They needed to dig up the Webb investigation. Could it be that the same person who had killed Webb had come for Palmer? But then what motive could have bridged the stretch of time? Could the only thing that had kept Palmer alive been the fact he was behind bars?
“Did they ever solve the case?” she asked.
“I dunno.” Blair hitched her shoulders. “I probably should have followed through, but then the next case comes up, and the next…”
She was dying to know if there’d been any leads, namely suspects, but she could dig into that back at the station. “What else do you remember?”
“The place—the vic’s house—was an absolute disaster, and not just because of the blood. It had been tossed, no doubt of it.”
Judges liked to pick apart the word “tossed,” saying that without knowing the state of a place before the crime, it was impossible to conclude, but the word was still widely used outside of the courtroom.
Blair continued. “Drawers and cupboards were emptied out onto counters and the floor. Cushions and pillows were shredded, most likely with a knife.”
“What was the cause of death?” Trent asked.
“Gunshot to the head—and between us, I’d say the bullet would have been welcome by the time it came.”
“What’s it looking like, Rideout?” Amanda asked him.
“It’s too early to say, but normally when I see this, it’s accidental not homicide. Suicide’s also very unlikely.”
“Cause of death being?” Amanda moved closer to the bed.
“Death by aspiration.”
Could that be all they were looking at here? For some reason, that possibility made her feel gypped. The case would be closed before it really began.
Rideout lifted one of Palmer’s eyelids. “As you can see, petechiae and hemorrhaging in his eyes.” Rideout pulled down on Palmer’s bottom lip. “Petechiae’s also in his gum tissue.”
Just like with his eyes, little red dots marred the pink flesh, which she’d learned years ago was an indication of being starved of oxygen.
“He choked on his vomit,” she concluded.
“Yes, and my guess would be due to ethanol poisoning.”
“Ethanol poisoning?” Trent said.
“Layman’s terms, alcohol overdose. It would have hindered the area of the brain that controls life-support functions such as breathing, heart rate, and temperature control.” Rideout stopped there and looked down at Palmer. “It is strange that he’s on top of the comforter.”
“Strange, why?” Amanda pressed.
“As I was just saying, his temperature would have been affected. He would have been very cold.”
“So what are you saying? Someone set this up to look like he drank himself to death?” She could be reading too much into Rideout’s words about the bedding, but she was a homicide detective and wired to rule out murder first.
“Never said that. He could have just been too drunk to bother getting under the comforter. I’m not ready to conclude the manner of death just yet.” Rideout paused and chewed his bottom lip. “What does bother me, though, are the two perfectly empty bottles of whiskey.”
The skin tightened on the back of Amanda’s neck. “Why?”
“If he overdrank himself, it would make more sense to me that there’d still be some booze left in one of the bottles. But they’re both completely empty. There’s also no sign of spillage on the bedding or in the room.”
Rideout stood back, stared at Palmer, then eventually shook his head and looked at Amanda. “Just let me get him back to the morgue before I make any calls on manner of death. But you should know that if someone did force-feed him alcohol with intent to kill him, it’s quite an iffy murder, and the person would have had to stay around for hours, not a matter of minutes.”
“Yet no one saw anything,” she lamented. “Nothing useful anyhow.”
“I wish I had something more conclusive, but until I get him on my table…”
“When do you figure that will be?”
“I’ll keep you posted, but I suspect today for sure.”
Amanda nodded. Though she’d heard what Rideout had said about this cause of death often being accidental, she couldn’t dismiss the empty bottles and the murdered business partner. Webb had been tortured, and if Palmer had been murdered, as Rideout had noted, it would have required his killer stay around for hours. That would have been nothing short of torture. Did that mean Webb’s killer was back or was she seeing ghosts where there were none? But there was the as-of-yet unexplained gash on Palmer’s forehead. She pointed it out to Rideout and said, “Are there any defensive wounds?”
“Not that I’ve seen so far, but you can trust I’ll do my diligence. Scrape under his nails and—”
She held up a hand to him, not needing the entire rundown. “I trust you. How’s it looking for time of death?”
“Based on several factors, I’d estimate any time between six and eleven last night.”
“You… ah… sure?” She rubbed her throat.
“I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t. You’re looking pale, Detective; are you all right?” Rideout took a step toward her.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” was what she said but she was far from it. During the time-of-death window, she’d picked up Motel Guy and climbed into bed with him at the Dreamcatcher Inn. Sergeant Malone had made it clear he required her alibi if she was to stand any chance of working the case at all.
She checked the time on her cell phone. It was just after two AM. “I’ve gotta go.” She snapped off her gloves and brushed past Trent. “There’s something I need to do,” she told him.
He moved to go with her.
She stopped walking and spun. “It’s personal.” When Trent didn’t say anything for a few beats, she considered the scenario. Securing an alibi meant by its very nature it would become known, but she’d get it lined up first, then deal with that.
“It’s far too early to start knocking on more doors, but we can’t just sit on our asses either. I need you to go back to the station and find out everything you can on Jackson Webb’s murder and see if there’s any reason to suspect Palmer’s death is connected.”
“You think they are?”
“Don’t know. That’s why I want you to do a little digging. We cover all the angles with a suspicious death. We rule out murder first.”
Trent flushed, glanced down, then nodded.
“Also, look for next of kin.”
When Trent didn’t move, she said, “What are you waiting for?”
“You going to be all right?”
“Don’t ever worry about me,” she shoved out and hustled to her car. She just hoped Motel Guy was still languishing in the afterglow.
Seven
Amanda pulled around Dreamcatcher Inn to where room eight was nestled. No sign of Motel Guy’s Dodge Ram, but she got out and banged on the room door anyway.
“I just need a freaking break,” she called out to the night.
No answer from the room or a greater being—not that she was certain one even existed.