He hesitated, then said, “My blackouts are happening more often.” He sat back and closed his eyes a moment, taking a deep breath. “I feel like I’m losing my mind sometimes.”
“Are you taking your meds?” she asked.
He nodded. “Always.”
“All right,” she said and stood. “Take a hammer to the fender. See if you can fix it up a bit. It should be okay.” She held up a finger. “But don’t drive it anywhere.”
“I won’t.”
“Are you not going to work today?”
He shrugged. “I don’t feel up to it. I might go in later. They won’t fire me. It’s too hard to find anyone else to do my lousy job.”
She leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms. “Get my car fixed up right away,” she said. “I need to go out later. And I can drive you to work if you want to go.”
He nodded, avoiding her gaze as she looked at him. Finally, her slippers padded across the floor as she left the kitchen, leaving him alone at the table.
He was worried. He would have to go outside and check out the car. He hoped he hadn’t run into another vehicle. That wouldn’t be good, but what worried him most was his blackout spells. He didn’t hear the voices in his head very often anymore. At least not lately, and he was glad of that. They told him to do some pretty crazy things, and told him some whopping lies, but now it looked like things might’ve taken a turn for the worse in a different way.
And it frightened him.
Chapter 5
Tuesday, 9:04 a.m.
DETECTIVE HANK CORNING steered his Chevy into the Richmond North High School parking lot, waved at an officer controlling access to the area, and was directed toward the rear of the lot. He didn’t need to be guided in the right direction. Even from the street, he could see the line-up of police cars parked alongside the forensic van and the ME’s vehicle. An ambulance was backed in, its lights still flashing. Other officers kept cars and curious onlookers from the immediate area.
Groups of students, scheduled to be in class, gathered at random places, their curious eyes straining to see the events taking place along the back row of the school parking lot.
It had been a peaceful weekend, giving Hank a chance to catch up on some much-needed sleep and spend quality time with his uncomplaining girlfriend, Amelia. Even yesterday, for a Monday, it was quiet around the precinct, and he had been able to get some paperwork cleaned up. His usually overloaded desk looked organized again.
But at forty years old, and after almost twenty years on the job, he knew peace was short-lived, sparse, and apt to be disrupted at a moment’s notice.
It wasn’t so much that his peace was disturbed. He was used to that. But what he never got used to was murder, the killing of another human being. As long as ruthless killers preyed on others, his job would never be done.
He pulled up beside an orange cone, one of many cordoning off a large section, and swung from the vehicle. Detective Simon King, Hank’s sometime partner, had just arrived in his own car.
King strode over to Hank. “I hear this one’s a real mess.”
Hank frowned at the other detective, narrowed his deep brown eyes, and disregarded the comment.
King looked like he had just crawled out of bed and slept in his clothes. Hank was pretty sure King wore the same tattered jeans every day with a fresh shirt on occasion. The three days’ worth of beard on his face didn’t help his look.
The two cops walked over to where a body lay in a tangled heap on the asphalt. Hank stopped a few feet short, a grim look on his face. He sighed deeply and glanced around the lot. Evidence markers were set up in several spots, and a photographer was snapping pictures. CSI would do a thorough job of documenting the scene, their task already well underway.
Lead crime scene investigator Rod Jameson stood nearby, a clipboard in his hand, watching his men as they expertly went about their tasks. The gangling investigator stretched up a couple inches above Hank’s six-foot stature, and he nodded his thin head in greeting as the detectives approached.
Hank nodded back and turned his gaze to the body. He’d seen some gruesome murders in the past, slit throats, drownings, hangings, and shootings, but none came close to the horrendous sight in front of him now.
He averted his eyes, took another deep breath, and turned back. The body was mangled almost beyond recognition. There was blood everywhere; most of what the body had once held was puddled and splashed about, much of it soaked into the tattered remnants of clothing that clung to the victim.
A tiny woman, with a frame somewhere between perfect and pudgy, was crouched down doing a preliminary examination of the body, inspecting an arm seemingly broken in several places. It was Medical Examiner Nancy Pietek. She abstained from her normal friendly greeting and glanced up at Hank, a grim look on her usually cheerful round face.
Hank nodded hello, his attention immediately drawn to a series of letters on the pavement apparently written in the victim’s own blood. He leaned over and looked closer. “Adam Thor.” He took out his cell phone and snapped a close-up of the message.
He crouched down beside Nancy as she brushed aside a crimson-stained strand of dark hair from the victim’s face and gazed at the remains of the body resting on the hard asphalt.
“I think the manner of death is obvious,” she said. “The victim was run over by a vehicle at least twice, making the cause of death severe blunt force and crush injuries.”
Hank nodded. “And the time of death?”
“Can’t be certain, Hank, but I’d say ten to twelve hours ago. Maybe slightly more. I’ll know better after a thorough examination.”
“Any ID?” Hank asked.
“Rod has that info,” Nancy said. “I believe they found the woman’s handbag.”
Hank stood and went over to where King was talking to Rod Jameson. With his unusual hollow voice, the investigator was saying something about a tire track and he repeated it for Hank’s benefit, motioning toward an evidence cone several feet away. “Tire track there, Hank. Made from blood.”
Hank went over to the cone and examined the distinct crimson track. He turned back. “You have an ID, Rod?”
Jameson handed Hank an envelope. “Here’s her driver’s license. Name’s Nina White. Apparently, she’s the school counselor here.” He pointed toward the vehicle parked along the back fence. “That vehicle’s registered in her name. Found the ownership papers inside.”
Hank glanced briefly toward the vehicle, then asked, “Any witnesses?”
Jameson consulted his clipboard. “No witnesses have come forward, but the guy who found the body this morning is waiting with one of the officers.” He motioned with a long arm toward the group of cruisers parked fifty feet away. “His name’s Jason Puttwater.”
Hank glanced to where Jameson indicated, then said, “I’ll take a look at the vehicle first.” He strode toward the fence, King following.
Hank took note of the broken passenger-side window. He avoided the glass on the ground and leaned over to look inside. No keys in the ignition. He stepped back and examined the mangled door. It appeared to have been rammed by another vehicle, likely the one that had killed Nina White. He snapped a picture of some flecks of paint clinging to the door. Black flecks on a white car.
King leaned in and looked at the door. “I guess that means we need to find a black car with white paint on it.”
“Looks like it,” Hank said. “And one that matches the tire track and has a dent or two in the front.”
“And blood all over it.”
“Let’s talk to Puttwater,” Hank said, striding toward the cruisers.
They found Jason Puttwater leaned against one of the police cars chatting with an officer. Hank introduced himself and King.