Blown Away by Shane Gericke Read Free Book Online Page B

laced tightly to her feet. She estimated Lucy’s weight and smiled. Nice to know one other person lies on her driver’s license! Flies dive-bombed the stiff body.
    She worked up more smoke, then ran a latexed finger down Lucy’s left cheek. Blemish-free and smooth as varnished teak, the pores fine and clear. The skin of a supermodel, someone used to pampering. But Lucy’s hands were horned with scarred yellow calluses. She humped engine blocks for a living. Nobody had pampered her for a long time. Her expression in death seemed much like the Scottie pup’s—utter disbelief at the situation she’d found herself in. All in all, Emily decided, Lucy was an ordinary, hardworking, pleasant-looking woman.
    As pleasant as anyone with two extra holes in her head.
    Emily’s gaze shifted to the handgun on the passenger seat. “The victim was shot with a Glock,” Benedetti recited from his notes. “A 9-millimeter Model 17.”
    Emily nodded, staring at the mirror image of the pistol she pulled on the birds just hours ago. The 17 was the most popular sidearm in law enforcement because it was light, reliable, ergonomic, inexpensive, and held lots of bullets. It had a chunky black plastic frame and a carbon steel slide. Just like hers. Glow-in-the-dark night sights. Just like hers. Skateboard tape wrapped around the handle to keep wet fingers from slipping…
    Just like mine. Weird. She thought back on how weightless her pistol felt when she aimed it at the decapitated birds. Was it as light in Lucy’s hand? Or did it weigh a ton, a crushing anvil of hopelessness and despair? She shook her head. “The only thing I know for certain is Lucy’s gun is the spitting image of mine, down to the homemade tape job.”
    â€œSay what?” Benedetti said.
    â€œOh!” Emily yipped, flustered she’d said it aloud. “I carry the same pistol, that’s all.” She stuck out her right hip so he could see it, eliciting a grunt. “You were saying, Commander?”
    â€œOne round was fired. Straight into her head, as you can see.”
    Emily nodded, swallowing the fresh rise of bile. The entry hole in Lucy’s right temple was the size of a pencil eraser. The surrounding flesh was a charred sunburst, indicating the muzzle had been near the head. The hole in the opposite temple was the exit wound. It was ragged and crusty, the size of a quarter. Emily followed the trajectory to the gore on the driver’s window. It was mealy, like cold oatmeal, and shot through with whitish grit. Lucy’s brains and blood, blended with skull fragments. Emily tried to imagine the moment the supersonic tip of the bullet pierced Lucy’s flash-roasted skin—Pain? Panic? Regret for life unlived?—but couldn’t. Even ten years after Jack’s death, such imaginings were too exquisitely painful to dwell on. She shook her head, praying Jack died instantly.
    Uh, I mean Lucy.
    â€œSexual?” Branch asked.
    â€œJeans were zipped and belted, shirt buttoned,” Benedetti said. “That’s all I can tell right now. Coroner hasn’t shown yet to authorize moving the body.”
    Branch looked at his watch, surprised. “You called him, right?”
    â€œTwice. He’s sorting a twenty-car pileup at the Joliet Arsenal. I’ll be lucky if he shows by supper.” He looked at Emily. “For what it’s worth, I’m betting no sexual assault.”
    â€œGood,” she said, relieved. Even a dead woman should keep that dignity. “Was there a farewell note?”
    â€œSuicide?” Branch asked, brows arching in surprise. “Rather than murder?”
    Emily nodded.
    â€œExplain.”
    She puffed to combat the odor. “There was a single shot. A professional killer would pull the trigger at least twice to guarantee her death. Someone killing out of fury or revenge would have emptied the gun, then beat her with it.”