My stomach clenched. The morning sickness had been merciful these last couple of days, but there were certain smells that instantly made me vomit. Apparently decomp was on the list.
I breathed through my mouth, short, shallow breaths that bypassed most of my olfactory system, and kept walking. The trick wasn’t to ignore the smell. That was impossible. The trick was to compartmentalize it, to file it away in the part of your brain that dealt with professional necessities rather than the part that wanted to gag and run. Just for good measure, I took the jar of Vicks out of my bag and dabbed some under my nose—an old trick rookies used before they got used to the smell.
Cole was standing near the dumpster, his Stetson pushed back on his head at that angle that meant he’d been here awhile. A cup of gas station coffee steamed in one hand, the cardboard sleeve printed with the logo of the Quik-Mart. Even at this hour, in this heat, with a dead body ten feet away, he looked like he’d stepped out of an old Western. He wore Wranglers that fit well enough to explain why he was never without female attention, cowboy boots, a white button-down shirt beneath a lightweight vest that didn’t quite hide the holster on his belt or the badge glinting beside it.
Cole had that old-west gunslinger look to him—lanky build, all legs, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips. He was around forty but wearing it well, with dark blond hair freshly cut and a face that was simply, undeniably handsome. He’d left a trail of broken hearts across three counties before Lily Jacobs came along and knocked him sideways.
His slow, lanky gait as he walked toward us matched the drawl that made people underestimate him, at least until they found themselves across from him in an interrogation room, realizing too late that his mind was sharper than his lazy demeanor suggested.
“Doc,” he said, nodding at me. “Hell of a way to start a Wednesday.”
“What’ve we got?” Jack asked, already scanning the perimeter with that rapid tactical assessment he’d never lost from his military days.
“Male victim.” Cole took a sip of his coffee, unhurried, like we were discussing the weather instead of murder. “Mid-twenties, big guy. Someone wrapped him in a blanket and stuffed him in the dumpster headfirst. Sanitation driver found him about an hour ago.” He jerked his chin toward a man sitting on the bumper of one of the patrol cars, a shock blanket around his shoulders despite the heat. “Ray Tolliver. He’s got twenty-three years on this route. Says he’s seen plenty of weird stuff in dumpsters over the years—dead dogs, drug paraphernalia, once a whole crate of what turned out to be stolen electronics. But nothing like this.”
I looked over at Tolliver. He was a big man, heavyset, with dark brown skin gone ashy gray beneath the parking lot lights and hands that wouldn’t stop shaking even wrapped around the cup of coffee someone had given him. His uniform shirt was sweat stained and untucked, and his eyes had that thousand-yard stare you saw on people who’d just had their understanding of the world fundamentally rearranged.
“He touch anything?” Jack asked.
“Says he lifted the lid and saw the blanket hanging out. Pulled the blanket back to check and got an eyeful of what was underneath.” Cole shrugged one shoulder, a minimal movement that somehow conveyed a wealth of sympathy. “Dropped it like it burned him and called 911. Hasn’t stopped shaking since. Riley’s been with him, but I don’t think we’re going to get much more from him. Man’s in shock.”
Twenty-three years of hauling other people’s garbage, and this was the morning that would define all the rest of his mornings. I’d seen it before. Some people recovered from moments like this. They built scar tissue over the memory and eventually went back to their lives, a little warier, a little more aware of the darkness that could hide in ordinary places. Others never did. They quit their jobs, started drinking, and jumped at shadows for the rest of their days.
I hoped Ray Tolliver would be one of the lucky ones. But that wasn’t something I could control.
I set my medical bag on the ground and pulled out gloves. The dumpster loomed ahead of me, a dark green metal box spotted with rust along the bottom and old graffiti on one side, the paint too faded to read. The lid was propped open with a length of two-by-four that someone had wedged into place. From where I stood, I could see the corner of fabric hanging over the edge, blue and quilted, the cheap polyester fill of a moving blanket you’d buy at a hardware store for fifteen dollars and throw away when you were done.
Only someone hadn’t thrown this one away. Someone had wrapped a body in it and stuffed it in with the garbage.
Lieutenant Daniels headed up the CSI team. She was already working the perimeter, her camera clicking in steady rhythm as she documented everything. Her braids were pulled back in a neat ponytail, the new blond additions catching the first hint of dawn light, and her tawny eyes moved methodically across the scene with the calm competence of someone who’d processed more crime scenes than most cops would see in a career.
She glanced up as I approached and gave me a short nod. We’d worked together enough times that we didn’t need pleasantries.
“Morning, Doc. Ready to take a look?”
“That’s why they pay me the mediocre bucks.”
A grin crossed her face, quick as a heartbeat. “I’ve done the exterior and immediate surroundings. Chen’s finishing up photos of the interior. Soon as she’s clear, he’s all yours.”
Someone had positioned a stepladder against the side of the dumpster, sturdy aluminum, the kind you’d find in any maintenance closet. I climbed it carefully and peered over the edge into the dim interior.
The portable lights had already been set up, battery-powered LED floods on tripods, casting harsh white illumination that bleached all the color out of everything and turned shadows into stark black cutouts. Deputy Kristi Chen was inside the dumpster, balanced on a second stepladder, her small frame angled awkwardly as she worked to get overhead shots. Her black hair was tucked under a department cap, and her face was set in that expression of focused determination I’d come to associate with her, like every task was a personal challenge she intended to win.
“I guess you drew the short straw,” I told her.
She looked at me and rolled her eyes. “Apparently I’m just the right size to get in here and take pictures from every angle. When I come back in my next life I’m going to be a man. I’ve always wanted to pee standing up.”
“It’s a worthy goal,” I said dryly.
“You want shots of the feet before I clear out? I think I can get a good angle.”
“If you can.”
“Give me two minutes.”
I used the time to observe what I could from my perch, letting my eyes move systematically across the visible portions of the body. The victim had been shoved in headfirst, legs bent at unnatural angles to fit the space. The moving blanket had come partially unwrapped. It had been hasty work, one corner tucked and the rest just folded over. Broad shoulders. Muscular back. A build that came from serious physical training. Dark bruising visible on his upper back, concentrated in patterns that didn’t look random.
His hands were behind him, wrists bound with heavy-duty zip. And there was something wrong with his hands themselves. The shape didn’t look right, but I couldn’t tell what exactly from my perch.
