“That he pissed someone off? I don’t know.” Rue scanned the crime scene. “What do you make of this?”
I took in the details within the cordoned off area—the fallen cellphone, the earbuds, the running gear, the tracks in the dirt—and tried hard to ignore the handsome pathologist, who spoke to the photographer and glanced surreptitiously in my direction. And yes, he was watching me. I was not imagining it.
“Premeditated. Male suspect. Over thirty-five. Our victim heads out for a routine morning jog. The perp lies in wait, familiar with his route because he’s been watching him for a while. This trail is likely not populated that early in the day at this time of year. Not many walkers when it’s freezing. Heck, the river isn’t suitable for skating yet, either.”
“Hence why he wasn’t discovered until this afternoon,” Rue added.
“Exactly.” Gesturing to the fallen earbuds, I continued. “The man’s hearing was compromised by music or whatever he was listening to, so he didn’t hear the perp come up behind him.”
I pointed to the half-inch-wide banded mark circling the man’s throat. “This wasn’t done manually. He’s been garroted with a rope or a scarf.” I indicated multiple abrasions on the neck. “He fought back.” I circled the bench and scanned the ground.
Locating the various markers along the path, I moved toward them and stopped, getting a feel for their pattern. “Over here.Our guy was stopped in his tracks and stumbled backward. One, two, three steps.” I gestured to the ground. “He’s surprised but instantly tries to defend himself, clawing and scratching at the obstruction around his neck. You can see heel marks where he kicked and flailed. Those are Nike prints. He was off balance, stumbling. Our perp needed to keep tension on the rope. They were strong. The treads of the second person are more defined. See here? He’s solid on his feet. Steady. In control.”
“Whyhe?” Rue asked.
I paused, staring at the ground, then to the bench and the dead man. “Despite his age, our victim is fit. I’d guess he’s between five eleven and six one. A solid hundred and eighty or a hundred and ninety pounds. Probably has some muscle under those joggers.”
“You don’t think a woman could take him down?” I didn’t miss Rue’s challenging tone.
“I’m not saying that. Many could, but we can’t ignore facts.Mostwomen are smaller than our victim. He has a weight and height advantage over a majority of the female population. She would have to be extremely fit and agile to pull this off. The element of surprise would only take her so far. Plus, if he went down over here, she would need the strength to move him to the bench and heave him up into a sitting position.”
“Maybe she’s determined.”
“Could be. It’s not impossible. All I’m saying is, this man would not have been easy to subdue. Another thing to consider.” I motioned to the ground. “These treads are from at least a size ten shoe. Men’s. They are close to my size by the look of them. I don’t know many women with feet that big, do you?”
Rue remained silent.
I added one more detail to my argument. “The method fits a man. Strangulation isn’t typical for women.” Before she couldargue, I held up my hands. “I’m not saying women never strangle victims, but statistically, the odds are less favorable.”
I was not stupid, as much as my boss and partner sometimes liked to think. I went to university. I studied criminology. I knew my shit.
“Fair enough.” Rue scanned the scene. “So, our victim is out for a morning run. Our allegedly male perp garrotes the vic. There’s a struggle before our vic falls unconscious and dies about here.”
She tapped the ground with her shoe. “Our perp drags him to the bench, heaves him into a sitting position, impales him with a flower spike through the heart, labels him a heartless bastard, and leaves him for us to find.”
I stared at the dead man, noting his upturned palms and curled fingers resting on his thighs. Meditative. Contemplative. Why?
“It’s a theory.” The scenario played out inside my head. Every step carefully planned.A heartless bastard.
Rue, as though reading my mind, said, “The message reads as feminine. Do you know what I mean? Someone who’s been hurt or jaded by a cheating husband. An affair gone wrong.”
“Perhaps. Why not a male lover?”
“I suppose.”
The heat of someone’s acute focus warmed my cheek. I shifted my gaze from the victim to find Dominique staring pensively in my direction. Again. His rapt attention licked tingling heat up my spine, sending shivers over my scalp. Perhaps I was imagining it, but his focus felt tangible, like an explorative touch over sensitive skin.
“What do you think, Doc?” I asked.
Dominique rubbed his lips together as his calculated gaze flicked over the scene once, twice, and returned to me. “I think you’re incredibly observant, Detective Haven.” A barelyperceptible smile hooked one side of his mouth, and my heart did a two-step.
I flushed at the nugget of praise. It was stupid, really. I hadn’t done anything noteworthy. Reading a crime scene was something any detective worth their salt should be able to do, but it was nice to be acknowledged in a positive way for a change.
“Do you have anything to add?” Rue asked. A forensic pathologist’s job was to determine the manner, cause, and mechanism of death, so Dominique’s input was valid.
“Not yet. Perhaps—”
“When he’s on the table?” I interjected. I winked and instantly wished I hadn’t. The gesture was too suggestive. Too inviting. Too fucking obvious when I had yet to sort Dominique out.
