Blood Loss (16 page)

They hugged.

That was too good. Run, run for the hills.

Ren sat on her bed and started to read the article. It seemed that Shep Collier’s first brush with negative press was when he caused a racism scandal after being caught on video backstage at a fundraiser: his daughter had tried to hand him her adopted African-American son before he was to go on stage to have his photograph taken, and he had shaken his head and refused to take him.

Holy shit.

Yet, in a side bar to the article was the heading:

Constituent Breaks Silence on Collier Racism Claim

Ren skipped to the quote from a woman called Diana Moore. ‘
I am an African-American woman, representing one of the most under-privileged African-American communities in the state of Mississippi, and I am coming forward today because I believe in Congressman Shepard Collier. I should not be speaking up about this, because of a confidentiality agreement that has been in place for over thirty years. But that doesn’t bother me. I want everyone to know that Congressman Collier funds the nursing home of which I am director, with proceeds from his own private business interests. His generosity has changed lives. I had a hard time believing that Congressman Collier would be involved in a scandal such as the one that has cost him his position. But what I can address are the rumors that he is a racist. They are false, and they are malicious. Congressman Collier has only ever been kind and generous to everyone in our community. And every member of his family is the same. I know for a fact that the reason he did not take his grandson in his arms at his fundraiser that time was that he was suffering from a virus. Unbeknownst to his family, he had been briefly hospitalized that morning. The fact that he never chose to dignify these rumors with a response goes to show what an honorable man Congressman Collier is.’

Ren put the newspaper on the floor by the bed.

Wow. An anti-Obamacare Republican sponsoring a nursing home for underprivileged African-Americans? That would horrify a lot of his Conservative supporters more than him paying for a hooker.

Ren lit the small white candle by the bed and turned off the light. She sat down, then lay back, staring at the ceiling.

Shit. I’ve no clothes.

She sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. She opened her bag. There was clean underwear in the small zipped compartment.

Phew.

She picked up her phone and called Ben. ‘Hello, I’m looking for a discarded, previously perfectly-happy-to-be-used sex addict …’

‘Speaking.’

‘Did I not even kiss you goodbye?’ said Ren.

‘No,’ said Ben. ‘It cheapened the whole thing.’

‘Just when you thought it couldn’t get any cheaper?’

‘How are you doing out there?’ said Ben.

‘The father has disappeared,’ said Ren.

‘No way.’

‘There was a way, apparently.’

‘Shit. What does that mean?’

‘It means I won’t stay on for long, I’ve a lot to get through, including maybe even an hour of sleep. But I promise I’ll think of you right beforehand.’

‘Me too. Stay in touch.’

‘I will.’

Ren grabbed her bag and took out the photo of Laurie Whaley sitting cross-legged on the center of the hotel bed, fresh from the shower. She was eleven, and she was smiling, and she was in pink pajamas, and she was missing.

She looked at the photo of Shelby Royce. She was in sweats, no makeup, her hair up in a high ponytail. The word
whore
flashed in her head, but she let it go. Ren laid the photos of the two girls on the nightstand and rested her head back on the pillow. That night, hundreds of people had gathered in town to light candles and pray for their safe return.

Night, night, girls. I will not rest. I will not rest.

And up Ren got, and downstairs to the living room she went.

At five a.m., Ren jerked awake on the sofa. She was lying down, tucked inside a red fleece blanket. The fire had died and her face was cold. Paul Louderback was asleep in the armchair beside her, his head slumped down on his chest. Their cell phones started to ring at the same time.

‘You take yours, I’ll go,’ said Ren, grabbing her phone from the floor and running to take the call upstairs.

She got off the call and walked back down.

‘Well …’ said Paul.

‘All will be revealed …’ said Ren.

Ren was dressed in her new ski jacket: black, technologically advanced, biker style, $400. The model in the photo online had been wearing it on a shining white ski slope, under a brilliant blue sky, with a look that said
Add to Basket
. Its first outing for Ren was part of a very different picture, one that would sell nothing other than the message that life was cruel, and bleak, and without hope.

At Ren’s feet lay the naked body of Shelby Royce. She was face up, covered in a light dusting of snow. Her limbs were splayed in a terrible way. Her right arm was bent at the elbow, the small hand almost closed, the fingertips bright with blue nail polish. The other arm was by her side, palm up. Her blonde hair was streaked across her face. Underneath the frosty strands, her eyes were open, their irises frozen and cloudy. A gaping hole had been blown through her torso, the burnt black edges dotted with tiny snowflakes.

Beside her, what looked like a black G-string was curled into a tiny ball, and beside that, a black ribbon lay twisted like a telephone cord.

Ren spoke to Paul Louderback, who was by her side; neither of them took their eyes off the body. ‘You know, I wasn’t much into dolls,’ said Ren. ‘But my friend had a Barbie doll, and every now and then we’d play with her. She was mainly naked, and we took her limbs and we stretched them into the most extreme poses we could, and it would be fun, and then we’d throw her away … until the next time.’ She turned to Paul. ‘It was ultimately joyless.’

Paul looked like he was in a trance. All he could do was shake his head.

Robbie Truax walked up with his camera. ‘This is terrible.’

He moved solemnly around the scene, capturing every element with forensic detail, every photo a stone tablet for a future judge and jury. He always took extra photos – the stunning landscapes, the snow gathered on the fork of a branch.

There was a series of five framed photos on a wall in Robbie’s living room. Not one of them gave any indication that the photographer was between one foot and five feet away from a dead body.

When he told Ren, she called him The Morbid Mormon.

But then he explained: for every one photo of the horror of death, he took one of the beauty of life, or art, or humanity: anything to restore the balance. Photos to make people think of life.

And that is the Robbie Truax I know and love.

Bob Gage came up beside Ren.

‘The kids who found the body had been to the vigil,’ he said. ‘They say they were just going for a drive, got out to stretch their legs. Bullshit,’ said Bob. ‘None of them live out this direction. There are six vacation homes here, that’s it. None of these kids’ families own any of them …’

Ren looked around. They were impressive timber-frame houses on half-acre lots, set back off the road, accessed by a curved driveway. The body was not outside any one house, but at the edge of a wooded area at the end of the street.

‘Do you know any of the kids?’ said Ren.

‘A couple of the parents,’ said Bob. ‘I’ll talk to them. We’re trying to get a hold of the owners of the houses too. They’re all out-of-towners.’

‘Are there property management companies taking care of the places while they’re gone?’ said Ren.

‘Mike’s on it,’ said Bob.

Summit County Coroner Denis Lasco made his heavy-footed way across the snow, puffed up by a giant orange parka that added more bulk to his bulk.

‘Agent Bryce,’ he said. He was heaving for breath.

‘Hi Denis,’ said Ren. ‘Good to see you. If only we were meeting for another reason.’

‘No-one meets me for another reason,’ said Lasco.

‘Aw that’s not true,’ said Ren.

‘It’s the way I like it,’ said Lasco.

‘That’s not true either,’ said Ren.

Lasco trudged a little closer to the body.

‘Trust me it’s a dead body,’ said Bob Gage.

Lasco was known for his reluctance to commit to anything at a scene.

Bob kept talking. ‘Female, sixteen years old, photo’s been all over the newspapers recently, gunshot wound to the chest. Resulting in? The girl’s dead.’

‘I have yet to confirm her demise,’ said Lasco.

‘This is what you’re dealing with,’ said Bob to Ren.

‘What we’re dealing with is all of you dancing jigs on crime scenes,’ said Lasco. ‘Can we all please stand back? Right the way back. All of you.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said Bob. ‘We’ve done this before.’

‘With varying degrees of success,’ said Lasco. ‘And when I say success, I mean “effective evidence preservation on the part of the Sheriff’s Office”.’

Bob’s eyes flashed. He didn’t reply, but turned and retraced his steps to the trees. Ren did the same. Bob’s cell phone rang.

‘Let the shitstorm commence,’ he said, as he hit Answer.

Ren noticed a green and navy parka lying against the tree trunk beside her.

‘I’ve seen that before,’ said Ren, turning to Bob reflexively.

Bob had walked away.

Ren heard Mike Delaney’s voice behind her. ‘Yes, you have,’ he said. ‘And the owner is in his shirt a hundred yards away, minus his face.’

Mark Whaley was slumped against a tree trunk, with most of his skull missing. The shotgun had fallen away from his body and lay half-covered in snow. His pale blue shirt was filthy and sweat-stained. His beige pants had turned a yellow-gray and were soiled. Like Shelby Royce, he was lightly dusted with snow.

‘Please tell me Laurie Whaley isn’t around here somewhere …’ said Ren.

‘Search and Rescue is on its way,’ said Mike. ‘We’ll find her if she is.’

Bob came back to them. He stood over the body, shaking his head.

‘Murder-suicide?’ he said.

‘Looks like it,’ said Mike.

‘These big business guys,’ said Bob. ‘They just can’t help themselves. Whipping their dicks and their wallets out.’

‘Power and money, power and money,’ said Mike.

‘Beautifully put, everyone,’ said Ren.

It looks like Erica Whaley didn’t know her husband. She didn’t know him at all.

Denis Lasco appeared behind them.

Bob spoke loud: ‘Male, forty-nine years old, name of Mark Whaley, photo’s all over the newspapers. Gunshot wound to the head. Resulting in? The guy’s dead. Very cold. Ice cold, brewed in the Rocky Mountains.’

‘I will be ignoring you from now on,’ said Lasco.

Gary came up beside Ren.

‘I’m going to go with Detective Owens to notify the Royces. But I want you to go back there later today with Bob and go through Shelby Royce’s room again. It’s been searched, but it hasn’t been searched by a female.’

There was no sexism. Sometimes it did make a difference.

Ren nodded. ‘OK. Am I looking for anything in particular?’

‘Every particular,’ said Gary.

‘At least you’re taking care of the notification,’ said Ren.

‘I’ve built up a rapport with the Royces.’

Oh no. Please don’t make me.

‘You know what I’m going to ask you to do,’ said Gary.

Ren and Bob arrived at the Whaleys’ hotel room and knocked on the door. From inside, they could hear someone rush toward them. They glanced at each other. Erica Whaley unlocked the door and pulled it open. She crumpled to the floor in front of them before they had even spoken.

‘What happened?’ said Erica, already crying. ‘What happened? What happened?’

Ren crouched down beside her, and laid her hand gently on Erica’s arm. ‘Let’s take you inside, let’s get you to the sofa.’

‘Who is it?’ said Erica as Ren helped her to her feet. She clung to her. ‘Who is it? Who did you find? Is it Mark? Is it Laurie? Who is it?’

Ren’s eyes started to well.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Then the tears were gone.

‘Let’s get you sitting down, Mrs Whaley,’ said Bob. ‘Let me help you.’

When she was sitting down, Ren sat beside her. Erica gripped Ren’s hands.

‘We’ve found your husband,’ said Ren. ‘And I’m afraid the news is not good.’

Erica blinked several times. ‘Is he … is he … are you saying he’s … dead?’

‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘I’m afraid your husband is dead.’

‘But … but … what happened?’ said Erica.

‘We can’t say for definite until we get the coroner’s report,’ said Ren. ‘But we suspect that your husband took his own life.’

‘No,’ said Erica. ‘No, he would never do that. Mark would absolutely never do that. I know him. I know him.’ She glanced to Bob, then back at Ren. ‘Laurie! Where’s Laurie? Did you find Laurie?’

‘No, ma’am,’ said Bob. ‘But we have officers out there looking for her.’

‘I love him so much,’ said Erica. ‘Oh my God, I love him so much.’

‘I know you do,’ said Ren. ‘I know you do.’ Ren looked at Bob over Erica’s head.

Erica raised her head suddenly. ‘Shelby Royce,’ she said. ‘Did you find Shelby Royce?’

Bob Gage stepped in and told her the worst news she was ever likely to hear. Ren watched as Erica retreated somewhere so far away from this new reality that it was shocking to watch.

‘Jonathan!’ Erica cried. ‘Jonathan!’

Jonathan Meester rushed out from the bedroom. He ran to Erica. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Ren and Bob. ‘I had to take a call. I … what’s going on?’

Erica could barely speak, but managed to get out what happened.

‘No,’ said Jonathan. ‘No. This has to be a mistake. This can’t be … this is a mistake. Mark would never do this. He would never harm another living being. I’ve known him my whole life. He’d never do anything like this. And he’d never leave Erica and the kids. Never.’

Ren could hear Bob’s cell phone ring. He picked up.

‘What the—?’ he said. Pause. ‘Are you sure?’

He walked into the hallway. Ren followed.

‘You better be one hundred percent—’ Bob was saying.