In the Ground (David Wolf Book 14)

way it never piles up.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I’m sure you will.” She fumbled with the crutch holding the stack of paper. The other hand with the cast barely held onto the other crutch to begin with. She seemed to realize she was in a bind.
“Here, let me at least carry those.”
She waved him aside. “Just open the door.”
He rushed around the other side of the desk and opened it wide.
“You might want to get some ice for that head.”
“I owe you one.”
“You owe me more than one.” She teetered out of the doorway and into the bustling squad room.
“I owe you seven.”
“Hundred,” she said.
Wolf grabbed his stuff and headed downstairs for the showers.

Chapter 5
Heather Patterson hobbled down to her office, managing to avoid speaking to anyone, which was a feat given the number of deputies in the squad room. She shut the door, savoring the silence.
She dropped the paperwork on her desk on the way to her chair, eyeing the beauty of the early summer day outside through the open blinds. It was tough to appreciate with her brain focusing on the throbbing pain in her ankle.
She sat down, put her crutches on the ground along the back wall, rolled her chair into position, and gingerly put her ankle up on the windowsill.
“Ah.”
The blood flowed up her leg and some discomfort evaporated, but after a short time the pressure of her skin against the sill sharpened to a knife’s edge. Either the angle or the height was all wrong. She tried using the top of her desk, which wasn’t right either, so she moved to the loveseat, her foot resting on the cushioned surface. Ahhh.
Damn it. The paperwork was still sitting on the desk.
Two sharp knocks rattled the door.
"Yeah!”
Rachette popped his head in. "You ready to go down to Lorber?"
She eyed her watch. “Already?”
“He sent an email saying he was ready. Didn’t you see it?”
She sighed and got up, grabbing her crutches. A deep ache began to bloom in her ankle, and it felt like she’d just pushed her foot into a hornet’s nest.
"How's it feeling?" Rachette watched her, sipping his coffee.
"Not bad."
“You’re a terrible liar.”
He gave her a wide berth as she hobbled through the doorway, into the hallway, and down to the elevator bank.
"Take any painkillers?" he asked.
"Nope."
“Why not? That's the best part of getting hurt."
"Getting hooked on meds?”
“Yeah.”
They stepped into the elevator and Patterson went to the corner and leaned against it.
"I guess TJ hit a home run last week," Rachette said.
"Really? Oh yeah, and you were doing the training. Sorry you didn’t get to see it.”
Rachette smiled to himself. "Charlotte says he dribbled it off the tee about forty feet and then proceeded to run around the bases while the other kids threw the ball a hundred times."
Patterson smiled despite the ache in her foot.
"So, when are you going to get Tommy into baseball?" Rachette asked.
"He's not into it."
"It's not a matter if they're into it or not. You just put them into it."
"Is that how it works?" Patterson asked. The truth was she and Scott had tried to play in the backyard plenty of times and the kid wasn’t interested. Sometimes she wished she could be in the stands watching her son play, other times she couldn’t care less. This was one of those times.
"It's how it works in my house."
"I don't doubt it," she said.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means let's be quiet. My leg hurts."
"I thought you said it wasn’t bad.”
She said nothing.
“Why aren't you home resting?"
"Why are you still talking?" The elevator stopped and opened, and they stepped out into the cool recesses of the basement, the domain of Lorber and his forensics department.
The air chilled her to the bone, smelling deeply of embalming fluid.
Rachette pulled out a pocket tub of Vicks VapoRub and put some under his nose. He held it out.
“No thanks.”
“Sicko.”
The sight and smell of dead bodies didn't bother her too much when they were in the morgue. It was a different story out in the field, with varying degrees of decay, heat, and other factors.
With every step, her crutches gripped the glistening terrazzo floor with a tiny squeal. Her armpits ached from the constant pressure. She probably needed to wrap a towel around the cushioned part of each crutch with the amount of time she’d be spending on her feet for this investigation.
Turning the corner to Lorber's room, she slowed when she saw Wolf was inside already.
Rachette moved on ahead of her inside. "How's it going, gentlemen?"
“Hey Patty,” Lorber said. “How’s the ankle? Heard it’s a bad sprain.”
“It’s a regular sprain. It’s okay.”
“Good. Glad to hear it’s not another break.”
She nodded at Wolf, who gave her a curt nod in return, giving her the impression he was avoiding her gaze. He looked freshly showered and his dispenser-soap scent mixed with the chemical aura of the room.
She had assumed the report and spreadsheet would have been Wolf’s first priority. Apparently she was wrong.
She blinked out of her thoughts and turned to Lorber. "So, what do you have so far?"
Lorber put on his glasses, magnifying tired-looking eyes. His hair, usually worn down to the middle of his back, was wrapped on top of his head, making his medical skull cap look like a pregnant turban.
The ME approached the illuminated body on the metal table at the center of the room, wasting no time lowering the sheet to breast level.
Sasquatch had nothing on body hair compared to the man known as Chris Oakley. His chest was a black bathmat, his shoulders wearing toupees. His scalp was a matted mess, but Lorber had cleaned him of dirt and mud.
Lorber picked a pen out of his lab coat pocket and pointed under Oakley’s chin. "We have an entrance wound right here, and an exit wound at the top of the head. No other injuries, other than one here on his arm, made post-mortem by one of the teeth of the front-end loader, presumably made when he was scooped up by Casey