The Reluctant Coroner, Paul Austin Ardoin [comprehension books TXT] 📗

The sanctuary stayed at low light. It was dead silent for what felt to Fenway like minutes.

Then the murmuring started in the front row.

Walker’s widow got up; she looked to be in her fifties, and was dressed in a modest black pantsuit, paired with short black heels. From her black purse, she took out a pair of sunglasses and put them on. Then she turned, and purposefully walked up the aisle, past Dez and Fenway, and out of the sanctuary.

The reverend went over and started talking to the rest of the front row. They were keeping their tones low, but seemed to be speaking urgently. Fenway couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the woman who had been sitting next to Walker’s widow was getting louder and more angry-sounding as she spoke. The man who had been sitting on Walker’s widow’s other side was gesturing wildly with his hands; he seemed to be upset too.

The reverend stood up and cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced in a loud, clear voice, “our service is over. Please exit out the sanctuary’s rear doors.”

The murmuring spread through the entire sanctuary. The lights came up a little more.

Fenway turned around to watch the attendees leave the room. She saw her father, still sitting in the back on the far left. She saw Rachel sitting two pews behind him, much closer to the center. Her jaw was set and she stared straight ahead, trancelike; she had a blank expression on her face. Her father—Stotsky—was in the pew in front of her, his head in his hands, his shoulders drooped.

Fenway looked back to the front; the woman and the man in the front row were still talking with the reverend. It looked like he was trying to calm them down, but failing.

Fenway went to the back pew and sat next to Rachel. “Hi,” she said tentatively.

“Hi, Fenway. Are you going to arrest me?”

Fenway’s brows knitted. “What for?”

“I don’t know. I figured I’d probably be breaking some law by showing that video.”

“I don’t think so, but what do I know? I’ve only been on the job a couple of days. I don’t even know California law that well.”

Rachel was silent for a minute, then whispered, “I didn’t mean to hurt my Dad. I wanted everyone to know Walker didn’t deserve to have his life celebrated. I wanted everyone to know Walker was a rapist, and a predator, and that he wanted to ruin my life. But I didn’t think how much it would hurt Dad if he saw that.” She ran her hands through her hair. “To see that happen to his daughter.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I would do if I were him. I don’t know what I would think.”

“I’m sorry, Rachel.”

“And Dylan,” she continued, “I wanted to make sure everyone knew Dylan killed Walker to protect me—not because of money, or anything like that.” She blinked and looked down.

Fenway hesitated. “Well, Rachel, we actually don’t think Dylan killed Walker after all.”

Her head popped up. “What? What do you mean?”

“We have two witnesses who can put him miles away at that time. Same with his phone—it triangulates from an area miles from where Walker was shot. Plus, some of the physical evidence doesn’t match.”

“I thought he and Parker were lying about where they were Sunday night.”

Fenway hesitated again. She raised her head to look at Rachel’s father. He was still slumped forward in his seat. But she thought he might be straining to listen to them. “Yes,” she said, quietly, but loud enough for Stotsky to hear. “They were lying about where they were. But it wasn’t anywhere near the murder scene.”

Rachel’s voice broke a little. “What was he doing? Where was he?”

Rob Stotsky flung himself around to face them. “I’ll tell you where he was, Rachel,” he said loudly, his voice cracking with emotion. “That creep was cheating on you. He was cheating on you with a sixteen-year-old girl.”

Rachel’s face fell.

Fenway saw the man in the front stop talking to the reverend and look at them.

“I don’t want to hurt you, sweetie, but it’s true,” Stotsky continued. “Maybe, like Miss Stevenson said, maybe Dylan isn’t a murderer. But he’s a liar and a cheat and a pedophile, and he deserved to be locked up.”

Fenway saw Rachel fold in on herself. She pulled her knees up and put her feet on the chair. She put her elbows on her knees, extending her arms, then put her head, face down, right between her elbows.

Fenway turned toward Stotsky. “I don’t know what you heard, or where you heard it, Mr. Stotsky, but Dylan wasn’t sleeping with a sixteen-year-old girl. He was sleeping with her mother.”

“Her mother?”

“Yes, her mother. Who has definitely passed the age of consent.”

Stotsky was silent.

“Dylan might have been a liar and a cheat,” Fenway said, “but he wasn’t a pedophile. For God’s sake, have some decency.”

Stotsky huffed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Either that or you’re bald-faced lying to me right now.”

“I’ve been working on this investigation since I came onboard, and I sure as hell do know what I’m talking about.”

Stotsky looked from Fenway to his daughter—his daughter who was emotionally deteriorating in front of their eyes. “It’s true,” Rachel keened. “I knew he was cheating on me. Texting at random times. Not responding at weird times of the day. Not being at home, or with his brother when he said he would be.” She sniffled. “And he laughed at me when I confronted him.” She looked to Fenway. “Cheating with some teenager’s mother? Like a forty-year-old?”

Fenway shrugged.

Rachel’s brow crinkled. “But why wouldn’t he say he was with her when I left the interrogation? Unless there was a reason he couldn’t say anything.” She looked Fenway in