Dead Calm

Book 9: Mattie Winston Mystery

by Annelise Ryan

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

As deputy medical examiner and homicide detective respectively, newlyweds Mattie Winston and Steve Hurley are dispatched to a grisly crime scene at the Grizzly Motel, a seedy joint for illicit liaisons on the outskirts of Sorenson, Wisconsin. A man and woman are found dead next to each other in bed in what initially appears to be a grim but straightforward murder-suicide. An affair gone sour? But as the forensic evidence is gathered and autopsies are performed, Mattie and Hurley realize the scene has been staged. They have a double murder on their hands. The spurned spouses of both victims top the list of suspects, but as more is revealed, the case becomes increasingly complex. Dividing their time and resources between the crime and an ongoing investigation involving Mattie's father, plus caring for their kids, the two are stretched to their limits. After another victim turns up dead, there's no room for error as they stage a scene of their own to back the killer into a corner . . . Praise for Annelise Ryan and her Mattie Winston series “The forensic details will interest Patricia Cornwell readers . . . while the often slapstick humor and the blossoming romance between Mattie and Hurley will draw Evanovich fans.” — Booklist “The funniest deputy coroner to cut up a corpse since, well, ever!” —Laura Levine, author of Killer Cruise “A puzzler of a mystery. Annelise Ryan has created a smart and saucy heroine in Mattie Winston . . . What a thrill ride!” — New York Times bestselling author Jenn McKinlay “Ryan smoothly blends humor, distinctive characters, and authentic forensic detail.” — Publishers Weekly

Release date: February 27, 2018

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 385

Sample

The chiming ringtone of a phone awakens me from a deep sleep, and out of habit, I roll over and grab my cell in an effort to silence it as fast as I can. My bleary eyes try to focus on the screen, but sleep’s hold is too great; the whole thing is a blur. I blink hard, glance at the clock on my bedside table, and see that it’s just after three in the morning. The ringing stops, and for a moment, I think the caller must have hung up because I haven’t hit the answer icon yet. Then I hear a voice behind me say, “Hurley,” and realize it wasn’t my phone ringing.

Just as I’m thinking that my husband and I need to personalize our ringtones so we can distinguish whose phone is getting called, the chiming sound starts up again. This time I know it’s my phone because I feel it vibrating in my hand. I finally see the answer icon and swipe at it, silencing the ring. I realize as I do so that if both my husband’s phone and mine are going off in the middle of the night, it means someone is dead.

My name is Mattie Winston, and I’m a medicolegal death investigator for the medical examiner’s office in Sorenson, Wisconsin. My husband, Steve Hurley, is a homicide detective here in town. There are no regular hours to either of our jobs, though we try to maintain a façade of normalcy by getting up every weekday morning and heading into our offices. But people don’t die on a Monday-through-Friday, nine-to-five schedule, and that means there are plenty of times when we put in a lot of long, extra hours.

“This is Mattie,” I say into my phone. I sit up straighter in bed and look over at Hurley as I hear the voice of my boss, Izzy, emanate from my phone. I used to work at the local hospital; my original career was in nursing, and I spent six years in the ER and seven in the OR, good prep for the slicing and dicing I have to do in my current job. Now I’m an assistant to Dr. Izthak “Izzy” Rybarceski, the medical examiner in Sorenson, though for the past three weeks Izzy has been out on sick leave following a heart attack. I’ve been working with Izzy for almost three years now, and we work well together, in large part because we were friends—and, at one point, neighbors—before I started my current job.

“Mattie, we have a call,” Izzy says. His voice sounds energized and excited, and that does my heart good because it means his heart is good. “It’s a two-fer, so we should both go.”

“A two-fer?” I echo, looking at Hurley with eyebrows raised. He nods, confirming that he has received the same info.

“The cops say it looks like a murder-suicide,” Izzy says.

“Okay,” I say, flinging back the covers. “Where?”

“It’s out at the Grizzly Motel.”

This gives me pause. “That’s quite a way outside the city limits. Who’s investigating?”

“The county guys pulled it, but they’re terribly short-handed. They’ve got two men out on sick leave, another one out for paternity leave, and there are two accident scenes they’re investigating right now in other areas of the county. And if the tentative IDs are correct, the victims are both Sorenson residents, so Hurley’s probably going to get a call to assist.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure he just did. Give us ten minutes to get going, and we’ll meet you out there.”

I disconnect my call and get out of bed, heading for the bathroom. Hurley is still on his phone, but he isn’t saying anything at the moment; he’s just listening. Our dog, Hoover, a yellow Lab mix—and, judging from the way he eats, I’m convinced there’s a bit of vacuum cleaner in those genes—opens his eyes and watches me, his big head resting on his paws.

By the time I emerge from the bathroom with my bladder emptied, teeth brushed, and my hair partially tamed into a cowlicky mess of blond mayhem, Hurley is already dressed. We pass one another just outside the bathroom door.

“The Grizzly Motel?” I say.

“Yep. Murder-suicide?” he counters.

“Yep.” I head for the dresser and grab a pair of jeans, a bra, and a T-shirt. “I’ll go wake Emily,” I say as I pull on my jeans beneath my nightgown. Then I peel the nightgown off, put on the bra and shirt, and shuffle my way down the hall to Emily’s room, stepping over Hoover. Along the way I stop at our son Matthew’s room and poke my head in.

He is sound asleep, and I utter a silent prayer of thanks that the ringing phones didn’t wake him. His thick, dark hair—the color just like his father’s—is sticking out on top of his head like a rooster’s comb, the style surprisingly similar to mine even if the color is at the opposite end of the spectrum. He has his left thumb firmly planted in his mouth, but he is still, not sucking, not moving, no muscles twitching. A persistent internal alarm clamors, one I’ve had to quell hundreds of times in the twenty-two months of Matthew’s existence, and I focus my gaze on his chest until I detect a slow rise and fall. Reassured, I resist an urge to tiptoe into the room and kiss him, knowing there’s a good chance the action will wake him. And at this age, a just wakened Matthew is like the Tasmanian Devil cartoon character, a whirlwind of seemingly endless and frenzied energy with a penchant for creating crayon artwork on the walls and an apparent belief that any remotely wet form of food he eats is also a hair product.

I sense Hurley behind me—I can feel the heat of his body along my back—and his face appears over my right shoulder. We stand there that way for several seconds, both of us drinking in this most precious sight.

Finally, Hurley whispers in my ear. “I’ll go nuke us a couple of cups of coffee. I think there’s enough left in the pot.”

I nod, and as he turns and heads downstairs, I make my way to the door of Emily’s room and open it. The room is a mess, its normal state. Clothes are strewn about on the desk, the chair, the floor, and the bed, and two of the drawers in the dresser are open, with items hanging over the edges. The top of the desk is a chaotic riot of papers, as if a tornado had spun above it. There is half of a sandwich, the edges dry, brittle, and curling, on the bedside table. Out of habit, I head for the sandwich, intending to take it downstairs with me, but I change my mind. My seventeen-year-old stepdaughter and I reached a peace treaty some time back about the state of her room. We agreed that it is her space to do with as she wants, and that I won’t nag her about the state it’s in, nor will I venture into it and try to clean it up. Treaty or not, the mess still bothers me, but as long as there aren’t any bugs in the room or mold growing on the walls, I’m determined to abide by our terms.

Emily is sound asleep in the bed amidst all this squalor, and I feel a twinge of guilt at having to wake her. But it’s late July and summer vacation for her—no school to worry about, and she has no job other than the frequent babysitting she does for us—so I know she’ll manage.

“Em?” I say in a low voice, giving her shoulder a gentle shake. This first effort does nothing, so I try a second time, speaking a little louder and shaking a little harder. I’m rewarded for my efforts with a grunt.

“A call?” she mumbles, not opening her eyes.

“Yes,” I say. “Can you watch Matthew until we get back? I’m not sure how long we’ll be gone, but I can get Desi to come and pick him up later this morning if need be.”

She sits up and rubs her eyes. “I’m good for the day,” she says. She drops her hands into her lap, glances at the alarm clock beside her bed, and smiles at me. “Of course, given the hour and the short notice, this job should probably be paid at triple time.”

I smile back at her. “You got it.” The girl excels at extortion, and her babysitting money goes into a fund she calls her funny money, money she is saving up to buy herself a car. Hurley and I have argued over this because I feel we should buy her a car, and frankly it would be nice to get rid of the chauffeuring duties I’m constantly having to do. But he is insistent that she earn the money and buy the car herself. So for now, I’m speeding up the process by caving in—willingly and happily—to Emily’s attempts to pad her fund.

Emily’s smile broadens at my capitulation. “I might get that car before school starts at this rate,” she says.

“Indeed, you might,” I say, giving her a kiss on the forehead. “Now go back to sleep.”

She plops back down, fluffing her pillow beneath her head. I go downstairs, where I find Hurley nuking coffee that was left in the pot from earlier in the day. It won’t be gourmet, by any means, but at this hour, just about any coffee will do.

Wordlessly, we fix our coffees in travel mugs and head out, slipping on shoes that are kept by the door. Hurley’s car is parked in the driveway. Mine, a midnight-blue hearse, is parked in the street. Without any discussion, we both head for Hurley’s car. While seeing a hearse at a death scene shouldn’t be too shocking—in fact, it’s ironically apropos—the car at times tends to attract attention that I can do without.

As soon as we’re settled and underway, I say, “We probably should have iced these coffees instead of nuking them. It’s still in the eighties out here.”

Our weather for the past week or so has been a blast of furnace-quality heat and dripping humidity. The temps have been well into the nineties, and the humidity has been hovering in the 80th-percentile range. Though some people love this hot weather, it’s not my favorite. I come with plenty of natural insulation, and my tolerance of heat is about as good as my tolerance of the tongue-in-cheek Wisconsin state bird: the mosquito. They’ve been out in force this past week, too, and I have the bites to prove it.

It’s a Wednesday night—though technically it’s now Thursday morning—and I spent the better part of the past weekend traveling to the land Hurley and I bought right before we tied the knot a few weeks ago, giving up our independence on Independence Day. The land is out in the country; the mosquitos were apparently having some sort of convention out there all weekend, and I was on the menu for every meal. As a result, I now look like I have the measles. It’s a small price to pay, however, for moving along our building project. I’m desperate to get into our new home. The house we’re living in now is Hurley’s, one he bought and lived in for two years before I moved in. Now, with the two of us, two kids, two cats, and a dog in it, it’s feeling kind of tight. It also feels like Hurley’s house, and I’m eager to have a place to live that is not only roomier, but ours, with no prior history.

Emily and I have tried to fem up the place some, but our efforts have done little to eliminate the overall bachelor pad feel of the place. Apparently, it takes more than some curtains, throw rugs, and a box of tampons in every bathroom to lend a house a feminine air.

The only thing that truly felt like home to me before moving in with Hurley was a small cottage that Izzy had built behind his house. Back when I was married to a local surgeon named David Winston, Izzy was my neighbor. He built a cottage behind his house for his then-ailing mother, Sylvie, but Sylvie rallied after a year and then opted to move out and into senior housing. This happened right around the time my marriage to David went south, along with most of the local geese, after I caught him canoodling with an OR nurse at the local hospital where we both worked at the time. So I moved into Izzy’s cottage until I could sort things out, a process complicated by my starting a whole new career, meeting Hurley, getting pregnant, and dealing with the discovery of Hurley’s daughter, Emily, who he didn’t know existed until two years ago. Her arrival, along with that of her mother, an ex that Hurley discovered wasn’t really an ex because she never filed the divorce papers, coincided with me discovering I was pregnant.

For the better part of a year and a half, Izzy’s cottage was my home. It was my fortress of solitude, the place where I acquired my fur family of one dog and two cats, the place where I launched my new career, the place where I learned how to be on my own again, the place where I gave birth to my son—literally, since it happened in the bathtub—and raised him on my own for most of his first year. It was small—what Realtors euphemistically refer to as cozy—and I’m not, since I stand six feet tall and typically weigh in somewhere between one-seventy and none of your damned business. Considering that I moved into the cottage after living in a McMansion with David, one might think I found it to be a humbling, if not humiliating step down in life. But I never saw it that way. I grew to love the place, and it was one of the few things at that time that I could call my own. The facts that it was next to my old house—offering me ample spying opportunities—and only steps away from my two favorite therapists—Izzy and his life partner, Dom—were bonuses. To be totally honest, my favorite therapists are Ben & Jerry, but Izzy and Dom are a close second and kinder to my hips.

The house David and I once shared burned to the ground not long after I moved out—a whole other story in itself—though it has since been rebuilt. The new house is even bigger, and David still lives there, along with his new wife, Patty Volker, who at one time was our mutual insurance agent. Though the destruction of the house saddened me at first, it seemed fitting after a while. That fire gave me closure. It also gave me a decent little divorce settlement when the insurance check came.

Unfortunately, Sylvie’s good health didn’t last, requiring her to move back into the cottage. It was a move she didn’t accept gracefully, given that it meant not only giving up some of her independence, but living in close proximity to Izzy and Dom. Sylvie doesn’t approve of her son’s sexual orientation, and having evidence of it in her face every day is something she hasn’t taken to very well. She spent the first two months there without bathing, a curious quirk that almost led to Izzy putting her in a home. Then we learned that Sylvie knew I’d delivered Matthew in the bathtub, and in her mind that area was now like sacred ground. She wouldn’t stand in it, sit in it, or run water in it. Izzy had to find a local priest to come in and do a special ceremony—one I suspect he made up—in which he “captured” the sacred essence Sylvie thought was in the tub and put it in a mason jar. Sylvie insisted on giving me the jar afterward, and I thought about tossing it out. But some superstitious vestigial corner of my brain wouldn’t let me—that and a fear of what Sylvie would do if she ever asked to see it and discovered I no longer had it.

Since I had to vacate the cottage for Sylvie, moving in with Hurley was the logical option. But it wasn’t an easy decision for three reasons. For starters, my relationship with Emily was iffy at the time, iffy being a euphemism for a barrel of TNT connected to a short, lit fuse. Her mother died not long after the two of them showed up on Hurley’s doorstep unannounced, and while I understood Emily’s emotional turmoil—losing the only family she had known for more than fourteen years, discovering she had a father she’d always thought was dead, and then learning that he was starting a new family with me—her behavior at one point bordered on frightening. We eventually worked it out with the help of time, patience, a lot of counseling, and a near-death experience for Emily. I have grown to love Emily as if she were my own daughter, but for a while there it was touch and go.

Another thing that made moving in with Hurley an iffy prospect was the state of our relationship. He’d asked me to marry him—several times—and I wanted to. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the only reason he was asking was because I was pregnant and he felt it was the right and proper thing to do.

The final complication in our decision to cohabitate was the four-legged baggage I brought with me. Hoover, who I found hungry, skinny, and dirty, trying to eat out of a garbage bin behind a local grocery store, wasn’t really an issue. Hurley adores Hoover, and the feeling is mutual. But I also managed to rescue two cats: a gray-and-white kitten I found abandoned in a Dumpster outside of a convenience store and decided to name Rubbish, and a black-and-white cat named Tux that had belonged to a murder victim on a case we investigated two years ago. And Hurley really, really doesn’t like cats. In fact, he’s afraid of them, not that he’d admit to it. If I ever had any doubts about whether or not Hurley really loves me, they were eliminated when he agreed to let me move into his house with my cats. It hasn’t been an easy adjustment for him, but over time we’ve managed to achieve a peaceful state of tolerance. This has been challenged of late, however, because Rubbish has started stalking and pouncing on all kinds of things: dust bunnies, shoes, Matthew and his toys, Hoover, Tux, and yes, Hurley. When Rubbish leapt at Hurley’s feet from beneath Matthew’s bed the other day, I heard my husband scream like a girl one second and swear like a salty sailor the next.

I’m not sure how I became a pet magnet, because I never had any pets before these. My mother is a germaphobe and hypochondriac of the highest order who considers animals of all kinds to be dirty, vermin-ridden sources of contagion. And David was allergic to pet hair, or so he claimed, though I came to doubt this as time went by.

While Hurley and I have managed to work through most of our issues over time, the housing arrangement remains uncomfortable. The solution we came up with was to buy a piece of land just outside of town and build a house on it that will be uniquely, and jointly, ours.

We drive past our new property on our way to the motel, and I gaze out the window longingly at it, imagining how nice the house will be. The property includes a slope of land that runs back from the road for several hundred feet, topping out on a rocky bluff with a forty-foot face. From the top of the bluff, one has a spectacular view of the surrounding countryside, and that’s where we plan to build, taking advantage of that view as much as we can. If all goes according to plan, we hope to have it built and be in it in time for the holidays. But if there is one consistency in my life of late, it’s that almost nothing goes according to plan.

It takes us just over half an hour to drive to the Grizzly Motel, an isolated, somewhat seedy joint located on a country highway bearing the ironic name of Morals Road, though it was named after a person rather than a tribute to ethics. The motel is easy to spot thanks to a giant green-and-pink neon bear out front, and a sign boasting of seventy-five cable channels. It’s a long, sprawling structure with two wings branching off either side of a central office area and rooms on both the front and back of each wing. A thick copse of woods borders it in the back behind the rear parking area.

I’ve been here before, back when I was investigating the death of the woman my ex had his affair with, so I know that the rooms in the left wing are typically used for overnight customers, whereas the right wing tends to do a brisk trade in hourly rentals. It’s hard not to make political jokes about this setup, but I’m too tired to be funny at the moment.

Even at this hour, there is a maid’s cart parked outside one of the rooms in the right wing. There are lots of people milling about in the front parking lot—most of them huddling in groups of two: gay couples, straight couples, and a couple of couples I’m not sure of.

We see Izzy and a county cop standing inside the office talking to the woman behind the desk, so we park, get out of the car, and head inside as all the lookie-loos stare after us, whispering and muttering among themselves. A bell jangles over the door to announce our arrival, and the county cop turns around and gives us a relieved look.

“Thank goodness,” he says, walking over and extending a hand to Hurley. They shake, and since the county guy, whose name tag says J MATHERS, is ignoring me, I head over to the desk and Izzy.

“The bodies are in a room in this wing around on the back side,” Izzy informs me. “I haven’t been there yet.”

I nod and look at the woman behind the desk. She is a solid mass of flesh with a thick neck, broad shoulders, heavy arms, and a nearly square-shaped torso. Her hair is cropped short, and she is dressed in a plain white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans.

“You’re Cinder, right?” I say.

She nods.

“I met you a couple of years ago when I was investigating another case.”

She shrugs. I can’t tell if she remembers me or not, or if she even cares. It was a very memorable visit for me, however. I was unfamiliar with the Grizzly Motel back then, and it was an eye-opener for me when I realized they rented rooms by the hour, had VCR players in each unit (modern technology hadn’t yet made it to the Grizzly), and had a special collection of rentable movies that were rated like the spot to dig on a treasure map, movies that sported titles like Assablanca, Womb Raider, and Twin Cheeks—riffs on other, gentler movies.

“I introduced you to Joey Dewhurst,” I try.

With that revelation, Cinder’s face lights up. “Oh, yeah. Joey.”

“I thought the two of you might hit it off.”

She shrugs again. “We’re good friends,” she says. “He’s a nice guy, but a little slow.” She taps the side of her head. “He’s dating someone else now, someone his own . . . speed.”

I get what she’s saying. Joey is mentally challenged and has an IQ approximately equivalent to that of a ten-year-old. But he also has an amazing savant ability with computers: hardware, software, and writing code. He considers himself a superhero of sorts—HackerMan—and he often wears a red bodysuit under his regular clothes that has a big, yellow H on the chest and a cape that hangs off the back.

Mathers is apparently ready to take us to the bodies because Hurley is beckoning to us. I tell Cinder it was nice to see her again, and then Izzy and I follow Hurley and Mathers out of the office and around the right end of the building to the back. Yellow police tape has been strung up from the back corner of the building to a county cop car parked near the bordering woods, and we duck beneath it. I can see similar tape strung up halfway down the building, effectively cordoning off the rear area of this wing.

“I’ve chatted with all the people who were in rooms back here inside the taped area,” Mathers says. “They’re all out front, and I’ve asked them not to leave.” He shrugs. “Though I didn’t have the manpower to make sure they stayed. I have names, however, assuming they’re legit names.”

With a place like this, the odds of that are small, I think.

“Who called it in?” Hurley asks.

“That behemoth of a woman in the office,” Mathers says with a roll of his eyes. “I sure wouldn’t want to piss her off,” he adds with an arch of a brow. “She said the people in the room to the right of our victim’s heard gunshots and called her at the front desk. She locked the office and came around back to check. Knocked three times, and when no one answered, she unlocked the door and went in. She swears she didn’t go very far into the room or touch anything. She could tell they were both dead from the door, so she shut it, letting it lock, and went back to her office to call 911.”

Hurley looks up and scans the roofline of the building. “No security cameras?”

Mathers shakes his head, looking irritated. “Apparently the clientele who frequent this place aren’t too keen on such things.”

“Did the people in the adjacent rooms see anyone?” Hurley asks next.

Again, Mathers shakes his head. “The ones who called the office said they heard a man’s and a woman’s voice through the wall earlier, but they were muffled, and they couldn’t tell what they were saying. The voices weren’t raised like they were arguing or anything. Then they heard the shots, two of them, fairly close together. They were, um, otherwise disposed at the time, and it took them a minute or so to get out of bed, put on some clothes, and peek through first the peephole and then the window.”

We have arrived at the door to the room in question, and Mathers uses a key card to unlock it. When he pushes it open, the distinct, acrid smell of blood wafts out into the hot, humid, night air, and my coffee gurgles and lurches in my gut. Hurley, Izzy, and I all don gloves and paper booties from the scene kit I’ve brought along. As Hurley and Izzy head inside, I swallow hard, hoping to keep my peristalsis moving in the right direction, and follow them.

There are two of our local cops in the room: Patrick Devonshire and Brenda Joiner. Also in the room is Jonas Kriedeman, the police department’s evidence technician. The bodies are on the queen-sized bed: a man and a woman, both lying on their backs. The woman is closest to us, her head to our right, and she has what appears to be a bullet hole in her chest, right where her heart is. Her death was most likely instantaneous. The man beside her has an entry wound on the right side of his head, with a corresponding exit wound on the left side. Judging from the brain matter I can see splattered on the pillow and on the woman’s face, his death was also instantaneous, not to mention messy. His right arm is hanging off the bed, and there is a gun on the floor beneath his hand.

“It’s a grim one,” Devonshire says with a grimace, staring at the mess on the man’s pillow. He looks a little pale. Devonshire isn’t known for having a strong stomach, and I’m worried he’s going to barf on our crime scene.

Hurley must be thinking something similar because he says, “Patrick, why don’t you go stand by the door to the room to make sure none of those rubberneckers try to get in here.”

Patrick obliges, looking relieved.

We are standing in front of a credenza located at the foot of the bed, and Mathers turns to point to something next to the bolted-down TV. “They left a note,” he says. “Or rather our male vic did.”

I look at the note. It’s computer-printed on plain paper, the type you can find in most any house, and it’s written in all capital letters.

At the bottom of the page is a big, handwritten letter C, presumably scribbled with the pen lying next to the paper. Given that there is no computer or printer in the room, it seems obvious that the note was brought along to the motel. The pen is a generic ballpoint that could have originated in the room—though Cinder doesn’t strike me as the type to provide perks that can easily be taken—or it might have been left behind by a previous guest or brought along by one of our victims. I try to imagine the man asking the woman for a pen so he could sign the note with a one-letter closing before giving it to her and then killing her. It feels wrong in a hundred different ways. And yet the note is written as if it was intended to be read by the female victim, presuming that the dead woman is the Meredith mentioned in the note.

I look at Mathers. “I’m assuming you have IDs on them? We heard they’re from Sorenson.”

Mathers nods. “We found a purse over there,” he says, pointing to a chair. “Wallet inside belongs to a woman named Meredith Lansing, and the driver’s license picture matches that of our female vic. The guy left his wallet on the bedside table. It belongs to a Craig Knowlton. And again, the license picture matches.”

So the Meredith in the note and the dead woman are likely one and the same, and the name Craig fits with the letter C at the bottom of the suicide note. All neat and tidy . . . too much so for my tastes.

“This note seems wrong to me,” I say to no one in particular. “It doesn’t make sense to type out a note for the girlfriend and bring it along for her to read before killing her. And then leave it here for . . . for who? For us? A note that says something along the lines of Good-bye, cruel world, I couldn’t live without her would make more sense.”

“You’re trying to make sense of illogical, crazy thought patterns,” Hurley says. “Anyone crazy enough to kill the woman they love because they can’t have her couldn’t have been firing on all cylinders.”

“Maybe,” I say, still bothered by the note. I take out my camera and start shooting pictures, beginning with the note. Then I look over at Jonas. “Be sure and bag this pen and dust it for prints.”

He nods, grabs an evidence bag, and moves in on the pen.

“Know anything else about our victims?” Hurley asks. He is staring at the bodies, so his question isn’t directed at anyone.

Brenda Joiner provides the first answers. “A little. Meredith Lansing had an ID card in her purse indicating she works at the hospital in Sorenson. Craig had some business cards in his wallet that state he’s a financial adviser for a company called Carrier Investments, also in Sorenson.”

Mathers jumps in. “I had our dispatcher run down what she could find on the two of them. They’re both married—to other people,” he adds with a wry arch of his brow. “Meredith’s husband is John Lansing; Craig’s wife is Pamela Knowlton. A Google search revealed that Pamela also works at Carrier Investments. In fact, she and Craig own the company. It’s some type of investment company franchise.”

“Ha