Burn You Twice - Mary Burton Page 0,38
have sent it off to the lab, but I’ll still need a sample of her DNA to compare it to.”
“She had a packed bag at her apartment. There might be hair or skin samples. Anything else you can tell me about her?” Gideon asked.
“I took X-rays. There’s an old break to her left wrist, and though I can’t say for certain until I complete the autopsy, she may have been pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” Joan pictured the woman clawing her way across the floor toward safety. Normally, it would have been a five-second walk. But to a semiconscious woman choking on smoke and heat, it would have taken much more time.
“I believe I saw the outline of a fetus on the X-ray,” Dr. Christopher said.
“An unwanted pregnancy would be a motive for a man to murder a woman,” Joan said. “How pregnant was she?”
“Again, a guess,” Dr. Christopher said. “Three or four months.”
“Elijah would have been incarcerated when this woman became pregnant,” Gideon said.
“Did he have conjugal visits?” she challenged.
“I’ll speak to the warden,” Gideon said. “What about personal items? Did you find anything on her body?”
Nodding, Dr. Christopher moved to a stainless-steel tray holding metal remnants from a pair of jeans and a melted phone. “The jeans are generic. The phone must have been in her back pocket. It’s melted.”
“Identifying the body might lead to a phone account, and the phone company can give you texts and call numbers,” she said.
“If you can confirm the pregnancy and especially the fetus’s DNA, call me,” Gideon said. “The majority of women who are murdered are killed by someone they know or who professes to love them.”
“I’ll see if I can fast-track the DNA test,” Dr. Christopher said.
As they pushed through the exam-room doors and stripped off their gowns, Joan’s mind churned with facts and frustration. Regardless of the choices this woman had made, she did not deserve to die, and neither did her child. “The forensic team is at the fire scene now?”
“Yes.” Gideon wadded up his paper gown and tossed it in the bin on top of hers.
“I want to see if they’ve discovered anything.”
“They don’t work for you.”
“You going to claim jurisdictional protocol?”
“No. I care more about solving this case than soothing my ego. But a detective on paid suspension would give a defense attorney a field day in court.”
His calm logic was irritating. But also correct. “I’ll fly under the radar.”
He reached for his hat and traced the brim with his fingertips. “Same rules apply, not that you’ve followed them yet.”
“You won’t know I’m here,” she said innocently.
He muttered a curse and headed to his SUV. In her vehicle, she followed him back into the center of town, and each parked across from the beauty salon.
As she stepped out, she spotted a tall man with broad shoulders. His back was to her, but she recognized him easily enough.
Clarke Mead. He was Ann’s estranged husband and the fire chief. In his midthirties, he had dark, close-cropped hair with a matching mustache. He had always rocked that Magnum, P.I. vibe, and the extra years now only enhanced the look. Gideon and Clarke had been friends since middle school. Both their families owned ranches, but the Meads had sold years ago. Gideon and Clarke had played ball together, drank beer behind the high school bleachers at football games, and gone to UM together. Two peas in a pod. Both had loved the town enough to stay and serve their community. They would protect it no matter the cost.
Hearing Gideon’s footsteps behind her, she did not wait for him but strode toward Clarke. When his head turned, dark eyes narrowed as surprise and questions hiked thick eyebrows. “Joan Mason?”
She thrust out her hand, oddly glad to see the big lug. “As you live and breathe.”
He wrapped lean fingers around hers, hesitated briefly before he pretended not to notice her scars. “Damn, I thought you were never coming back.”
“I didn’t, either. I suppose you can figure out why?” she said.
“I got a good idea why,” Clarke said as he looked back at the burned pile of debris. “You been by to see Elijah?”
“I have.”
“And?” Clarke kept his focus on Joan as Gideon walked up.
“Cool as a cucumber,” Gideon interjected. “Couldn’t have been more charming.”
“He’s a slick bastard,” Clarke said. “Don’t be fooled by it.”
“Have you seen him at all since the fire?” Joan asked.
“Sure. I visited him about nine years ago. Curious, I suppose. Maybe hoping that on some level he was suffering. Of course, he