Body Of Evidence

Chapter Two

Hampden Court, Friday, June 29, 6:00 a.m.

The sound of traffic on the street outside her East Lincoln Park graystone woke Marissa. The room-darkening Roman shades she’d ordered when she first bought the house nearly two years ago did their job very well, ensuring that the room was pitch-black. Working nights more often than not at the ER required sleeping in the daytime. Not so easy to do without the darkness.

There were times when total darkness was a good thing.

This was her rare long weekend, so she could sleep in this morning. Her next scheduled shift was Tuesday. She intended to treat herself the next couple of days. Some long-overdue shopping, maybe a mani-pedi. She pulled the silky sheet close around her and toyed with the idea of actually sleeping in. How long had it been since she’d stayed in bed until noon unless she’d worked until seven or eight in the morning? Besides, the shops wouldn’t open for hours.

Then she remembered William’s cruel words—the angry promise that he was going to kill himself and her.

She had an appointment at the Colby Agency at nine. A weary sigh whispered across her lips. She should get up, shower and figure out something to wear. Well before her divorce, her social life had died a slow, suffocating death. It had been so long since she’d needed something professional to wear that wasn’t scrubs, much less anything vaguely dressy, that she had no idea what had survived the move from the Lake Shore condo she and William had shared.

It was now or never. With the intention of getting up, she threw back the thin, silky sheet. Her hand bumped a strange lump in the bed.

What in the world?

Had she left all the throw pillows on the bed? She generally piled them on the chaise lounge when she drew back the covers before bed. But she’d been tired last night. Maybe she’d just tossed them aside. Her hand moved over the mound.

Firm.

Not pillows.

Her fingers traced what felt like a leg that became a hip.

Human.

Marissa shot up from the bed and stumbled as she groped at the lamp. Her heart pounded against her sternum. Light pooled across the king-size bed.

She saw the hand first.

She tilted her head and studied the familiar fingers. Long, round-tipped.

Even before her gaze swung up to the pillow and the head resting there, she knew it was William.

Lying on his side, facing her, he stared, unblinking eyes cloudy with death. Impossible. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to dispel the image. Yet, when she opened her eyes once more, he was still there. The room spun around her. She shook herself. Swayed precariously before she snapped from the shock of seeing her former husband lying in her bed, obviously dead.

Marissa scrambled across the bed to him. Blood had puddled on the pillow behind his head and oozed down onto the sheet behind his shoulder. His dark hair was matted at the back of his neck. This could not be happening. She leaned closer to determine the source of the blood—a small hole at the base of his skull. The flesh around it was puckered and purplish. The life-giving fluid no longer seeped. Heart and pulse racing, her mind screaming at her to do something, she touched her fingers to his carotid artery.

Nothing.

Dear God, he was dead.

His skin was cool. Gray.

No. No. No.

He couldn’t be dead. Not here. Not like this. Not possible.

She pushed him onto his back and ripped open his shirt. Buttons flew across the bed and the floor.

Pressing her cheek to his chest, she listened for a heartbeat, tried to feel his chest rise and fall.

Nothing. No heartbeat. No rush of blood.

Would CPR do anything?

She stared at his ashen skin. Cold. No pulse. Somewhere on the periphery of her consciousness, she noted the darkened area along the right side of his body where he’d been lying...livor mortis. The blood had pooled at the lowest point when his heart stopped beating. His eyes remained open, his unseeing gaze now fixed on the ceiling.

Feeling completely numb, she fought to summon some sort of emotional distance as she picked up his hand, felt the stiffness in his fingers and in the entire length of his arm.

He had been dead for several hours.

Trembling, she placed his hand on the sheet and scooted back to her side of the bed and off. She stood and grabbed for her cell on the table next to the bed. A quick tug pulled it loose from the power cord. She hit the three digits that would bring help.

When the dispatcher finished her spiel, Marissa spoke with remarkable calmness. “My name is Marissa Frasier.” She provided her address. “My husband—ex-husband,” she amended, “is dead. Please send the police.”

The brief blip of calm deserted her, and Marissa collapsed onto the floor as she answered the rest of the woman’s questions. Was she injured? No. What was her ex-husband’s name? William Bauer. Had there been a violent encounter? No. What was the nature of the victim’s injuries?

“He’s been shot.” The words were whispered. How could this be? She’d been sleeping in the bed right next to him.

For that matter, how had her husband been shot and ended up in her bed? Did he even have a key to this house? She had never given him one...

More questions from the dispatcher. Was she armed? No. Was there anyone else in the house? No. Wait. Her heart slammed into a frantic rhythm once more. She didn’t think so. Marissa scrambled to her feet and moved slowly through the second floor of her home. She thought of the only weapon she owned. It was in the lockbox in the drawer of her bedside table. Should she go back for it?

The front doorbell sounded from downstairs and the dispatcher informed her that it was the police and emergency services; she should answer the door now. Marissa descended the stairs, disbelief swaddling her like a thick fog. Every creak of the century-old staircase echoed in her brain, seeming to ask how anyone—even William—climbed these very stairs to her room without her hearing. How had he climbed in bed next to her without her rousing?

She’d been tired, for sure. She’d slept hard. Even had a bit of a sleep hangover. Still, when they were married and working different shifts, she never failed to wake up when he came home. In college, she’d always awakened when her roommates came in—no matter how quiet they had tried to be.

As she approached the front door with its three-quarter glass panel, she realized she should have changed or grabbed a robe. Her lounge pants and tank covered her, but the fabric was thin. She suddenly felt exposed and so very cold.

Two uniformed officers stood on her stoop. The flashing lights of an ambulance sat at the curb. Another couple of uniforms hustled up the steps to join the group. This was real. William was dead...in her home.

Steadying herself, Marissa twisted the dead bolt to the unlock position and opened the door.

“Ma’am.” The first man in uniform gave her a nod. “I’m Officer Jacob Tolliver. One of my fellow officers is going to stay out here on the stoop while another has a look around outside. My partner and I are coming inside to have a look around. Do you understand?”

His question warned her that she apparently appeared as much in shock as she felt. She nodded. “Yes. He—he’s in the bedroom. Second door on the left upstairs.”

“You’re certain there is no one else in the house?”

“Just me and...my...him, and he’s dead.” She tried to remember her precise steps. “I didn’t check the third floor.”

Officer Tolliver nodded, then he and his partner walked past her and headed for the stairs. Marissa blinked slowly as the paramedics from the ambulance came inside next. She leaned against the wall and slid down until her bottom hit the floor.

William was dead.

He’d said he was going to kill himself.

The location of the bullet hole—and she was certain that was what it was—wasn’t consistent with a self-inflicted gunshot wound. She had seen her share. But, even if he had somehow managed to shoot himself in the back of the head, how did he get into her room? Into her bed?

She had no idea how much time passed before one of the officers helped her up and escorted her to the sofa.

“Dr. Frasier,” he said gently, “first, is there anyone we can call for you?”

Marissa’s lips parted, the reply on the tip of her tongue, but then she closed her mouth. There was no one to call. Her brother, her only living relative, was in South America with a group of doctors who were donating the next two weeks to areas with little or no available medical care.

William was dead...not that she had been able to call upon him for any sort of help in ages.

Eva...the Colby Agency.

“I should send a text to one of my colleagues and let her know what’s happened.” Dear God, she needed to call William’s family.

“Why don’t you let us take care of that?”

Marissa provided Eva’s number to another of the officers who appeared, and he assured her he would make the call. She wasn’t entirely certain why the officer preferred to make the call himself rather than have her do it. She supposed it had something to do with ensuring she didn’t share the details of William’s death, since there would be an investigation.

Investigation. Murder. Someone had murdered William.

Her lips trembled. This was a homicide investigation, and she was a person of interest. Her hand went to her mouth, and the urge to vomit was nearly overwhelming. Dear God.

“Dr. Frasier, can you start from the beginning and tell me what happened?”

Her mind still steeped in disbelief, she recounted all that had happened since she woke up. Twice he stopped her and urged her to take her time. The clearer the details, the better. She tried her very best to speak slowly and not leave anything out.

More people came into her home. The latest two were fully clad in disposable garb—gloves, white coveralls, matching hair covers, masks and booties. Forensic techs, she realized. They were here to collect evidence of the crime that had taken place in her home.

The shooting. The murder.

How in the world had William been shot right next to her without her hearing it? Wouldn’t there have been a struggle?

No sooner had she finished her story to the officer than another pair of official-looking men walked in. These two wore business suits.

“Dr. Frasier,” Tolliver said as he stood, “this is Detective Nader and his partner, Detective Watts. They’ll be taking over from here.”

The man named Nader took the chair that Tolliver vacated. Watts followed the officer up the stairs.

Marissa’s throat felt dry. She wished for water or coffee. Anything.

“Let’s start at the top, Dr. Frasier. I want to know everything you remember from the time you got home last night.”

Marissa started at the beginning once more and told the detective the same story she’d told the officer. Nader asked her about her relationship with William. She flinched. Of course he would want to know those details. Most likely the officer simply hadn’t gotten that far in his interrogation.

Because this was an interrogation. Not merely an interview. A man was dead.

As briefly as possible, Marissa explained her relationship with William, culminating with the recent volatile history—his words to her last night outside the ER.

Nader did a lot of scribbling.

Marissa wrung her hands together, wished again that she had a jacket or sweater and a bottle of water or a cup of coffee.

A female officer approached Nader and whispered something in his ear. The two of them glanced at Marissa.

“Give me a minute,” Nader said.

The officer stepped back to the front door and waited there.

“You know a fellow named Lacon Traynor? Says he’s part of your legal and security team from the Colby Agency.”

Relief rushed through Marissa. “Yes.” Though she didn’t know the name Lacon Traynor, she absolutely knew the Colby Agency. Eva likely knew the man.

“Does the Colby Agency represent you?”

Marissa wasn’t sure how to answer that question. They did, in a manner of speaking, she supposed. Though she hadn’t technically met with Victoria yet and hadn’t signed any documents.

But William was dead—in her bed.

She needed help.

“Yes.” She hated that her voice quivered. “Yes, the Colby Agency and I are working together. Because...” She moistened her lips. “Because William’s behavior was becoming increasingly erratic and threatening.”

Nader sent a nod toward the waiting officer, who disappeared out the door.

“Nader!”

The shout came from the landing at the top of the stairs. Marissa’s gaze moved to the man who had called out. It was the other detective, Watts.

“Yeah?” Nader glanced over his shoulder.

“Bring the doc up here for a minute, will you?”

Nader stood. “Let’s have a look at your bedroom.”

Marissa followed the detective to the staircase. They waited at the bottom until the two paramedics had descended.

“Coroner’s on his way,” one of the paramedics said to Nader.

The detective nodded and the paramedics left. Marissa watched as they, too, disappeared out her front door. Suddenly she wanted to do exactly that. She didn’t want to be here any longer. She didn’t want to go back upstairs. There was blood in her bed.

Bile churned in her belly.

William was dead.

Nader gestured for her to go ahead of him. Her entire body had started to shake by the time they reached her bedroom door. She hugged herself tight. It wasn’t until she walked into the room this time that she smelled the stench of death. That unmistakable odor of rapidly decomposing cells, mixed with the metallic fetor of blood. The shades had been raised, filling the room with morning light. William remained on the bed. He would be there, she reminded herself, until the coroner arrived to take possession of the body.

The body. Dear God, why? Why would he do this? Yet the gunshot had been to the back of his head. He had not done this. She had to keep her thoughts straight. Her mind whirled madly. He had been murdered. She had to remember that. Someone had come into her home...

Her stomach clenched, and she suffered through another round of nausea. She had assumed that William had somehow gotten her key. But William couldn’t have done this...not alone anyway.

His killer had stood over her bed...had done these awful things while she slept.

“At any time after you awakened and found your husband—”

“Ex-husband,” she corrected Nader, her voice weak, practically a whisper.

He nodded. “After you discovered your dead ex-husband lying next to you, did you at any time walk to that side of the bed?”

Marissa had to think about the question for a moment, then she shook her head. “No. I scooted across the bed and pushed him onto his back.” She shrugged. “All I could think was that he needed CPR, but then I realized it was too late. I suppose I was in shock.” Her hand went to her throat. “I don’t see how this could have happened.” She looked around the room. “Here. With me asleep right next to him.”

Watts held up a clear bag with a handgun inside it. “Is this .22 caliber automatic yours, Dr. Frasier?”

Marissa peered at the bag. “It looks like mine.” She gestured to her night table. “May I?”

Watts and Nader nodded. One of them muttered, “Sure.”

She moved to the table and pulled open the top drawer. A fingernail file, a brush, the book she’d started reading months ago and never gotten back to. The nail polish she never seemed to have time to use, and the lockbox. She removed it from the drawer and opened it. No weapon.

Where was her gun?

“It’s not here.” She turned back to the detective holding the weapon. “Is there a way to determine if that one is actually mine?”

She instinctively understood that the weapon in the bag, the one that was probably hers, had been used to kill William.

“Our forensic experts will make that determination,” Watts assured her.

“We’d like to swab your hands,” Nader said.

She nodded. “Of course.” She had nothing to hide. Apparently she had slept through William’s murder. How was that possible? Wouldn’t she have heard the weapon fire? It might be small, but it was loud nonetheless. She’d fired it numerous times when she took that gun safety course. The sound would certainly have awakened her. The entire scene was sheer madness. None of this made sense.

Horror churned inside her.

Watts motioned for one of the techs to come do the honors. Marissa held her hands in front of her—they shook. The forensic tech carefully collected the samples from the skin on her hands then stepped away from her without ever making eye contact.

This was a nightmare. She squeezed her eyes shut, wondered again how this could be happening.

“We’d also like the clothes you’re wearing, Dr. Frasier.”

Marissa opened her eyes and met Nader’s steady gaze. The female officer was there now, as well.

“Officer Holcombe will accompany you to your closet. You might want to pack a few things. I’m afraid you won’t be able to come back into the house for a few days. We need time to properly process the scene.”

The scene.

“Of course.”

With Holcombe right behind her, Marissa went through the en suite to the large walk-in closet that had been a key selling point for the home. Moving mechanically, she packed jeans and T-shirts and her favorite sneakers into her overnight bag. She wasn’t due back to work until Tuesday. Surely they would be finished here by then. Just in case, she grabbed a set of scrubs as well as a pair of black dress slacks and a matching blouse, along with her favorite flats for meeting with Victoria Colby-Camp. She went back into the bathroom and gathered her toiletries.

Once she’d zipped the bag, Holcombe said, “I’ll just need you to remove your pajamas, ma’am.”

It wasn’t until then that Marissa remembered she was still wearing her pj’s. Rather than answer Holcombe, she returned to the closet and found another pair of jeans and a University of Illinois T-shirt. While the officer stood by, she stripped off her pj’s and dropped them into the waiting bag.

“I’ll need your underwear too, ma’am.”

Naked save for her underwear, Marissa went back to the closet, Holcombe on her heels, and snatched another pair of panties from the drawer. She slipped off the pair she was wearing and quickly shimmied into the clean ones. While Holcombe readied the bags for turning over to one of the forensic techs, Marissa quickly dragged on the jeans and a T-shirt. She’d already packed her sneakers, so she pulled on a pair of thong sandals. With the officer waiting for her, evidence bags in hand, she abruptly remembered she would need pj’s, too. She grabbed a pair and stuffed them into her bag with the rest.

With her bag hanging over her shoulder, she exited the bathroom and walked straight up to Nader. The coroner had arrived and was examining the body.

The body. It sounded so clinical. This was the man with whom she had thought she would spend the rest of her life...

“May I leave now?” She kept her gaze carefully averted from the activities across the room.

“You can.” He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a business card. “Call me if you think of anything else.” When she’d taken the card, he added, “I will have more questions, and there’s the official statement you’ll need to come downtown and make, so keep me informed of your location.”

Marissa nodded and hurried from the room. She felt sick and disgusted and aggrieved. How the hell had this happened? When she went to sleep last night, her biggest concern had been how to extract William from her life. Now she had to worry about whether she was a murder suspect.

Her heart hurt for William. She would never have wished him dead.

Downstairs, yet another new arrival stood near the stone fireplace perusing the framed photographs there. This one was male and tall, with sandy blond hair. He wasn’t like the others. He wore well-loved jeans, a sky blue shirt and a tan summer-weight suit jacket, but it was the cowboy boots that really set him apart from the others. He turned as she descended the last step and thrust out his hand, looking for all the world like a character from a modern-day Western movie who’d just stepped off the screen and into her living room.

“Lacon Traynor,” he said, “from the Colby Agency.”

Marissa took the final steps between them and accepted his hand for a quick shake. She wasn’t sure what she had expected when Eva mentioned calling the Colby Agency, but this towering, cowboy-boot-wearing guy was not it. He looked vaguely familiar, but for the life of her she couldn’t place him.

She finally found her voice. “Have we met?”

He gestured for her to follow him toward the kitchen. Her graystone was three stories and quite deep, but very narrow. When you walked in the front door you could see all the way out the back, with nothing but the staircase with the powder room tucked beneath it to hamper the flow. Beyond her kitchen was a set of French doors that led onto a rear deck. Beyond the deck was the small driveway. No garage, just a driveway. She was immensely grateful for something beyond street parking. A garage was on her wish list.