“I have to talk to the medical examiner now.” Bree signaled for a deputy. “Take Mrs. Beckett to the station.”
“What?” Her mouth dropped open. “You can’t do that! Am I a suspect?”
Of course you’re a suspect.
Angela frowned at the patrol vehicle like it was a petri dish. But then, that was probably a fair comparison.
“Mrs. Beckett,” Bree began. “I need to ask you some questions. There’s too much I don’t know about your husband’s death. You could be in danger. I’d feel much better if you would wait at the sheriff’s station while I get a handle on what happened here. I’ll come and talk with you later tonight. At this moment, everyone and no one is a suspect.”
Angela’s forehead creased. “I won’t answer any questions without my lawyer present.”
Did all rich people have a lawyer on speed dial? Bree reconsidered her night. She’d be spending part of it at the ER. There was no getting around that. She probably wouldn’t have the time or energy to conduct a proper interview tonight anyway. “I need your contact information to set up an interview for tomorrow morning.”
“You can’t come to my friend’s house. She’ll be sleeping. She’s an ER nurse who works the night shift.”
Frustrated, Bree forced her jaw to unclench. She preferred to question people in their own surroundings, where they were more relaxed and less wary. But she couldn’t force the issue. “We can do the interview at the sheriff’s station.”
Angela pulled a cell phone from her pocket. “I’ll let you know if and when my attorney is available.”
Short of arresting her, Bree could not force Angela to agree to an interview. Speaking to the police was voluntary. Most people just didn’t know that. Most people also wanted to appear cooperative because avoiding questions made them look guilty. Angela Beckett either thought she was better than most people, or she actually had something to hide.
Paul had been uncooperative as well. Were the Becketts involved in something less than legal?
Bree handed her a card. “Let my office know what time you’ll arrive.”
Angela snatched the card and turned back toward her vehicle.
“And be careful, Mrs. Beckett,” Bree called.
Angela’s sure stride hesitated just for a second, then she strode on with slightly less confidence.
Bree walked over to the ME’s van.
“I’m seeing too much of you, Sheriff. Again.” The ME grabbed booties from her PPE container. She turned to face Bree, her gaze dropping to Bree’s arm. “What happened?”
“It’s minor,” Bree said.
Dr. Jones raised one eyebrow. “I didn’t ask you to assess your own injury. I asked you what happened.”
Bree had only ever heard two tones to the ME’s deep voice. One was soothing and compassionate, used to address the families of victims. The other was confident professional. But tonight, the doctor sounded like a pissed-off mother calling a teenager to the carpet.
“I was . . . sort of . . . shot,” Bree admitted.
Dr. Jones exhaled hard. “How long ago?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“I assume it was before you called me?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Jones muttered something under her breath. Bree caught the word stupid among the mumbling. Then the ME jabbed a finger in Bree’s face. “You have five minutes. If you’re not on your way to the ER at that time, I will call an ambulance myself.”
“OK. OK.” Bree lifted her good hand in surrender.
With a quick nod of agreement, the ME and her assistant followed Bree into the garage, where Matt was examining the pickup truck.
Bree filled Dr. Jones in on the discovery of the body while the ME’s assistant took photographs, beginning at a distance and spiraling in for close-ups.
Dr. Jones halted a few yards away and scanned the scene for a minute before moving closer and crouching next to the body. Bree showed her Paul’s wallet in the evidence bag, still open to show his driver’s license.
Dr. Jones glanced at it. “No question as to his ID then.”
“No.” Bree stood back and watched the ME work.
Dr. Jones took temperature readings in the air, then cut open the corpse’s shirt. Without disturbing the gunshot wounds, she made an incision over the liver and inserted a thermometer to record core body temperature. A corpse loses heat at a rate of approximately 1.5 degrees Fahrenheit per hour until it reaches ambient temperature. The ME always needed to consider environmental conditions, but the fresher the corpse, the more accurate the estimated time of death.
Bree already knew that Paul Beckett’s body was very fresh, but the ME had to confirm