t stand. He stretched out on the floor. He wanted to say things to his brother, he wanted to ask — was it doing any good to get together each year for their little ritual? Or was it just opening the wound each time? Their parents were gone over twenty years. He could hardly remember them.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Tom lay flat on his back. “Okay? Nicky?”

  “Bye, Tommy.” Nick hung up.

  Tom dropped the phone on the floor and rubbed his face. Twenty years. Twenty years. More than twice as long as his parents had been a living part of his life, they’d been ghosts.

  But Tom and Nick had made a pact — they would never forget. No matter what had happened with their father, for their mother they would get together each year, on the anniversary of her death.

  He rolled his head to look at the phone, thinking about Nick. He had to put this aside now, there was too much to do. He sat up, grunting, and stared blankly into the room for a moment. Then the doorbell rang, snapping him out of it.

  Tom rose to his feet. He pulled on his shirt and went downstairs. He wasn’t expecting anyone.

  He opened the door and saw Alicia standing there, little Gwen in her arms, the girl clinging to her mother.

  Alicia had a bloody lip and a bruise on the side of her face.

  “I’m sorry.” There were tears welling in her eyes. “I didn’t know where else to go. I can’t do it anymore. I just can’t do it.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tom ushered Alicia and Gwen into the house, noticing a truck at the far end of the complex, engine idling. He could see the shape of the driver behind the windshield.