I watched where Marino stepped and was right behind him. Shutters whirred, film advanced, and microphones were raised Marino’s long strides did not pause and he did not answer anyone. I averted my face.
Rounding the ambulance, we ducked under the tape. The old burgundy Toyota was parked head-in midway along a narrow stretch of cobblestone covered with churned-up, dirty snow. Ugly brick walls pressed in from either side and blocked out the low sun’s slanted rays. Police were taking photographs, talking, and looking around. Water slowly dripped from roofs and rusting fire escapes. The smell of garbage wafted on the damp, stirring air.
it barely registered that the young Latin-looking officer talking on a portable radio was someone I had recently met. Tom Lucero watched us as he mumbled something and got off the air. From where I stood, all I could see through the Toyota’s open driver’s door was a left hip and arm. A shock went through me as I recognized the black wool coat, the brush-gold wedding band, Wind black plastic watch. Wedged between the windshield and the dash was her red medical examiner’s Plate.
“Tags come back to Jason Story. I guess that’s her husband.” Lucero said to Marino. “She’s got identification on her in her purse. The name on the driver’s license is Susan Dawson Story, a twenty-eight-year-old white female.”
“What about money?”
‘”Eleven dollars in her billfold and a couple of credit cards. Nothing so far to suggest robbery. You recognize her?”
Marino leaned forward to get a better look His jaw muscles bunched. “Yeah. I recognize her. This how the car was found?”
“We opened the driver’s door. That’s it,” Lucero said, stuffing the portable radio in a pocket.
“The engine was off, doors unlocked?”
They were. Like I told you on the phone, Fritz spotted the car while on routine patrol. Uh, around fifteen hundred hours, and he noticed the M.E.’s tag in the window.”
He glanced at me. “If you go around to the passenger’s side and look in, you can see blood in the area of her right ear. Someone did a real neat job.”
Marino backed away and scanned the messy snow. Don’t look like we’ll have much luck with footprints.”
“You got that right. It’s melting like ice cream. Was when we got here.”
“And cartridge cases?”
“Zip.”
“Her family know?”
“Not yet: I thought you might want to handle this one,” Lucero said.
“Just make damn sure who she is and where she worked don’t leak out to the media before the family knows. Jesus.”
Marino turned his attention to me: “What do you want to do here?”
“I don’t want to touch anything inside the car,” I muttered, surveying the surroundings as I got out my camera. I was alert and thinking clearly but my hands would not stop shaking. “Give me a minute to look, then let’s get her on a stretcher.”
“You guys ready for the doc?”
Marino asked Lucero. “We’re ready.”
Susan was dressed in faded blue jeans and scuffed lace-up boots, her black wool coat buttoned to her chin. My heart constricted as I noticed the red silk scarf peeking out of her collar. She wore sunglasses and leaned back in the driver’s seat as if she had gotten comfortable and dozed off: On the light gray upholstery behind her neck was a reddish stain. I moved around to the other side of the car and saw the blood Lucero had mentioned. As I began taking photographs, I paused then leaned closer to her face, detecting the faint fragrance of a distinctive masculine cologne. Her seat belt, I noted, was unfastened.
I did not touch her head until the squad had arrived and Susan’s body was on a stretcher inside the back of an ambulance. I climbed in and spent several minutes looking for bullet wounds. I found one in the right temple, another in the hollow at the back of the neck, just below the hairline. I ran my gloved fingers through her chestnut hair, looking for more blood and not finding it.
Marino climbed into the back of the ambulance. “How many times was she shot?”
he asked me.
“I’ve found two entrances. No exits; though I can feel one bullet beneath the skin over her left temporal bone.”