Julie snorted. “Not true. I just prefer dead people. They don’t lie.”
Lucy didn’t know Julie’s story, but she was about forty years of age, dressed down almost to the point of being sloppy, wore no makeup, and had a barking laugh. She’d also graduated from the prestigious university Texas A&M with a degree in biology and a minor in chemistry. She was a well-respected forensic pathologist.
Lucy asked, “Is the body still inside?”
Julie nodded. “Waiting on the crime scene techs. I swear, they’re a bunch of prima donnas now that they have a gazillion television shows about them. Think they run the world. Well, that body’s gonna start stinking to high hell as soon as the sun comes up, so they’d better get a move on.” She glared at Garcia.
“I’ll make another call.” He stepped over to one of the patrol cars and picked up the radio.
“Is Agent Crawford here?”
Julie scowled. “Perfect Hair? Not yet.”
Lucy barely refrained from laughing. The moniker fit Crawford.
“Wanna see the body? He was caught with his pants down, literally. That’s why I love the dead. They have no secrets.”
She did want to see the room, because crime scenes were her specialty. But she’d been on thin ice for two months, and Barry was the lead agent. “I should wait for Barry.”
Julie shrugged.
Garcia came over and said, “Five minutes out, they said.”
“They mean fifteen,” Julia countered. She looked at her watch. “It’s quarter after five. They’d better get their asses here or I’m going to chew them a new one. I want the body on my table this morning—and considering who he is, he’ll go to the front of the line. If there’s anything wonky here, I’ll find it.”
That perked up Lucy’s ears. “Wonky? Prelim said heart attack.”
“Right, and patrol cops can tell that just by looking at a corpse. I did an external exam when I got here and sure, it has all the signs of a guy getting his rocks sucked off until his heart gives out, but…” She motioned for Lucy to follow her.
Lucy hesitated, glancing around for Barry, but he hadn’t yet arrived. Her curiosity won out and she followed Julie. Yellow tape sealed off room 115, but the door was open.
Worthington was flat on his back on top of the stained brown bedspread. His pants and boxers were around his ankles. His shoes were on his feet. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned and he wore an undershirt. The man was lean and looked like he exercised regularly.
On the dresser was a half-empty bottle of cheap vodka and two plastic cups. Lucy breathed deeply. The room smelled dirty, and there was a sharp liquor aroma as well as the stench of urine. He may have thrown up, though she didn’t see any evidence of it from the doorway. His wallet was on the lone nightstand.
“Are you tired, or what?” Julie asked. “You look like you’ve been up all night.”
“Just didn’t get enough sleep.”
Julie nodded in commiseration, but said, “Look again—you’ll see it.”
Lucy looked again, taking in first the big picture, then the smaller details. “Okay—it looks too neat. A sudden heart attack isn’t instantaneous. He would have bunched up the comforter, tried to get up, maybe knocked over the lamp. Collapsed on the floor, across the bed, not laid out on his back. Called for help, maybe. But if he didn’t know he was having an attack, which is possible, he may not have reacted, especially if he was drunk or on drugs. It would be a massive coronary event, though, and the prostitute would certainly have known something was wrong.”
“True—too scared to report but not too scared to empty his wallet?”
Lucy didn’t comment. She’d worked enough cases with prostitutes to know that their psychology could be complex. The girl was more scared of her pimp than the police.
“Okay, I’m giving you a rough time because you really can’t tell unless we inspect the body up close and personal, like I did a frickin’ hour ago when I got here,” Julie said, looking over her shoulder and muttering about entitled nerds. She pointed to Worthington’s pants around his ankles. “The deceased peed in his boxers when he croaked. Bladder totally released.”
“Which would suggest that he was wearing them when he died.”
“Suggest?” Julie laughed. “Cops. All about alleged this and possible that. He was wearing them. And his pants, which are also soaked with urine.”
“Not sperm?”
“I know the difference between sperm and urine, Kincaid.” Julie rolled her eyes. “Of course I’ll test to make sure, but I’m not usually wrong.” She shrugged. “Maybe there’s nothing to it. Maybe the girl didn’t realize he was having a heart attack and thought he was just excited to screw her. But I think that a rich guy like Worthington would have found a better place to screw a whore, ya know?”
“It’s about power. Secrets. Discretion.”