Shutter(53)

Dr. Blaser was in the laboratory, examining something through an impressive microscope on the counter. He was surrounded by jars upon jars of specimens—fingertips, ears, organs, all preserved and labeled like fall canning season.

“Well, are you gonna stand there in the doorway being creepy, or are you going to ask me a question?” Dr. Blaser looked up from his work. “Rita! It’s been a while. I thought you didn’t like it out here in the lab.”

“A forensic worker who hates OMI.” I smiled. “I like irony.”

“Me too.” He moved to his microscope. “We just got a camera added to our OMAX 40X and I cannot get it to take a picture. Everything is plugged in, but I press this button and nothing.”

“That’s a reset button.” I looked at the screen next to the microscope and reached behind to the unit power switch.

“It’s always the simplest thing,” he said. “So, what brings you up here?” Dr. Blaser took a sandwich out of his lab coat.

“The last time I saw you, we were out on the overpass that night—the Singleton case.”

“Oh, yes.” He took a bite of his sandwich. “The overpass.”

“Do you know what the ruling on that was?” I tried to concentrate on something besides the sandwich. “I was told it was suicide.”

“That was hard to determine. There was no evidence to prove otherwise.” He moved over to the corner and pulled a few files from the cabinet, turning pages. “Manner of death, undetermined. That is what I put in my report. There was so little to go on since the body was so badly mutilated. No ligature marks or signs of a struggle. Her family insisted she would have never committed suicide, that she was on her way to a meeting and never came home.”

“Do you know why the report would say she committed suicide?”

“Maybe because the detective on scene said it was.” He handed me the report. I saw Garcia’s name scribbled on the last page, but it wasn’t followed by the stamp from the coroner’s office. The final determination was never made until the coroner signed off on the death certificate, and for now, that signature line was blank.

“We were able to determine that she was pregnant.” Dr. Blaser moved into an adjacent closet and began to put on his scrubs, booties, and face protector as two ambulance drivers brought a gurney into the room next to us. “We found a six-or seven-week-old fetus in what was left of her.”

“I think there is much more going on here than any of us even know.” I closed his report. “This woman deserves the benefit of the doubt. I wonder if she knew about the baby.”

“That’s hard to say,” Dr. Blaser said. “Some women claim they know from day one.”

“I know she didn’t jump, Dr. Blaser. Garcia is a lazy investigator.”

“Follow your guts, Rita. Your guts are right most of the time.” He smiled. “And you’re right. Garcia is a lazy investigator.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“I’ll be honest with you, Rita. We processed Judge Winters a couple of days ago, and our field investigator agreed with us on this, it wasn’t a murder-suicide.”

“You mean someone really did murder the whole family?” I hadn’t let myself think about that scene since it sent me to the hospital.

“The trajectory of his injuries made it almost impossible. The starlight tearing you see with a self-inflicted wound wasn’t there, nor the muzzle imprint. I thought it was intermediate range at best, with some soot around the wound.” Dr. Blaser walked toward the autopsy room and began to wash his hands. “The bullet exit was through his cheek, so someone stood next to him and shot. That simple.”

“Do you think there is something bigger going on here?” I wanted to know where he stood.

“I know that Judge Winters didn’t pull that trigger on himself. Garcia was the lead detective on scene and concluded it was a murder-suicide—just like that.”

“Do you think Garcia is involved?”

The doctor shifted his weight. “I don’t know, Rita. Maybe you should ask Armenta. If anyone knows, it’s that man. Garcia and Armenta spent over twenty years as partners. They saw each other more than their wives did.” He gave me another one of his kind smiles. “Let me know if there is anything I can do to help.” He turned, eager to get to the autopsy.

I stopped him. “What happened to Armenta? Is he still in Albuquerque?”

“No one knows what happened to Armenta,” he said. “We had a retirement party for him, and he never showed up. Good guy, though.” He opened the autopsy room with his hip. “You take care, Rita.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Nikon F5

THE MORNING AFTER Grandma and I developed Mom’s Hasselblad, I woke up and found the house empty. Grandma was already awake, praying to the morning sun. The coffee percolated and hissed on the stove. As I turned the fire off, I could see Grandma returning to the house, holding onto the bent fence line for balance. Zoe trotted slowly beside her through rows of knee-high corn and squash plants. I walked out to join her.

Two cars, a burned-out Chevy that looked like a recycled police car and Mrs. Bitsie’s blue truck, were pulling into the long stretch of the driveway. They came to a stop, waiting for us. Grandma squinted, wiping the sweat from her brow, then put her glasses back on.