Beneath Her Skin Page 2

  “Let’s slow this down, okay? I’ve just arrived myself. I’m Detective Brownley, and who the hell are you?”

  “Detective Kes Morris. Major Crimes Division. Homicide, City Branch.” She flashed her badge.

  “Kes Morris…?” She could see the flash of recognition in his eyes. She hated that her reputation preceded her. Good or bad.

  “I thought you would be much older, I mean…you don’t look…” Brownley tried to recover. “It’s an honour to meet you.” He extended his hand, which she ignored.

  “I was called here to head this up by your captain. Where’s Ike and Louise?

  Brownley stood up straighter, surprised she knew his former colleagues and embarrassed he had misread her. “Ike had a brain aneurysm. Louise quit, went north to work on an icebreaker.Better pay, less risk.”

  Kes looked at him, trying to decide if what he’d said was a feeble attempt at humour or he was just an idiot. “Brownley.” She said his name like he was on the shit list.

  “That’s right.”

  “And who the hell are these people?”

  “Friends of mine.”

  Idiot. Her first impression had been right. “Get them away from my crime scene, if there’s anything left of it, and tell your friends to vacate the scene carefully, try not to destroy whatever evidence is left.”

  He offered a feeble defense, “The bodies were already gone when I got here, I didn’t think—”

  “No, you didn’t.” She stepped in closer. She was shorter than him, but he had to resist the urge to step back. “Clear them out.” She headed into the range toward the bales.

  Brownley went to the men and Kes could see him nodding in her direction. The others looked towards her. She ignored them and began scanning the ground. There were so many fresh footprints in the soft spring mud she worried there wouldn’t be any clues left to be found. She stopped in front of the bales; the paper targets had been removed. She slid her finger into one of the pocked holes and felt an empty cavity through the straw. The bodies must have been loaded in the bales somewhere else and brought here. A local farm, maybe? She pulled a small black notebook from her jacket pocket, a new one at the beginning of every case, and wrote down Where did the hay come from?

  She walked behind the bales and studied the openings. Two had been hollowed out to leave just enough room for a body. On the ground were cut-out straw plugs with thin wood laminate attached so they wouldn’t fall apart. She knelt to look more carefully at the hollowed-out opening. The edge was clean and tight. She jotted in her book—Chainsaw? That would take time, privacy,and planning. She registered the blood staining the ground and scattering of thin, whittled sticks. She sensed Brownley behind her and stood up.

  “Are they gone?”

  “Yes, sir. Ma’am.” Brownley was contrite, as he should be. He tried to explain: “It was my day off. After the shitty winter we had, this was the first sunny weekend in months. We were fishing when the call came in…”

  She didn’t care. “Could a chainsaw have done this? Cut these portions out of one of these tight bales? Wouldn’t the cut section just unravel?” Kes pulled at the bloody straw.

  Brownley considered. “I could ask my partner to test one. Chester, he’s good with saws. Built his own cabin.”

  “Where’s he now?” she asked as she headed to the next bale.

  “Left early this morning for his cabin.”

  “Call him in.”

  “I don’t know if he has cellphone reception back there…”

  Kes shot him a look.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get on it.”

  Kes stepped back to get a wider view of the four bales, the two with now-empty cavities and the other two intact.

  “Do we know if the victims were dead before the shooting started?”

  “I heard one, a female, was still breathing. Barely. They airlifted her to the city.”

  “Get ahold of your partner. I don’t care how. Tell him to meet you as soon as he can. You two start with chainsaw tests. I want to know how these cuts were made. What kind of blade and how much skill it takes. Where the bales came from. And get a members list from the rod and gun club before you leave. Here’s my number,” she said passing him a card. “What was the name of the officer who was here with his son?”

  “Harrison. Cooper Harrison.”

  “Where’s he now?”

  “Home, I’m guessing. His boy, Mac, was on the shooting line. A terrible—”

  “Where does he live? I’m going to want to have a chat with him.” She was warming up to Brownley. He had compassion, at least.

  “On the other side of the hill. Towards the back harbour. Green Street. I don’t know the number. He drives an old red pickup with an antenna on the roof.”

  “All right.” Kes slid her notebook into her back pocket and looked at the detective head-on. “You and I kicked it off pretty bad here, Brownley. Let’s get on track now, okay? We’ll meet at the station at eighteen-hundred hours tonight, and every night until this over.”

  She headed to her car, pausing at the tables on her way, stopping at firing lane three. She ran her fingers along the chalk line, took note of the empty .22LR shell boxes. She added them to the other crime scene details sifting through her mind as she watched an osprey drift overhead.

  “Detective,” Brownley gently interrupted, “I’ve lost my ride. Think you can drop me at the station?”

  Kes waved for him to follow. She got in her car, tossed her bag on the back seat, and had it started before he got in.

  “Nice car.”

  She glanced to his muddy boots. He was still looking for the seat belt when she slipped the car into gear. Her tires spun on the grass. On the way out, she spotted four other hay bales sitting in the woods along the edge of a logging cut. She braked.

  “Does the club keep a stock of these? Or were they just brought in for the competition?”

  “I’m not sure. I hadn’t noticed them on my way in.” He was failing in every way today. “I’ll add it my list.”

  Kes knew how she could come across; she wasn’t trying to embarrass him, she was inviting him in. “So maybe someone comes here, moves these bales off the range, and replaces them with ones loaded with the bodies. Lot of bloody effort went into this. How much does a bale like that weigh?”

  “Five to six hundred pounds?”

  “Not something you just roll around. This has been well planned. And to have children pull the trigger…”

  “Sick bastard,” Brownley muttered.

  “Aren’t they all.” Kes pulled away.

  Brownley ran his fingers over the polished wood. “My son runs a car wash just behind the laundromat, paying his way through university. Tell him I sent you and he’ll take care of the mud.”

  She glanced to the floor mat. He was holding up his feet, so as not to dirty it more.

  Three

  After dropping Brownley off at the station, Kes went to find Harrison.

  She drove along the town’s main street leading to the back harbour. Though the summer season hadn’t started yet, the narrow road was already teeming with tourists visiting the galleries, restaurants, and curio shops. One day of sun and people were already fevered. Shopping had never been something Kes enjoyed, but she would love to be sitting on one of the outdoor patios sipping a cold beer.

  She turned up a steep hill, past an impressive old inn that was formerly a sea captain’s house. This was a wealthy town, proud of its fishing, boatbuilding, and rum-running heritage. The demographic had been shifting in recent years to foreign investors and summer residents who were buying up the coast and driving prices beyond the reach of locals. That fine line of needing tourists to survive, but at a cost that might be too high. The locals still had a reputation of being fiercely independent and, despite their friendly charm, wouldn’t hesitate to tell
an outsider to bugger off.

  She found Green Street and slowed to admire its brightly painted, immaculately maintained Victorian houses and tidy yards. The street ended in a cul-de-sac that backed onto a hardwood lot. She spotted the red pickup with an antenna and pulled over. In the driveway beside the truck, a rusted bike leaned against a basketball hoop. The house was smaller and more modest than the others. The north side’s cedar shakes were in the process of being meticulously restored.

  The door was open and she rapped on the wooden screen.

  “Who is it?” a voice called from a back room.

  “Kes Morris. Here to have a word with Cooper Harrison.”

  “Not here.”

  “Detective Kes Morris.”

  A man appeared in the hallway and looked hard at her. He was solid, muscular, and stood with his feet grounded on the wide wooden planks. She instinctively made visual notes. Athletic. A slight greying at his temples. Blue eyes. Small scar on his chin. Wiping his hands on a tea cloth.

  “No, you’re not,” he said. “We don’t have a Morris. Or a woman. I’m not talking to reporters. Go the fuck away.”

  “I was brought up from the city to lead this investigation. Call Captain Puck if you’d like. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  He stepped forward and pushed open the screen door. She could see now that he looked tired. His plaid shirt was covered with flour. He brushed his cheek and left a white smear.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “The local papers been calling and I’ve got nothing to say to them.”

  Kes knew how the media could feed on the vulnerable.

  “I was told you were at the scene with your son. Is he home?”

  Harrison stepped out, closing the door behind him. “He’s upstairs playing a video game with a pal.” He leaned against the porch support and watched Kes carefully as though assessing her, wondering if she was someone he could trust. “I don’t want him part of this. He doesn’t know anything that I can’t tell you.”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  Harrison indicated the bench across the road, overlooking the harbour. He led the way and as he passed her, she could smell beer on his breath.

  They sat at opposite ends and stared out at the water. A scallop dragger was slowly approaching a dock. Its horn sounded.

  Harrison took a breath. “What do you want to know?”

  Kes appreciated his matter-of-fact calm. Brownley had told her Harrison was a ten-year veteran. A good cop. By the book. Someone you could depend on. But small-town precincts were known to be tight-knit and protective of their own. She set her notebook on her lap and opened it to a blank page.

  “Did you notice anything out of place when you arrived at the range this morning?”

  “It was just a bunch of fathers and sons getting ready for the competition. People were excited to be out.” He put his hands on his knees. They were big hands, nicked and scarred, the hands of someone who liked making things for himself.

  “Your son was shooting and you were…”

  “Standing behind him. Marking. We were the first group on line. I’ve already told all this to the guys on scene.”

  “But you haven’t told me.”

  He sat back like she was pulling rank on him. And she was.

  “I was looking through my binoculars at Mac’s target to see if his sights were good. He had taken his first shot when I noticed something on the bottom edge of his target. I have shit binoculars, so I took John’s, the guy next to me, and when I focused in, I knew it was blood. I called for the judge to stop the competition. I thought maybe an animal had been scooped up when the tractor made its pass. But the hay would have been baled last fall, so there wouldn’t be fresh blood. I was just trying to make sense of it…”

  He was reciting the details like he was reading it from his police notepad.

  “As I approached the bales, I could see the same type of stain on the target beside Mac’s. I went to his bale first and then around back of it. There wasn’t any sound.” He paused. “Even the birds were quiet. I saw the straw plug held in place by sticks, like needles.”

  “How many?”

  “Eight. Thin. Maybe eight inches long. Hand-shaved. I pulled them out and saw a male victim…couldn’t find a pulse. Then I went to the next bale. There was a woman inside, still alive. I tried to apply pressure, but there were too many wounds.” He was looking down, and she knew he was seeing the woman. He blinked and pushed it away. “It was strange that there weren’t any exit wounds. I stayed until the team arrived, then stepped back and took my son home.”

  Kes jotted down notes. “Did anyone seem out of place when you arrived?”

  “No. We were all focused on our kids. I was just happy to get Mac out of the house. It’s been such a long, crappy winter. This was supposed to be something fun for us to do together.”

  “Was your wife there?”

  Harrison looked at her sharply and then quickly away. “She’s not in the picture.” He stared hard at the harbour.

  “Would your son…” She checked her notes, “Mac—”

  “He doesn’t know anything.” The line was drawn hard between them.

  “Does he know…” She searched for gentler words. “…what was in the bales?”

  “You mean that he shot a man? No. I don’t know how to tell him that yet.” He looked to his hands. Kes could see his eyes were glassy. “How do I tell him that? What kind of animal has a kid pull the trigger?” He abruptly stood and took a few steps towards the water. He swiped at his eyes.

  “Your son didn’t kill anyone,” Kes said quietly. “Whoever set this up is the killer.” She knew her words were an empty solace, but what else could she say?

  Harrison swung around. “I need to be on this case, Detective.” He said it as though it was an ordinary case request and not the desperate plea of a father.

  Kes understood his desire, but he was a liability. “You’re too close and you’re not a detective.”

  “I’ve completed the sergeant’s exam online. Passed with honours. My application is with the department in the city. I can apprentice under you. My captain will vouch for me.” He broke from his professional pitch. “I owe it to my son to find this bastard.”

  Kes sized him up: how he contained his anger and how he breathed it out. “I’ll talk to Puck.” Before he could thank her, she set the rules. “But if I sense anything getting in the way of your judgment. You’re done.”

  Harrison nodded and headed to the house.

  “Harrison.”

  He stopped and looked back.

  “What were you making?”

  He looked to the tea towel. “Bread. It helps me think.”

  Four

  Kes walked down the long hallway. It seemed to pass under the entire hospital, following the boiler room piping system riveted to the ceiling just above her head. Exactly the sort of place you did not want to be on a fine afternoon like this.

  She found the door labelled Medical Examiner and knocked on the tiny wire-encased window. A crackle from a speaker beside her sparked to life.

  “Yes?”

  “Detective Kes Morrison.”

  The door clicked and slowly swung open. The room had a low ceiling and hummed with fluorescent light. Kes made her way towards the small operating section where an older woman was working at two steel tables. She had an examination lamp pulled low. The woman peered over the top of the lamp, pushed a pair of glasses up on her nose, and pulled down her face mask.

  “I’m Connie Hawthorn. Captain Puck said you might be by. Actually, he said I’d be one of your first stops. He thinks very highly of you.” The woman had kind eyes, surrounded with well-defined laughter wrinkles, and an oddly soft voice. She appeared better suited to being the matriarch of a large, caring household than working alone in a
basement with corpses.

  Kes stepped closer to look at the male body and noticed the left eye was missing.

  “Was he dead before the shooting?”

  “Not much into small talk?”

  “Never saw the point.”

  Connie eyed her curiously. “No, he was killed by the shots. One bullet entered here.” She pointed to the man’s eye socket. “Likely the one that killed him. Another through the cheekbone. The third, bridge of the nose. I’m told that the female victim who was airlifted to the city has a bullet lodged in her neck. Another in her shoulder. She’s in critical condition, not expected to make it.”

  “His wife?” asked Kes.

  “That’s your department, dear.”

  Kes wondered if this could be a family feud. Personal? Domestic? But then why involve the boys at the shooting range?

  “He has a needle mark here, on his right upper thigh. I sent samples to toxicology. Preliminary bloodwork has come back positive for ketamine, likely used as a sedative. The half-life indicators suggest it could have been administered three to four days ago, which means it was wearing off at the time of the murder.”

  Kes looked at the body. It didn’t show any signs of bruising or struggle. “Was there something else used?”

  “Tox report is negative, but I would suspect a paralytic. Maybe Rohypnol. It’s virtually undetectable after three to four hours.”

  “A date rape drug. Injected. Don’t see that often.” Kes said.

  “Not easy to get, either. Dark web or street. And difficult to get the dose right so that it incapacitates but doesn’t kill, and leaves the victim conscious and aware.”

  “The victims knew what was coming?”

  “Yes, I believe they were alert when they were shot.”

  “He wanted them to suffer.” Kes examined the ligature marks around the neck and wrists.

  “Hog-tied.” Connie pointed to the cord on a side table. “Rope from any hardware store. Half hitch knot. Right-handed, I would say.” She went to a side table where two targets were laid out. Only one had three bull’s eyes. Mac Harrison was written at the top of the page. “It appears this boy was a better shot than the other.”