Diagnosis Murder 6 - The Dead Letter by Lee Goldberg Read Free Book Online Page A

want to line a campfire with wet rocks," Amanda said. "The rocks will explode."
    Steve gave her a look. She shrugged.
    "I was a Girl Scout," she said. "And a troop leader."
    "Of course you were," Steve said.
    Amanda cocked her head towards the body in the bin. "You think this is Stryker?"
    "You tell me," Steve said.
    "I can't—at least not yet," she said. "The victim was nearly cremated. There's almost no skin or subcutaneous tissue left. Call me in the morning after I've had a chance to do some cutting. I might even have a cause of death for you by then."
    "How did he end up in the trash bin?" Steve asked.
    "You tell me," Amanda said.
    Steve looked back at the corpse and considered the possibilities. If the victim was Stryker, the killer could have tossed him in the trash and set him aflame to make a statement. Then the killer torched the office to destroy Stryker's files and any evidence that might lead to him.
    Considering Stryker's methods and his line of work, the scenario wasn't as contrived as it might otherwise have seemed.
    Another possibility also occurred to Steve. This wasn't the first time he had come upon a body torched in a trash bin. A few years back, he'd pursued a psycho who got his kicks dousing drunks and derelicts with gasoline and setting them on fire. One of the victims was found in the trash bin he called home.
    Steve didn't think the two cases were related. The psycho was dead; he'd set himself on fire as Steve closed in to arrest him. But that case reminded Steve that trash bins made sturdy, if unsanitary, homes for derelicts. The victim in this situation might have died accidentally, if the flames from the building had ignited something in the trash bin where he was sleeping.
    Or the victim could have been a witness, someone who saw the arsonist at work and was killed to keep him from talking.
    He would check the cars parked in the area, see if one of them belonged to Stryker. If not, he'd put out an APB.
    "Well?" Amanda asked, jarring Steve from his thoughts. "What's your theory?"
    "I'll know more in the morning," Steve said.
    "What makes you think you'll know then," Amanda asked.
    "Nothing," Steve said. "But that seems to be the stock answer around here." He faced Tim. "There's something you can tell me. Which fire started first, the trash bin or the building."
    "I don't know," Tim said. "When the firefighters arrived, both the building and the bin were already fully engulfed. We're collecting samples from the point of origin and from this trash bin and running them through the vapor trace analyzer. But I should have an answer for you soon."
    "Let me guess," Steve said. "In the morning."
    Tim smiled. "You must be a detective."
     
    Dr. Mark Sloan got his wish. There were so many patients to treat, and so many bureaucratic hassles to deal with, that he didn't have a free moment to think about who sent Monette Hobbes the photos and why the person waited a year to do it.
    When he left the hospital, his mind was still buzzing with the events of the last few hours, rehashing encounters with patients, meetings with staff, and memos he'd written.
    He was halfway home to the beach house in Malibu when the mystery began to occupy his thoughts again. This time he welcomed the puzzle. He hoped the short respite from thinking about it would give him a fresh perspective on the facts and allow him to see something he missed before. Some times he just needed to give the jumbled bits and pieces of information a chance to settle.
    But it didn't happen this time. The facts were as muddled and confusing as before.
    Mark headed north on the Pacific Coast Highway, the slow-moving rush-hour traffic a ribbon of lights illuminating the curving shoreline ahead of him.
    It was a warm summer night, so he was driving with the top down on his Mini Cooper convertible. He could almost smell the sea through the exhaust fumes and hear the waves under the roar of passing cars.
    To his left, beachfront homes were crammed tightly