Warrior Son. Rita Herron
the Burns farm...” Her voice cracked. “Edith Burns is dead.”
* * *
MEGAN TOOK DEEP breaths as she stared at the pool of blood on the floor surrounding the woman’s body.
She yanked gloves from her purse and tiptoed inside, listening for sounds that an intruder was still there. The linoleum floor squeaked as she crossed the den to the doorway of the kitchen. She clenched the phone in one hand as she stooped down to check the woman’s pulse. Not that she had any doubt that she was dead. The odors and pallor confirmed her suspicions.
But it was routine and she needed to determine time and cause of death.
“Megan, you’re sure?”
“Yes.” Dried blood soaked the lady’s yellow housedress. “It appears that she bled out from a gunshot wound to the chest just like her husband.”
“I’m on my way,” Roan said. “Wait till I get there to go inside.”
“I’m already inside,” Megan said. “I saw blood from the doorway and had to see if she was alive.”
“Dammit, Megan, what if the killer is still there?”
“He’s long gone, Roan. Judging from rigor and body decomp, she’s been dead several hours.”
“You’re alone?”
She twisted to listen for sounds again, but barring the wind battering the wood frame and windowpanes, everything was quiet. “Yes. I’ll call a crime team to start processing the house.”
“Do you see a bullet casing or weapon anywhere around?”
Megan lifted the woman slightly to search for an exit wound, but didn’t see one. “The bullet must still be lodged inside her. I don’t see a weapon anywhere.”
She did a quick visual sweep of the kitchen, at least what she could see of it. A bowl of fruit sat on an oak table, fruit flies swarming. A kitchen island held a cutting board where potatoes and carrots lay, a knife on the board as if Edith had been preparing dinner when whoever killed her had struck.
From where she stood, she couldn’t tell if the back door had been jimmied or if the killer had broken in.
If so, had Edith heard her attacker?
She checked the woman’s fingernails, but didn’t see visible signs of DNA or skin cells, but she’d scrape and run tests to make certain. No blood or hair fibers.
What about that knife? Had Edith tried to fight off her attacker with it?
She carefully stepped around her body, searching for footprints or evidence, and spotted blood splatters on the floor near the island, although the knife didn’t appear to have blood on it.
She studied the kitchen layout and pieced together a feasible scenario. Perhaps the killer had entered through the back door, which meant Edith was facing away from him. But she’d been shot in the chest.
So...she must have heard a noise and turned to see what or who it was. Maybe she even knew the shooter, so she didn’t instantly run.
The killer then fired the weapon. The bullet struck her heart and she grabbed the island in shock. Blood had spurted from the wound immediately, splattering droplets on the floor.
She staggered toward the den and collapsed in the threshold of the door. She was trying to go out the front...maybe to get to her car? Maybe to reach her phone and call for help?
But she’d been bleeding badly, quickly grew weak and lost consciousness before she could make it to the door or her phone.
A shiver rippled up her spine. Had the same person killed Morty Burns, then came here and shot Edith?
Or...she had to consider the possibility that it was murder-suicide. Morty could have shot Edith then left and killed himself.
Except...the timing didn’t seem right. And most suicides were gunshots to the head—Morty’s had been to the heart. Also, if he had committed suicide, why wouldn’t he have killed himself here beside his wife?
Morty’s body had been dumped...
Which brought her back to the intruder theory. What kind of cold-blooded person shot an innocent woman and simply stood there and watched her die?
And why kill either of these people? Were their deaths connected to Joe McCullen’s?
* * *
QUESTIONS ASSAILED ROAN as he sped toward the Burns farm.
The fact that Edith was related to Arlis Bennett, the cousin of a man who Joe’s sons had put in jail for cattle rustling, seemed too coincidental not to raise suspicions.
He had to discuss the situation with Maddox. Finding the couple’s killer could be instrumental in determining who’d poisoned Joe.
Storm clouds moved in the sky, painting the run-down farm a depressing gray. The pastures and fields were overgrown, the farm equipment looked rusty and broken down and the barn needed a new roof. He saw no cattle or horses on the land, either.
Had money troubles driven Morty to help Boyle Gates or his brother-in-law sabotage Horseshoe Creek?
His police SUV rumbled and he rolled to a stop beside Megan’s van. On the lookout for trouble, he scanned the perimeter of the property in case someone was lurking nearby.
Dead leaves swirled in the wind across the brittle grass, and the door to the toolshed next to the house banged back and forth. An engine rumbled and he turned to see the crime team’s van racing over the hill.
He glanced back at the house and saw Megan step into the doorway. Her hair was pulled back in that tight bun again, her glasses in place. Her expression was stoic, eyes dark with the reality of what she’d discovered in the house.
For a brief second, he wanted to sweep her away from the gruesomeness of her work and his job. Take her someplace cozy and romantic like a cabin in the mountains where they could float down the river on a raft then curl up on a blanket and make love beneath the stars.
Car doors slamming jerked him from the ridiculous thoughts. He was not a man who made love under the stars or...made love at all. Sex was a physical release.
It had been good with Megan. Damn good. But it wouldn’t happen again.
She did her job because she liked it and was good at it just as he was good at solving crimes. Dead bodies were their life.
Not cozy mountain retreats.
“Dr. Lail called,” Lieutenant Hoberman said as he and two crime techs approached. “She found a body?”
Roan nodded. “Yes, the wife of a murder victim she’d autopsied.”
Lieutenant Hoberman’s brows rose. “Both murdered?”
“It looks that way. Maybe you can help us pinpoint what happened.”
Together they walked up the drive to the porch and climbed the steps. “You okay?” Roan asked Megan.
She gave a short nod, then led the way inside. The stench of decay filled the air, the sight of the woman’s body fueling Roan’s anger when he spotted her gray hair and gnarled hand reaching out as if begging for help.
Everyone pulled on latex gloves as they entered, and then they gathered around the victim. One of the crime workers began snapping photographs while the other started searching for forensics.
“It looks like she was cutting vegetables when someone entered from the back of the house,” Megan said. “I think she heard the noise and turned to see who it was, then he shot her in the chest.”
Poor woman was probably in her sixties. Dozens of pictures of her with a slender thirtysomething woman sat on the bookshelves. Then photos of Edith and a dark-haired boy and girl along with a card that read, “Happy Mother’s