Chapter 1
Kenzie’s phone started ringing loudly on the side table, jarring her awake. She grabbed it and tried to silence the noise, her fingers clumsy with sleep. She wanted the noise to end as quickly as possible, but finding the button to mute it took precious seconds. She considered getting out of bed and stepping out into the hallway to take the call so that her voice would not disturb Zachary’s sleep but, by the time she had formed the thought, she knew there was no use. Zachary woke more quickly than she did and, if he were awakened at night, it was pretty much guaranteed that he would stay that way. Even if Kenzie could go back to sleep after the sound of that klaxon, there was no way Zachary would.
So she saved herself the risk of stubbing her toes or other accidents that might occur stumbling around in the dark—or blinding herself by turning on a light—by staying in bed. She blinked a couple of times to clear her vision, then swiped the screen to accept the call.
“Dr. Kirsch,” she acknowledged. “Sorry, took me a minute there.”
“Good morning, Dr. Kirsch,” the operator at the other end of the line greeted pleasantly. “I’m afraid I have a callout for you.”
“Sure,” Kenzie agreed. “Where are the remains? Any details about the situation?”
The operator gave her an address and directed her to an alley, which was not particularly surprising. Kenzie thumbed the address into a note on her phone and read it back. The operator confirmed.
“Police have secured the scene.”
“Great, thanks.”
“Have a great day, doctor,” the operator told her pleasantly and disconnected.
Kenzie looked at the window. Though the blinds were pulled, she could still see through the crack between them. It was dark—streetlights shining. Though the dispatcher had wished her a good morning and told her to have a good day, it was still in the middle of the night. Kenzie looked at the time on her phone screen.
Two o’clock in the morning.
At least she had a few hours of sleep under her belt. She wouldn’t be getting any more. While in theory, she could go back to sleep, and the police would hold the scene until it was actually morning, she would never do that. With her heart hammering after being startled out of sound sleep, she wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep if she wanted to, and she wouldn’t make the law enforcement officers who had secured the scene stand around for hours waiting for her. That would just be rude and would guarantee she would not get the friendly cooperation she was used to from the police force in the future.
She took a few deep breaths to settle her heart and try to get the oxygen to her brain to help her wake up and focus on the business at hand.
“Got a callout?” Zachary asked in a quiet, calm voice intended not to startle her.
Kenzie stretched and turned partway around to look at him. She couldn’t see much in the darkness of the room, just his shape beside her. Her brain filled in what her eyes could not see—his very short, dark hair, a scruff of several days’ growth of whiskers, the mixture of concern and reassurance on his face.
“Yup,” she agreed, “body in a back alley. Those are always nice.”
He chuckled. “Who knows, it could just be a heart attack. A businessman who went out for a breath of fresh air.”
“It’s never just a heart attack,” Kenzie countered. If it were earlier or later, it could be. A businessman having a nightcap before bed, or an early morning heart attack on his commute to work. But two in the morning was rarely anything so benign.
Of course, he might have died hours or even days before. No one had said that he had died within the last hour or two.
In her experience, it would not be pretty.
Zachary stirred beside her. He untangled himself from the blankets and got out of bed, stopping momentarily to feel around for some clothing. “Do you want me to make coffee?” he asked. He was already moving, heading toward the door. There was no point in telling him no. He’d already made up his mind. He’d be making coffee for himself. She might as well take advantage of it.
“Sure,” she agreed, “that would be nice. But just regular strength. None of that high-test stuff.”
“You sure you don’t need an extra boost?”
“If I need more caffeine, I’ll drink another cup.”
“Aye-aye,” he agreed.
Kenzie rubbed her eyes and got moving. She didn’t want to keep the police waiting longer than necessary.
By the time she had splashed water on her face, combed her curly hair, and finished making herself presentable, the smell of coffee was wafting through the house. On her arrival in the kitchen, Zachary handed her a large travel mug filled with the fresh brew. He leaned in for a kiss, bristly, still smelling of sweat and musk.
“Have a good day,” he told her. “Shoot me a text or call me over lunch and let me know how it is going.”
“Will do,” Kenzie agreed. She slipped on her jacket and shoes, grabbed her purse, and entered the garage where her “baby”—a sporty red convertible—awaited her. Her small scene-of-crime kit was stowed in the trunk as usual. If she found she needed additional equipment when she got to the scene, she would have Carlos bring it to her when he drove the medical examiner’s van to the scene for transportation.
Chapter 2
Despite the fact that it was not yet a decent hour of the morning, it was not lonely and creepy in the back alley where the remains had been found. A police perimeter had been set up and large lights banished all thoughts of night. Kenzie was happy to see that the police mostly stayed outside the perimeter until she and the forensic unit gathered the evidence they needed and turned the scene over. They did not need a scene that had been trampled all over. She pulled on the prescribed protective gear and approached the scene.
“Morning, everyone,” Kenzie greeted. “What’ve we got?”
A detective had arrived ahead of her and was patiently waiting with his own cup of coffee, an extra-large from the nearest coffee shop. He took a sip, considering her. He had wavy, sandy-colored hair and was young for a detective. He looked as if he, like Kenzie, had been woken up by the call. His name bar gave his name as Samuels.
Kenzie knew she wasn’t what most people pictured when the title “Assistant Medical Examiner” was mentioned. Most people expected a gray-haired man, not Kenzie, with her wild dark curls and bright red lipstick. Her red sports car didn’t advertise that she was from the medical examiner’s office either, although, if Samuels got close enough, he would be able to see her medical examiner parking pass hanging from the mirror. Kenzie smiled and nodded, indicating the identification on the lanyard around her neck in case he doubted who she was. He cleared his throat and nodded.
“Just an old homeless guy,” Samuels told her. “No sign of violence or anything out of place.”
Kenzie nodded. “Great. This should be quick, then.”
He escorted her to the officer who was logging the visitors to the scene and Kenzie signed in. The detective pointed to the body in case she couldn’t see it, which she could, and suggested that she walk around the edges to preserve any evidence. Kenzie didn’t push back on being told how to preserve the crime scene. She was happy to have them cordoning it off and controlling foot traffic in and out of the scene as they were supposed to. It didn’t always turn out that way and she was never happy to arrive at a crime scene where people were just wandering around or, even worse, had touched or moved the body for one reason or another.
Kenzie walked as close to the brick wall of the building on her right as she could, shining a flashlight ahead of her at an angle to detect any footprints, fluids, pocket debris, or other piece of evidence before she stepped on it. When she reached the body, she checked the ground carefully before setting down her kit and leaning in to examine the body.
The first matter of business was to confirm that he was, in fact, deceased. That was apparent just by looking at him. Yellow, waxy skin and lifeless eyes. But she checked for a carotid pulse anyway and shifted his jaw slightly. Either he didn’t yet smell, or the other smells of the alley were overwhelming the beginnings of decomposition. It had not been long since he had passed.
“Who found him?” Kenzie asked, projecting her voice toward Detective Samuels, standing outside the tape.
“Another homeless guy.”
“You got him? To get a full statement?”
“Didn’t seem like he knew anything. We got his details in case we need to reach him again.”
The homeless did have the unfortunate habit of disappearing when the police were looking for them. They had the ability to disappear without a trace for long periods of time, swallowed up by the streets, with no address and often no phone number to reach them at. Kenzie wished she’d had a chance to talk to the homeless man before he had been allowed to leave.
“What did he have to say?”
“Just that he knew his friend was sleeping close by and was looking for him. Found him here, deceased, and called it in.”
“He is very recently deceased. No rigor. Are you sure he was already dead when the friend arrived?”
Samuels frowned, a crease appearing between his eyes. “Why would he call it in as a death if he was still alive? He would call 9-1-1.”
Kenzie nodded slowly. Usually, people went with 9-1-1 even when calling in a dead body. Sometimes, they thought the person could be saved, even if they knew their hopes were most likely unfounded. They wanted to do something, and preserved the hope of revival long after it was reasonable.
“I would like to talk to him, if you would please be sure to include his contact information in your report.”
“Of course,” he agreed.
“If you have his friend, then I assume you also have his identity? A name for our victim?”
“John Lane. Jack. A longtime resident of these mean streets.”
Kenzie nodded, not surprised. The man’s clothing and rough-looking appearance suggested that he was not new to homeless life. She looked around for his possessions but did not see a shopping cart or stash anywhere close by. He might live some distance from there, maybe in a tent or other shelter, and that was where his belongings were.
She looked at his hands and fingers for any sign of what he had been doing recently. They were stained yellow, making it obvious that he had been a smoker of many years. She could smell alcohol and vomit on him. She pushed up one of his sleeves. No tattoos. No track marks. But there was something.
“There is an IV puncture mark here,” she observed. “Would you call the hospital and find out what he was being treated for?”
“Sure,” Detective Samuels agreed. He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen a few times. Like most other first responders in town, he had one or more of the hospitals’ numbers in his contact list. He called Admitting and talked to them while Kenzie made her next few observations.
There were bloody stains on the collar of his shirt. Kenzie leaned in closer. There were no cuts on his throat or face. That fact, combined with the smell of vomit, told her that he had likely been throwing up blood.
Certainly not unheard of for an alcoholic. Long-term alcohol use did terrible things to the digestive tract. And alcoholics just kept drinking despite the pain. His skin and eyes were yellow. Jaundice. The elevated bilirubin told her there was liver damage.
The detective was probably right. He had probably died of natural causes, the destructive effects of long-term alcoholism, and not any street violence.
She examined the rest of the victim’s limbs as far as his clothing would allow and checked his torso, front and back. There was some bruising, which was concerning, but she didn’t think he had been beaten up. More than likely, it was just another sign of impending organ failure. He had been pretty hard on his body for some years.
“Okay,” Kenzie called over to Samuels. “I’m going to call for transport and see how long we are waiting on the forensic team.”
“Hospital says he was not admitted.”
“Not admitted? But he was treated.”
He shook his head. “They don’t have any records of him being there. Not recently, and I assume you meant the IV mark was new.”
“Yes. It’s fresh. The IV was just pulled out in the last few hours. He must have been at the hospital.”
“Maybe some kind of private clinic?” Samuels suggested.
A clinic. Kenzie nodded slowly. What kind of clinic was nearby that might have treated Mr. Lane? Someone might have noticed that he was dehydrated after throwing up. A doctor’s office, rehab center, or some mobile clinic or outreach center that treated the homeless.
“We’ll have to find out where he was being treated. Or maybe he was admitted to the hospital as a John Doe if he wouldn’t give his name or was unconscious when he was taken there.”
“Already asked that. No John Does treated in the last week. Few patients that meet his demographic.”’
“Hmm. We’ll have to check around. Where was he living? Was he in a shelter?”
“More than likely. Ninety-five percent of the homeless population in Vermont is sheltered. We’ll make a few calls around. I’m sure it won’t take long to find out where he was being treated and for what.”
“I can tell you the what. Alcoholism and ulcers in the upper GI. Vomiting, dehydrated, throwing up blood. It wouldn’t have been pretty.”
He sniffed and nodded in agreement.
“Wherever it was, he shouldn’t have been released in this condition,” Kenzie pointed out.
“He probably snuck out or signed an AMA.”
“Against Medical Advice,” Kenzie agreed, sighing. And there wasn’t really anything anyone could do about it. They could try to have him declared incompetent and to put him under some kind of conservatorship but, other than a locked ward in a nursing home, there weren’t many places that would physically prevent him from walking away if he wanted to leave.
Most doctors and social workers would shrug and let him leave if he insisted. Choosing to live a high-risk lifestyle was not cause to have someone declared incompetent. If he knew the likely consequences of his behavior and was coherent, it was pretty hard to convince a court to take away his freedom.
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