A Cold Christmas by Charlene Weir Read Free Book Online Page B

furnace and the acrid smell of burnt flesh in the air. Bodies were Fisher’s life. He was happy to be called from anything, even deep sleep, to see a body in any condition, the grislier the better. Simply a greater challenge, as far as he was concerned.
    â€œHow long has he been there?” Fisher asked.
    â€œWe’re waiting for you to tell us,” Susan said. “He was found at seven.”
    â€œEnough pictures?” Fisher asked.
    Susan nodded.
    â€œLet’s get him back a ways and turn him.”
    Owen Fisher and Osey pulled the body farther from the furnace and turned him face up. Fisher whistled softly. Osey turned slightly pale. Even Susan felt a little queasy. She could hear Gunny rapidly swallowing the excess saliva that collects just before vomiting.
    â€œIf you contaminate this scene,” she said, “you’re fired.”
    He put down the camera and fled.
    The dead man’s face had been burned to a grotesque blistered mass of something inhuman. Intense hatred or an attempt to keep his identity from being known?
    She was horrified by the viciousness of the act and somewhat dismayed at her selfish thought that she couldn’t leave town with a homicide on tap. Reardon’s job offer would be pushed to the back of her mind.
    â€œSomebody sure didn’t like him.” Owen opened a black medical bag, got a thermometer, and sliced into the liver to take the body’s temperature, peered at the face and pinched the skin on one arm.
    â€œHow long has he been dead?” Susan said.
    â€œYou always ask.”
    â€œRight. Give me a guess. Then you can cart him away and do your chopping.”
    â€œTwelve to eighteen hours, I’d say. The temperature down here will have to be factored in.”
    â€œHow did he die?”
    â€œWell, that’s a puzzlement, isn’t it? I’d say gunshot right through the heart. Should be easy enough to verify once I get him on the table.”
    â€œGunny?” Susan called.
    â€œUh—yeah?” Gunner’s voice came from the top of the stairs.
    â€œCamcorder.”
    Gunny clattered down the stairs and did a camcording of the basement. Osey gently eased the wallet from the victim’s back pocket, got fingerprints, and then opened it.
    â€œThe driver’s license says his name is Tim Holiday,” Osey said. “Fourteen dollars in bills, twenty-eight cents in change, and one credit card with the same name.”
    Susan left them to it and went upstairs. In the bedroom, she found Caley leaning back against a stack of pillows, unmoving and, as Osey had said, extremely pale. Bonnie was crying. Adam was watching his mother, warily. Zach was sitting on the edge of the bed methodically kicking the heel of a black and silver western-style boot against the floor.
    A jumble of stuffed animals was pushed to the foot of the bed. A cardboard box held a pile of toys with tanks and action figures prominent. Clothes covered the floor. Bookshelves spilled over with books. Pictures of soldiers and spacemen were tacked to the walls.
    â€œI need to talk with you,” Susan said to Caley. “In the kitchen.”
    â€œI can’t leave them.”
    â€œThey’ll be fine. We’ll just be in the kitchen.”
    â€œNo, Mommy.” Bonnie threw herself on Caley’s lap and wailed. “Don’t go.”
    Caley looked at Susan as though to say, You see.
    â€œThey’ll be fine,” Susan repeated. “I’ll make sure of it.”
    Zach, the twelve-year-old, gave her an accusing look. “You’re the police chief,” he said.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAren’t you supposed to see that this kind of stuff doesn’t happen?”
    While it wasn’t exactly logical, she got his point. If a stranger could be killed and mutilated in their basement, how could he trust her to take care of his siblings? Susan didn’t know enough about kids to come up with an answer. She went