Page 15 of Sinister Secrets

Stopping in front of the maroon double doors, I take a moment to center myself. Autopsies have never been my favorite, but a postmortem with Sheriff Kingston when I’m a few minutes late? It feels like a recipe for disaster. Taking a deep breath, I push my way inside.

Three men look up as I enter. The sheriff, already looking a little green around the edges, wears an expression that could almost be considered relief. Whatever it is, I’m grateful for it, because it’s enough for him to keep the comments he’d normally make to himself. The autopsy tech, who gives me a brief once over before returning to his task of arranging containers for tissue and fluid samples on a tall rolling table. And the third, now studying me with a curious gaze over the top of his glasses.

“Ms. Knox, I presume.”

“Agent Knox,” I correct, though the truth is, maybe I shouldn’t. This is the last week of my medical leave. By next Monday I’ll be a civilian and no longer have any authority as a law enforcement agent. But I keep that to myself, striding across the room and approaching the body with a confidence I haven’t felt in far too long, even if half of it’s fake.

The man gives me a nod. “I’m Dr. Monroe. I’d offer you a handshake, but…” he holds up his gloved hands as explanation. “I’ve already begun my external examination.”

The man on the slab lies face down. I watch as the doctor grabs a small comb and runs it through the victim’s hair before depositing it into the paper envelope his assistant holds for him, then scrapes the skin in several areas, loosening flakes of dried mud into plastic vials.

His voice is loud and clear as he dictates his observations into the microphone hanging from the ceiling, recording every scratch, bruise, and mark he observes while his assistant takes photos. They carefully flip the body, and the process begins anew. When he’s done, the assistant sets up a fine mesh screen at the bottom of the table and picks up a hose, spraying the body to clean it.

“Unfortunately, given the extent of the damage, dental records are going to be useless,” Dr. Monroe explains.

Though I’d suspected as much, it still feels like a kick to the gut.

“What about the fingers?” I ask. “I noticed that they appeared to be blistered. Is there any chance of recovering a usable print?”

“We haven’t been able to so far, but after the autopsy I’ll try a few tricks I’ve learned over the years. Sometimes removing the dermis after it’s gone slack the way it has in this case and slipping it on over a glove to make it taut again will work.”

I hear the sheriff’s stomach make a suspect noise. I know I should step away, just in case he decides to blow, but I can’t. I’m too transfixed by the dark smear of mud on the victim’s left bicep that’s slowly fading as the assistant cleans the body. As it does, vibrant shades of green and blue are revealed.

My breathing grows fast and shallow. Dark bubbles pop around the edges of my vision. I can’t have a panic attack. Not here. Not now. Not in front of these people. I cup a hand over my nose and mouth, hoping the extra carbon dioxide will restore my blood levels to normal and extinguish the dizziness that’s swept over me.

“Are you okay, Agent Knox?” the doctor asks. “Would you like me to get you a glass of water?”

“I’m fine,” I say, the words muffled behind my hand. I force myself to drop it, using it to point to the body. “It’s just, I recognize that tattoo.”

Both the medical examiner and Sheriff Kingston lean forward as they look at the image of a cartoonish alligator splashing through water and cattails that I’m referring to. I close my eyes for a moment against the memory, yet I still find myself trapped back in science class senior year, watching as my lab partner rolled up his sleeve with a slight hiss. As he pulled the top of the tape holding a piece of gauze in place free, proudly displaying the ink beneath.

“That seems to be a fairly unique piece. Can you identify the victim?” Dr. Monroe asks.

Drawing a deep breath, I stand a little straighter and say, “Yes. It’s Gordon Massey.”

If you had asked me five minutes ago if I wanted the man dead, I would have had to say yes. It looks like I got my wish.

CHAPTER 10

There was once a time when I would have called Gordon Massey one of my closest friends. Someone whom I trusted completely. But that was then. Now?

It’s not his loss that has me suddenly feeling empty inside, but what it means. Because the last time we spoke, it was clear he was no longer a friend. And he definitely wasn’t someone I could trust.

The man tried to convince me to sell the Sanctuary after I inherited it from my grandfather. He had been part of the group that had murdered Butch. That had intended to destroy the only home I’ve ever known, mining it for a natural resource that surely would have left the area a barren wasteland at best, a toxic cesspool at worst.

He disappeared before I could confront him about his involvement. Has he been nearby, lurking in the shadows all this time? And if not, what brought him back to Gator Glade? Obviously, he can’t answer my questions, but I know his reappearance is meant to tell me something.

Is his death supposed to be a peace offering in terms that the person who betrayed me most has answered for his actions, and that the whole ordeal is over? Or is his murder a threat that they haven’t forgotten about me?

There’s a black balloon of dread expanding inside me as I pull into the Gator Glade Sheriff’s Department parking lot. As I get out of my car, Kingston eyes me across the roof of his cruiser before leading the way inside.

The interior is stark and shabby. Old D.A.R.E. posters curl away from walls that have been painted yellow by time. The wooden benches that flank each side of the door are scarred with graffiti, the Plexiglass that separates the waiting area from the receptionist’s workspace scratched and discolored.

The woman behind the desk looks up as we enter, the mound of bright-orange curls gathered in a ponytail at the back of her head bouncing as she smiles at Kingston. “Good morning, sir.” There’s a buzz and a click as the lock disengages on the door leading to the back.

“Peggy, hold my calls.”

“Sure thing, Sheriff. Can I bring you anything?”