“News got out fast,” she said to Matt.
He made an unhappy, slightly aggressive sound in his throat.
They spent the next hour photographing and searching the house. There was no sign of forced entry or burglary. When the ME arrived, Bree and Matt walked her back to the den. Bree told Dr. Jones about the rattlesnake.
“Everyone knows about it.” Carrying her kit, Dr. Jones stood in the entry to the den.
“Impossible to keep something that weird under wraps,” Matt said. “The press has been here for a while. No doubt they saw the animal control van.”
“We had some neighborhood lookie-loos too,” Bree grumbled.
After a few minutes of intense scrutiny of the overall scene, Dr. Jones approached the body. “Normally, when a death presents with a clear sexual element, I’d consider sexual motives or causes. BDSM comes to mind here, as well as erotic electrostimulation, even accidental death from autoerotic asphyxiation.” She looked up at Bree. “Do you have any concrete evidence this case is linked to the last one?”
“Just the obvious similarities.” Bree gestured toward the body.
“OK. Let’s see what we have.” With a gloved hand, Dr. Jones pointed to the victim’s side that was in contact with the sofa. “Lividity is well underway and suggests he was killed here.” After the heart stopped beating, gravity caused blood to sink to the lowest part of the body, turning the skin purple.
She grasped a limb, but the body resisted. “He’s in full rigor.” In general, the body stiffened for twelve hours, remained that way for another twelve, and then the muscles slowly became flexible again between twenty-four and thirty-six hours after death. So, Julius was in the second phase, between twelve and twenty-four hours postmortem.
The ME used a scalpel to make a small incision to take the body temperature via the liver. She checked the thermometer, then did a calculation. “Based on body condition and temperature”—she checked her watch—“time of death was likely between nine and eleven last evening.” She peeled off her gloves. “I can’t tell you much else until I get him on the table. I’ll do the autopsy ASAP. I know you want to get ahead of”—she paused and motioned to the victim’s plastic-wrapped face—“speculation.”
As if that were possible.
“We do,” Bree said.
The ME stepped back and gestured for her assistant to begin photographing the scene. Bree and Matt walked outside, giving them room to work.
Todd met them in the driveway. Bree summoned him over. “Assign deputies to knock on doors. See if any of the neighbors know Julius Northcott, if suspicious persons or vehicles have been spotted in the area, or if anyone saw activity at the house last night between nine and eleven.”
Todd moved off to execute her orders.
A Mercedes pulled up to the curb behind the police cars. A thin white-haired man in his midsixties leaped out and ran toward the house. The deputy in charge of the crime scene log stepped in front of him, blocking his access with his body.
“Get out of my way,” the man yelled. His face was impending-stroke red.
Instinct had Bree moving toward him.
He tried to push past the deputy. “That’s my son’s house. You can’t keep me away.”
The deputy was a rookie but showed good judgment and restraint. He didn’t let the man pass, using a firm but level voice in an attempt to deescalate the man’s understandably high emotion. “What’s your name, sir?”
But the man was in a state of near hysteria and not in the frame of mind to think clearly. He thumped both fists on the deputy’s chest and yelled, “You can’t stop me!” His voice was shrill, but Bree recognized that his aggression was fueled by fear. He puffed up his chest and stabbed a forefinger at the deputy. “Who’s in charge here?”
Bree stepped in. “I’m Sheriff Taggert. Let’s step aside and talk.”
“I don’t want to talk,” the man yelled in her face. “I want to see my son.”
Pity squeezed Bree’s heart. She was about to ruin this man’s life—and he knew it too. It showed in the panicked haze in his eyes. She looked around for privacy, but the man’s shouts had already alerted the media. Reporters’ heads were turning as they focused on the drama, like dogs that smelled meat.
Bree did not let him pass. “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t let you in. This is a crime scene.”
“Crime scene? What happened to my son?” The man lunged forward, one hand reaching forward to shove her aside. “I demand you let me through. This is private property!” He was a half head taller than her and tried to bulldoze past her.
She blocked his arm, spinning him around. Instead of putting him in an arm bar, she wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Please, sir,” she said in a low voice in his ear. “Let’s go somewhere private.”
He stopped resisting. “Is my son dead?” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.
Bree steered him to the side of the house, out of sight of the media. She turned him to face her, then released him. The pain in his eyes brought back the moment when she’d learned of her sister’s murder. She didn’t want to give him the terrible news here, but he needed to know. Delaying would be torture.
Direct was best.
“The medical examiner has not officially identified the victim, but we believe it’s your son,” she said.
His knees buckled, and the moan in his throat was one of a wounded animal, a soul-deep anguish. His grief amplified the emotion buried inside Bree.
“It can’t be,” the man cried. “I need to see him.”
“I know, and you will, just not right now.” Bree could not take him into the house. He might think he wanted to see his son, but she would not allow him to live with that nightmarish image as his final memory of Julius. She knew what it was like to have a family member murdered—but to have your child die . . . Now that she had the kids . . . No. She blocked the thought. She couldn’t even go there for a second. Yes, she understood what he was feeling.
She took hold of his forearm and steadied him. “What’s your name?”
“Fred. Fred Northcott.”
“OK. Mr. Northcott, I’m going to have one of my deputies take care of you. I’m going to need to talk to you shortly.”
He nodded, and his whole body sagged, as if all the fight had left him. He seemed to have aged ten years in a few minutes.
Bree led him back to the front yard, using her body to shield him from view. She waved to a deputy. “Take Mr. Northcott home and stay with him. Don’t let anyone bother him.”
The deputy took the older man by the arm and led him to a patrol car. The vehicle was barely out of view when the ME and her assistant wheeled their body-bag-laden gurney out the front door.
Bree also knew from experience that Dr. Jones would attempt to make Julius look presentable before allowing his father to view his body. The ME’s compassion—and the respect she’d shown Erin’s body—had made a difference.
Bree’s insides went hollow as she wondered if the killer had carved anything into Julius’s forehead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Matt would rather face an armed killer than the grief-stricken family of a murder victim. He sat next to Bree on an old leather sofa in Fred Northcott’s living room. The room was appropriately dim, with the blinds closed against curiosity. So far, the street was quiet, but the media would find him soon enough. Dust motes floated in the rays of light that seeped in around the edges of the window frame.