When Death Draws Near (2 page)

“MA'AM. SHERIFF REED TOLD ME TO COME AND
get you. He said he was sorry you had to wait so long. The body's here. I mean, it was here before . . . downstairs. In the morgue.”

I craned my head backward to see the young, lean-faced deputy standing over me. He had to be six foot four or taller, very slender, with wispy brown hair. His eyes were blue with heavy lids and his mouth red, probably from chewing his lips. Sure enough, his cheeks flushed at my studying him and he started gnawing his lower lip.

Sitting outside the Pikeville Community Hospital, I'd been enjoying the late-October sunshine and waiting for someone to remember I was here. I picked up my forensic art kit and followed the officer through a set of doors to an elevator next to the nurses' station. “I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name.”

“Junior Reed.” He nodded at his answer. “Sheriff Reed is my father.”

I did a double take. He didn't look anything like Clayton Reed, the sheriff of Pike County, Kentucky, who'd picked me
up from the Lexington airport yesterday. “Nice to meet you, Junior.” I stuck out my hand. “I'm Gwen Marcey.”

He hesitated for a moment, staring at my hand, then awkwardly shook it. His hand was wet.

The elevator door opened. As we entered, I surreptitiously wiped my hand on my slacks. The elevator seemed to think about moving, then quietly closed and slipped to the floor below, taking much longer than simply running down the stairs. The elevator finally opened. The smell hit me immediately.

I swallowed hard and took a firmer grip on my kit.

Several deputies had gathered in the middle of the hall, talking softly. They turned and stared at us. I couldn't quite decipher the expressions on their faces. They parted as we approached, revealing a closed door inscribed with the word
Morgue
.

Junior entered the room and moved to the body bag resting on a stainless steel table. Sheriff Clayton Reed—a large man with a thick chest, buzz-cut hair, and gray-blond mustache, stood next to a man in navy blue scrubs. I nodded at the man. “Hello. I'm Gwen Marcey, the forensic artist.”

“Ma'am. I'm Dr. Billy Graham.” He noted my raised eyebrows and grinned. “My parents had high hopes for a particular career direction.”

I grinned back, then slowed as I approached the table. I'd seen bodies before. Too many times before, but I still had a moment of hesitation when I knew what was coming. This was once someone's son or daughter, parent or friend. And no one knew of the death. Then the analytical part of my brain would take over, and I could concentrate on drawing the face of the unknown remains.

I just had to get past the
ick
moment.

“Here you go,” Sheriff Clay Reed said in a deep Appalachian
accent. My brain was still trying to translate his comments for my western Montana ears. “So far, no one has recognized . . . what was left.” He unzipped the body bag. Several flies made an angry exit. The odor was like a solid wall.

Junior spun and made it to a bucket near the door before losing his lunch.

I fought the urge to join him.

The sheriff frowned at Junior, then caught my gaze. “He never had much of a stomach for smells.”

I could relate to that. “What . . . um . . . what can you tell me about the body?”

“According to the doc here”—Clay nodded at the man—“he's been dead for at least a month, but hard to say exactly at this time . . . critters and all . . . in his late teens or early twenties. Slender. Teeth in pretty good shape, but obviously never been to a dentist. No help there.”

Pulling out a small sketchbook and pencil, I jotted down the sheriff's information. “No one reported him missing?”

The sheriff shook his head. “But that's not surprising. A lot of folks around here steer clear of the law.”

“Cause of death?”

“Can't be sure just yet,” the doctor said. “But I'd guess . . . snakebite.”

I stopped writing and looked up. “I thought, I mean, didn't you say he was murdered?”

“In a sense, he was.” Clay nodded toward a counter beside him. “We found those with the body.”

A white cotton bag, badly stained; a golf club with a bend at the end; a long clamping tool; a revolver; and a moldy Bible all lay spread out.

“Okay. What does that tell you?” I asked.

“I'd say he was snake hunting,” the sheriff said.

“I still don't understand.”

“The golf club with the metal hook on the end is a homemade snake hook. They cut the club off the end, then bend a piece of metal to form a U.”

“Can't you just buy one?”

“That can cost a bit. But folks are always throwing away golf clubs.” Clay chuckled. “I've tossed more than my fair share after a bad round of golf.”

He stopped chuckling at my expression. “Well then, those are snake tongs, and the bag is to put the snake into. The revolver is loaded with snake-shot ammunition.”

“But that doesn't mean—”

He unzipped the body bag farther. Lying across the man's stomach was what was left of a very dead snake.

I dropped my pencil and paper. “Ohmigosh!”

“That's a big 'un.” Junior had stopped throwing up and had moved next to me. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then started twiddling his fingers as if playing a trumpet.

Resisting the urge to bolt from the room, I bent down and snatched up my materials, then reached into my forensic kit and tugged out my digital camera. I stayed bent over until I felt some blood returning to my face. “What kind of snake is that?”

“I put in a call to Jason Morrow with animal control to identify—”

“Rattler,” Junior said. “
Crotalus horridus
, also known as a canebrake or timber rattler—”

“That's enough, Junior,” Clay said.

When I heard the zipper close on the body bag, I stood. Only the man's ravaged face was now exposed.

“Now, Sheriff,” Dr. Graham said, “we don't know for sure yet that he died of snakebite. I only said he
may
have—”

“Come on, Billy,” Clay said. “The snake's head was full of bird shot from that pistol. Obviously he got bit while trying to catch a snake. He didn't even try to go for help.”

I felt at a loss as to what the men were talking about. Snakes in general gave me the creeps, and a stinky body with a snake on top really was pushing my heebie-jeebies meter. “Gentlemen, my knowledge and experience with snakes is very limited.” I resisted the urge to add,
Thank the Lord
. “I still don't get why you consider this a murder.”

“Oh, not an out-and-out murder,” the sheriff said. “I mentioned he didn't even try to go for help. He shot the snake, then sat down, read his Bible, and prayed.”

Before I could say anything, the sheriff held up a finger. “I'm not done. That Bible falls open to Mark 16. I think he was catching snakes to handle in church.”

“Church?” My creeped-out meter ratcheted up a notch. “Uh, regardless of how he died, you did still want me to draw him for identification, right? Or are you just planning to go to his church and ask around?”

All the men exchanged glances. “Not that simple,” the sheriff finally said. “We'll need that drawing.”

I took a deep breath, instantly regretting it as the stench of the body filled my lungs. “Here's how this works. I'm going to photograph him from all angles with this evidence scale.” I held up what looked like a small ruler. “I'll be ready to work on this
drawing when I return to my hotel. You said the rape victim is upstairs, so I'll interview her—”

“Well now, Miz Marcey.” Clay rubbed his chin. “Seems you have a lot to do with this here sketch. You can maybe meet with Shelby Lee tomorrow—”

“Why not now?”

“There's just no sense in overloading you with work.”

I blinked at him. “I'm hardly overloaded. I'm here. Although I'm glad to help you with the unknown remains.” I nodded at the body bag. “You did fly me out all the way from Montana to work on your serial rapist cases.”

“Well now . . .”

“Is something wrong, Sheriff?” I asked.

“No. No. No. Nothing. Nothing's wrong.” He shook his head, then turned and headed for the door. “Follow me.”

I stared at his retreating back.
He's lying.

SHELBY LEE
REALLY
LOOKED DEAD.

Only the minuscule rising and falling of the blanket pulled up to her chest revealed a hint of life.

“Shelby Lee?” The sheriff touched her arm. “Shelby Lee, the artist lady is here. Wake up, honey.”

I placed my forensic art kit, a small roller bag, on the floor. After pulling out a notepad and two pencils, tucking one behind my ear as backup, I moved closer to her bed.

Her porcelain skin blended with the hospital sheets. Delicate lavender veins tinted her eyelids while deep smudges of violet underscored her eyes. Her parted lips were raw and cracked. A line of cigarette burns marched up her arm, and the stitches on her temple stood out like a black centipede.

I snapped the pencil in two.
Oh, Lord, I need to catch this guy.

The infusion pump above her head
click-click-click
ed away and cool, antiseptic-smelling air wheezed from the wall vent, gently fluffing my hair.

“She drifts in and out,” Clay said. “Well, we tried—”

“Sheriff?” The question was an exhale of air from the girl.

“Ah, Shelby Lee, honey, this is the lady I told you about. Remember?” Clay moved slightly so she could see me. “Her name is Miz Marcey. She's going to draw a sketch of the man who did this to you.”

“Call me Gwen.” I kept my voice soft.

Shelby Lee looked from Clay's face to mine, then back to his. Her gaze slid down to his gold watch, then his left hand. Tears pooled in her eyes before trickling down her cheeks. She bit her lower lip and shook her head slightly.

Crimson welts circled her thin wrists and round bruises punctuated her throat.

“I can come back later if you want,” I said.

She turned her head and stared at the wall.

“I was afraid of this.” Clay touched my elbow and pointed to the door.

I picked up my kit and we stepped into the hallway. A hot flash, a reminder of my battle with breast cancer over a year ago, slipped up my neck and across my face. I waited until it passed.

“Well.” Clay sighed. “Like I said, we tried. I can't thank you enough, Miz Marcey, for flying out here to help us—”

“Whoa, wait a minute.” I placed the kit on the floor and held up my hands. “I didn't say I couldn't develop a composite sketch. I said I can come back when she's ready.”

Clay ran a hand through his hair. “But what if she's never ready? I mean, I don't know anything about the stuff you do—”

“Forensic art.”

“Yeah, that forensic art. Now, I'm just a country boy here, but isn't it true some folks can
never
remember?”

“Yeees.” I half shrugged my shoulder. “Sometimes. We won't
know until I try again. Or, since this is a serial rapist, I could work with other victims. Most rape victims will never forget the face of their attacker.”

“That might be hard. The other victims skedaddled. In some cases, the whole family left town. No forwarding address.”

“Why?”

“Don't know. Maybe the shame—”

“Shame? They're victims!”

“Now, Miz Marcey, don't get all riled.”

“Please call me Gwen.”

“Okay, Miz Gwen. That's not what I think. We have some small minds here.” He shrugged. “I really don't know where they are. I had hoped that Shelby Lee—” Clay's cell phone jangled from his pocket. He tugged it out. “Sheriff Reed.” He listened a moment. “We're getting busier than a stump-tailed cow in fly time.” He dry-washed his face with one hand. “Get Junior on it. Okay then, who is on duty? Get her. No, I . . . hang it, I'll come over myself.” He dropped the phone into his pocket and frowned at me. “I gotta run.” He swiftly strolled down the hall. “I'll get someone to give you a ride to the hotel,” he called over his shoulder.

“But, Sheriff—”

I was alone. A prickling of unease touched me between the shoulder blades. I slowly wandered to the waiting area near the front doors of the hospital and slid onto an ultramodern black sofa. Sheriff Clay Reed seemed to give up pretty easily on using a forensic artist on that rape case. I thought for a moment, then pulled out my phone.

Dave answered on the first ring. “Ravalli County Sheriff's Department. Sheriff Moore.”

“Dave—”

“Ah. Gwen. In trouble already?”

“No—”

“Good. I don't have time to spring you from jail. I'm on my way out the door to the Law Enforcement Torch Run in Seattle.”

“About this temporary job you found for me—”

“You've been fired already? That didn't take long. Less than twenty-four hours.”

“Dave, stop interrupting me.”

A family of six poured into the waiting room. Two of the youngest seemed to be having a competition as to who could scream louder. “Hang on.” I stood, grabbed my kit, and headed outside. Once there, I made sure no one was in earshot. “I thought you told me the sheriff here needed a forensic artist on a serial rapist case. I'm now working on an unknown remains.”

“Hey, work is work.”

“But this guy has no clue as to what to do with me!”

“I should welcome him to the club—”

“Dave! I just need to know what the deal is about this sheriff.”

“Look, you told me you were broke.”

“Well—”

“And you needed work. If I remember, you said you'd flip hamburgers if necessary.”

I squeezed the phone tighter. “That's a figure of speech. About Clay . . .?”

“I'm getting there,” Dave said. “I made a few calls to former classmates from National Academy. One sheriff, from the next county over from you, mentioned the serial rapist. I called Sheriff Reed and told him about you.”

“And?”

“He initially wasn't interested, but called the next day and requested you.”

“What made him change his mind?”

“I don't know, and I don't care. I'm late. If you don't like the job, just come home.”

“I will. But something bothers me—”

“Fine. Be bothered. Talk to you later.” He hung up.

Before I could call him back, a deputy drove up, parked, and signaled to me. I put my kit in the backseat, then slid into the front. “Ma'am.” He drove me over to the hotel.

I suddenly felt exhausted. My plane had been delayed getting into Lexington the previous day, and even though Clay picked me up, the drive from Lexington to Pikeville was another two hours over a winding road. At the hotel, I'd only slept a short amount of time. I wasn't used to street sounds and lights outside my window.

The deputy dropped me off in front of the hotel and I crossed to the front desk. The clerk was a woman in her twenties with short black hair, a purple streak on the left side. Five earrings marched up each ear and a small silver loop pierced her eyebrow. Her name badge said Ina Jo.

“Hi.” I grinned at her. “Do you have a list of places to eat? Either walking distance or delivery.”

Ina Jo opened a drawer and pulled out a handful of menus. I was about to ask about recommendations when a woman arrived with an adorable baby. “She had a good nap.” The woman handed the baby over to Ina Jo. The clerk took her and automatically started rocking back and forth and rubbing the baby's back.

“What a cutie,” I said.

Ina Jo beamed, then said to the other woman, “Can you take her tomorrow? I have to work.”

I grabbed up the menus and left the two women working out babysitting details. Crossing the marble-and-wood-lined lobby to the first-floor hall, I made my way down to my corner room. Windows faced the front of the hotel and a parking lot on the side. An exit door to my left led to the back parking area. During the day, the staff routinely propped the door open with a large rock to facilitate frequent smoking breaks, a security violation that fell on deaf ears when I pointed it out.

The hotel had been remodeled recently, and my suite featured a kitchenette and a separate bedroom, all decorated in neutral, earth-toned colors. The space allowed me to spread my forensic art materials across the kitchen and living area. After turning off my cell, I kicked off my black pumps and strolled to the bedroom. Then I pulled the drapes to block the view of the parking lot. I took off the claret-colored Burberry jacket and matching slacks and hung them up. My fingers lingered on the expensive fabric. Fortunately I was the right size to benefit from a barely worn, designer wardrobe dumped at a Missoula secondhand shop.

I unsnapped my specially made bra containing a pair of heavy breast prostheses and draped it over a chair. The breast forms were a necessary evil until I decided what I would do about the double mastectomy I'd had over a year and a half ago. I hadn't been able to recover the last prostheses, dubbed Lucy and Ethel, buried somewhere in Utah. It had been my first case after finishing up my cancer treatments, a little more than a year ago. I'd almost lost my life. I was grateful that the only thing buried was a couple of synthetic boobs. The current pair I'd christened Thelma and Louise.

The phone rang. I picked it up, but all I heard was a dial tone.

Slipping into a charcoal-colored lounge outfit, I walked to the kitchen where someone had thoughtfully stocked my refrigerator with cold drinks. I sat at the kitchen table, which I'd already set up with an LED light box, portable drafting board, scanner, and printer.

I should have made a bigger deal about talking to Shelby Lee. Maybe made Clay leave the room. He might have been the reason she didn't want to talk.

After downloading the digital images of the body from my camera to my laptop, I selected the best angle, scaled it, and sent it to the printer.

He'd tied her wrists. She'd struggled, rubbing them raw.

Once the enlarged image emerged, I taped it to the light box and placed a piece of Clearprint drafting velum over it. I traced the image exactly, simplifying the remaining facial features, then removed the photograph and worked with the tracing. The lips were gone, so I drew a line where the teeth came together, ending it between the canine and first premolar. The lips would go roughly from gum line to gum line and cover the first six teeth.

Tomorrow I'll insist Clay leave Shelby Lee's room. And if he fights me . . . Well, that girl deserves a mama bear on her side.

Once I roughed in the outline of the features, I opened a catalog of faces I'd created using old booking photos. I found the nearest feature to the one I'd sketched and used the shading and fine detail to create a more lifelike sketch. This always kept my drawings from looking too generic or flat.

His eyes appeared to have been slightly shallow set, with level eyebrows hovering just above the eye socket. I thickened the brows with short strokes, rotating my pencil to keep the tip sharp.

The phone rang.

I jumped. Reaching the phone on the second ring, I picked up the handset. “Hello?”

Silence, then a dial tone.

I stared at the phone a minute, then walked to the door and threw the dead bolt. Returning to my work, I checked the photograph against my sketch. Fortunately the coroner hadn't washed the body before I had time to photograph it, and I could see the rough outline of the hair style and color. Once the body was rinsed, the hair appeared darker and any style disappeared.

I need to talk to Shelby Lee pretty soon or I'll be out of time. I fly out the day after tomorrow.

Two hours later, I was finishing up. The ravaged face had turned into a rather handsome young man under my moving pencil.

After photographing the drawing, I uploaded the digital image to my printer and printed out several copies. I backed up the image on a flash drive. The copies and flash drive went into a plastic file folder for the sheriff. As I tucked the original sketch into a small portfolio, my stomach grumbled, reminding me I'd managed to miss lunch. When I stood and stretched, my muscles joined the protest.

“Food, then a long bath,” I informed the empty room, then pulled out the various dinner menus I'd picked up. Several looked promising. I turned my cell back on. It showed a missed call and a voice message.
Click
, then a woman's voice: “Gwen Marcey? This is Dr. West's office calling from the Cancer Center. Dr. West would like you to make an appointment for some additional tests as soon as possible.” A phone number followed.

My throat dried, and I wrote down the number with a trembling hand. After hanging up, I covered my mouth to hold back the groan.

I glanced at my watch. I was on eastern time, but the Cancer Center was on mountain. They'd still be open. I dialed.

“Five Valley Cancer Center. How may I direct your call?”

“I received a message from Dr. West. This is Gwen Marcey.”

“Just a moment.”

Another
click
, then the same woman's voice came on the line. “Hi, Mrs. Marcey. Dr. West wanted me to—”

“What is it?”

A pause. “Well, the doctor would be the one—”

“I'm in Kentucky working on a case. I won't be home for . . . um . . . weeks. I . . . I need to know if this is an emergency.”

There was a pause. “This is in reference to your routine tests a week ago. Dr. West just returned from vacation and has had a chance to go over the results. They're . . . not within the normal range.”

“Okay.” I made an effort to stop squeezing the phone. “So. You're saying my cancer has returned.”

“You'll need to see the doctor. As soon as possible.”