Primrose's wrists were wrapped with electrical tape, and I could see a thin wire embedded in her neck.
I tasted bile, swallowed hard.
“Garroted?”
He nodded. “Bastard wrapped the line around her throat, then tightened it in back with some kind of tool. Very effective in cutting off the windpipe.”
I placed a hand over my nose and mouth and leaned in. Jagged lines scored the flesh on one side of Primrose's neck, scratched by her nails as she clawed for life with her bound hands.
“It's her,” I said, lunging from the ambulance. I needed air. Miles and oceans of fresh air.
Hurrying to the far end of the unoccupied pier, I stood a moment, arms wrapped around my middle. A boat whined in the distance, grew loud, receded. Waves lapped below my feet. Frogs croaked from the weeds lining the shore. Life continued, oblivious to the death of one of its creatures.
I thought about Primrose, pictured her hobbling out to our final meeting in the morgue parking lot. A sixty-two-year-old black woman with a nursing degree, a weight problem, proficiency at cards, and a fondness for rhubarb crumble. There. I did know something about my friend.
My chest gave a series of heaves.
Steady.
I pulled a ragged breath.
Think.
What could Primrose have done, known, or seen that could have brought such violence down on her? Was she killed because of her involvement with me?
Another tremor. I gulped air.
Or was I magnifying my own role? Was her death random? We Americans are the world's leading producers of homicide. Was Primrose Hobbs bound and strangled for nothing more than her car? That made no sense. Not the garroting and the duct tape. This was a planned murder and she was the intended victim. But why?
Hearing doors slam, I turned. The attendants were climbing into the front of the ambulance. Seconds later, the engine revved, and the vehicle crawled up the dirt road.
Good-bye, old friend. If I brought you to this, please, please, forgive me. My lower lip trembled, and I bit down hard.
You will not cry. But why not? Why hold back tears of mourning for a good and gentle person?
I looked out across the lake. The sky was clearing, and the pines on the far shore stood out blue-black against the first pink rays of dusk. I recalled something else.
Primrose Hobbs loved sunsets. I gazed at the sunset and wept until I felt angry. Beyond angry. I felt a hot, red rage burning inside me.
Bridle it, Brennan. Use it.
Vowing to find answers, I drew a deep breath and walked up the pier to rejoin Crowe and Albright.
“What did she drive?” I asked.
Crowe consulted a spiral pad.
“Blue Honda Civic. Ninety-four. North Carolina plates.”
“It's not parked at the Riverbank Inn.”
Crowe looked at me strangely.
“Car could be on its way to Saudi Arabia by now,” said Albright.
“I told you that the victim was helping me with my investigation.”
“I'll want to talk to you about that.” Crowe.
“Find anything here?” I asked.
“We're still looking.”
“Tire tracks? Footprints?” I knew it was stupid as soon as I said it. The rain would have obliterated such impressions.
Crowe shook her head.
I scanned the pickups and SUVs left behind by fishermen and pleasure boaters. Two sixteen-foot aluminum outboards bobbed in their slips.
“Any permanent tie-ups at the marina?”
“It's strictly a rental business.”
“That means a lot of people coming and going every day. Pretty busy spot for a body dump.”
“Rentals are due back by eight P.M. Apparently things quiet down after that.”
I indicated the couple with the putty faces. They were alone on the dock now, hands in their pockets, unsure what they were supposed to do next.
“Are those the owners?”
“Glenn and Irene Boynton. They say they're here every night until eleven, return around six in the morning. They live up the road.”
Crowe indicated the dirt track.
“They claim to notice cars at night. Worry about kids messing with their boats. Neither one heard or saw a thing over the past three days. For what that's worth. A perp wouldn't exactly advertise that he was using your dock to off-load a corpse.”
The celery eyes appraised the scene, came back to me.
“But you're right. This would be an odd choice. There's a small road kisses the shore about a half mile up from here. We're thinking that was the toss-in point.”
“Two, three days seems a little long for the currents to carry her here,” added Albright. “Body may have deadheaded awhile.”
“Deadheaded?” I snapped, furious at his callousness.
“Sorry. Old logging term. Refers to snagged timber.”
I was almost afraid to ask the next question.
“Was she sexually assaulted?”
“Clothing's on, underwear's in place. I'll test for semen, but I doubt it.”
We stood silent in the gathering dusk. Behind us, the docks creaked and settled against the waves. A cold breeze blew off the water, carrying the scent of fish and gasoline.
“Why would someone garrote an old lady?” Though I spoke aloud, the question was really for me, not my companions.
“Why do these sick bastards do any of the things they do?” Albright replied.
I left them and walked toward Ryan's car. The ambulance and wrecker were gone, but the cruisers remained, pulsing blue light across the muddy lot. I sat a moment, staring at the hundreds of prints left by the feet of ambulance attendants, wrecker operators, police, the pathologist, and myself. Primrose's last disaster scene.
I turned the key and headed back toward Bryson City, tears coursing down my cheeks.
When I checked my messages later that evening, I found one from Lucy Crowe. I returned her call and told her everything I knew about Primrose Hobbs, ending with our Sunday-morning rendezvous at the morgue.
“And that foot and all its paperwork are now missing?”
“So I was told. Primrose was probably the last person to see the stuff.”
“Parker Davenport told you she signed it out. Did she sign it back in?”
“Good question.”
“Tell me about security.”
“All DMORT and ME personnel have IDs, as do the people from your department and the Bryson City PD who work security. A guard checks IDs at the perimeter fence, and there's a sign in/sign out sheet inside the morgue. A color-coded dot goes on your badge each day.”
“Why?”
“In case someone manages to duplicate the ID, they'd have no way of knowing that day's color.”
“What about after hours?”
“By now there's probably a smaller crew left at the morgue, mostly records and computer staff, some medical personnel. There'd be no one there at night except your deputy or a Bryson City cop.”
I pictured the lieutenant governor with his videocasette.
“There is a surveillance camera on the gate.”
“What about the computers?”
“Every VIP user has a password, and only a limited number of people can enter or delete data.”
“Assuming Hobbs returned it, where would that foot have been?”
“At the end of the day everything goes into reefer trucks marked ‘unprocessed,’ ‘in process,’ or ‘identified.’ Cases are located with a computer tracking system.”
“How hard would it be to break in?”
“High school kids have hacked the Pentagon.”
I heard distant conversation, like voices drifting through a wormhole in space.
“Sheriff, I think Primrose Hobbs was murdered because of that foot.”
“Or the thing could be a biological specimen.”
“A woman examines an object which is the subject of controversy, that object disappears, and the woman turns up dead three days later. If there's no link it's one hell of a coincidence.”
“We're looking at every angle.”