Cause of Death Read online

  The man’s back was to the photographer, but Beckett could clearly see that he was wearing dark jeans with a soiled spot between the two rear pockets. He was also sporting a clean white t-shirt and a pair of worn Converse sneakers, the laces untied.

  “This is… impossible,” he muttered, blinking rapidly, wondering if he was still somehow hungover, or if the Ayahuasca he had indulged in a couple of months back in Montreal was finally coming back to haunt him.

  “What? What is it?” Suzan asked.

  Beckett swallowed hard.

  “I just… I just saw this man, hanging from the ceiling,” he gasped. “This is Eddie Larringer.

  Chapter 15

  Drake fumbled to open the door to his apartment, while at the same time holding the back of the woman’s head, their lips pressed together in a sloppy, drunken kiss.

  He cursed when he dropped his keys. Peeling her off him, he bent to grab them. As he did, the woman thrust her hips forward seductively, moving her crotch, hidden behind her black satin dress, in his direction. Drake slid up her body, pressing his jeans against her, watching as her chin rose, a soft moan escaping her mouth. He kissed the corner of her jaw, then finally managed to open his door. He thrust it open, and then wrapped his arms around her thin waist, and picked her up and entered his apartment.

  He used the heel of his shoe to slam the door closed behind them.

  Then Drake started kissing her again, breathing in her scent, the lingering aftertaste of his own whiskey-laden breath mixed with the sweetness of the Prosecco that she had been drinking.

  They barely made it to the couch. Drake had lifted the woman’s dress over her head and was now kissing her on the neck, shoulders, every pale, perfect patch of skin that he could find. She was wearing a sexy black bra and lace panties beneath her dress, and in only a few seconds, he had removed those as well.

  And then he too was naked. Drake lowered the woman onto the couch, the couch that he had spent many nights on alone, and then resumed kissing her, stroking her, and finally, entering her.

  She gasped loudly and her hand flew out, knocking into the coffee table. Drake heard the sound of something falling off the table but paid it no heed.

  It didn’t last long. It was good, but it had been a while since Drake had been with a woman and it showed. And yet, she seemed satisfied. Breathing heavily, Drake pulled himself off of her and sat up, lifting his boxers to his waist.

  The woman started to trace lines on his bare back.

  “Mind if I smoke?” she asked gently.

  Drake said he didn’t mind, and then, at the last moment, added, “have one for me?”

  He hadn’t smoked for nearly as long as it had been since he had laid with a woman, but when she handed him a Belmont and he took his first drag, it was as if he had never quit. As he smoked he poured a drink from the bottle of Johnny Red, offering her one first.

  She was pretty, with small, girlish features, and blond hair that feathered about her head. But it was her body that had first attracted him to her, from the very second he had stepped into Barney’s.

  Lithe, muscular, and pretty near perfect.

  The only problem was, he couldn’t remember her name.

  She, on the other hand, remembered his well.

  “Drake,” she said absently as she took a drag of her cigarette. The smoke mixed with the glow from the burning cherry and gave her pretty face an almost ethereal appearance. “Like the rapper.”

  Drake nodded. This wasn’t the first time he had heard this; in fact, Screech had gotten into the habit of calling him this exact thing-Drake the rapper—on several occasions.

  “Yeah, but I’m the original,” Drake said with a smirk. He took a sip of his drink, then took a drag of his cigarette.

  He noticed the red light on his cell phone blinking and knew, thanks to Screech’s tutelage, that he had a message waiting. Drake reached over and picked it up, swiping the bottom and punching in his code to unlock it.

  He was wrong; there wasn’t a message waiting—there were a half dozen, and they all came from the same number.

  From Beckett.

  Drake stared at the phone for several seconds.

  “Everything all right, Drake?”

  Drake scrolled to the text message section and read the first few messages.

  Drake, need your help.

  Drake, answer your damn phone.

  Something fucked up is going on, need your advice.

  You a fucking detective or what?

  Drake?

  DRAKE???

  Without thinking, he clicked the button at the bottom, making the screen go dark.

  Not my problem anymore, he thought, then turned back to the beautiful, naked woman on his couch, a smile on his face.

  He gently teased the cigarette from between her fingers, watching her brow furrow in confusion. Then he dropped his own cigarette along with hers into his half-empty glass of scotch, extinguishing them both with a loud hiss.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he said as he leaned close to her again. “Nothing, except I think I should improve on my previous performance.”

  Drake pressed his lips against hers, relishing her surprise. When his fingers traced a line up the inside of her smooth thigh, her eyes slowly began to close and her breathing became ragged.

  I’m done with that life—this is my life now.

  He cupped her breast with his other hand.

  And I think I’m going to like it.

  Part II – Accidental

  Chapter 16

  Chase Adams rubbed her eyes and watched as the scuba driver’s head broke the surface of the water. He raised a thumb, and Chase felt a scowl form on her face.

  “Get the lights up over there,” she instructed a uniformed officer. The man nodded and started rearranging one of the large gray light fixtures.

  Eventually, another diver appeared beside the first, and he too held up a thumb. This time they were awash in harsh light that reflected off the otherwise serene body of water.

  “Bring the body up, then,” Chase said to anyone who would listen. “Bring it up and lay it on the shore.”

  Then she shook her head and swore under her breath.

  It was going to be a long night, meaning that she wouldn’t see her husband or son going on six nights in a row now.

  Chapter 17

  Beckett looked over at Suzan, who was combing through the stacks of files on his desk, looking for the folder of images containing what he had initially thought were for the forensic pathology final.

  “Nothin’?” he asked.

  Suzan looked up at him with tired eyes.

  “No, can’t find any photographs at all.”

  Beckett breathed deeply and closed his eyes. When Eddie’s face floated across his vision, they snapped open again.

  “Why don’t you go home, Suze? Get some rest. Do you have class in the morning?”

  “Yes, but not until ten. It’s not even midnight yet, I can look a while longer.”

  Beckett considered this for a moment, then decided against it. If she hadn’t found the folder now, then she wasn’t going to find it at all.

  It wasn’t here—someone had come in and taken it.

  But who? And why?

  And why the fuck won’t you answer your phone, Drake?

  “It’s not here,” he said flatly. “But if you want to stick around, then I could probably use your help. You good at searching for things on the Internet?”

  Suzan made a face.

  “Of course—but that depends on what I’m looking for, I suppose.”

  Beckett chewed his lip. He wasn’t even completely sure himself, and he was beginning to feel that maybe he had just imagined the comparisons between Eddie’s hanged body and the image from the test. He had recused himself from the case and had sent one of the junior MEs to finish the report on Eddie and to bring the body back and look for trace, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t check in later to make sure.

  In fact
, it would be irresponsible for him, as the acting Senior ME, not to review the results.

  It could have been a coincidence, he decided. After all, how many suicides took place in NYC year on year? Two hundred? Three hundred? And how old were the images from the test? They weren’t his images, but he thought he could remember seeing them when he had taken the forensic pathology final exam himself more than a decade ago.

  So, it was possible… and yet, what were the odds of it happening to a young doctor about to take this very test? And if it wasn’t a coincidence, what did it mean?

  Did Eddie commit suicide in a way that mimicked the test itself? A way of punishing Beckett as a final, ironic goodbye? But if so, how did he obtain the images?

  Beckett cleared his throat and decided to let Suzan in on what he had seen.

  “Here’s the thing, Suze. I just went to a crime scene, and one of my students apparently committed suicide,” he pointed to the image of the man hanging on the screen. “It looks nearly exactly like this. I mean, almost exactly. Same shoes, same one tile missing. Same rope, same clothes.”

  He let this sink in for a moment. Beckett wasn’t sure what he expected in terms of a response, but it wasn’t this: just a blank stare.

  “Okay,” he continued, trying to stir up some emotion. “But there’s something else. You know the positional asphyxia case?”

  Suzan indicated that she did.

  “Well someone put a folder of images on my desk a few days ago. The first image was of that scene, only it was just a little different. The sweater wasn’t quite right.”

  Suzan leaned away from the computer, fingers poised above the keys.

  “Were there other images in the folder?” she asked.

  Beckett thought about this for a moment, before nodding.

  “Yes, I think there was a stack of them. But I only looked at the first. I thought it was just a copy of the images from the test, something that a colleague had left on my desk, and shoved it in the drawer. I didn’t even look at them all.”

  Suzan nodded and turned back to the computer. As she typed away, she said, “So you think that someone is murdering people and staging their deaths to look like accidents? Like the suicides in the test?”

  Beckett smirked; despite everything, he couldn’t help it.

  That was exactly what he was thinking, only he hadn’t been so bold as to say it out loud.

  But he wasn’t about to let her get off that easily.

  “Maybe,” he muttered. “Maybe.”

  Suzan continued to pound away at the keyboard and brought up a block of text. Her lips moved slightly as she read it to herself, then paraphrased for Beckett.

  “You’re the fifth professor of the course, since it was officially renamed forensic pathology about thirty years ago,” she stated matter-of-factly. “The course website doesn’t give me much information about the exams, only that there will be a practical and written component. I think—wait a sec,” Suzan suddenly leaned forward. She clicked on a link and the screen suddenly opened to a PowerPoint presentation. She clicked through several pages of notes, then the image of the man who had died from positional asphyxia flashed onscreen.

  Beckett leaned in close.

  “That’s it. That’s the image from the test.”

  “Yep. This is… uh, Dr. Tracey Moorfield’s class notes. Apparently, she posted her notes online for students to look over at home.”

  She scrolled through several more images and notes, before stopping at the image of the man hanging from the ceiling.

  Beckett cringed at the sight.

  “So, this available online, to everyone?”

  Suzan shook her head.

  “No. Only to NYU students and staff. And look here—” she clicked again, and an error message came on screen, —”can’t even download or create a screenshot.”

  Beckett stood straight and stretched his back.

  “Thank you—at least that’s something to go on. Now go home, Suze. Go to class tomorrow morning, and I’ll see you in the afternoon. Around the same time?”

  Suzan’s eyes narrowed.

  “Where are you going?”

  Beckett broke into a smile.

  “I’m going to see if I can’t find Dr. Moorfield, ask her a few questions.”

  “Now? It’s almost midnight.”

  Beckett winked at the girl.

  “If she’s still a professor, then she’ll still be here. Trust me, I’ll find her.”

  And then I’m going to find out where the hell Drake is, he almost said, but bit his tongue at the last moment.

  Chapter 18

  “Anyone heard from the ME yet? Is Beckett on his way?” Chase asked, staring down at the body. She pegged the deceased’s age at anywhere between twenty and thirty years, although she had been submerged for so long that it was difficult to tell for certain.

  The victim had black hair that clung to her scalp, and her gums were pulled back, revealing stark white teeth in a sadistic grin. She was still wearing her clothes—a leather jacket and matching pants—but the former was open, revealing a black swimsuit top, and the bottoms were pulled down, revealing a matching swimsuit bottom.

  Her hands were probably the worst: the skin was wrinkled and had turned a pale, ghostly white. As soon as the scuba divers had pulled her out of the pond and had laid her on the reflective blanket for specimen and evidence collection, foam started to bubble at the corners of her mouth. Now, a three-inch-high froth extended from the orifice like some sort of horrific experiment.

  Chase grimaced.

  “Anyone?” she asked again.

  A uniformed officer appeared at her side.

  “I’ve tried calling the ME, but I’m not getting an answer. Want me to keep trying?”

  Chase nodded.

  “Try to reach anyone at the ME’s office. I’ll try Beckett directly. Nobody touch the body until I say so, got it?”

  The half dozen people milling around the pond, passing in and out of the bright lights they had erected, grumbled agreement and then continued about their business.

  Whatever the hell that was.

  Chase took her cell phone out of her pocket and turned her back to the others. She scrolled through her list of contacts, noting with a pang of guilt that Drake’s name was on the same screen as Beckett’s.

  I should reach out to him. After all, he saved my life.

  Things had ended amicably enough between them, and although no one had told her directly, Chase suspected that Drake had fallen on the sword—her sword—for the mistakes they had made during their chase for the Butterfly Killer.

  Triple D Investigations, she thought, remembering the name of the PI firm that she had found when Googling his name.

  I should call him, go have drinks.

  Then she remembered Drake’s breath reeking of whiskey, of him hovering over Dr. Mark Kruk’s fallen body, convinced that he was going to kill the man.

  Alright, maybe not a drink. Pie, then?

  Beckett’s answering machine picked up, and Chase left a message.

  “Beckett, it’s Chase. We have a body here in a pond in Central Park. Looks like a drowning, a prostitute, probably, except…” she paused.

  Except what?

  Except something didn’t seem right about it.

  “We’re going to check some of the cameras, but we need you to come clear the body. You or someone else from the ME’s office. Give me a call when you get this. Chase.”

  Chase hung up and turned back to the body, crouching on her haunches. She tilted her head to one side, staring at her milky eyes, the foam that bubbled from her mouth.

  What’s your story? She wondered with a strange sort of abstraction. How did you end up here?

  Chapter 19

  Dr. Tracey Moorfield was old enough to be retired, but she wasn’t. Like most doctors, she would work until either she was physically incapable of functioning, or the university kicked her out. But because Tracey had tenure, only the former was a
possibility. And judging by the way she deftly worked the pen in her left hand, Beckett thought that this was also out of the question.

  Beckett found the elderly doctor in her office, a small cubicle tucked away in the back of the faculty club. He was briefly reminded of the scene from Office Space, in which they forced poor Milton to work down in Storage B. He thought something like that might be going on here; with tenure, the university couldn’t force her out, they could only make her as uncomfortable as possible.

  Putting a warm smile on his face, Beckett knocked lightly on the half-open door.

  “Dr. Moorfield?” he said softly.

  “Yes?” the voice returned, old, but strong.

  Beckett eased the door open another foot or so.

  “Hi,” he said as he took in the scene before him. Beckett had never been in the faculty club before, despite being part of the faculty; he just hadn’t seen the need for it. In fact, he doubted that he would be welcome, even given his status. Covered in tattoos, spiked blond hair on his head, and a matter-of-fact way of speaking that often came across as rude, Beckett was a bit of an outcast among his peers.

  But this didn’t bother him.

  What did bother him, however, was the general and pervasive attitude possessed by many of the curmudgeonly doctors of yesteryear: a holier-than-thou attitude, often directing the construction of the pedestal upon which the public was all too eager to place them atop. Most of the doctors he knew, especially those entrenched in academia, had a god complex that rivaled the Pope’s in terms of grandiosity.

  Beckett knew instantly that Dr. Moorfield fit this mold very, very well. Shit, it was probably made specifically for her. It was in the way that her gray hair was perfectly styled, coming down to just below her chin in a sort of bob, and the way her white blouse was immaculate, even at midnight in the remote recesses of a building that the janitor probably wouldn’t have been able to navigate without GPS support.

  Her presence alone seemed to fill the air with particles of ego like glittering dust motes.