Cold Cases and Dark Secrets

  Cold Cases and Dark Secrets

  J.M. Dabney

  Hostile Whispers Press, LLC

  Copyright © 2022 by J.M. Dabney

  Hostile Whispers Press, LLC

  ISBN: 978-1-947184-53-4

  Print ISBN: 978-1-947184-54-1

  Photographer: Golden Czermak (FuriousFotog)

  Model: Steve Dawson

  Cover by: J.M. Dabney at Hostile Whispers Designs

  Edits by: AlternativEdits (Laura McNellis)

  Proof Edits by: Kelly Miller

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  REMEMBER:

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places, is purely coincidental.

  PLEASE BE ADVISED:

  This book contains material that is only suitable for mature readers. It may contain scenes of a sexual nature and/or violence.

  For my readers who make telling my stories worth it.

  Contents

  1. Stevenson

  2. Doc

  3. Stevenson

  4. Doc

  5. Stevenson

  6. Doc

  7. Stevenson

  8. Doc

  9. Stevenson

  10. Doc

  11. Stevenson

  12. Doc

  13. Stevenson

  14. Doc

  15. Stevenson

  16. Doc

  17. Stevenson

  18. Doc

  19. Stevenson

  20. Doc

  21. Stevenson

  22. Doc

  23. Stevenson

  24. Doc

  25. Stevenson

  26. Doc

  27. Stevenson

  28. Doc

  29. Stevenson

  30. Doc

  31. Stevenson

  32. Doc

  33. Stevenson

  34. Doc

  35. Stevenson

  36. Doc

  37. Stevenson

  38. Stevenson

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by J.M. Dabney

  Writing As Siobhan Smile

  Cold Cases And Dark Secrets

  Cold Case Unit Book 2

  Time Didn't Heal All Wounds, and the Scars were About to be Ripped Open

  Stevenson

  When I'd moved from Homicide to the Cold Case Unit my friends headed, I'd thought it would be a new start. The minute my marriage fell apart, I'd lost my purpose. Years passed, and I hadn't found myself until I'd helped my friends catch a serial killer, but I'd also found friends and family. As I'd searched for a case among dusty boxes, a decades' old murder and missing person case caught my attention. The autopsy report sent me to the ME's office and the man I'd avoided for months.

  Doc

  Making death my job didn't allow for normal friends, but the dead needed an advocate, and it was the only purpose I'd known. Being a medical examiner was all I'd had for decades, and I didn't know what to do outside my job. I had a group of friends, all worked in law enforcement and forensics, but one thing was missing. Short, adorable middle-aged men weren't getting swept off their feet. When my secret crush needed my help with a case, to the detriment of my sanity, I said yes. All I had to do was not be my weird self and blurt out everything in my head.

  When a missing person case turns out to be more than it appears, can Stevenson keep Doc safe from a twenty-year-old threat?

  * * *

  (TW: May contain mentions of sexual, physical, and mental abuses. Passive Suicidal Ideation, self-harm, and mental illness. These are mainly off-page, but there may be detailed flashbacks and conversations of said acts. Yet if these are triggering for you, please feel free not to read the story. Your self-care and mental health are more important. Thank you.)

  1

  Stevenson

  This wasn't the life I’d chosen when I decided I wanted to be a homicide detective, and I gave all that up to move to the Cold Case Unit with my so-called friends. At forty-three years old, I was a slightly overweight divorced gay man living in a studio apartment with secondhand furniture and my belongings in two totes five years later, and my fridge was a biohazard zone I hadn't opened in months because I was never home.

  I crossed and uncrossed my ankles where I had my boots propped on my desk as I randomly checked the inventory of cases. I heard a groan and leaned to the side to peer through the spaces in the shelves to find the faint outline of Detectives Remy and Robert Kauffman making out in their favorite corner. I hated them. Okay, maybe not hate—I was envious.

  We'd worked together for years in Homicide until a shooting had put Robert on desk duty in Cold Case. Remy had decided to follow him. A long-ignored serial killer case brought them all back together. They'd decided to stay, and me and a pain in the ass Detective Graves had transferred. During the investigation into the serial killer, Fellows, we'd become friends—something I'd sorely lacked.

  I straightened and closed my eyes, flipped the pages on the clipboard, and dropped my index finger. As I opened my eyes, I noted a homicide and missing persons case. I repeated the number as I tossed the board aside and got up. I checked the rows until I found the one I needed.

  The case was from nineteen-ninety-seven. The file box hadn't looked like it had moved since it wound up in the dungeon as Cold Case was affectionately called. I carried it back to my desk, still ignoring the newlyweds. They had a kid at home, and who knew what that did to a parent's sex life.

  I placed the box on my desk and removed the lid. I slipped out the too-thin file and groaned. Of course, I'd pick the case the detectives didn't bother to investigate. A lot of the evidence was marked as untested. A rape kit was performed during the post-mortem, but no notes on if it was run or not. Shit, Coleman, that bastard of a Lab Supervisor didn't do his job unless you threatened his life.

  I scanned the autopsy report and groaned, seeing the name signed at the bottom. Doctor Morgan Warner. I'd known him well enough to ask questions until the serial killer case I worked on, and he'd been hands-on. He was an adorable little menace, and he put me on edge. I couldn't get a read on him. Yet he had a long memory, and if I wanted information on this case, I needed to visit the coroner’s office.

  “I'm headed to the ME's office.”

  “Say hi to Doc for us,” Remy yelled. I took the file, grabbed my jacket, and left the dusty office and storage room.

  The ME's office was over near the hospital with one of the old precincts before the city had turned the building into the new lab building. I walked out of the underground parking to my personal truck since it was close to the time for me to clock out. It was weird not to be on duty twenty-four-seven. Unless we were actively pursuing new evidence, we just did a lot of follow-ups.

  When I moved to Cold Case, I was shocked to find a lot of the cases were familiar over my twenty years as a cop. I'd joined the academy a year after I'd graduated pre-law. A year of law school showed me it wasn't really my calling. My parents were disappointed, and I don't think they'd gotten over that failure yet. My sexuality was the next greatest failure as well. They really had a list they brought up every Sunday dinner until I'd stopped going altogether until my mother would guilt me into attending.

  When I pulled into the parking lot, I didn't see Doc's cute little hybrid in
his parking spot. The guy never missed work. I parked in his spot since it was the closest one open. I grabbed the file and hopped out of my truck. Visiting the medical examiner wasn't my favorite part of the job. Who the hell liked to watch the weird ghouls cut into people? Doc barely batted an eyelash, talking like he didn't have a body part in his hands.

  The automatic sliding doors to the morgue opened, and I paused just inside. I rolled my lips between my teeth to hide my grin at finding Doc standing on a stepping stool. His lab coat hung down to his knees because he refused to wear a smaller size.

  “What do I owe for the pleasure of one of my favorite Cold Case Detectives visiting my lair?”

  I snorted at his impression of a mad scientist as he kept on working. I'd expect someone who dealt in death and tragedy all the time to have less of a sense of humor. Maybe it was a defense mechanism? I used sarcasm and jokes, occasionally some playful flirting, to manage my job stress.

  “I chose a case at random, missing person and homicide. Your name was on the autopsy report.”

  “Name?”

  “Angela Barnes, twenty-two, murdered. Aiden Maxwell, eight, Barnes's half-brother, missing.”

  “That was a particularly vicious one. Angela was disemboweled. Numerous defensive wounds. She fought like hell. From the crime scene photos, it appeared she'd tried to save her brother even after the fatal wounds were inflicted.”

  “How do you remember that just from a name?”

  “Eidetic memory aka photographic memory, but there's a controversy if photographic is real or not. Whatever. I remember almost everything I've seen or heard.”

  “You're a genius?”

  “I hate that term even if it applies in the conventional sense. So, you've taken on the Barnes-Maxwell case?” He stepped down, and as he removed his gloves, he walked around the table to cross the room to his desk. He removed his paper cap to expose slightly matted thick silver hair that had recently gone from shaggy to framing his softly rounded face.

  “I don't know. Like I said, I chose at random and wanted your opinion.”

  “Why didn't you ask the lovebirds?” He grinned up at me.

  “No, those two were making out in a corner, and I wasn't interrupting that.”

  “Yeah, our poor Roo is starting school next fall. Well behind her classmates, and she's a bit out of sorts. Her nightmares are increasing in frequency.”

  “Do you know everything?”

  “Vega and I babysat her the other night…full sleepover with all the sugar a five-year-old could want.” He answered me as he took a swig off a too-large can of energy drink.

  “You three on sugar terrifies me.” Vega was a forensic genealogist who Remy and Doc had known forever.

  “There definitely should've been spanking warnings for Vega and myself, but since Cash is Vega's Little and submissive, she took advantage of a free-for-all.”

  I shook my head thinking about the six-foot butch being the five-foot menace's submissive in anyway, but it took all kinds.

  “So, what's your opinion on the case?”

  “Swept under the rug. Barnes was her brother's guardian while her mother was in prison. After three months of investigation, nothing panned out, and it was moved to the dungeon. From the toxicology run, she had no drugs or alcohol in her system. No signs of sexual assault, but I sent swabs to be tested anyway on the off-chance she'd had recent sexual activity, and we could match it to someone in the system.”

  “You're amazing.”

  “I know.” His bratty smirk and attitude came out full force.

  “None of the tests were run, and all the evidence in the case still had the original seals in place.”

  “Not shocking. Coleman runs that lab like an old-school boys' club. If you're not rich and white, you're not right.”

  “Wow, bitter there.” But I didn't blame him. It wasn't a secret that Coleman was biased, and a lot of law enforcement wondered how he kept his job so long.

  “You want to know bitter, talk to his now fourth ex-wife. The information ex-wives impart is a gold mine, I tell you. They have their own we hate Coleman club. They have weekly meetings.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “Now, now, Detective, some secrets are meant to be guarded until the time is appropriate for using them to get what someone wants.”

  “Devious.”

  “I know. It's one of my finer qualities.” He winked and grinned. He kneeled in his chair with his ankles crossed beneath him as he rested his chin in his upraised hand.

  “So, you think I should investigate?”

  “The case is twenty-five years old, improper storage of evidence and forensics, probably extremely compromised.”

  “So is that a yes or a no?”

  “Do it. I know the mother still called the old detective until he retired. He didn’t return her calls and the only time he did speak with her was if he was at his desk when she made contact. The other detective on the case retired four years ago.”

  “Again, how do you know everything?”

  “Listen, I'm the weird, adorable five-five ghoul in the basement. People talk around me like I don't exist, hence all the intel I get. There is something about the case that always set wrong with me. I chalked it up to a murder-kidnapping, the father of Aiden was interviewed and cleared, but I sensed he knew more than he wanted to admit. No buccal swabs were taken to compare DNA found at the scene.”

  I opened the file and scanned the reports, and made a mental note of the location. “That's in the middle of the strip.”

  “It is. So when Angela was found, they assumed what most cops would. Client attacked her for whatever reason. After further investigation and social services inquiries about Aiden's whereabouts, they did a half-assed job at best trying to locate him even though there were child-sized shoe prints in blood at the scene. If you talk to the mother, she may have more for you. Also, I think Roo's caseworker, Fran, may be able to help you, too.”

  “You want to talk to Coleman for me?”

  “You're extremely handsome, Detective Stevenson, but what's in it for me to talk to our resident bigot?”

  “You name it, and it's yours.”

  “What if I have extremely expensive tastes?”

  “Within reason, it's yours.”

  “Deal, but I'm holding onto that favor until later. I currently have no needs that need to be filled.”

  I snorted at his bratty batting of his lashes and shook my head. What had I signed up for? I'd learned enough about Doc while working the serial case with him that there was more to the senior medical examiner than most people looked for. Figuring out what about him put me on edge had proved fruitless. He wasn't my type, and bratty men weren't exactly my thing either. I didn't know, but maybe I started to reevaluate my life when two of my closest friends hooked up and made it work. I'd dated my ex-husband for almost seven years, married for one before he'd told me he no longer found me attractive. That didn't hurt the old ego much.

  “Thanks for the info. You think of anything else, will you let me know?”

  “Of course, I have to finish this autopsy, and then Vega’s coming to pick me up.”

  “Sleepover?”

  “Sort of, my car was due for service. They said it would be ready tonight and I could pick it up in the morning. Vega’s giving me a lift. She is not a morning person, so I'm spending the night to hopefully ease her normal murderous morning rage.”

  “Behave.”

  “Want to keep me in line, Detective?”

  “I don't think I could handle you, Doctor.”

  “Shame.” His heavy sigh was cute.

  I said my goodbyes and made the decision to go back to the unit to check the rest of the information from the case file to take home to go over. Figure out who to call and see if the mother's contacts were in the box. Maybe I should've done a second random selection. Yet each case I'd looked at was one dead end after another. Remy claimed all of law enforcement was biased in some way.
I'd assumed the same thing but hadn't learned its full scope until we worked the Fellows' serial murderer case. I just wondered how many brick walls I would run into before I either exhausted all avenues or found the piece of evidence that proved the other detectives' laziness.

  2

  Doc

  When you're considered weird, you could get away with all kinds of behavior, but it was so much better being surrounded by other odd people because you could pretend you're normal. At least, that's what I'd always loved to tell myself. I sat on my friend Vega's back deck as we stared up at the sky. She was like me, gifted and unusual, but she played hers up as a positive. And me, well, I hid that I’d graduated medical school at nineteen and turned into a medical examiner instead of what my parents wanted me to be, a cardiologist or some well-respected specialist of some kind.

  They were the top surgeons in their chosen fields. Dad was a plastic surgeon, and Mom a cardiologist. They traveled all over the world teaching in front of crowded classrooms between running their own lucrative practices. And there I was, lusting after a cuddly potential Daddy who had no interest in me. He was handsome with his honey-blond hair, lines beside his eyes, and the soft belly that rounded the front of his dress shirts. Stevenson always had mischief in his blue eyes, teasing and carefree. Which was odd for a man who worked Homicide for so long.