Blood of Innocence (Sloan Skye) (11 page)

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Authors: Tami Dane

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“What did he think he saw?” I asked, feeling a little tingle of hope.
“I don’t know. I haven’t interviewed him yet. I was waiting for you.”
“Let’s go.”
We found the victim’s husband, Ben Townsend, sitting in the living room, talking to McGrane. Townsend looked exhausted, mentally and emotionally spent, and overwhelmed. I could only imagine how awful he actually felt.
“Sloan Skye,” I said when McGrane introduced us to the husband. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“It was like something out of a Stephen King movie. I’m telling you,” Townsend said, his glance flicking toward the window, “I don’t know what the hell it was, but I gotta believe it was what killed my wife.”
“Sir, would you mind describing what you saw, from the beginning?” JT asked, pulling out a notebook.
I grabbed my phone and put on the audio recorder.
“It was just after one. I’d had a lot to drink and was feeling like shit, so I got up to go to the bathroom. Since my wife became pregnant, I’ve been sleeping on the far side of the bed. Natalie gets up a half-dozen times every night. It made sense. Anyway, as I was coming around the end of the bed, I tripped over something. It was ... long, pale, a tube of some kind. It was coming from the window, stretching across the floor, and disappearing under the bed. I thought about grabbing it. But I had to get to the bathroom in a hurry. You know how it is, right? Anyway, when I went back to bed, I looked for it, but it was gone.”
JT and I exchanged looks.
JT wanted to believe the husband’s testimony.
So did I. Even though he’d been under the influence of alcohol. This was the first time a husband had possibly been awake and alert around the time of the killing.
“Sir, is there any possibility that you might have been under the influence of a drug that could have caused a hallucination?” I asked. “It’s not so much that we care what you were taking than it is that we need to make sure you really saw what you believe you saw.”
Townsend’s bloodshot eyes widened as he nodded. “It was real. I’m telling you. As real as you and me. I drink too much. I’ll admit that. But I don’t do drugs. Never have.”
“How much would you say you drank last night?” McGrane asked.
“I had twelve beers. And half a pint of vodka”
That was a lot of alcohol.
“How often do you drink?” I asked.
“Well ... every day,” he admitted reluctantly. “But, I swear, what I saw was real.”
“Have you ever hallucinated after drinking alcohol?” JT asked.
Townsend sighed. “Yes. But it was years ago. I’d been drinking really heavy back then. More than now. Every day. And I ended up in the hospital after having some problems. They called it”—he visibly searched for the words—“‘alcohol-induced psychosis,’ I think. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what it was. I went through rehab and stopped drinking. Stayed sober for almost five years. I just started drinking again.”
“How long ago did you start drinking again?” JT asked.
“I started again when I was laid off work. I mean, who wouldn’t? I lost my job. The bills were piling up. That was right after Christmas.”
That was over six months ago. If he’d been drinking twelve beers and half a pint a night since then, he had built up a pretty hefty tolerance. It was a known fact that alcohol tolerance could impact the effect of certain drugs, such as painkillers and anesthesia. If the unsub was dosing the husbands to give her time to kill, that could be why he woke up and the others hadn’t. Then again, there was also a good chance he was having another bout of alcohol-related psychosis.
But something in the back of my mind told me he might have seen what he thought he saw.
“Would you consider providing a blood sample for testing?” I asked.
His eyes narrowed. “For what?”
“We suspect the killer may have drugged you.”
He didn’t answer right away. Finally Townsend nodded. “Sure. Okay.”
“Thank you. I’d also like to take a look at the room,” I said.
“Sure,” Townsend said.
JT tapped my shoulder. “I’ll get Townsend to an EMT. Then I’m going to see if any neighbors are available for questioning.”
“Okay.”
McGrane followed me upstairs. Like the other victims, the Townsends lived in a two-story Colonial. The bedroom was at the end of the hall, facing the backyard. I looked at the bed first—Natalie’s body had already been moved—then went to the pair of windows on the opposite wall.
“Did Townsend tell you which window the tube was coming from?” I asked McGrane.
“This one.” He pointed at the one closest to the front of the bedroom.
It was shut. “Do you know if the window was open last night?”
“I don’t know. I can check with the crew. Maybe someone shut it.”
“Thanks.” I stooped down to inspect the frame and sill closer. “And could you ask Townsend to come back up after he’s done with EMS? I have some more questions for him.”
“Sure.” McGrane left.
I concentrated on inspecting the window. It was vinyl-framed, double-hung. Outside the glass pane was a metal-framed screen for keeping out insects. And beyond that, there was no tree, no structure that an intruder could climb. I pulled some gloves out of my pockets and lifted the window; then I slid the screen up to look directly below. There was an evergreen bush planted under the window. It would be tough but not impossible for someone to get a ladder close enough to reach the window. From my vantage point, I saw no signs of damage to the bush or the grass in front of it. No nicks or scrapes or dents on the siding below the window either.
Maybe I had been wrong about this. I hooked my fingers over the screen frame and pulled down to close it. My left pinky poked through a little gap between the screen and metal frame.
Yes!
“You had some questions for me?” Townsend asked as he stepped through the doorway. He hung back, standing just inside the room.
“What was the diameter of the tube you saw?” I asked, wriggling my finger in the hole.
“Oh, I’d say ... about the diameter of a pencil. Maybe a little thicker.”
I tugged my finger out and looked closely at the metal mesh. From the looks of it, it had been cut. With just the slightest pressure, the mesh gave way, creating a hole big enough for a tube the diameter of a pencil to fit through.
But if the window had been closed, would it matter? I took a look at the frame again. Was it possible the unsub closed the window from the outside? I pushed the screen halfway up; then I reached out and tried to pull the window down in place. Sure enough, it slid, as far as it could with my arm in the way.
But that still left one very troubling question. How the heck had the unsub gained access to the window?
I snapped a few pictures of the screen, the window, the sill, and the outside siding right under the window; then I turned around.
Townsend was sitting on the bed now, glaring at the vodka bottle in his fist. Tears were dripping from his chin. His face was red. His eyes were red. “I never thought it would cost me so much.” He lifted the bottle. “I never thought it would take away the one, the only, person in the world who gives a damn if I live or die. And our child. My son.” His hand tightened. His lips thinned.
“Vodka didn’t do that.” Fearing he might do something crazy, like hurt himself, I gently pulled the bottle out of his hand. “Alcohol didn’t take your wife away. Her death isn’t its fault. Or yours. This was a horrible tragedy, with only one person to blame. We’re going to do our best to catch her. I promise. But will you promise me something in return?”
“What?” he asked, sniffling, lifting bloodshot eyes to mine.
“Promise me you’ll go right now and check yourself into rehab. Please.”
He didn’t answer right away. With gritted teeth, he glared at the bottle in my hand. Finally he said, “Okay. I’ll do it.”
You have to take risks. We will only understand the miracle of life fully when we allow the unexpected to happen.
—Paul Coehlo
 
11
 
A few hours later, after spending the rest of the day retracing Natalie Townsend’s movements yesterday, I headed over to my parents’ place. I found my father sitting in the living room; his feet were kicked up on an ottoman. A bowl of chips were on his lap. He looked like Joe Average sitting there, not like the head of some supersecret security force for a queen. More than once, I had wondered if the whole elf queen thing was all a big, fat lie. If my parents’ upcoming wedding didn’t bring the truth out in the open, I supposed my special project just might.
My father smiled and patted the couch. “Sloan, come sit with me.”
I sat, but not where he wanted. I made myself comfortable on the love seat. He noticed, I’m sure, but he didn’t make a big deal out of it.
“What’s this about a television show?” he asked.
“You know Elmer, right? The prince of the
Sluagh.
The one you promised me to?” I had some very strong feelings about anyone who promised a child as a bride to a grown man, but that was a topic for another day.
“Sure. I remember. Did you change your mind? Did you decide to marry him, after all?” he asked, with one hand in the chip bowl.
“Hell no.”
That gained a reaction. My father’s lips twitched. He didn’t smile. “You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.” He delivered a handful of chips to his mouth and crunched.
“Easy for you to say. You’re marrying Mom. And she might not be a sexy young thing anymore, but she’s still very beautiful.”
That was the truth. Sometimes I was so focused on what was wrong with her—in particular, her tendency to see things that weren’t there ... and build dangerous contraptions out of scavenged parts ... and short-circuit entire buildings ... and wear the most ridiculous outfits imaginable—that I didn’t see what most people saw when they looked at her. She was classically beautiful.
Sadly, those beautiful genes didn’t get passed down to me. I was nowhere near gorgeous on the looks scale. Being honest with myself, I’d have to say I was sitting smack-dab in the middle. More attractive than some girls. Less attractive than others. I generally described myself as “ordinary.”
“That’s true. Beverly is beautiful,” my father agreed. “But so is Elmer—handsome, not beautiful—if you can look past the surface.”
Elmer was much, much, much farther down on the beautiful-people scale, hovering very close to hideous.
“You’re really reaching there,” I told him.
He shrugged. “Someday you’ll see what I mean.”
“Anyway,” I said, steering the conversation back toward the direction it needed to go, “I’m helping him find a wife.”
“Interesting.”
“And we’ve run across a few issues.”
“I see.”
“So I decided we need to get creative, tackle it in an unconventional manner.”
“Is this where the television show comes in to play?”
“Yes. I’d like to do a
Who Wants to Marry a Prince?
program, where women vie for a chance to become his wife.”
“Fascinating concept.” His tone belied his words.
Doubter.
“I think it’ll work. But I need some help finding a production company to handle the casting and filming. And then I’ll need help pitching the series to networks.”
“And that’s why you called me?” he asked as he crammed another handful of chips into his mouth. The man was either ravenous or just an overgrown child.
“Do you happen to know anyone in television?”
“I do,” he said around a mouthful of deep-fried potatoes.
“Do you think you could arrange a meeting with me so I can pitch the concept?”
“Maybe.”
“Really?”
He swallowed. “I’ll put in a few calls. See what I can do.”
“That would be great! Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He turned off the television, giving me his full attention. “But I want to make sure you’ve thought this through. You realize what you’re giving up, Sloan?”
Giving up? “Sure. Marriage to a man who doesn’t love me.”
“Are you certain he’s not for you?” he asked, eyes leveled at mine.
“Yes. Positive. I have no doubt. Absolutely none.”
“Okay. If that’s the case, I’ll do my best.”
I could almost hug the man. But I didn’t. “Thank you.”
He nodded, giving me a small smile. “I know you’re having a hard time accepting me, trusting me, but I mean it when I say that I only want what’s best for you. I’ve always wanted what’s best for you.”
I believed he believed that. In some ways, he was probably as delusional as my mother.
“Thank you again for helping me,” I said.
Mom’s timing was perfect. She came prancing into the room, sporting a hot pink jogging suit with the word “pink” printed across her ass. Her face was the shade of her pants; her hair was gathered into a messy ponytail; she was breathing heavily.
Oh, and she had a lit joint as thick as my father’s thumb pinched between her lips.
Exercise, an organic, vegetarian diet ... and marijuana.
Oxymoron.
“Mom?” I pointed at the joint.
“It’s homegrown. One hundred percent natural. Did you come to work on the wedding?” she asked as she bounced up to my father and gave him a little kiss.
“Actually, no.”
Mom let me know, under no uncertain terms, that she was unhappy with that response.
Thus, I changed it. “I guess I have a couple of hours.”
She beamed. “I’ll go change my clothes. We can go dress shopping. You can try on dresses too.”
Nifty. “Okay.”
Mom scampered off to find something more presentable to wear, leaving me with my father. Thankfully, he’d turned the television back on when Mom and I had been talking. He was watching a baseball game. Not my cuppa. But that was okay. If he was involved in the game, we wouldn’t have to talk.
He cut off the TV again. Turned his attention back to me. “Listen, Sloan, while I’ve got you here, I want to talk to you about your mother.”
“Sure.”
“I’d like to buy her a wedding gift, but I don’t know what to get her. Can you give me some suggestions?”
“Oh. Um. I don’t know.” If someone had asked me that question a few weeks ago, I would’ve had some ideas. But recently my mother had changed. She seemed to have become so much more materialistic. Take this freaking house, for instance, with its overpriced furniture, enormous rooms, and ridiculous square footage.
My father scowled. “I was hoping you’d have some ideas.”
I shrugged. “Her whole life has changed in a short time. She went from having so little to this.” I swept my arm, like Vanna White, in a wide arc. “What more could she need?”
“I see your point. But I still want to give her something special, something meaningful.”
“Sorry I’m not being much help. But if something comes up today while we’re shopping, I’ll let you know.”
“Good enough. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Sloan, I’m ready,” Mom said, prancing into the room, wearing a very nice dress and sandals. Sporting a pair of jean shorts and a T-shirt, I was feeling underdressed.
“You look great,” I told her. “Maybe I should go home and change first.”
Mom tossed a dismissive hand. “You look fine. Let’s go.” She looped her arm with mine and together we went out to my car. She inhaled. “Do you smell that?”
“What?”
“The air smells so good today.”
I wasn’t smelling anything out of the ordinary. “Yes, it does,” I said, deciding it was easier just to agree.
As we took our seats in my car, Mom said, “So what do you think of the house? I’ve never had access to an unlimited budget before. It’s been so much fun shopping.”
“I bet.” I started the car and drove down the long, private driveway.
“I heard what your father asked you, by the way. Isn’t he sweet?”
“He is,” I said.
“I have the perfect gift in mind.” She batted her eyelashes.
Another pool boy, perhaps?
“So you want to tell me so I can give him a little hint?” I asked as I turned onto Maple Street, heading toward the freeway.
“No. That would be too easy. I want him to figure it out on his own.”
That left me out of the equation. I liked that. A lot. “But what if he gets it wrong?”
She shrugged. “There won’t be a wedding.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. If he can’t figure out what I want, above everything else, then we shouldn’t be married.”
“Are you going to tell him this?”
“No.” She smiled. “I can’t wait to try on dresses. What do you think? Should I go with something traditional? Classic? Or should I go with something more modern? Of course, it must be white.”
Nothing like an abrupt change of subject ... and mood.
“Of course,” I said.
“For the bridesmaids, I was thinking of orange dresses.”
“Orange?” That was probably the worst color she could have picked. Naturally, I’d be smiling at my parents’ wedding—if there was one—because it would be what they wanted. But ... orange? Could she be so cruel?
We stopped at a light.
Mom poked the radio on and started station surfing. “You know it’s my favorite color,” she said over Alicia Keys. “Orange and white were my colors the first time we were married.”
“That was a long time ago, Mom. Maybe you’d like to do something different this time.”
She crinkled her nose. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the music or my suggestion. “Why would I do that? We were happy back then. In love. Insanely happy.” She hit the button, moving to the next station. The car filled with the nerve-grating sound of screaming guitars.
I sighed. “Well ... I guess I can find a way to make orange work.”
Mom smacked my shoulder, busting into a riotous guffaw. “I was just kidding. I have something else in mind. You’ll love it.” Then she started headbanging like a teenage boy at an Ozzy concert.
“I can hardly wait.”
 
 
“Are you kidding? Please tell me this is another joke.”
I’ve known for years that my mother’s brain was wired differently from most other people’s brains. After all, she is a walking, talking bundle of oxymorons and contradictions. Before I could speak a word, she was reading Kipling, Frost, and Poe to me, with a halo of pot smoke circling her head. She’s a flower child. She’s a wannabe inventor. She’s delusional.
And she’s clinically insane.
And I am not.
Which was why there was no way she was going to convince me to wear that awful ... thing. Calling it a dress was stretching the truth too far.
“Please,” Mom said, giving me one of her trademark sad-eyed looks. “Try it on. That’s all I ask. That you try it on.”
I glanced at the tag. The price had to be wrong. There were far too many zeros in that number. “It’s the wrong size.”
“They run small. I had her pull the size according to your measurements.”
“You don’t know my measurements.”
“Thirty-four, twenty-seven, thirty-six.”
I gaped. Even though she had my hip measurement off by a couple of inches, that was scary-close. Then again, she’d borrowed my clothes plenty of times. My measurements weren’t much different than hers.
She tipped up her chin in triumph. “I’m your mother. Of course I know your measurements.” With a shooing gesture, she sent me toward the fitting room. “Hustle now. I can’t wait to see you in that gown. It’s going to be spectacular.”
“Spectacularly horrific,” I mumbled as I shuffled into a fitting room. A knock on the door interrupted my undressing. “Yes?” I called through the paper-thin wall.
“I’ve come to help you dress,” a strange voice responded.
I stopped what I was doing, clutched the shirt I’d just shucked to my chest. “You have the wrong room.”
“No, I work for Mizelle Designs. It’s required we assist the customer anytime one of our gowns is tried on.”
Lovely. I glanced at the strapless piece of crap I was supposed to be trying on and started putting my top back on. This just wasn’t worth it. “I’ll be out in a moment.”
“Please allow me to help—”

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