“Only a status update from the medical examiner, the ME. More tests to be done, but so far the CliffsNotes version is a suspected massive drug overdose—whether intentional or accidental is anyone’s guess.”
“Heroin?” Quinn asked.
St. John nodded. “Cut heavy with Fentanyl, from the sound of it.”
“Fentanyl?” Jenna pulled up one of the chairs, landing hard as if it had been her who had taken the dose of the powerful painkiller, not Kurt.
“An opioid,” Quinn said. “Fifty to a hundred times more potent than morphine.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
St. John picked up the file, tapping the spine on the edge of his desk. “More and more often, heroin is being cut with other drugs like Fentanyl. Acetylfentanyl in this case. Used by many of the Mexican drug cartels. Fentanyl is cheaper, easier to make than heroin. You can increase the potency for a fraction of the cost.”
“El Verdugo. The Hangman,” Jenna said, her voice whisper-thin. “You think he’s back?”
“Not that we’ve been able to prove. And the Fentanyl isn’t a signature ingredient. Your friend could have gotten the drug from anybody.”
Quinn had only caught a peek at the photos before the sheriff had taken them back. He had a feeling he’d missed something. Quinn held his hand out for the file. “May I?”
The sheriff continued to tap the file on his desk as he considered Quinn’s request, perhaps running a mental pro-con list.
Finally, he tossed the file toward Quinn, who scooped it up and took the chair beside Jenna. She didn’t lean in or look over his shoulder; instead she stared at her clasped hands in her lap.
There were a bunch of photos. Of Kurt, the area around him. The space where he’d been found. His clothes and other belongings after being removed from his body. Evidence markers by the syringe and the bent spoon.
“This is everything you found?”
St. John leaned forward in the chair, his full attention on Quinn. “Why do you ask that?”
“Did the ME confirm it was the vein in his left arm that he used to shoot up?”
“I believe that’s correct.”
Quinn flipped through the photos again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. “Then, where is the tourniquet?”
“The tourniquet?” Jenna asked.
“If he was shooting up in his arm, he’d need a tourniquet to raise the vein.”
“You seem to know a lot about IV drug use,” St. John said, a question and off-base observation all in one.
Quinn didn’t owe him an explanation. Knowing people who had used, didn’t mean he used as well. Using drugs wouldn’t magically make his arm better. Or save his career.
Then it hit Quinn what had been bugging him about the photos. It was the sleeve of Kurt’s left arm, which had been rolled up. “Kurt was left-handed.”
St. John raised a mildly curious brow.
“If he was left-handed, it should have been his right sleeve that had been rolled up. Not his left.”
Beside him, Jenna sucked in a breath through her teeth. The space around her irises flashed white as she realized that Quinn might not have been paranoid, or full of wishful thinking. It was worse than that.
Quinn might be right.
He gave her a slight nod. St. John sat back, his expression shifting from mild interest to everyone-thinks-they’re-a-detective. Quinn could practically hear the man mentally curse every cop show on television.
“Junkies are good at using whatever vein works with whatever hand works. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Maybe,” Quinn conceded, though he’d rather hit the never-exceed speed in his helo than admit that.
“Doesn’t explain why no one found a tourniquet,” Jenna said.
That’s my girl. Well, Jenna wasn’t a girl anymore, and not his anything, but Quinn gave her a wink.
“He could have used his belt,” St. John said.
Holding up the photo in which Kurt lay facedown in the dirt, Quinn pointed at Kurt’s waist. “His belt is through the loops. When you’re getting high, restringing your belt isn’t your top priority.”
If Quinn kept going, he’d run the sheriff out of excuses. Out of reasons to believe Kurt’s death was anything but a homicide.
Coming out from behind his desk, St. John took the file from Quinn, placing the photographs back inside. “We done here?”
He’d phrased it like a question, but Quinn understood that the only acceptable answer was yes.
Quinn stood. Lost in her thoughts, however, Jenna remained seated. “Jenn,” he said, getting her attention. “Time to go.”
She stared at him as if he’d spoken Klingon and her brain was trying to translate. He encouraged her to stand with a light hand on her elbow.
“Do you know when they’ll release the body?” she asked St. John.
“Still working on that.”
Jenna nodded, and Quinn ushered her toward the door. At the threshold, he turned back and asked, “If the ME hasn’t done it, will you ask for a hair analysis for drugs to determine whether or not he’d been clean the last few months?”
“Even if he’d been clean, doesn’t mean he didn’t start up again of his own free will. What does it matter?”
“It would matter to me. And to his mother.”
The sheriff spared him a curt nod, then to Jenna asked, “You have any more thoughts on whose car lights you saw at the S Friday night?”
Quinn froze, and Jenna refused to look at him. “No, not yet.”
* * * *
The drive back to the S took twice as long as the drive to town. Multitasking—i.e., grilling Jenna about the car lights the sheriff had referred to, and pressing his foot down on the accelerator—seemed beyond Quinn’s skill set. How had he ever managed to pilot a helicopter?
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Nothing to tell. I saw lights. Once around ten thirty, again around midnight. At least one of those times it was Kurt, because his car was there in the morning. I don’t know whether it was him both times or whether someone followed him home. Alby, Santos, Hank, and Mac had all spent the night out on the range. Sidney, Boomer, and Pepita didn’t go out that night, and Grandma and Grandpa had turned in early. So if there was a second car, it wasn’t one of ours. But that’s a big ‘if’.”
Quinn pulled into the Lazy S and slowed. If Jenna walked back, she could make better time. She gripped the door handle and contemplated stepping out. It wasn’t like he was going fast enough for her to get hurt.
But she knew Quinn. Rolling out of the car and walking away would only prolong the interrogation. She laid the seat back a couple of notches. The urge to sleep and hope that when she awoke she’d find that Kurt’s death was just some fantastically abysmal nightmare was too overwhelming to ignore.
“Think back—”
“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?” She kept the snarl off her lip, but not out of her voice.
On the steering wheel, Quinn’s knuckles whitened, and the edges of his healing scars reddened. “Humor me. Close your eyes.”
Gladly. With the Mustang’s