The First Death (Columbia River, #4)(26)

So many horrific memories.

Some she’d waited years to share. Rowan couldn’t recall if she hadn’t wanted to talk about them or if she had suppressed them. The therapist had always claimed they were suppressed, but Rowan remembered the guilt she’d felt because she’d been hesitant to share.

Which could mean I remembered . . . I just didn’t want to talk about it.

It was 4:30 a.m., and she didn’t see the point in trying to sleep anymore. Rowan sighed and started her coffee maker, knowing what she needed to do. Her favorite therapist had taught her how to work through bad dreams, pick them apart, study each piece from a distance.

It took away the fear and broke them into manageable pieces.

Thor sat by his bowl, his black eyes locked on her every movement.

food

“It’s too early, Thor. You’ll pester me for dinner at two o’clock.”

food

“How about a snack instead?” She got his canister of snacks out of a cupboard. The rapid wag of his tail told her he approved.

Thor never refused snacks.

He gently took the dried meat from her hand and trotted away to chew it in the dog bed near her sofa.

Rowan watched the coffee stream into the glass carafe. “I can’t wait.” She pulled out the pot and stuck her mug under the stream. Her cup full, she slid out a chair at the table in her kitchen nook and caught her reflection in the windows, her yard impossible to see in the black night.

I look like I haven’t slept.

I don’t think I did.

As she sipped her potent coffee, she let her mind carefully wander through what she could recall of the dream. Running through the trees. Searching for Malcolm. Jerry threatening to hurt them.

Her hand tightened on the mug as she remembered throwing the rocks aside, simply doing as Jerry said, knowing it was pointless.

I can still feel the rocks.

“Jesus Christ.” She took a big gulp of coffee and welcomed the startling burn in her mouth and down her throat. Her brain had cooked up quite the dream, combining elements from her past and her present. “No more sleeping pills.”

She allowed the image of her brother at the creek to skim across her mind. It had never happened. Malcolm had been alive the last time she’d seen him. The creek image was from the day before. She made herself remember the woman, replacing the image of Malcolm with the right one.

It’s still horrible to see.

Rowan had seen many dead people in her lifetime; it came with SAR. Each one was branded into her memory.





14


Evan was in his office early the next morning. He’d gotten little sleep the night before, his mind bouncing between Ken Steward’s case and those of the three murdered women. He had a list of follow-up items from all the cases, and the earlier he started, the better.

Who needs sleep?

Today’s schedule was busy with the autopsy of the river woman later this morning and a meeting with the forensic anthropologist in the afternoon. He didn’t like calling the victim “the river woman.” It felt impersonal; he wanted her name. She was a human, not a location. He knew the medical examiner would have assigned her a moniker consisting of “Jane Doe” and a number, and he pledged to replace that impersonal identifier too.

Forensic anthropologist Dr. Victoria Peres had been assigned to remove the bones. Evan had wanted to speak with her at the site but knew from previous cases that it was best to wait until she’d organized the excavation and made a little progress. The doctor ran a tight ship during her investigations. If she wanted you off her dig, you were gone. No questions, no excuses.

Evan had watched her kick a burly deputy off a scene after she spotted him taking pictures. She hadn’t gone to the deputy’s sergeant to request the deputy leave; she’d walked right up to the picture taker and ordered him off with language that had made Evan blush. The rest of the crew had immediately gone silent. And made certain their phones were tucked away. Dr. Peres was intimidating. Tall, direct, and intense.

And one of the best in her field.

Evan checked his email and found a preliminary autopsy report on Ken Steward, noting that Dr. Lockhart had sent it after one in the morning. Apparently the medical examiner didn’t need sleep either. The immediate blood labs showed a low blood alcohol and the presence of marijuana. The doctor had requested more labs, which Evan knew would take several more days, possibly weeks. He felt guilty about missing Ken’s autopsy, but he’d been called to the river woman crime scene. Dr. Lockhart verified that there had been two gunshots to the head and one to the heart. No other wounds.

Death had been nearly instant.

The one consolation.

Ken Steward probably hadn’t known what had happened. Evan imagined the man had fallen asleep a little drunk and a little high. It was doubtful he’d heard anyone enter the tent.

“Morning, Evan.” Detective Noelle Marshall strolled into his office. “I knew you’d be here bright and early, so I figured I should be too.”

Last night Noelle had been assigned to help Evan with the Steward murder and the three female homicides. She’d cleared a big robbery case just as Evan’s boss had decided Evan needed more hands and eyes. Evan suspected the publicity of Ken Steward’s death had prompted Noelle’s assignment. There had been a big outcry for results from the local community.