Heat of the Moment - Lori Handeland Page 0,14

autopsies. But those consisted of an explanation for a thirty-five-year-old farmer dying on his tractor and the occasional crib death. Once in a while, a domestic disaster. Still, Owen doubted he was the one to call for this.

“Maybe you should find someone with more experience in…” Owen waved at the mess. He wasn’t sure what to call that.

“Doctor D took a course on forensics,” Deb protested.

“I think it was called ‘Accurately Portraying Forensic Science in Your Novel,’” Becca said.

Owen took a deep breath in an attempt not to laugh, choke, or cough. As the air was still heavy with the scent of ick, the gulp took care of any urge to laugh, though the choking and the coughing were touch and go for a while.

“This isn’t a murder,” Owen pointed out.

Becca cast him a disgusted glance. “Is too.”

“Would forensic techniques work in a case involving animals?”

“Probably not,” Becca said. “But there was a class in veterinary forensics in college.”

“Great!” Deb bounced on her toes as if she might actually start to cheer like the good old days. G-R-E-A-T! GRRREAT! “Go nuts, Becca.”

“I didn’t say I took it.”

“You didn’t?” Deb’s face became crestfallen.

Becca shook her head so hard her hair flew around her like a fiery dervish. “Too ghoulish for me.”

“Ghoulish?” the chief repeated. “I love all that CSI stuff.”

“CSI on people is one thing, animals another.”

She had a point. How many books, movies, and television shows portrayed the graphic deaths of animals? Few to none. While a lot of people seemed to be overly okay with human mutilation, torture, and bloody death, they were equally squeamish about the same in regard to animals.

Owen cast a glance at the table, swallowed, and turned away. He could see why.

“Veterinary forensics involves cases of abuse, mutilation, fighting rings—dogs, roosters.” Becca jabbed a finger at the spectacle that had ruined Owen’s living room. Probably forever. “And that. Whatever it is.”

“What are we going to do?” Chief Deb asked.

“We?” Owen repeated. He had no clue about forensics—human, animal, or otherwise.

“I can call the professor,” Becca said. “See if he has a recommendation.”

Deb hesitated. She probably didn’t want to admit the inadequacy of her force—who would?—but in the end what choice did she have?

“That would be good. Thanks.”

Becca took her phone out of her pocket, touched the screen. “I’ve got his number.”

If she hadn’t taken the class, then why did she have the professor in her contacts list?

She lifted the phone to indicate upstairs, where the cell signal lived. “I’ll give Jeremy a call and be right back.”

If she hadn’t taken the class, why was he Jeremy? If she had taken the class why would he be Jeremy? Wouldn’t he be Professor Whatever?

Owen stood in the hall stewing while Chief Deb poked around the crime scene. He didn’t think that was a good idea. Wouldn’t it be better to leave it alone until an expert showed up? But she was the cop, not him.

At the sound of footsteps on the staircase, Owen moved into the living room so Becca wouldn’t see him hovering in the hall trying to eavesdrop on a conversation he had no prayer of hearing over that distance. He didn’t have ears like Reggie.

“He’s coming himself,” Becca said.

“Swell,” Owen muttered.

“He’s the best forensic veterinarian in the Midwest.”

“How many are there?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. Jeremy will be here in the morning.”

“Doesn’t he have a class to teach?”

A coed to boink?

“He’ll cancel.” She waved a hand toward the five-pointed star on the wall. “The pentagram intrigued him.”

“That’s a pentagram?” Deb asked, tilting her head right, then left, then right again as she studied it.

“Isn’t it?” Becca glanced at Owen.

“My geometry grades were shit.” Along with the rest of them.

“Mine were more like crap, but I think that’s what they call those. If not, Jeremy should know.” Becca bit her lip, sighed.

Owen knew that look, that sigh. “What else?”

“Jeremy said that a pentagram is a Wiccan symbol.”

“He thinks witches did this?”

“No.”

“You just said—”

“A pentagram is a Wiccan symbol, but those who practice Wicca believe that they should harm none.” She pointed at the table. “That’s pretty harmful.”

“I never thought I’d see anything like this in Three Harbors,” Owen said.

“None of us did.”

Silence settled over them.

“Well, let’s move along.” Chief Deb made a shooing gesture.

Becca moved; Owen did not.

“Good night,” Owen said.

The chief blinked. “You can’t stay here.”

“It’s my damn house.”

“It’s a crime scene.”

“Not really.”

“Yes, really,” Becca interjected. “Jeremy said we should leave it as undisturbed as possible.”

Owen had to force himself to unclench his teeth, which