Free Last Look by Mariah Stewart

see us. We know your time is valuable, and—”
    “Not at all.” The ME waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t have a damned thing better to do. No autopsies scheduled today, and if the good folks of our fine county are lucky, I’ll have none again tomorrow. Come on over here. Have a seat and we’ll talk.”
    He beckoned the agents to follow him to the far side of the room, where several chairs stood around a wooden table. In the center of the table, a Mason jar held a handful of blue flowers.
    “Maise’s idea of decor.” He nodded in the direction of the door the receptionist had left open. He walked to it and gave it a shove, to close it. “That oughta keep her guessing for a while.”
    He turned back to his guests.
    “Now. You wanted to talk about Shannon Randall.” Fuller took the chair nearest the window and rested his hands on the table. “How can I help you?”
    “Actually, we were hoping to see the body,” Dorsey said before Andrew could respond. She caught the look he sent her:
Back off. I take the lead.
With a slight nod of her head, she acknowledged she’d jumped the gun, and gestured to him to pick up at that point in the conversation.
    “We’re still not clear on cause of death,” Andrew explained. “We’ve heard she was shot, we heard she’d been stabbed.”
    Dorsey’s head snapped up. She stared at Andrew.
    “Yes.” Fuller nodded. “Yes, she was.”
    “Which?”
    “Both.”
    “She was shot
and
she was stabbed?” Dorsey heard herself ask.
    “Yes. And here’s the odd thing: either could have killed her. The gunshot was at close range, right to the heart. Whoever pulled that trigger wanted to make sure she was good and dead, good and fast.” Fuller leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. “And the stab wounds? Any one of three or four of them could have been fatal.”
    “How many were there?” Andrew asked.
    “Nine.” Fuller nodded grimly. “That girl’d been stabbed nine times.”
    “Which actually killed her?” Andrew wanted to know.
    “That would have been the gunshot. Like I said, straight to the heart. But the stabbing must have been almost immediately thereafter.” He shook his head. “I pride myself on being meticulous, being up on all the latest forensic techniques. I believe she was technically dead when she was stabbed. Judging by the amount of blood she lost, her heart was still pumping for a time after she was shot.”
    He stared at the table for a moment, then said, “I do believe it was the gunshot that killed her.”
    “Why stab her if you’ve already shot her?” Dorsey thought aloud.
    “Why, indeed?” Fuller asked. “My first thought was the killer was trying to cover up the fact that she’d been shot, three of the stab wounds being precisely over the entry point.”
    “She was stabbed over the gunshot wound?” Andrew asked.
    “Repeatedly.”
    “Was the gun used to kill her something out of the ordinary, something that could be easily traced?” Andrew suggested.
    “Looked like your basic .38 caliber to me,” Fuller told them. “Nothing we haven’t seen before.”
    “Anything else you can tell us about the stab wounds?” Andrew asked.
    “Made with a really sharp knife. Kitchen knife most likely. The kind my wife uses to cut up chickens, goes through bone?” Fuller told them. “Blade was an inch and a quarter wide, non-serrated, pushed in pretty far in most places. Two, almost three inches, in some spots.” Fuller let that sink in, then added, “But here’s the funny thing about that. Usually you see someone with that many stab wounds, they’re jagged in places because the killer’s been in a sort of frenzy, but not here. It was all very deliberate. Edges of each cut nice and clean. Took his time, whoever did this. Sliced her up nice and neat, emphasis on the neat.”
    Fuller stood abruptly.
    “But come on, you’ll see for yourself. She’s right over here.”
    In the time it took for Dorsey and Andrew to stand,