The roar of an engine disturbed the evening silence. Some idiot too eager to reach their destination to pay heed to the snow-slicked roads and the sparsely lit side streets. Gail Cooper edged closer to the ridge of shoveled snow along the roadside. Two more blocks and she’d be home. Five more minutes to enjoy just being Gail rather than Mommy. Although hopefully by now her two were fast asleep and she could enjoy another glass of wine, snuggled up to her husband Martin while she gave him the lowdown of her sister’s girls-only Christmas party.
She glanced over her shoulder at the approaching vehicle, grateful she’d taken Martin’s advice to wear her light-colored coat for her walk in the dark. Fat flakes pelted her face, blurring her vision. She debated stopping to let the car pass, then heard the squeal of tires followed by a loud thud as pain filled her body and she flew up in the air.
Detective Paul Rigby turned onto Pinewood Avenue, a quiet residential street ablaze with pulsating red and blue lights. He pulled up behind an ambulance, his heart sinking at the sight of the wide-open doors and empty interior. There’d been ample time for the injured party to be whisked off to hospital. The emergency vehicle’s continued presence signaled that beyond the crime scene tape strung from mailbox to mailbox across the road a dead body awaited him.
He cursed out loud while there was no one to hear him. His second shift back on the job after fracturing several ribs in the course of another investigation, less than two weeks until Christmas—his first as a father—and now a homicide to deal with. And to think, he could have extended his leave until after the holidays. The chief had even suggested it. His girlfriend Becca had advised it. But no, he’d ignored them both. Pretended he was fighting fit. Ha! What a joke, it still hurt to walk. All to get back to the job he loved. Except when it involved dead bodies.
He eased out of the car, glad there were no witnesses to his awkward movements, and pulled his jacket collar up against the frigid night air. The cold and snow had not kept the onlookers away. Local residents, he assumed, stood in a huddle by the tape, their voices low and urgent. Did they know the victim? Was it one of their neighbors? No doubt he’d find out soon enough. And whether any of them could shed a light on who was responsible for the hit-and-run.
The chatter subsided as he approached the tape. The officer on the other side recognized him and raised it slightly for him to duck under, then stood bewildered as Rigby instead detoured onto the grass and around the mailbox. Snow soaked into his shoes, a small price to pay to avoid the pain and possible embarrassment of the alternative.
He nodded at Docherty, the first officer on the scene, who stood with two paramedics next to the body. The victim lay sprawled backward over a mound of snow, her head at an awkward angle, her eyes wide open. Blood pooled around the back of her head, seeped into the collar of her off-white coat and turquoise scarf. Rigby guessed she was in her late twenties, early thirties. He swallowed hard. One minute there, the next gone. Life was so fragile.
He glanced over at the paramedics.
“She was already gone when we got here,” one of them said. “Probably instantaneous. Let’s hope so, anyway, for her sake.”
“Got any witnesses?” he asked Docherty.
Docherty gestured at the nearest house. “Owner says he heard what sounded like a car skid and then a loud thud. He looked out of the window and saw a vehicle disappear off in that direction.” He pointed to the right. “He put his outside lights on to see if he could work out what the car had hit and that’s when he saw the body. He called it in.”
“Where is he?”
“Back inside. Pretty shaken up. I told him someone would come in to take a statement.”
Rigby glanced at the small crowd. “This lot?”
“Neighbors. Came out when they heard the noise or the sirens, but none of them say they saw the actual accident or the car.” Docherty gestured at the body. “They want to know who it is. They’re worried it could be a neighbor, someone out walking their dog, maybe.”
“Seen any dogs running around loose?”
“Not while I’ve been here.”
“I think if there’d been a dog, it would have been either injured or it would have stayed with its owner.” Rigby thought of his own pup at home. “And made a lot of noise. It might have run off when you arrived but you’d have seen it.” He shuffled his feet to keep warm. “Though why anyone would be out walking in this weather if they didn’t have to is beyond me.”
“Maybe they weren’t going far and thought it would be safer to walk rather than drive given the conditions.”
How tragic would that be? A decision meant to keep someone safe turning deadly. The odds of being hit by a car would be miniscule compared to those of slipping on the icy road.
“Maybe she’d been drinking, didn’t want to get behind the wheel.”
Rigby glanced at the body. “And most likely the person who hit her didn’t have such consideration or why didn’t they stop and call it in?” He cursed silently. “For all they knew she could have been injured not dead. They were willing to leave her there in the cold?” He grimaced. “Do we have any ID?”
Docherty shook his head. “There’s no sign of a purse. Haven’t had a chance to check her pockets yet. We didn’t get here much before you and I wanted to seal off the area before anyone trampled on possible evidence. Fortunately for us, it’s been a while since the road was plowed. We might be able to get some tire impressions from the snow. Is Gina coming out?”
Rigby nodded. Saw the relief on Docherty’s face. Gina Rogers was their part-time forensic expert. Until she’d moved to Lewisville, they’d had to collect forensic evidence themselves, work they were trained for but not to Gina’s level of expertise. It was painstaking, time-consuming work and, on a snowy night, work that had to be done before a fresh layer of snow obliterated the evidence.
Rigby noticed the camera in Docherty’s hand. “Get a few photos of the body before I check for ID.”
“Already done.”
Rigby smiled. That’s what he liked about Docherty, an officer who could be relied on to be thorough. He pulled on latex gloves and crouched down beside the woman, stifling a gasp as his ribs protested the move.
“Still hurting?” Docherty asked.
“It’s nothing.” Rigby glanced over his shoulder. “Why don’t you finish up with the photos?” Hopefully that would keep Docherty from noticing what it cost him to straighten back up. “And you two,” he said to the paramedics, “We’ll take it from here. There’s nothing more for you to do. Thanks.”
“Becca okay?” the older of the two men asked.
“Yes. Fine. Great.” A lie but he doubted Becca would want them to know how exhausted she was. He put his hand in one of the woman’s coat pockets. The paramedics got the message. The conversation was over. This wasn’t the place or time for a conversation about their colleague’s wellbeing. He sensed rather than heard them move away.
The pocket was empty, as was the other one. It didn’t make sense. She had to have something on her—keys, ID, a phone. He pulled his phone out, used it as a flashlight to scan the area around the woman. Nothing.
Damn, were they going to have to wait until they got a call about a missing woman to determine who she was? And what if she lived alone, no one waiting for her to arrive home that evening?
He partially unzipped her coat, checked for an inner pocket. Nothing. He zipped the coat back up, wanting to protect her from the snow. Not that it would bother her any more. They needed to get a tarp over the body, protect it from the elements until they could move it. Just because she was dead didn’t mean she didn’t deserve to be treated with dignity.
He eased upright bracing for pain but experienced only a slight twinge. He scanned the area again. The woman must have been carrying something, but the snow around about lay undisturbed.
A car door slammed nearby. Rigby looked over. Was it too much to hope it was the culprit returning to the scene in a fit of remorse? It happened. The initial panic and shock on impact replaced by a sense of overwhelming guilt at fleeing. But as the driver headed for the trunk of their car, Rigby realized it was only Gina.
She pulled a protective suit over her already bulky outerwear and then hauled a large canvas bag from the car. Rigby smiled as instead of ducking under the tape she followed in his footsteps around the mailbox and across the grass.
“Heard on the way over it was a fatality not an injury.” She dropped the bag at Rigby’s feet. “Figured we’d need a cover.” She glanced over at the body and then at the tire tracks on the road. “How the hell did this happen?”
Rigby knew what she meant. A quiet residential road. A lone person walking on the left side of the road facing oncoming traffic. A single car on the other side happens to skid out of control. What were the odds they’d collide?
“I haven’t been able to find any ID,” he said, trying not to wince as he helped Gina erect the cover. “Do you know anyone who goes out without at least a set of keys?” Not that a set of keys alone would be much help in the identification process.
“Assuming she was carrying something, depending on the size, it could have traveled a lot further than she did after she was struck by the car.”
Rigby switched on his phone flashlight again.
Gina scoffed. “What do you hope to find with that?” She rummaged in her bag and tossed a heavy-duty flashlight toward him. “It’s a spare, but don’t forget to give it back.”
Rigby shone the powerful light along the ridge of snow in the direction the woman had been walking. No sign of any bag. He swung the light out into the middle of the road, walking slowly forward until he was well past the point an object could have landed.
He swung around, scanned the entrance of the driveway of the house next door. Two garbage cans had been rolled to the roadside, presumably ready for the next morning’s pick-up. Why couldn’t the car have hit them instead of the woman? Scattered garbage rather than leaving a dead body.
A sparkle of silver at the base of one of the cans caught his eye. He moved in closer. A small sequined purse lay wedged against one of the wheels. It was surprisingly heavy for its size and stuffed so full he had difficulty opening the zipper. Two partially gift-wrapped bars of soap had been rammed inside but to Rigby’s relief they hid a phone, a driver’s license and a set of keys.
The photo on the license matched the woman in the snow. Gail Cooper. Thirty years old. And based on the address, he barely needed to get in his car to do the notification. He closed his eyes at the thought of the task ahead. A house not an apartment. Who would he find there? A husband? Kids? Parents? Did it matter? Whoever they were, he was going to break their hearts. Two weeks before Christmas.