Grave Concerns (A Rhea Lynch, M.D. Novel) by Gwen Hunter

Author:Gwen Hunter [Hunter, Gwen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bella Rosa Books
Published: 2014-03-11T00:00:00+00:00

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Like all small towns in the rural South, nothing was open at 7:30 a.m. in DorCity. On this Sunday, the only things moving were the cars of shift workers leaving the few mills still in operation, the last stragglers of the Saturday night partygoers dragging in from Charlotte where the laws on alcohol purchase and consumption were much less strict, and the first of the early-bird churchgoers on their way to whatever churchgoers did at the crack of dawn.

The bus station wasn’t a restaurant named the Bus Station, it was the actual Greyhound Bus Station, run by Darnel and Doris Shirley, a decrepit couple who worked six days a week selling bus tickets and running the little mom-and-pop café inside. Normally, Sunday morning was the day they slept in, but this Sunday was obviously an exception. There were something like fifty cars in the lot and lining the street, most unmarked Crown Vics—the favorite vehicle of law enforcement—and others with official tags. My little BMW stuck out like a high-priced extra thumb.

I crawled out of my car, pulling the peacoat around me, and stumbled into the café feeling better instantly as the smells of coffee, bacon grease, and biscuits hit me. I found an empty place and signaled to Doris for coffee. Trellie, their midlife surprise who grew up to become a local beauty queen, brought me a pot and a mug, extra sugar and cream.

“Your usual, Dr. Lynch?”

“Sounds good,” I said as I added two sugars and two creams and drank. “Can I have a stack of pancakes, too? Buckwheat?”

“Coming right up. I’d be big as a house if I ate like you, Dr. Lynch. You must have a fast metabolism.”

Running five miles a day helped, but I didn’t bother to say that. Exercise wasn’t a regular part of most resident’s lives. Even the mention of it made their eyes glaze over, and I wanted my breakfast pronto.

The morning meeting started during my first bite. I listened with half an ear while I shoveled in scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, grits, and pancakes smothered in butter and honey. And half a pot of coffee to wake me up. After a few words by the sheriff, Mark propped up a county map and a dry-eraser board near a podium I hadn’t noted in my half-asleep state. He welcomed everyone, then brought us up to date on the location of the gravesite, the number of bodies now established, the confirmed and suspected IDs, the interest of the media, and the fact that a press conference had been scheduled by the sheriff for 2:00 p.m.

He explained that a special ERT—whatever that was—had been formed as part of the CIRT. Cop-speak was worse than med-speak. At least with doctors, I understood what was being said. Here I was lost.

Mark then spelled out the organization of the task force, according to who was top dog and who got pecked on, though he was much too polite to call it like it was. He

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