Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(15)

The microphones picked up the sound although it’s muted, and August describes seeing something being slipped over one camera, then the other.

“As the video is blacked out, you can hear a quiet crinkly noise, maybe some type of plastic bag,” he explains.

This occurred at 5:13 P.M. Two minutes later the code 1988 was entered to open the entrance gate. The year Gwen Hainey was born, and a stupid code for her to pick, August says.

“I’ve got to admit I’m wondering if it’s possible she orchestrated all this herself.” He grabs a pair of gloves out of a box as we continue suiting up inside the townhome’s entryway.

“Gwen covered the cameras, then open and shut the gates? How would that make any sense?” White Tyvek makes a rustling sound as I pull the hooded jumpsuit over my boots and clothing.

“It wouldn’t unless she’s staged something elaborate because she wanted to disappear,” he suggests. “And she’s trying to make it look like something happened to her.”

“There’s nothing staged about the dead woman inside my cooler,” I remind him.

“If it’s her.”

“It’s certainly looking like it so far. Did the cameras continue recording audio after they were covered?”

“Yes. But all you hear is the gates opening, and this creepy music, like someone was playing it inside the car really loud.”

“But you don’t hear the sound of an engine?” I double up on face masks, and a plastic shield goes over them, the visor flipped up for now. “Because that’s rather odd.”

“Well, the mics were covered, and maybe the engine’s a quiet one,” he says as I wonder what kind of car Gwen’s ex, Jinx Slater, drives. “Maybe the labs will pick up something when the recordings are enhanced.”

“The loud music you mentioned. Did you recognize it?” I ask.

Already I’m starting to sweat in my protective clothing as we stand on our sticky mats.

“I don’t think so, you hear it for only a few seconds,” August says. “But it sounded like something out of an old Boris Karloff movie. Then the same thing at six-oh-seven P.M., the exit gate opens, the spooky music playing loud. Four minutes after that, the crackly sound again when the cameras are uncovered. I’ll e-mail the clip and you’ll see what I mean.”

During the hour the cameras were covered, August says he didn’t hear anyone coming in or out of Colonial Landing. The gates weren’t opened or closed again, no other codes entered, and I’m not surprised. The weather was bad that night, and a lot of people were out of town. Others were staying home, not working the day after Thanksgiving.

“We don’t know if the person might have been on foot. Maybe his car was parked somewhere else,” August says as Gwen’s front door opens, wind gusting into the entryway. “And he walked through the gates playing the spooky music on his phone.”

“Possibly,” I reply as Fruge steps inside. “But he had to have a vehicle to transport the body out of here, and to the railroad tracks on Daingerfield Island.”

“I just got off the phone with the manager.” Fruge starts collecting PPE, getting ready to suit up. “The rent is seven grand monthly, and she paid three months up front.”

“She paid twenty-one thousand dollars?” August asks. “Holy smoke.”

“CASH, AS IN COLD and hard. As in the owner of this place was happy to take it under the table and maybe not declare it on his income tax.” Fruge pulls on coveralls.

She tells August what she told me, that the townhome is off the market for renovation, and Gwen apparently didn’t mind what she paid or what shape the place was in as long as she could get in right away.

“She wanted to be back here behind a big wall with a gate,” Fruge adds. “And that would fit with her being afraid.”

“Certainly, it fits with someone who’s very private,” I reply, and I ask about the kettlebell. “Was it just like this when you first walked in?”

Without touching it, I look closely at the ten-pound weight near the door on an area of flooring not covered by mats. I don’t see any blood but I also wouldn’t expect it on whatever Gwen was struck with because she was hit only once. The blow was severe enough to punch out bone, causing subarachnoid hemorrhaging and traumatic brain injury.

Assuming the kettlebell was the weapon, then it likely wouldn’t have gotten bloody unless she was struck again after her scalp was bleeding. I notice there’s a shallow dent on the floor that may have been caused by the weight falling or being dropped, and I suspect Gwen was knocked unconscious as she attempted to escape out the front door.

When the crime scene unit is let loose in here, they’ll 3-D scan the scene, placing evidence flags, taking more photographs, packaging everything for the labs. But at this point, nothing should have been disturbed in any form or fashion. What I’m seeing should be exactly as it was left, and I question Fruge about it.

“Like I’ve been telling August, I haven’t touched anything except for digging inside her backpack on the kitchen table.”

She pulls on a pair of gloves, letting me know she’s done everything by the book.

“The matching kettlebell’s inside the sunporch off the living room, and you have to wonder why this one’s here,” she’s saying. “Unless maybe he was chasing her through the house, and whacked her good. Maybe as she was trying to get out the door?”