Retribution Read online

  ONE

  EMILY LEFT HER OFFICE EARLY TO WALK ON THE BEACH. She didn’t care that the usual clear blue sky was gradually growing darker or that the wind was rapidly picking up. After leaving her hectic life, a broken relationship, and a job in Boston to move to a quiet seaside village, she had grown fond of the breeze and the sound of the waves gently crashing onto the beach. She had spent a grueling day in negotiations with an uncooperative client, and she was looking forward to a brisk, relaxing walk along the shore.

  The access nearest the beach was practically empty; she quickly parked and was on the sand in moments. The sky was darkening, and the wind was becoming stronger, forcibly blowing the sand across the beach. The sand felt like thousands of tiny needles striking her legs. Regardless, the walk was what she needed. The smell of the water, the sound of the crashing waves, the touch of the wind against her skin, and the feel of the cold mist upon her face helped slowly ease the effects of the stressful day on her body with every step.

  There he was, lying face down, his blond hair glistening in what remained of the sunlight, the surf gently pushing him farther up the beach. He was wearing a black wet suit with a dull red stripe running down the left side. At first glance she thought he might have been swimming, but it soon became obvious he was probably dead.

  She froze, staring at him, not able to walk any farther. He looked familiar, but then again, he didn’t. Catching her breath, she slowly inhaled and called out to him. When he didn’t respond, her fear that he was dead became a reality. She should have walked away and called the police, but instead, mesmerized by the surf gently pushing him back and forth onto the sand, she slowly walked to the body. She found it odd—in an almost funny, grotesque way—how his head remained motionless on the sand while his body gently went up and down with the surf. Still looking at him and without thinking, she took her phone from her pocket and called 9-1-1.

  Police and rescue workers took what seemed an eternity to arrive on the beach. Meanwhile, onlookers gathered and gawked. The tide was coming in, yet no one touched the body, not even to pull him farther onto the sand. Once the police arrived, the typical yellow crime-scene tape sectioned off the area where the body had floated onto the beach. The rescue team pulled him out of the water and turned him over. His once-glistening blond hair was now matted with wet sand; the skin on his face was smooth and yet somewhat bloated. Again, Emily felt there was something about him that was almost familiar. But then it was gone. She tried to look away but found herself glued to the scene unfolding in front of her.

  “Excuse me. Are you the lady who called in the body?”

  Emily’s eyes were frozen on the body, and she didn’t hear the police officer speaking to her.

  “Excuse me, lady,” the officer said again, louder this time. “Did you call nine one one to report a body?”

  Emily jumped at his voice and turned to look at him when she realized he was speaking to her. “Uh, yeah,” she stammered. “I saw him while I was walking. I thought he was swimming ashore. I didn’t realize at first he was dead. Who did you say you were again?”

  She was now acutely aware that he might not even be a police officer. He wasn’t wearing a uniform or police jacket, and he wasn’t wearing any visible identification. In fact, she would not have guessed he was a cop. His hair was longer than she expected, and he was very tan. He wore khaki shorts with a black “Las Vegas” sweatshirt, and he was barefoot. If he was a cop, she wasn’t impressed.

  “I’m Sheriff McNeil. You can call me Mac. I need to ask you a few questions and get some basic information. Your name and address to start with, and any other information you may have such as what you saw before you approached the victim. What beach access did you use to come onto the beach? Did you notice anyone leaving the parking area or the beach?”

  “How about one question at a time, Sheriff?” Emily asked. Even though she could easily remember his questions, she wasn’t about to answer them in rapid-fire fashion. If he expected answers from her, he needed to slow down, ask her one question at a time, and allow her the courtesy of answering before firing off another question.

  “My apologies,” he replied curtly. “Let’s start this again. I need your name and address.”

  “I’m Emily Bridges, and I live at seventy-four nineteen Hartford Street.”

  “Hello, Emily. Did you park at the beach? If so, where is your car parked?” Sheriff McNeil carefully watched Emily while she spoke. She seems overly confident and calm for someone who just found a dead body on a beach, he thought.

  Emily explained where she had parked and that she didn’t see anyone or anything on the beach until she saw the body. What she didn’t tell the sheriff was that she was so lost in her own thoughts she could have easily passed someone on the beach without noticing, and she certainly didn’t tell him that instead of immediately calling the police when she saw the body, she walked closer to the body to check him out. As she answered his questions, she noticed that Sheriff McNeil was not writing down her responses. He stood listening with his hands in his pockets. He did not interrupt her but allowed her to freely speak.

  When she was finished, he resumed his questions. “Emily, where do you work?”

  “I have a new law practice on Monroe Street in town,” she responded softly. “Well, I didn’t actually open a new practice; I took over Russell White’s practice when he retired. I guess you can say I inherited his clients.” Emily stumbled over her answer, not sure why she was nervous. She was never nervous—not in court, not in her personal life, and never after seeing a dead body, and she had seen several of all ages. And most certainly never when talking to law enforcement. None of these things made her nervous or anxious. With years of experience as a prosecuting attorney, she often went to the site of a reported death. She wondered why this one was bothering her.

  The sheriff looked her over. She looked like a lawyer. She was wearing a black suit jacket with white trim, a light-blue blouse, a skirt, and no shoes. Her pale legs were bare. The only piece of jewelry she was wearing was a clunky, odd-shaped gold bracelet. Given the time of year, she didn’t look like a local, either: no tan. He knew Russell had sold his practice, but he somehow missed whom he had sold it to. “Emily, how long have you lived here?”

  “I just moved here a few weeks ago. I bought the blue house near the cliffs. You can almost see it from here. Why?” Now she was paying attention to his questions.

  “I’m just asking questions, Emily. You’re new in town, walking on the beach, maybe for the first time, and you stumble over a body in the surf that doesn’t appear to be from the area. Now that’s an interesting welcome to our little town, don’t you think? I mean, what are the odds? Are you certain you don’t know him?” He waited for her to speak, intently watching for a reaction.

  Emily found herself getting angry. “How do you know he isn’t from the area, Sheriff? Do you know who he is? And, no, I do not know him. Do you think I put him here and then called you? Or better yet, do you think someone else put him here in the hopes I might go for a walk and find him?”

  Mac studied her face, her expression and demeanor. If she was lying, she was damn good at it. Something about the scene didn’t ring true to him. With over twenty years’ experience as a police officer and having worked the majority of his career in homicide in Boston, he knew a staged scene when he saw one. He was willing to bet this guy didn’t drown, and he doubted he died in the ocean or on the beach. He was also willing to bet Emily knew exactly who he was. She may not have recognized the sheriff, but he recognized her.

  “I’m done for now. If I need anything else, I’ll give your office a call,” he said as he turned away from her and walked back toward the coroner’s wagon.

  “That’s OK,” Emily called after him.
“I am easy to reach if you need anything more, either at my office or through my paralegal.”

  Instead of turning around to acknowledge he had heard her, he raised his hand and kept walking. She found it rude and unprofessional, but brushed if off as arrogance and simply poor manners.

  The growing crowd of onlookers stayed even as the body was loaded into the coroner’s wagon. Sheriff McNeil was amazed at how seemingly normal people would gawk at a dead body. He scanned the crowd looking for anyone who didn’t belong, anyone who seemed out of place. It was hard to imagine that any of the locals would be involved in this guy’s death, but he knew from his many years in the business that anyone could be a killer. He took several quick photos of the scene, including the crowd, the body, and Emily. He remained at the scene until the body was loaded into the coroner’s wagon. Before leaving, he took one last sweeping look at the area where the body was found. Seeing nothing of importance, he got into his car and followed the wagon to the morgue.

  TWO

  SETH WORKED EVERY DAY MONDAY THROUGH FRIDAY. He went to work at the same time every day and parked in the same spot each day. The only variation to his rigid routine was his office hours. The office receptionist was an older woman who was just as rigid as he was. She kept the office spotless and managed the office with ease. When he left after work, he went to the same store to buy a few fresh things for his dinner. His home routine was just as rigid as his work routine. His refrigerator was basically empty. He liked it that way. Empty was cleaner. He never ate leftovers.

  He was very strict with his routine. He kept his yard clean, grass neatly mowed, and shrubs trimmed. He was never late for work, and he paid every bill before the due date. Even his mortgage and association fees were paid in advance. He had discovered as a child the quickest way to avoid questions, prying neighbors, and unannounced visitors was to always pay bills early. Even in college, he managed to budget what little money he had to pay the bills and have enough left over to eat.

  His home was just as well kept as his office, but not spotless by any means. He didn’t like clutter, but he did like his living space to appear “lived in,” and he was meticulous about keeping his floors clean. On his walls were scenic pictures of places he had visited or of places he wanted to see.

  There was only one picture that wasn’t scenic; it was taken during a time in his childhood that he never wanted to forget. The frame looked as if it had been made by a child, and it was. The photo was placed in the foyer on top of a narrow entryway table. He kept fresh flowers and a seasonal candle on the table next to the picture. It looked almost like an altar, but it wasn’t. He just wanted to see the photo whenever he came home and whenever he left. He needed to see the photo. The photo made him happy, even if it was only for a brief moment. He couldn’t look at the picture without feeling a twinge of chest pain, and when he did, he couldn’t breathe. He knew some day the ache—that pain—would go away, and he dreaded the day it did. The pain kept him going and gave him purpose. He longed to feel the pain and the inability to breathe, even if it was for a moment. He stared at the picture, and when he could breathe again, he slipped off his shoes and walked into his living room.

  The living room walls were painted a light green, with dark-green curtains covering the windows. When he purchased the house, he had the carpets replaced with an off-white short-pile carpet. The carpets were the same color in each room. His furniture was simple but comfortable: a large, overstuffed beige couch with a purple blanket folded and neatly placed over the back, and a matching recliner. He had one end table between the couch and the recliner, but no coffee table.

  He turned on the TV before sitting down. Channel 6 reported on the late news that a male body without identification had been found in the surf. The reporters were already speculating that the guy was not a local. Their assumption was based on the fact that no one recognized him and that he didn’t have a tan; most of the locals spent a lot of time outdoors.

  Seth watched the news, interested but not excited by the attention the body was getting. He enjoyed the speculation of how the body ended up on the beach, how the person had died, and who he was. Seth had carefully removed anything that would identify him. Even if the police discovered the floater’s identity—and they would—they wouldn’t connect Seth to the body. He had never been questioned about bodies randomly discovered. In the early years, killing was simply something he did, perhaps even for practice. But now he hadn’t killed in years and had truly thought he would never kill again. But certain events had led to his decision to start again down this path, and the guy on the beach was part of a bigger plan. His death was just a start. There would be more bodies.

  The news reporters were no longer interested in sensationalizing the floater’s fate once they realized the crowd at the beach was thinning. Seth listened to the Channel 6 reporter give his opinion of who the floater was, where he came from, and how he turned up on their beach at the end of a busy work day. Nothing the reporter said had any basis in fact. He was just like all the other reporters on TV. They gave their opinions without knowing the facts and expected people to believe them. Each reporter was trying to get his fifteen minutes of fame. When the news showed the body being loaded into a coroner’s wagon, Seth turned off the TV.

  THREE

  THE BODY WAS SENT TO THE LOCAL COUNTY CORONER’S OFFICE. Sheriff McNeil knew the coroner would be out, as it was after regular hours, and either a medical student or a resident would be performing the intake. Leaving nothing to chance, McNeil accompanied the body to the morgue. He wanted to make sure whoever was doing the intake treated the body like a crime scene, which it was. Samples for evidence would need to be gathered from the body, and pictures would need to be taken. He would rather see too much being done than enter a courtroom with not enough evidence to convict. He also wanted to make sure nothing got contaminated. Having solid evidence thrown out of court due to contamination was far worse than not having enough to convict.

  The morgue was in the same building as the county health department. The entrance for the morgue was at the rear of the building. The coroner’s wagon pulled alongside the rear doors of the morgue. The driver rang the intercom buzzer.

  “Yeah?” came the almost immediate response.

  “We have a body that needs dropped off. Hey, the sheriff is with us! He said he needs samples for evidence. Can you open the loading dock door?”

  Without a response, Mark, the night attendant who doubled as the coroner’s intern, threw open the doors and secured them. “Hi, Sheriff. You guys need any help unloading?”

  “Good to see you, Mark,” said McNeil. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re on tonight. This one will need to be processed for evidence, and we don’t have an ID yet. Is your boss here or out of town?”

  “Dr. Davis just left for the weekend. I think he was going out of town; he didn’t say. You want me to call him, Sheriff?” asked Mark.

  “Sure, you may want to give him a heads-up. Just in case he wants to come back for this.”

  Mac and the coroner knew each other well, and Mac knew his friend might be upset about getting a call on his way out of town, but he also had no doubt Dr. Davis would come back to the morgue.

  * * *

  Duval County was the smallest county in New Hampshire, and the coroner’s office was staffed with only one pathologist, Dr. Ryan Davis, who ran the medical examiner’s office and performed scheduled autopsies during the day. The county kept a couple of medical students on board who covered the morgue intake during night shifts and holidays.

  Dr. Davis started working as the county coroner right out of residency. He couldn’t imagine a better job: no being on call, no complaining patients or families, and he always had holidays and weekends off. Not to mention he earned about the same as his colleagues. He had been brilliant in his studies but lacked the social skills necessary to practice medicine at the bedside. He craved his freedom, and working long hours plus taking call was simply something
he refused to do. He was selfish with his time and preferred to keep contact with patients to a minimum. He enjoyed working eight-hour days with nights, weekends, and holidays off, and he liked the solitude of his job. His position as chief medical examiner for the smallest county in New Hampshire assured him a lot of flexibility and a comfortable lifestyle, and gave him the freedom he needed.

  Dr. Davis was attractive, or at least he thought so. He was an easy six feet tall, with dark hair, blue eyes, nice teeth, and an average weight. He took pride in his appearance and religiously worked out whenever he could.

  He had recently canceled his engagement to Sherry, his girlfriend of seven years. She was also a physician, and over the years, they had spent less and less time together. Their relationship had become more of an exercise in excuses not to see one another than taking time to be with one another. Even talking on the phone had become a chore, and most of their communication was via text message. When he suggested they cancel their engagement, she seemed relieved—almost happy. The conversation came easily, and they chatted more than they had in months. He thought he should feel sad, depressed, or at least a little unhappy, but instead he felt relief. He was looking forward to no more forced conversations or making text excuses to cancel plans, or making plans he had no intention of keeping. And he knew she felt the same. They parted as friends, or at least they said they did.

  After his breakup, he had planned a nice, long, quiet week alone. He was looking forward to fishing and hiking, and simply being alone with his thoughts and his dog, an aging shepherd mix named Max. The dog was well trained and usually very quiet. If Max barked, Ryan knew there was a problem. The dog was close to eleven years old, and Ryan had adopted him from a rescue when he was two. In the nine years he had had Max, he could count on one hand the number of times he had barked.

  Ryan was driving out of town to his cabin with Max lying next to him on the seat, snoring as he slept. They had just left the county when the deputy coroner called to ask for assistance with a body found at the beach.