Gypsy king

Willy whipped out the phone in his pocket without a word, punched at it for a second, then held it to his ear. Five minutes later, the two of us were in my car, driving to the coroner’s office.

“Thanks for coming along,” I told Willy as he lazed in the passenger seat.

“It’s all good. Kinda curious to see you in action. The stuff you’ve been writing about the murder is good. Damn good. Best work I’ve seen since your dad’s.”

“Thanks.” I smiled over the steering wheel at maybe the best compliment I’d had in a decade. “Your work is impressive too.”

“Glad you think so. I, uh . . . I really love my job. I can come in more . . . to the office. If I have to.” His fingers fidgeted on his lap.

Willy had always been jumpy and skittish in the office. I’d just assumed he was like that all the time. Maybe he was to a degree. But he was also nervous about his job. That with me on staff, Dad wouldn’t need an additional reporter.

“I don’t care when you come into the office, Willy. As long as you keep writing the great stories you’ve been writing and handing them in on time, you’ll always have a spot at the Tribune.”

He nodded, keeping his eyes out the window on the buildings that streaked past. In the reflection, I saw a faint smile.

It didn’t take us long to get to the medical examiner’s office, which was located across the street from the small hospital in town. Willy led the way to a locked door, knocking on the wire mesh that covered a square glass window in its face. We waited for a few minutes, longer than I would have stood there alone, until finally the door pushed open and a man waved us inside.

“Mike.” Willy shook his hand. “This is Bryce. Bryce, meet Mike.”

“Nice to meet you, Mike. Thanks for doing this.”

“You bet.” His voice was hoarse. The dark circles under Mike’s eyes matched Willy’s. Despite the pungent smell of chemicals within the sterile space, the stale scent of alcohol wafting off his body nearly made me gag. “I owe Willy one after he drove my ass home last night. Had one too many after our pool tournament.”

I nodded and breathed through my mouth. “That’s nice.”

“What can I help you with?” Mike asked.

“The coroner’s office is closed and—”

“Those guys.” Mike scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You know, I bust my ass getting reports done and sent over to them. They take their sweet time actually getting them processed. Whose did you want to see?”

I braced. “Amina Daylee.”

“Oh.” His shoulders sagged. “No can do. Active investigation. You’ll have to get that one from the cops.”

“Damn.” I sighed. “Well, it was worth asking. I’ve had some examiners in the past who let me read their report or told me a little about it. Sometimes even off the record so I couldn’t print anything until it was released by the police. But having an idea of the autopsy helps me ask the right questions. It might lead to other clues too.”

My speech was a stretch. I expected Mike to shove us out the door at any moment, as he probably should.

“I can’t show it to you,” he said as I held my breath, waiting and hoping for the magic word. “But”—bingo—“I can give you the high level. Off the record. You’ll have to wait for the details to be released to print them.”

“Perfect.” I glanced at Willy, who sent me a wink.

“Come on,” Mike muttered, motioning for Willy and me to follow him down the hallway.

The building was deserted, the only light coming from the windows since the overhead lights were all off.

“Quiet day?” I asked.

Mike shrugged. “It’s just me right now. I had an intern but she’s off for the summer.”

We crowded into Mike’s office at the end of the hallway. The desk and floor were scattered with stacks of file folders the same teal as his unbecoming scrubs. The hallway had smelled like antiseptic and bleach, but in here, the air was perfumed with coffee and an undercurrent of hangover.

“Okay.” Mike flipped open a folder as he sat behind his desk. I sat across from him in a folding chair while Willy remained standing against the doorframe. “Amina Daylee. Age fifty-nine. Cause of death, blood loss due to multiple stab wounds.”

Information I’d already gleaned from the police reports and my discussion with Cody Pruitt at the motel. Cody’s wife had cried as she’d told him about the scene in room 114. The entire bed had been soaked through with Amina’s blood. Some had dripped to the carpet, creating nearly black puddles. Cody’s wife had stepped in one when she’d rushed to Amina’s side to check for a pulse.

“How many stab wounds?” I asked.

“Seven. All upper body.”

I swallowed hard. “Did she suffer?”

“Yeah.” Mike met my gaze and gave me a sad smile. “Not for long. He hit a major artery, so she bled out fast.”

“Do you know time of death?”

“I’ve got a pretty tight timeline but as always, it’s an estimate. Between five a.m. and seven a.m.”

Which meant Draven had killed her first thing in the morning. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“She’d recently had intercourse.”

My spine straightened. “Any signs of force?”

“No. It was likely consensual.”

“That’s something, at least.” I was glad Amina hadn’t had to endure a rape before her death. “Did the sperm come back as Draven’s?”

“This is all off the record.” Mike looked between me and Willy, a sudden look of fear crossing his face like he’d already said too much. “Right?”

“Right,” I promised. “I won’t use any of this in the paper until the authorities release it to the press.”

Mike studied my face for a long moment, then gave me a nod. “The new preliminary quick test matched his sample. I’m still waiting on the full results. But the prelims are rarely wrong.”

An interesting twist. Draven and Amina had had sex before he’d killed her. Why? Were they new lovers? Old lovers? Why the motel instead of his home? Was her death an act of passion? All questions I would have written down in my notepad.

Fucking Dash.

“Thanks so much for your time.” I stood and held out my hand.

Mike stood too. “None of this gets printed until the report is released.”

“You have my word. Thanks again.”

Willy and I excused ourselves from the office, making our way back into the sunshine and fresh air. As we climbed into my car, Willy laughed. “You’re good. I was sure he’d kick us out when you told him what report you wanted.”

“I have my moments.” I smiled and turned on the car. “Thanks for the help.”

“Any time. What now?”

“Now?” I blew out a long breath. “Now I need to find more about our victim. Her daughter is in Colorado, but I wouldn’t approach her this soon anyway. Amina grew up here but doesn’t have any family left. I’m hoping to find a few people who knew her as a kid. I want to find out why she came back, and why she met up with Draven.”

“I might be able to help with that,” Willy said. “How about I buy my new boss a beer?”

“You’re on.”

AS IT TURNED OUT, The Betsy wasn’t just a seedy bar, but a place where the town’s history was as abundant as the dust mites floating from the rafters.

Thanks to three of the bar’s regulars—a trio of men well past seventy who were all somehow related to each other through cousins and marriages, I’d lost track—I had more information about Amina Daylee than I’d been able to find on my trusty sources Facebook and Google.

Amina’s name hadn’t shown up much in the newspaper archives. The only reference was a graduation a