Free Killer Physique (A Savannah Reid Mystery) by G. A. McKevett Page A

the center of his own chest. “He complained of a condition cal ed costochondritis—inflammation of the breastbone. He’d come down with a severe case of it years ago, when he was a bodybuilding champion.”
    “Aye,” John added, “the physicians told him to give it a rest and al ow it to heal. But, of course, he wouldn’t. He was that sort. Driven. That was Jason.”
    Savannah thought back to the hotel room—to the young man’s body sprawled on the hotel floor. “He wasn’t wearing a patch on his chest,” she said. “When you found him, his chest was bare.”
    Ryan looked at her, considered her words, and nodded. “That’s true.”
    “Maybe he took it off,” she suggested.
    “He might have. He wouldn’t have put it on unless the pain was real y bad. He wouldn’t even take an aspirin unless he absolutely had to.”
    “That’s true,” John added. “He wasn’t like a lot of those bodybuilder chaps. Stayed away from medications as much as possible—though sometimes the pain got the best of him, and he had to use things like those patches and over-the-counter pil s.”
    “After he messed with the patch, what happened then?” Savannah asked.
    “We walked out of the lounge,” Ryan replied. “And then we left the theater.”
    “You walked him to his limousine?” Dirk asked. “And you actual y saw him get in?”
    “Yes, we stuck close by,” John said. “It seemed like he was stil a bit nervous. Had been ever since the bal oon-popping affair. And then with that mysterious thing he said in the lounge—we thought he might feel better if we stuck close.” Savannah recal ed the moment she had seen Ryan and John put their friend into the limousine. Jason had seemed jumpy, eager to get into the vehicle as soon as possible.
    She had seen that sort of behavior, that frightened demeanor, many times before. But usual y the skittish person was a female, often one who was trying to escape a stalker.
    “He acted like someone was after him,” she said under her breath, more to herself than to the others.
    But they heard her.
    “Yes, he did,” Ryan replied. “He was acting like somebody who’d had a death threat.”
    “And a credible threat at that,” John added. “If I live to be a hundred, I’l be haunted by the thought that he needed our protection, and we didn’t keep him safe.”
    Ryan’s eyes fil ed with tears. “No kidding,” he said. “That’s what we do for a living. But we couldn’t even save our friend. I’m never going to get over this.”
    Savannah looked at them both, seeing two of the dearest people she had ever known. In her life, she had borne more than her share of guilt over situations that were quite similar.
    She thought about what Dr. Liu had said: “The truth makes things better, even when the truth is painful.” And in that moment Savannah silently promised her friends and herself that, one way or another, she was going to find out what had happened to Jason Tyrone. Even if it’s ugly, truth is truth. And without it there would be no justice and no freedom from guilt.
    Nothing could be done to bring Jason back. Dead was dead. But maybe, just maybe, she could provide a bit of healing to the living.

Chapter 8
    The forensics lab was in the industrial part of town—where graffiti was the only form of paint on the buildings’ gray cement-block wal s, and the weeds that sprouted from between cracks in the asphalt road provided landscaping.
    Unlike the morgue, which contained grieving family members, dead bodies in various stages of decomposition, and, worst of al , Officer Kenny Bates, Savannah didn’t mind the forensics lab so much. In fact, she had often thought it would be an interesting place to work.
    Not a fun place, because of Eileen. But interesting.
    Eileen was an enormous woman, oversized in every way. She was at least six feet, two inches tal , and she had a sizable girth, a booming voice, and the personality of a Marine dril sergeant whose hat and boots were