As Good as Dead Page 3
The phones stared blankly up at her.
Just one more time, and then she was done. She promised.
Pip reached in and took out the one on the left, an old gray Nokia. She held the power button down to turn it on, her fingers shaking with the pressure. There was a familiar sound hiding in the beat of her heart. The phone lit up with a greenish backlight, welcoming her back. In the simple menu, Pip clicked onto her messages, to the only contact saved in this phone. In any of them.
Her thumbs worked against the buttons, clicking number one three times to get to C.
Can I come over now? she wrote. She pressed send with one last promise to herself: this was the very last time.
She waited, watching the empty screen below her message. She willed the response to appear, concentrated only on that, not on the growing sound inside her chest. But now that she’d thought about it, she couldn’t unthink it, couldn’t unhear it. She held her breath and willed even harder.
It worked.
Yes, he replied.
It was a race between her ticking heart and the pounding of her sneakers on the sidewalk. Her body alive with sound, from her chest to her feet, dulled only by the noise cancellation of her headphones. But Pip couldn’t lie to herself that one was caused by the other; she’d been running for only four minutes and already she was here, turning onto Beacon Close. The heart had preceded the feet.
She’d told her parents she was going out on a quick run, as she always did—dressed in her navy leggings and a white sports top—so at least running here left her with a shred of honesty. Shreds and scraps were all she could hope for. Sometimes running itself was enough, but not tonight. No, tonight there was only one thing that could help her.
Pip slowed as she approached number thirteen, lowering her headphones to cradle her neck. She planted her heels and stood still for a moment, checking whether she really needed to do this. If she took one more step—there was no going back.
She walked up the drive to the terraced house, past the gleaming white BMW parked at an angle. At the dark red door, Pip’s fingers passed over the doorbell, balling into a fist to knock on the wood. The doorbell wasn’t allowed; it made too much noise and the neighbors might notice.
Pip knocked again until she could see his outline in the frosted glass, growing taller and taller. The sound of the sliding bolt and then the door opening inward, Luke Eaton’s face in the crack. In the darkness, the tattoos climbing up his neck and the side of his face looked like his skin had come apart, strips of flesh rebuilding to form a net.
He pulled the door just wide enough for her to fit through.
“Come on, quickly,” he said gruffly, turning to walk down the hall. “Got someone coming over soon.”
Pip closed the front door behind her and followed Luke around the bend into the small, square kitchen. Luke was wearing the exact same pair of dark basketball shorts he’d been wearing the first time Pip met him, when she’d come here to talk to Nat da Silva about the missing Jamie Reynolds. Thank god Nat had gotten away from Luke; the house was empty now, just the two of them.
Luke bent down to open one of the kitchen cabinets. “Thought you said last time was it. That you wouldn’t be back again.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” Pip replied flatly, picking at her fingernails. “I just need to sleep. That’s all.”
Luke rustled around in the cupboard, coming back up with a paper bag clenched in his fist. He opened the top and held it out so Pip could see inside.
“They’re two-milligram pills this time,” Luke said, shaking the bag. “That’s why there aren’t as many.”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Pip said, glancing up at Luke. She wished she hadn’t. She always found herself studying the geography of his face, searching for the ways he was similar to Stanley Forbes. Both of them had been Charlie Green’s final suspects for Child Brunswick, narrowed down from all the men in Fairview. But Luke had been a wrong turn, the wrong man, and lucky for him because he was still alive. Pip had never seen his blood, never worn it the way she’d worn Stanley’s. It was on her hands now, the feel of cracking ribs below the pads of her fingers. Dripping onto the linoleum floor.
No, it was just sweat, just a tremor in her hands.
Pip gave her hands something to do to distract them. She reached into the waistband of her leggings and pulled out the cash, flicking through the notes in front of Luke until he nodded. She passed the money over and then held out her other hand. The paper bag went into it, crinkling under her grip.
Luke nodded again, but then he stalled, a new look in his eyes. One that seemed dangerously close to pity. “You know,” he said, doubling back to the cupboard, returning with a small, clear baggie. “If you’re struggling, I have something stronger than Xanax. Will completely knock you out.” He held up the baggie and shook it; it was filled with oblong tablets of a light mossy-green hue.
Pip stared at them, bit her lip. “Stronger?” she asked.
“Definitely.”
“Wh-what is it?” she asked, her eyes transfixed.
“This”—Luke gave it another shake—“is Rohypnol. Stuff puts you right out.”
Pip’s gut tightened. “No thanks.” She dropped her eyes. “I’ve had experience.” By which she meant she’d had it pumped out of her stomach when Becca Bell had slipped it into her drink nine months ago. Pills that Becca’s sister, Andie, had been selling to Max Hastings before she died.
“Suit yourself,” he said, pocketing the small bag. “Offer’s there if you want it. More expensive, though. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” she parroted him, her mind elsewhere.
She turned to the door to see herself out. Luke Eaton didn’t do goodbyes, or hellos for that matter. Maybe she should turn back, though; maybe she should tell him that actually this was the last time and he’d never see her again. How else would she stick to it? But then her mind came back to her with a new thought and she followed it, spinning on her heels to return to the kitchen, and something else came out of her mouth instead.
“Luke,” she said, sharper than she’d meant. “Those pills—the Rohypnol—are you selling them to someone in town? Does someone here buy them from you?”
He blinked at her.
“Is it Max Hastings? Does he buy those from you? He’s tall, longish blond hair, well-spoken. Is it him? Is he the one buying those pills from you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Is it Max?” Pip said, the urgency cracking her voice.
Luke’s eyes hardened, the pity a thing of the past. “You know the rules by now. I don’t answer questions. I don’t ask ’em and I don’t answer ’em.” There was the slightest smirk on his face. “Rules apply to you too. I know you think you’re special, but you’re not. See you next time.”
Pip crushed the bag in her hand as she walked out of the house. She thought to slam the door behind her, a flash of rage beneath her skin, but then thought better of it. Her heart beat even faster now, battering against her chest, filling her head with the sound of cracking ribs. And those dead eyes, they were hiding just over there in the shadows from the streetlamps. If Pip blinked, they’d be waiting for her in the darkness there too.
Was Max the one buying those pills from Luke? He used to buy them from Andie Bell, who got them from Howie Bowers. But Luke had always been the one supplying Howie, and he was all that was left, the two lower links in the chain now gone. If Max was still buying, it would have to be from Luke; that made the most sense. Were he and Pip almost crossing paths at Luke’s front door like they did on their runs? Was he still slipping pills into the drinks of women? Was he still ruining lives, like he had done to Nat da Silva and Becca Bell? The thought made her stomach churn, and oh god, she was going to be sick, right here in the middle of the road.
She doubled over and tried to breathe through it, the bag rattl
ing in her shaking hands. It couldn’t wait any longer. She stumbled to the other side of the road, under the covering of the trees. She reached inside the paper bag for one of the see-through baggies, struggling to unfasten it because her fingers were coated in blood.
Sweat. Just sweat.
She pulled out one of the long white pills, different from the kind she’d taken before. Scored into one side were three lines and the word “Xanax,” and on the other a 2. At least it wasn’t fake, then, or cut with anything else. A dog barked from somewhere close by. Hurry up. Pip snapped the pill along the center line and pushed the half through her lips. Her mouth had already filled with saliva and she swallowed it dry.
She tucked the bag under her arm just as a dog walker and small white terrier came around the corner. It was Gail Yardley, who lived down her road.
“Ah, Pip,” she said, her shoulders relaxing. “You surprised me.” She looked her up and down. “I swear I just saw you outside your house, coming back from one of your runs. Mind playing tricks on me, I guess.”
“Happens to the best of us,” Pip said, rearranging her face.
“Yes, well.” Gail laughed awkwardly through her nose. “I won’t keep you.” She walked away, the dog stopping to sniff Pip’s sneakers before the leash grew taut, and it shuffled off after her.
Pip rounded the same corner Gail had come from, her throat sore from where the pill had scratched on its way down. And now the other feeling: guilt. She couldn’t believe she’d done this again. Last time, she told herself as she walked toward home. Last time, and then you’re done.
At least she’d get some sleep tonight. It should come on soon, the unnatural calmness, like a warm shield across her thinning skin, and the relief when the muscles in her jaw finally unclenched. Yes, she would sleep tonight—she had to.
The doctor had put her on a course of Valium, back after it first happened. The first time she saw death and held it in her hands. But it wasn’t long before he took her off, even when she’d begged him. She could still recite what he’d said, word for word:
You need to come up with your own strategies to cope with the trauma and stress. This medication will only make it harder to recover from the PTSD in the long-term. You don’t need it, Pippa, you can do this.
How wrong he’d been. She did need the pills, needed them as much as she needed sleep. This was her strategy. And at the same time, she knew. She knew he was right, and she was making everything worse.
The most effective treatment is talk therapy, so we’re going to continue your weekly sessions.
She’d tried, she really had. And after seven sessions she’d told everyone she was feeling much better, really. She was fine. A lie practiced well enough now that people believed her, even Ravi. She thought if she had to go to one more session, she might just die. How could she talk about it? It was an impossible thing that escaped language or sense.
On one hand, she could tell you, from the very bottom of her heart, that she didn’t believe Stanley Forbes had deserved to die. That he deserved life and she had done all she could to bring him back. It wasn’t unforgivable, what he’d done as a child, what he’d been made to do. He was learning, trying every day, to be a better man. Pip believed this with every part of her being. That and the terrible guilt that she’d been the one to lead his killer to him, luring Stanley out to that abandoned farmhouse after learning he was Child Brunswick.
Yet, at the same time, she believed in the very opposite thing. And this one came from somewhere even deeper. Her soul, maybe, if she’d believed in those sorts of things. Though he had been a child, Stanley was the reason Charlie Green’s sister had been murdered. Pip had asked herself: If someone picked out her little brother and delivered him to a killer, to die the most horrific death imaginable, would she spend two decades chasing justice, hunting them down to kill them? The answer was yes. She knew she would, without hesitation; she would kill the person who took Josh away, no matter how long it took. Charlie had been right: they were the same. There was an understanding between them, this…this sameness.
That’s why she couldn’t talk about it, not to a professional, not to anyone. Because it was impossible, incompatible. It had torn her in two and there was no way to stitch those parts back together. It was untenable. Beyond sense. No one could understand, except…maybe him. She hesitated at her driveway, looking to the house just beyond it.
Charlie Green. That’s why she needed him to be found, not caught. He’d helped her once before, opened her eyes about right and wrong and who decided what those words meant. Maybe…maybe if she could talk to him, he’d understand. He was the only one who could. He must have found a way to live with what he’d done, and maybe he could show Pip how to live with it too. Show her a way to fix everything, how to put herself back together again. But Pip was of two minds about this as well; it made perfect sense and it made none.
A rustle in the trees across the road from her house.
Pip’s breath caught in her throat as she whipped around and stared, trying to shape the darkness into a person, the wind into a voice. Was there someone there, hiding in the trees, watching her? Following her? Tree trunks or legs? Charlie? Was it him?
She strained her eyes, trying to draw out individual leaves and their skeletal branches.
No, there couldn’t be anyone there. Don’t be stupid. It was just another of those things that lived in her head now. Scared of everything. Angry at everything. It wasn’t real and she needed to learn the difference again. Sweat on her hands, not blood. She walked up to her house, glancing back only once. The pill will take it away soon, she told herself. Along with everything else.
HOME > REAL-CRIME > CRIME-SCENE-INVESTIGATION > ESTIMATING-TIME-OF-DEATH
How do pathologists determine time of death in a homicide case?
The most important thing to note is that time of death can only ever be an estimated range; a pathologist cannot give a specific time of death, as we sometimes see in movies and TV shows. There are three main mortis factors used to determine the estimated time of death, and some of these tests are performed at the crime scene itself, as soon as possible after the victim is found. As a general rule, the sooner a victim is found postmortem, the more accurate the time-of-death estimate.[1]
1. Rigor Mortis
Immediately after death, all the muscles in the body relax. Then, typically around two hours postmortem, the body starts to stiffen due to a buildup of acid in the muscle tissues.[2] This is rigor mortis. It begins in the muscles in the jaw and neck, proceeding downward to the body and the extremities. Rigor mortis is normally complete within six to twelve hours, and then starts to disappear approximately fifteen to thirty-six hours after death.[3] As this stiffening process has a roughly known time of occurrence, it can be very useful in estimating time of death. However, there are a few factors that can impact the onset and timeline of rigor, such as temperature. Warm temperatures will increase the rate of rigor, whereas cold temperatures will slow it down.[4]
2. Livor Mortis
Also known as “lividity,” livor mortis is the settling of the blood inside the body due to gravity and the loss of blood pressure.[5] The skin will become discolored with a red-purple tinge where the blood has pooled internally.[6] Livor mortis starts to develop two to four hours after death, becomes nonfixed up to eight to twelve hours after death, and fixed after eight to twelve hours from the time of death.[7] “Nonfixed” refers to whether the skin is blanchable: this means that—when lividity is present—if the skin is pressed, the color will disappear, a bit like when you press your own skin now.[8] But this process can be affected by factors such as temperature and changing body position.
3. Algor Mortis
Algor mortis refers to the temperature of a body. After death, the body starts to cool until it reaches equilibrium with the ambient temperature (wherever the body is discovered).[9] Typically, the body will
lose about 1.5° F per hour, until it reaches the environmental temperature.[10] At the crime scene—in addition to making observations about the rate of rigor and lividity—a medical examiner will also likely take the body’s internal temperature and that of the environment, in order to calculate approximately when the victim was killed.[11]
Although these processes cannot tell us the exact minute a person died, they are the main factors a pathologist uses when estimating a range for the time of death.
Death stared back at her. Real death, not the clean, idealized version of it. The purpling, pockmarked skin of a corpse, and the eerie, forever-whitened imprint of a too-tight belt they must have worn as they died. It was almost funny, in a way, Pip thought as she scrolled down the page on her laptop. Funny in the way that if you thought about it too long, you’d go mad. We all end up like this eventually, like these postmortem images on a badly formatted webpage about body decomposition and time of death.
Her arm was resting on her notebook, steadily filling up with her scribbles. Underlines here and highlighted parts there. And now she added another sentence below, glancing up at the screen as she wrote: If the body feels warm and stiff, death occurred three to eight hours prior.
“Are those dead bodies?!”
The voice pierced through the cushion of her noise-canceling headphones; she hadn’t heard anyone come in. Pip flinched, her heart jumping to her throat. She dropped her headphones to her neck and sound came rushing back in, a familiar sigh behind her. These headphones blocked almost everything out, that’s why Josh kept stealing them to play FIFA, so he could “noise-cancel Mom.” Pip lurched forward to switch to another tab. But, actually, none of them was any better.