A Fugitive Truth by Dana Cameron Page A

Not as far as the gazebo, but within sight of it.”
    “Not dead this morning,” he mumbled, picking up his drink and emptying with one last gulp. “That can’t be, it just can’t. I—”
    But I shut the door on him and his unhelpful fretting and hurried back to Faith. I walked quickly, but sped up when I saw a security vehicle already there. Someone was moving down the bank, crashing through the branches and leaves like an elephant through that fragile place.
    “Hey!” I gasped as I ran, but I was still too far off to be heard. “Wait a minute!” I picked up speed, but my legs were trembling now with the exertion and nerves, and I knew I was heading for a big muscle crash.
    “Hey!” I shouted again, my chest heaving violently as I reached the top of the bank. A guard was rolling Faith over. “Get away from her! For God’s sake, don’t touch anything!” I couldn’t believe that he was just pawing Faith like that. No one could be that stupid, that insensitive. At least I’d had the hope that she might still be alive.
    I couldn’t see clearly, I couldn’t be sure, but then I thought I saw “Officer” Gary Conner put something into his pocket.
    As I slid down the bank, he released the body, which rolled back into the water with a small, sickening splash.
    “What the hell are you doing?” I was revolted by his discourteous treatment of Faith. “What did you just take? Give it to me now!” I stuck out my hand, actually expecting that he would hand over whatever it was. Had he really been going through her pockets?
    Gary’s face was maddeningly deadpan. “I didn’t take anything. You must be seeing things.”
    “Bullshit!”
    “Look, just move back,” he said pompously. “We don’t need any civilians messing up the crime scene!” He actually grabbed my arm and tried to jerk me away, but I wrenched myself away from him, using more force than he expected.
    “Keep your damned hands off me!” I said. “And don’t give me that ‘civilian’ crap! You’re nothing but a rentacop! And what makes you think it’s a crime scene, anyway?”
    For a minute I swear he looked panicked but the unease was quickly replaced with cunning. “You just said so,” Gary replied smoothly.
    “I don’t think so,” I answered, rubbing my arm as the blood rushed back painfully into where his fingers had been snapped away. “All I know is that you were messing around with a…a body and I’m sure as hell going to—”
    I was interrupted by the arrival of the EMTs on the scene, and off in the distance, I could hear the insistent warning of other sirens coming from town. Gary Conner took the opportunity to step away and murmur something into his walkie-talkie, and as badly as I wanted to hear what he was saying—and to whom—I was caught up in the barrage of questions that the ambulance driver had for me. He took a look at her and tried to find a pulse, then stepped back and asked me who she was.
    Another Shrewsbury security vehicle pulled up, arriving at the same time as a Monroe patrol car, their lights adding to the general confusion. I was momentarily discouraged about the possibility of anything getting sorted out, of even being heard, when, after a plain car pulled up and the door opened, a sharp female voice cut through the mayhem.
    “Okay, folks, a little order, if you please! Tim, Steffie—” here the authoritative voice addressed the EMTs—“If you would sit tight for just a minute. Mr. Constantino, what have we got here?”
    “Excuse me, sir!” The authoritative voice called out again, and a woman dressed in plain clothes stepped forward as Gary began to climb back down the slope.
    A look of disgust crossed the woman’s face as she recognized Gary. “Oh, it’s you, Conner. You get back here and keep yourself planted ’til anyone tells you to move.”
    Reluctantly Gary climbed back up to the road and stood sullenly behind Constantino, who had emerged from the second security car.
    The woman