Deadly Grace. Taylor Smith
couldn’t find much trajectory evidence. A couple of the interior organs were partly intact—the collapse of the roof eventually smothered some of the fire—but it wasn’t enough to get a clear picture of whether or not she’d been shot. We haven’t found any bullets or spent cartridges at the scene, although your arson guys are keeping an eye out for them. The ME did find a fracture on the breastbone, though, and taken together with what I was able to tell them about the holes in her sweater, he thought it was consistent with the theory that she’d been shot, probably with a fairly large caliber weapon.”
“That would also explain the injury on her back, larger than the entry, which is what you’d expect to find with an exit wound,” Cruz pointed out.
Berglund nodded. “The medical examiner said the position of the fracture on her breastbone was such that the bullet probably hit her left lung, maybe even the heart, although I doubt it, personally.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because there was a hell of a lot of blood. I would have thought that if she’d taken it in the heart, it would have stopped pumping and she wouldn’t have bled out like she did.”
“Not necessarily,” Cruz said. “It would depend on the damage. It might take a few seconds or even minutes for her heart to stop beating completely. And if a bullet’s large caliber, it’ll often make a bloody mess regardless of whether or not the victim dies instantly.” He watched Berglund’s dour expression as the deputy scraped a smear of mud off his pant leg. “Are you beating yourself up here because you think you could have saved Mrs. Meade?” Cruz asked him.
Berglund looked up, then away, self-consciously. “Yeah, maybe, although I guess I knew there wasn’t really a hope in hell. At the autopsy, the ME found that part of the right lung was more or less intact, and he said there was no sign of smoke inhalation in the air sacs.”
“All right then, that’s something, isn’t it? It means Grace Meade had drawn her last breath before the fire even started.”
Berglund frowned. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“And that being the case, it wouldn’t have made any difference whether or not you’d gotten her out.”
Berglund seemed unconvinced. “Maybe. But there’s no saying how long she’d been down. Maybe she could’ve been revived…or something. I don’t know. It just feels like I could’ve handled it better.”
Cruz shifted forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. “Look, Deputy, it seems to me you did plenty. You went into that house and you saved Jillian Meade’s life—not once, but twice. I think you should let yourself off the hook and just focus on your investigation. If Grace Meade was dead before the fire broke out, it means she was murdered and the fire was probably set to cover tracks. I imagine this has to be tough on a lot of people around here, but the evidence is what you need to be focusing on. And it’s your investigation, obviously. I don’t mean to come riding in like some bounty hunter, okay? I asked for the arson team to look things over to make sure there was no confusion about what went down, but I’m not here to step on your toes. All I really want to do is speak to Jillian Meade and clear up some questions about what happened while she was over in England. She gives me her statement, I’m outta here. I’ll send it off to the Brits and that’ll probably be that. Is that okay with you?”
Berglund nodded wearily, like a man who was both exhausted and in over his head. How many murder investigations had he even handled? Cruz wondered. In a town this size, it was a distinct possibility this was his first.
“Talking to Jillian, though,” Berglund said, “that could be a problem.”
“How so? She’s in the hospital here in town, right?”
“Not anymore. They moved her to the regional hospital over in Montrose. The local clinic isn’t equipped to handle a case like hers.”
“I thought she wasn’t that badly hurt.”
“She had a concussion, like I said, but it wasn’t too bad. Mostly it was smoke inhalation they were worried about, but they figured she’d recover fully from that, too. Her mental state is something else, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“She tried to kill herself in the ER in Havenwood.”
Cruz pulled up short. “Chief Lunders never mentioned that.”
“He hadn’t heard about it yet when you talked to him yesterday. Happened early Wednesday morning. The chief was under the weather, and he didn’t get in till after noon. Jill had spent the night in the ER here so they could keep an eye on her breathing. I was there myself till around four in the morning, but she seemed to be resting comfortably. Sometime around dawn, though, when nobody was watching, she apparently woke up and found a syringe in a drawer or something. They said she had it in an artery with her thumb on the plunger when an orderly happened to walk by and spot her. The guy thought fast, luckily. If he hadn’t tackled her, she’d be dead.”
“And now?” Cruz asked.
Berglund’s big hands rubbed his face wearily. “Now they’ve got her locked down on twenty-four-hour suicide watch in the psych ward at Montrose. They kept her heavily sedated for the first twenty-four hours, but they’re trying to back her off the meds now. We can go over later, after we check back with the arson guys, but I wouldn’t count on getting much out of her today if I were you. They say she hasn’t said a word since all this happened.”
Evil never sleeps. It creeps in the night, appearing where it’s least expected, Cruz thought. There’s no sanctuary behind locked doors or the solid edifice of the law. Sooner or later, it finds the vulnerability in any hiding place and worms its way in. All it takes is a small point of weakness, a tiny chink in the wall of social order, a minuscule tear in the fabric of human decency. Even in a small prairie town that dared to tempt the gods and call itself Havenwood, there was no refuge.
“This is it.” Berglund rolled the police cruiser to a stop before the blackened remains of what must have been, if neighboring houses were any indication, a pleasant family home in an pretty neighborhood before it had been put to the torch two nights earlier. Another black-and-white cruiser and a beige Ford Fairlane with the Minnesota state crest on the door were parked in the wide, sweeping driveway.
“I don’t know as you’ll see much,” Berglund said. “Things are pretty raked over by now, but this gives you an idea of how bad the fire was.”
The sour odor of soot was already insinuating its way in through the car’s air vents. Cruz climbed out of the cruiser, moving off to the side, out of the direct path of the sunlight to get a better view of the burned-out shell. He cupped a hand over his eyes, squinting against the sun that was beginning to sink toward the western horizon, setting up a blinding glare of ice and snow on Lost Arrow Lake. From this vantage point, he could see little except the uneven silhouette of what remained of the Meade home.
The scene looked as the fire had rendered it, for the most part, bordered and contained by a band of yellow plastic crime scene tape. The house had mostly collapsed in on itself. All that remained standing were the sooty red bricks of a large hearth and chimney, rising like a sentinel above the cracked and blackened cement foundation. A few charred timbers lay tipped at odd angles, crusted over with a thick layer of ice from the soaking of the fire hoses.
The yard sloped down to a wooden dock that extended out to the frozen lake. On the opposite shore, a few snow-capped cottages and a dense line of pine trees stood in stark relief against the brilliant sky. The view was impressive, Cruz thought, like a Currier and Ives Christmas fantasy. In summer, the place would no doubt be a water sport paradise. Right now, he could make out the tracks of dozens of skis and snowmobiles crisscrossing the lake’s frozen surface. Out in the middle of it, narrow gray plumes rose from makeshift chimneys poking through the roofs of small plywood huts, evidence of heartier souls than he sport fishing through the thick ice.
The cruiser rocked as Berglund climbed out on his side and slammed the door. His green nylon police parka was unzipped, despite