When HEROES don't come HOME

Chapter Eighteen – The Coroner’s Truth

The yellow tape stretched across the narrow street like a scar. Wind rattled it against the signpost, the plastic snapping with each gust. A patrol car idled nearby, its lightbar casting weak red-blue glows across the cracked pavement. Neighbors had gathered at the far end of the block—some whispering, some filming with their phones, all craning their necks toward the small apartment complex that now carried the smell of tragedy. Reeves stood across the street for a moment, watching. He could read crime scenes the way some people read books. The posture of the officers at the door—tense, unwilling to meet his eye—told him they were already under orders to keep this quiet. The fact that no press vans had made it this far told him the machine was moving faster than the gossip. He ducked under the tape, flashing a nod at the uniform posted there. The man shifted uneasily but didn’t stop him. Reeves still carried himself like he belonged, even if the badge was gone. The hallway inside smelled of bleach and old carpet. He heard the murmur of voices, the shuffle of evidence bags, the occasional click of a camera shutter. It was all familiar, painfully so. He felt a pang of something like nostalgia—then crushed it. He wasn’t here for memory. And then he saw her. The coroner was bent over a black case near the door, her square glasses catching the fluorescent light. When she straightened, her gaze flicked over the room and landed on him. A small smile tugged the corner of her mouth, equal parts surprise and recognition. “Well,” she said, tugging off a glove. “Look what the wind dragged back into my life.” Reeves smirked faintly, stepping closer. “Still calling time of death like a metronome?” “Still breaking rules to be where you’re not supposed to?” she shot back. They shook hands briefly, the grip firm, familiar. Old colleagues, once part of the same grim machinery of justice, now standing on opposite sides of it. “You look tired,” Reeves said. She raised a brow. “Pot, kettle.” They let the silence hang a beat, then she gestured toward the apartment. “Not much to see. Small space. Lived alone. No pets. Bills paid on time. The neighbors say she was quiet.” Reeves scanned the living room. Couch too neat, coffee table cleared. But the bedroom door was open, and even from here he could see the disarray: sheets half torn from the mattress, a wastebasket knocked over, a condom wrapper glinting in the lamplight. “She worked in a lab,” the coroner said quietly. “One of the big contracts. Military research.” She met his eyes. “I don’t have to tell you what that means.” Reeves felt the muscle in his jaw tighten. “No, you don’t.” She hesitated, then added, “We checked her phone. She had the number of that journalist—the one who keeps sniffing around the Army cases.” That landed heavy. Reeves’s gut twisted. “And cause of death?” “Overdose.” The word was clipped, professional. Reeves tilted his head. “That’s the official line.” “It’s the toxicology line,” she corrected. “High levels of opioids in her blood. Enough to stop her heart. On paper, that’s the cause.” “On paper,” Reeves repeated, his voice flat. The coroner sighed and crossed her arms, leaning against the wall. “But her arms tell a different story. Old track marks, yes. Two documented rehab stints. But she’d been clean for months. Maybe longer. Her last program stuck. She was proud of it—mentioned it to her counselor, even had letters of recommendation for a new position. This relapse?” She shook her head. “Too neat. Too sudden.” Reeves took a slow step closer, lowering his voice. “What are the odds she did this to herself?” “In most cases,” the coroner said, “I’d call it an accident. Relapses happen. People slip. But this one…” She glanced toward the bedroom, her face tightening. “No. I don’t buy it.” Reeves’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?” She hesitated, scanning the room as though the walls themselves might be listening. Then she leaned in. “She had bruising along her neck. Subtle. Not enough to classify as strangulation on a form. But when I saw it, the thought hit me hard: someone held her down. Long enough to panic her, not long enough to leave a clear ligature. And then they pumped her full.” Reeves’s stomach turned. He could see it—hands pressing, her gasping, the sting of a needle. A death dressed up to look like a relapse. “And that’s not all,” the coroner added, softer still. “The scene itself—it screams staging. Condoms on the floor. Clothes tossed. All signs point to s*x right before death. But something doesn’t add up.” Reeves raised an eyebrow. “What?” “She wasn’t interested in men.” That stopped him cold. The coroner gave a small, knowing smile. “I went through her phone. Messages. Contacts. All women. She was careful—hid it from most people. But it was there, plain as day. Whatever happened in that room, it wasn’t consensual. And it sure as hell wasn’t how she lived her life.” Reeves exhaled slowly, forcing the anger down. He looked toward the bed again, sheets twisted, evidence markers dotting the floor. A picture of violence and violation—and behind it, a careful hand arranging props. “She was the leak,” Reeves said quietly. The coroner didn’t answer, but her silence was enough. They stood there a moment, two veterans of truth staring at a truth no one else wanted to see. Finally Reeves asked, “And you? What’ll you put in your report?” Her eyes hardened. “What I have to. Overdose. Accidental. Nothing more. If I push further, it won’t be me on this scene next time. It’ll be me on the table.” Reeves nodded once. He understood. More than anyone, he understood. He studied her face, etched with fatigue and something darker: resignation. She had seen too much, and she had learned the price of saying so. “Thank you,” he said quietly. She gave him a faint smile, sad and sharp. “You always had a nose for trouble, Reeves. Don’t let this one bury you too.” He didn’t answer. He just turned toward the door, his eyes catching one last time on the bed through the open frame. A life cut off, disguised, erased. Another silence forced on the world. Outside, the yellow tape rattled again in the wind. Reeves stepped under it, the city sounds washing over him like static. But in his mind, the image stayed: bruises, needles, a lie dressed as truth. And the weight of knowing Emily Carter’s name was somewhere in the same chain of hands that had just taken this woman apart.