Beneath Blackwater River by Leslie Wolfe (love story books to read txt) 📕

to a wall-mounted screen displaying the county logo. On the other side of the wall, a camera was trained on Alyssa’s face, feeding into that screen, ready to be turned on. The ME had rolled the girl’s body on a table and set it for family viewing, shrouded in a crisp white sheet pulled all the way up to her chin, covering almost entirely the deep, discolored laceration that had ended her life. It was one thing for a parent to know his daughter had been killed, her throat slashed, and entirely another to actually see it. The image of that would haunt Bill Caldwell’s nightmares for years to come, tainting every memory he had of his daughter, his shocked psyche unable to hold on to the good memories and eradicate the single one that would forever burn in his mind.

She knocked on the door frame and the screen came to life, exposing Alyssa’s head for viewing.

Kay watched Caldwell’s response, careful to catch any glimpse of a reaction that could tell her something, anything, about the DNA mix-up or about his involvement in her death. But he was just staring at the image, his fists clenched hard, his knuckles crackling, knotted muscles dancing along his jawline.

“I want to see my daughter,” he urged, “not like this. I want to touch her, to hold her hand.”

Unsure how to proceed, Kay looked up at the monitor, fitted with a camera and microphone that recorded the formal identification. Doc Whitmore had obviously heard Caldwell’s request, because he opened the autopsy room door, inviting him in.

Bill Caldwell walked into the room holding his head up high and his fists clenched, close to his body, as if he were getting ready to fight an unseen assailant. He approached the table where his daughter lay and stared at her face, his eyes dry, his mouth a thin, tense line. Then he grabbed the sheet and peeled it off with a quick gesture, exposing her upper body entirely. He didn’t flinch when he saw her wound, nor did he touch her skin or caress her face to say goodbye. His expression carved in stone, he turned to Dr. Whitmore and asked, “This is my daughter, Alyssa. Is this what you need me to say?”

Dr. Whitmore nodded, jotting the time of the formal identification on a form, then handed him the clipboard to sign. He took it and signed with a violence that nearly tore the paper under the tip of his pen. “There,” he said, holding the clipboard in the air, expecting someone to take it from him.

Kay stepped up and took it with a nod. “Are you positively sure?” She saw the glint of rage in his eyes and quickly offered an explanation. “If you recall, there was an issue with a missing girl’s DNA—”

“You people drive me insane! Here,” he shouted, snatching a few strands of hair from his head and dropping them on the white sheet that still covered part of the girl’s body. “Test these, and you’ll have your damn proof. She was my daughter, you clueless, worthless schmucks.”

Dr. Whitmore grabbed an evidence pouch and tweezers, quickly collecting the strands from the sheet.

“Could we trouble you for some DNA from your wife?” Kay asked, unperturbed. If he was playing it hard, so could she. DNA from both parents would’ve helped immensely to clear the shroud of confusion surrounding Rose Harrelson’s DNA on record.

Caldwell turned to her and stared her down, his pupils dilated, his face scrunched with rage. “You’ll come nowhere near my dying wife. You hear me?”

“But, sir, considering—”

“I don’t want to hear it!” he bellowed, cutting Kay off. “I haven’t even told her Alyssa is dead; it would kill her on the spot. Your pathetic efforts to clear the aftermath of your incompetence are of no concern to me, and they’re not worth my wife’s life!”

His face was close to Kay’s, his breath burning her skin, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t step back a single inch. She held his gaze, unyielding, while at the same time she had to admit his reaction was understandable. Anyone in Caldwell’s place would’ve probably reacted the same way, given the circumstances.

He was the first to look away, even if for a brief moment. “Do you honestly think I don’t know who my daughter’s mother is? Check hospital records, for crying out loud. Do your job, Detective; investigate.”

He turned to leave, but Kay got in his way. “I have another question, if I may?”

He grunted, but she nodded and whispered, “Thank you,” while she turned and picked up an evidence pouch from the table and showed it to him. “Your daughter was wearing this locket when she died.”

“And?” he asked, barely glancing at the necklace.

“It’s a simple piece of wood on a silver chain, something a child would wear,” she said, giving him a moment, but he remained silent, frowning, seemingly confused. “Something a poor child would wear, not someone like your daughter.”

“Ah,” he reacted, putting his hands in his pockets. “Her, um, mother made that for her when she was little. That’s why she wore it.”

There was a hint of hesitation in his voice as he said the words, and Kay wondered why that could be. What could he be hiding? Was it not her mother who had made the locket? It seemed inconsequential to Kay, but if he’d deemed the lie necessary, maybe there was something worth exploring. Something that would, potentially, turn into a lead.

“If there isn’t anything else,” he said, turning to leave, but Kay touched his elbow with her fingers. He froze in place and glared at her again. “What now, Detective? I’ve already told you this is my daughter lying there on that slab. I already told you who did it. What else could you possibly want?”

Jumping at the morsel he’d just thrown her, she said, “Why is it that you suspected your sister or her son of killing your daughter?”

“There’s no past tense in my suspicion,” he replied coldly,