The Body Reader (13 page)

CHAPTER 27

L
et’s talk about Detective Fontaine.” Ortega leaned a hip against her desk and crossed her arms. Uriah didn’t sit down but instead remained near the closed inner-office door. Just hours earlier he and Jude had been diving behind the couch at the Holt house.

Beyond the glass walls, Jude and Grant Vang were deep in discussion, probably about the Holt and Masters task force they were putting together.

He had to give Vang credit for keeping his cool around Jude. He didn’t act weird after seeing the photos. Uriah wasn’t sure he could say the same thing about himself. He’d seen Jude shoot him a question mark a few times. She was picking up on something. If she asked what was going on, he’d lie. She’d probably pick up on that too. But no matter how well she was handling her return to life and work, he was pretty sure she wouldn’t want to know those photos existed and that he’d seen them.

“I made a mistake,” Ortega said. “I shouldn’t have let her come back. You were right. It seems cruel now.” She shrugged as if to highlight her point. “Maybe it would have been fine if things had been fairly normal around here, but nothing has been normal for quite some time. It’s been one damn thing after the other. I can’t imagine what kind of impact all this is having on her. Finding the house and the body, followed by the attack and decapitation, then the unfortunate drama that took place with the parents.”

Sometimes Uriah thought Ortega was too sensitive for the job as chief. She’d brought Fontaine in because she felt sorry for her. Now she wanted to get rid of her for the same reason. She didn’t seem to understand that jerking her around was worse.

“I saw Fontaine after she was attacked,” Uriah said, “and she was handling it well. Cool as always.”

“In public,” Ortega said. “Who knows how she is at home. And, if she’s truly unaffected, then that also makes me question her mental state.” She circled her desk and sat down. “I’m thinking of telling her to take two weeks off, then maybe giving her six months’ full pay and a benefit package.” She looked at him. “Unless you can convince me otherwise. How does she seem to you? Out there in the street?”

“Fontaine’s not
right
. I doubt she’ll ever be
right
. But who here is? Once any one of us has a homicide or two or three under our belts, aren’t we all existing and working with a new understanding of just what the world is capable of? And aren’t we all at least a little closer to a meltdown? But she’s focused. Nothing distracts her. So far, she’s kept impressively cool when the situation calls for it. I’d hate to see her go.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever hear you defend her.”

Surprised him too. “I was worried about her at first,” Uriah admitted, “but I think her experience has actually made her a better cop and maybe made her better equipped to deal with whatever is thrown at her.”

“
If
she doesn’t crack.”

“We’re all at risk of that.”

“Okay. I won’t pull her, not yet anyway, but you’re going to have to keep an eye on her.” She seemed relieved that she didn’t have to deal with telling Fontaine to go home for good. “Send her in. I want to talk to her in private.”

“Detective Ashby said you wanted to see me.” Jude stood in Chief Ortega’s office wondering if she was about to be fired.

Sitting in her chair, Ortega fiddled with her pen. Her nervousness didn’t bode well for Jude. “How are things going?” the chief asked. “Any second thoughts about being back here?” Her desk was littered with framed photos and leafy plants that Jude didn’t know the names of.
A plant might be nice,
she thought.

“It’s uncomfortable at times, I’ll admit it,” Jude said. “And I’m worried that my celebrity—for lack of a better word—might have been behind the death of the Holt girl. That makes me question whether I should be here at all.” Maybe that’s what this meeting was about. Maybe Ortega was having the same thoughts.

“You were held captive for three years. I don’t know what I’d do in your situation, but I think I might want to get as far away from police work as possible. Maybe go to Disney World or take a trip to Paris. Have you ever been out of the country?”

Yep. About to be fired. “A trip to Ireland with my father and brother when I was little. I don’t remember much about it.” A trip meant to be a distraction after the horrific death of Natalie Schilling.

“Maybe you should think about traveling. Life moves so fast, you know.”

“It kind of feels like it’s not moving at all.”

“What do you want, Jude? You must want something. Forget the travel idea. What do you want right now? For yourself? Spiritually? Emotionally? Just day to day?”

Jude thought about buying a plant, but did she have enough nurturing left in her to care for it? “I want what I can’t have,” she decided.

“And what’s that?” Ortega clicked her pen, and suddenly Jude felt as if she were visiting the department psychologist. She glanced around the desk, wondering if Ortega had received an updated report. There was no file in sight, but maybe the woman had tucked it in a drawer.

Jude focused on the question, looking for the truth within herself. What
did
she want? “My old home, my old bed, my dishes, my clothes, my books,” she decided with suddenly clarity. And Eric. “That’s the only thing that kept me going when I was in that place. The only thing that kept me alive. Thinking about getting back there.”

Ortega smiled a little, and Jude got the idea her honesty had made her boss happy.

“Sit down, sweetie.”

Jude sat, a bit surprised by her own words and the truth of those words.

She still carried the memories of happier days with her just like she’d carried them with her when she was in the cell,
her
cell. Maybe that’s why she’d had the urge to go inside and close the door yesterday. God, was that only yesterday? With all that had happened, it felt like weeks ago.

Would going back inside the cell have felt like a do-over? Would it have given her the chance to reset her escape to return home to that warm welcome she’d dreamed of? Unrealistic, of course, but the brain often rejected logic in favor of desire.

“Have you gone to see him?” Ortega asked. “Eric?”

“Not since the night of my escape.” She’d tried not to think about that night. It was something the department psychologist had asked about too.

“Maybe you should. Talk to him. It might bring some closure.”

“Or it might hurt all over again.”

“Would you be open to seeing him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“The reason I brought it up is because he’s called, asking about you. He wanted to know how you were doing. He wanted your phone number, but of course I didn’t give it to him.”

Ortega leaned forward, elbows on her desk. “One of the reasons I called you in here was to tell you that I’m having a cookout this weekend. My husband got a new grill, and he’s anxious to crank it up.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s crazy about that stuff. I don’t know why. But Detectives Vang and Ashby will be there. Harold, from Evidence. You should come.”

“Is it mandatory?”

“Absolutely not. But I like my detectives to get together after hours. I’m not talking about going to a bar, but homey stuff. You have to have balance in this job; otherwise the cases will consume you.” She rummaged around in her desk, found a piece of paper with writing on it, added something, and passed it across her desk. “My address. Saturday, four p.m. until who knows when.”

Jude accepted the paper. It had the police-department logo in one corner, Chief Ortega’s name across the top, her home address, and a series of numbers that looked familiar.

A cookout. Men in aprons. Kids, and maybe dogs running around. Jude didn’t even know if she was ready for a plant, and here Ortega was, offering an even larger taste of normal. Something about it seemed the worst possible thing for her to do. “I don’t think I’ll make it, but thanks for the invitation.”

“The phone number?” Ortega asked, pointing. “It belongs to Eric.”

Eric.

“I’ve wondered what he did with all of my things.” Maybe that’s what he wanted to talk to her about. “I have to be honest,” Jude said as she folded the paper. “I thought you called me in here to let me go.”

“I just wanted to chat and see how you were doing,” Ortega said.

It seemed impossible, but Ortega was easier to read than Uriah. She’d obviously called Uriah in to get a report, which meant he must have said something favorable.

“Try to enjoy some things,” Ortega said. “Even if it’s just a damn good latte from the café around the corner. If you need to talk, I’m here. And think about the cookout.”

Later that afternoon, Jude, Uriah, and Vang spearheaded a meeting to brief beat officers on the Holt case. The meeting was held in a second-floor conference room with a low ceiling, fluorescent lights, and rows of flimsy chairs that threatened to buckle under some of the larger cops.

On the wall at the front of the room was a large corkboard that depicted what Jude liked to think of as the genealogy of a crime. The board contained a map of the city, photos of the victims, along with crime-scene images. Other details, such as information that matched both the Holt and Masters murders, ran along one side, to be built upon by task-force detectives and beat cops alike.

Almost all departments had moved to digital files that could be accessed through their VPN, or virtual private network, but Jude still liked the old-fashioned and what some might consider outdated use of the wall.

A few theories were tossed around, many conflicting. The one thing everybody seemed to agree on was that Lola Holt’s head had been left as a warning to anybody who might consider coming forward with information about the murder of Delilah Masters.

“Tip-line phones will be active in a few hours,” Jude told the officers. “So be prepared to respond to those calls.”

The briefing was short, not over ten minutes.

“Hopefully we’ll have more information next time,” Vang added as he passed briefing sheets to the men and women leaving the room.

“Notice anything unusual?” Uriah asked once it was just the three task-force members left in the room.

Vang glanced around and shrugged. Jude immediately knew what Uriah was talking about. “They were scared,” she said. “The cops were scared.”

“Why?” Vang asked.

Uriah explained. “They’re thinking the severed head wasn’t just for high school girls who might be tempted to speak up. It was a warning for us too. All of us.”

CHAPTER 28

J
ude hadn’t attended a press conference since her return from the dead. That’s what she was calling it nowadays. Return from the dead.

This time around, when Chief Ortega insisted she put in an appearance, she didn’t fight it. She was beginning to understand the ramifications of trying to maintain a low profile. After a point, people got tired of giving her space while their curiosity intensified. She’d still not granted anyone an interview. Now, due to the amped-up horror, those same people were salivating with curiosity while the locals wanted to know who was looking out for them.

Sometimes press conferences were held on the sidewalk in front of the Minneapolis Police Department main doors, but this one was taking place in the more controlled surroundings of the pressroom, with its low ceiling, fluorescent lighting, and business-style setting. The state and US flags designated the official space behind the typical cluster of microphones. In the crowd, Jude spotted familiar media faces from the local news outlets, along with some not-so-familiar faces she suspected were national.

Chief Ortega positioned herself behind the mic, with Jude and Uriah to one side. “We’ll begin shortly,” Ortega told the crowd of reporters. “We’re waiting for one final person.” The words were barely out of her mouth when a commotion drew all eyes to the door. In walked the governor of Minnesota, trailed by his entourage—including Jude’s brother, Adam Schilling.

Her mouth went dry and her stomach clenched.

She’d seen her father on the news several times, recently and not so recently, but she hadn’t been in close proximity since she was a teenager. She shot Uriah a silent question:
Did you know he was coming?

He responded with a slight shake of his head.

She wanted to leave, to run. Instead, she managed, almost mindlessly, to participate in the presentation of facts, followed by the Q&A.

Her father reassured the crowd that everything was being done that could be done, and nothing would be overlooked. “Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension is one of the best in the country,” he said.

Dialogue shifted to his political agenda and his plans to support the mayor in his plea for increased funding in all areas of police work, including getting more officers back on the streets. Then the press conference wrapped up. Before Jude could make an escape, her father cut behind Chief Ortega to grab Jude by the elbow, a big white smile on his face as cameras snapped, capturing the two of them together. Father and daughter.

“Jude. I’m happy to see you,” he said. “I was relieved and thankful to hear you were alive.” He might have been gray and in his sixties, but he exuded vitality and the appearance of someone who ate right and ran several miles a day.

She knew she should reply. She knew the world was watching, waiting for her response—which was exactly what this was about. Behind her, she felt Ortega’s presence, even though the chief wasn’t within her field of vision.

Jude got it. She suddenly understood why it was so important that she be here even though her participation was disruptive. The press conference had been about this moment, about introducing Jude to the world as a stable woman related to a powerful man. A good daughter. The public would be reassured that she wasn’t the crazy cop who’d briefly brought shame to the governor by emancipating herself.

People were horrified by the recent murders, and the decapitation of Lola Holt had sparked terror in the heart of every citizen. They needed to be reassured that Jude could handle whatever was thrown her way, and that her history, old and new, was just that—history. Personal issues would not get in the way of the investigation.

While Jude loathed insincerity of any kind, she was no longer a child and she now knew how to play the game. She returned the governor’s smile and reached for him, a hand to his shoulder. Leaning in, she smelled the fabric of his expensive suit, smelled the sunblock that was doing its part to protect his aging skin. The flatness of his eyes and the taut muscles in his cheeks transmitted a different story the photos and video footage wouldn’t tell. And then she did something that took even her by surprise. She leaned in close and kissed him. Just a brush of her lips against his cheek. When she pulled back, she saw confusion and anger in his eyes.

And now she realized that this hadn’t been about a show of solidarity, at least not for him.

“Good to see you, Father.”

“Yes . . .” He was at a loss for words.

He’d probably agreed to come, braced for a confrontation. Maybe he’d even hoped to prove she was unfit for duty. She’d never been able to figure him out, and today he seemed as much of a mystery as ever, proof that her years in the basement hadn’t left her with superpowers.

She smiled and moved away, ignoring the reporters and the microphones shoved in front of her. Outside, she turned her face to the sun and began walking. Inside, she was quaking.

A shout came from behind, followed by the sound of running feet. “Detective Fontaine! Please. I have to talk to you.”

With no change in gait, without turning, Jude said, “I don’t talk to reporters.”

The woman caught up, walk-jogging beside Jude. “I’m not a reporter. My name is Kennedy Broder. My boyfriend was Ian Caldwell. He was a police-beat reporter for the
Trib
.” When the name failed to register, she rushed to explain: “A little over three years ago he met with you, and a few hours later he was dead.”