Leaving Time: A Novel by Jodi Picoult

ten years younger than the victim. Which meant the victim’s daughter—his wife—had to be considerably younger than he was.“I’m Detective Boylan.” Donny knelt beside the man. “Were you here when this happened?”
    “No. She was the night caregiver; she was out here alone last night,” he said, his voice breaking. “It should have been me.”
    “You work here, too?” Donny asked.
    The MCU drones had blanketed the area like a swarm of bees. They were photographing the body and trying to limit the area of their investigation. The problem was, this was an outdoor crime scene with no solid boundaries. Who knew how far the woman had been chased by the elephant that ran her down? Who knew if there were any clues that could point to the moment of death? There was a deep hole about twenty yards away, and I could see human footprints on the edge. There may have been shreds of trace evidence caught in the trees. But mostly there were leaves and grass and dirt and elephant dung and flies and nature. God only knew how much of that was important to the crime scene, and how much of it was business as usual.
    The medical examiner directed two of his agents to put the body in a bag and approached us. “Let me guess,” Donny said. “Cause of death: trampling?”
    “Well, there was certainly trampling. But I don’t know if that was the cause of death. Skull’s split in half. Could have happened before the trampling, or as a result of it.”
    I realized, too late, that Gideon was listening to every word.
    “No no no,” Metcalf was suddenly shouting. “You can’t put that there. It’s a hazard for the elephants.” He pointed to the crime scene tape being staked out over a vast square by the MCU guys.
    Donny squinted. “The elephants aren’t getting back in here anytime soon.”
    “I beg your pardon? I never said that you could take over the property. This is a natural protected habitat—”
    “And a woman was killed in it.”
    “It was an accident,” Metcalf said. “I will not let you affect the daily routine of the elephants here—”
    “Unfortunately, Dr. Metcalf, you don’t get to make that choice.”
    A muscle ticked in his jaw. “How long will it take?”
    I could see Donny losing patience. “I can’t really say. But in the meantime Lieutenant Stanhope and I will need to speak to everyone who interacts with the elephants.”
    “There are four of us. Gideon, Nevvie, me, and Alice. My wife.” Those last words were directed right at Gideon.
    “Where’s Alice?” Donny asked.
    Metcalf stared at Gideon. “I assumed she was with you.”
    His face was twisted with grief. “I haven’t seen her since last night.”
    “Well, neither have I.” The blood drained from Metcalf’s face. “If Alice is gone, who has my daughter?”
    I am pretty certain that my current landlady, Abigail Chivers, is two hundred years old, give or take a few months. Seriously, you’d think so, too, if you met her. I’ve never seen her wearing anything but a black dress with a brooch at her throat, her white hair scraped into a bun, and her pinched mouth shrinking even tighter whenever she pokes her head into my office and starts opening and slamming shut cabinets. She raps her cane on the desk six inches from my head. “Victor,” she says. “I can smell the work of the devil.”
    “Really?” I lift my head off the desk and run my tongue over my teeth, which feel furry. “All I can smell is cheap booze.”
    “I will not condone something illegal—”
    “Hasn’t been illegal in a century, Abby.” I sigh. We’ve had this fight dozens of times. Have I mentioned that in addition to being a teetotaler, Abigail is also apparently in the throes of dementia, and she is just as likely to call me President Lincoln as she is to call me Victor? Of course, this works to my advantage, too. Like when she tells me I’m late on the rent and I lie and say I’ve already paid for the month.
    For an old gal, she’s awfully spry.