by A B Whelan
Brad is just too cute. It’s not easy to pretend I’m mad at him. He is my little prom-king-heartthrob-turned-soft-teddy-bear hubby. Nobody can be mad at a teddy bear.
I relax my shoulders and let out a relieved breath. “All right. Just let me stay, pleeeeaaasee.” I press my hands together like a praying angel. “You need someone to identify the body, don’t you? Ashley’s coming.”
“Hell no! I won’t get into trouble just so your murder groupie friend can snap a few photos for Facebook.”
“Come on, Brad. You know that’s not true. Ashley’s been looking for her patient since yesterday. She needs to know if that body in the mud is Skyler.”
“No way. The lieutenant’s here and two detectives.”
A black SUV pulls up behind us. Two crime scene investigators wearing navy-blue baseball caps, khakis, and puffy rain jackets spill out of the car. There is a confident manner in their postures, but I don’t see what Brad means about them acting like movie stars. They seem normal to me. One of them is tall and lean, and his face is wrinkled and worn, like an old newspaper. The other one is a woman with a thick chestnut ponytail hanging over her lumberjack back.
“Just try to imagine what your captain would say if you were the officer who managed to identify the body early,” I whisper to Brad, then wink at him.
“Take me to the crime scene, officer,” says the male CSI, flashing his badge.
“Right this way,” offers Brad, and then he leans in closer to me. Here comes stage three: submission. “Tell your friend to hurry up. Maybe I can buy her a little time.”
An hour later, I’m still standing in the parking lot by Hernandez Cove, soaked to the bone despite having a crappy umbrella I dug up from the bottom of my closet this morning, when a big white van rolls down the dirt road and parks next to the forensic unit’s SUV. Two guys in gray overalls and a woman in a navy-blue pantsuit step out of the van. Brad beats the other officer—Tim, who talks even more than he eats (based on a few BBQs spent together)—in welcoming the newcomers.
The body snatchers walk on unyielding tree-trunk legs with big, heavy steps. Their barrel bodies hunch over as the heavy rain knocks down on them. “This one is a double bagger, boys,” Brad says to them, shaking his head.
“Yep,” murmurs the one who carries the empty black bag, showing no emotion, not even the slightest expression of dismay at such a grim scene. His face reminds me of the cartoon figure Goofy, elongated with droopy skin.
“Yeah,” adds the other who plods behind the ME. The top layer of his hair is braided over the rest of the damp mess. As he turns his head toward Brad, the edge of a tattoo reaches out from under his collar.
Once alone, I hold out the umbrella to Brad, but he snaps my hand away, jerking his head around nervously. It was a pointless gesture anyway. He’s already soaking wet.
“Where is your friend?” he asks impatiently.
“Should be here any minute. She’s coming from L.A. You know how bad traffic can be on the 91 freeway.”
“Tell her to hurry the fuck up. Those dudes will bag the body, and then it’s over. Only family is allowed in the morgue.”
Just as I pull out my phone to call Ashley again, a white Mercedes SUV flies into the parking lot and rolls onto a patch of dirt right behind me, splashing mud onto the other parked vehicles. The door swings open. A balding, middle-aged man dressed as though he just picked up whatever he found lying around in his bedroom—a pair of blue jeans, a moss-green V-neck sweater, and black coat—springs from the car. His face swollen and red, he launches himself into a sprint toward the lakeshore, slipping on wet mud a few times before he ducks under the yellow tape, but Brad is right there to stop him.
“You can’t go through here, sir,” Brad says, grabbing ahold of the man with all his strength. Two more police officers come to his aid.
“Did you find my daughter? Is that her?” the man says impatiently, shifting his weight and craning his neck as he pushes against the wall of officers. This man is not Skyler’s father; that I know. That disgusting pig doesn’t care enough about his daughter to drive all the way out here in the rain.
“You must move behind the yellow tape, sir,” Brad insists, stretching his arm out and trying to lead the man back to his car, but he resists and presses his legs firmly into the ground.
“I want to talk to someone in charge.” He conjures up a cigarette from out nowhere and lights it with shaking hands.
A female detective with her badge pinned to her coat steps beside my husband. “I’ll take it from here, officer.”
She tells the officers it’s okay for the man to stand in front of the yellow tape; then she focuses her attention on him. “What’s your name, sir?”
The man seems more composed now as he stamps his foot on his unfinished cigarette. Though his appearance is messy, and his face is worn and tired, like an overworked office clerk who just pulled a double shift, his manners appear to be polite and intelligent. It’s not his first time dealing with officials—that much is clear.
“My name is William Benson. My daughter…Vanessa. She’s been missing for three days,” he explains, unable to take his eyes off the crime scene. “I heard on the police radio that you’ve found an unidentified female body here?” He cranes his neck toward the lake, but I doubt he can see much from the circle of officers protecting the crime scene.
The male detective reaches his partner and asks what the problem is. Gaining the advantage of the female officer’s diverted attention, the man makes a run toward the shore. “Oh, my God! Is that my baby? Oh, please, God, no!”
The distance I stand is far enough for me to see what happens next, but I keep my phone in my hand, ready to dial Ashley’s number in case the dead girl in the dirt turns out to be Vanessa Benson.
Before the situation clears up, Ashley’s car breaks through the veil of rain and comes to a halt next to me. She steps out into the mud, eyes fixed on the officers escorting the hysterical man back to his car.
“I’m so sorry for my behavior,” the man says, this time cooperating with the officers. “I owe you guys a coffee. Let me grab some breakfast for you all. Dunkin Donuts? McDonald’s?”
“Just go home, Mr. Benson.”
“All right, all right.” He puts his hand to his heart. “I’m so relieved. Thank you, officers. Oh, that poor girl. I hope you find her family soon.”
Ashley makes her way to me with Olivia. “What’s going on?”
I’m a little surprised. Ashley didn’t inform me about her company. The more the merrier is not always the case.
I text Brad on his cell, letting him know that his chance for body identification has arrived. While we wait for him, I give the girls a summary of the past hour.
Olivia stands with me, tenser and quieter than usual, while Brad takes Ashley to the lieutenant.
“Ashley got you out of bed?” I ask, sipping at the remnants of my cold coffee.
She looks down at herself. “Oh, I’m not as uptight as you think.”
Heat rises to my face. “I didn’t mean it that way. You just always look so…never mind.”
That marks the end of our conversation. We were never the best of friends. I always had a feeling that she was very possessive of Ashley and that she considered me a wedge between their friendships. In Vegas, Olivia was the only one who was sober and sensible enough to refuse the male dancer’s charm. When the blackmailing was underway, she paid half the bribe the conman asked for without ever judging me. I’ll never forget that.
As we stand and wait, trembling, the rain slows to a light drizzle. Through the veil of rising mist, I see Ashley returning to us alone. A hand covers her face, concealing her emotions. As she stops in front of us, one look from her and I know the dead body on the shore is her patient.
The three of us lean into an embrace, a band of sisters united in a sensitive moment.
“She’s wrapped in a sheet of plastic. She’s all dirty and muddy,” Ashley sobs. “I should have protected her.
”
“You did all you could. It’s not your fault,” Olivia says, handing her a tissue.
“I should have done better. I failed her.” Ashley frees herself from our embrace, wipes her face, and glances back at the dark lake. Streams of rain and tears run down her face, washing out her mascara. “I have to call Peter. I have to tell him.”
“Did Brad mention anything about the note in her mouth?” I ask.
Ashley looks at me, wide-eyed. “What note?”
“Brad told me that there was a folded page from the book Fifty Shades of Grey forced down her throat. Someone planted it there postmortem. He said there are other murdered girls with the same shit done to them.”
“The Fifty Shades Killer.” The words come from Olivia’s mouth dreamily. I look at her in awe. When she notices my stare, she sucks in her top lip and moves away, dragging Ashley along.
“Wait!” Brad yells after us. “You need to come down to the station this afternoon and give a statement.”
“Okay, let me know where and what time. I’ll be there.” Ashley nods repeatedly like a bobbing doll.
“Well, first we need to call the family to get a secondary identification, and then I’ll have Betty call you.”
“I can’t believe those pigs for parents will get the spotlight,” I blurt out. “Poor little Maddie. She’ll be heartbroken.”
I don’t feel as devastated about Skyler’s death as Ashley does, maybe because I’ve never met her, but her repulsive family did get under my skin. I already called APS and ASPCA on them. They’ll have a bad week.
Brad’s eyes widen. “You know the victim’s family?”
“It’s a long story.” I lean onto my husband and plant a kiss on his cheek. He pulls away in surprise, his saggy eyelids stretching, his meaty face blotched red as if I’ve embarrassed him in front of my friends. “I’ll be with the girls. Call me when you need us,” I add, my emotions balancing on the edge of hurt and amused.
Brad sends me off with a disapproving look, but I’ve known him long enough not to expect any comments in front of strangers. He’s a master of keeping up appearances when he is being judged, like how he only cleans up the backyard and mows the lawn before guests come over. Otherwise, getting him to do anything around the house is like pulling teeth. I’d love the luxury of cooking and doing laundry only when I feel like it.
The girls tail me back to my house for coffee and breakfast. On the way home, my stomach is in a knot because although I left the place somewhat respectable, I never know how messy it will look after my sister and her kids have gotten out of bed and taken possession of the house. We might walk right into a pigsty, with people yelling and dirty dishes stinking up the place.
I turn up the radio. Music always calms my nerves. When I roll into our neighborhood, I find myself singing along to a Chainsmokers hit song until I realize that today is a sad day, and I turn off the radio out of fabricated guilt. I’m disturbed by Skyler’s death, but I don’t feel any deep, sorrowful pain. I don’t understand why Olivia is so weird about it either. It’s not like that poor girl was her patient.
Before I get out of my car, I put on my sad face to hide the truth that I’m more excited about having friends over than sad about the poor girl’s death.
“It’s over,” says Ashley, returning from the bathroom, where she spent an oddly long time. She takes a mug of coffee from my hand. “I failed her.” She pulls out a barstool next to Olivia and props herself on it.
Leaning against the sink, I watch them sharing a moment. I’m jealous, no matter how stupid it sounds. I used to be Ashley’s best friend in high school, but since I moved away, Olivia has taken that role. I should be happy for her that she found a new friend, but I’m not.
Ashley leans against Olivia’s shoulder. My chest feels as if someone opened it up with a hydraulic spreader, exposing my rapidly beating heart. I gulp down a glass of water and clear my throat to break their lovely moment.
“The police will find the killer. They know what they’re doing,” I say, taking out the first round of waffles from the maker. “Syrup?”
Ashley raises an eyebrow at me. “Plain for me. I’m not that hungry.” She leans back on the stool. “I don’t know, Betty. If the cops know what they’re doing, how come this serial killer is still at large?” She nudges Olivia on the arm, who seems to be lost in her own world once again. “What do you think?”
I find Olivia stranger than usual. She’s always struck me as a woman with too many secrets. I read this novel once where the main character was a quiet woman, seemingly living the perfect life with her successful husband and their children, but her I turned out to be a big lie. Her husband was an abusive asshole, and they had serious financial problems. Olivia reminds me of that heroine. Although I doubt they are having financial troubles. The Good Samaritan Foundation is widely known. I bet they receive millions in donations. I’ve been telling Brad that we should start a nonprofit organization too. It’s one of the biggest businesses in America. Too bad Brad doesn’t have one ambitious bone in his body. That’s why he never made sergeant.
“I don’t think we should leave it to the police to find the killer,” Olivia says flatly.
“What do you mean by that? I thought earlier you suggested we should stop playing detective.” Ashley wipes her nose on the napkin and snorts a couple times. I hope she isn’t coming down with something. The last thing I need is a house full of sick kids, especially when I have an open house tomorrow at the Schroeders’ place.
“Well, we’re already involved in Skyler’s case. We could continue doing a little investigating of our own. I’d sleep better if the man responsible for all these murders is behind bars. For the police, this is one of many ongoing murder cases they’re expected to solve. For us, it could be a priority.”
“Well, investigating a murder takes a lot of time and resources,” I say. “It’s dangerous, and I’m not sure if it’s entirely legal anyway. Would Richard be okay with that?”
“I’m an adult woman. I don’t need permission from my husband,” Olivia says sternly, almost defensively. I believe this is the first time I’ve seen Olivia coming out of her shell.
“I don’t know.” Ashley stretches her arms back. She looks much older than her age. I catch my reflection in the cabinet glass. Well, the last few years haven’t been good to me either. “What can we do?” she says. “Dress up as junkie whores and hope the killer picks up one of us on the street? I think we’re a little too old for that.”
“That’s a start.” Olivia doesn’t waste a second on Ashley’s idea. “And don’t worry about our age. A little makeup does miracles.”
“What do you think?” Ashley turns to me. What do I think? My husband is a cop. I can’t play dress-up and turn tricks on the street. I have children.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear this conversation, okay? You know, with Brad and everything.”
They collectively accept my standpoint, and it hurts. I can’t get involved in vigilante stuff, but I had hoped they would at least try to convince me. I picture these two going on secret missions, planning dangerous stakeouts, and reading newspaper articles in libraries without me. My envy deepens.
“All right. Let’s do it.” Ashley holds out her hand for Olivia to shake. I won’t get to shake hands with them. I turn my back to them, indicating that I do not expect a handshake. I pour a huge scoop of batter into the waffle maker. When I close the top, the excess batter drips onto the counter.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about this all morning, and I always get back around to the same idea. We need a gun,” Olivia says. “I don’t think I can get one, with me being an immigrant and all. But it can’t be that hard to buy an unregistered gun.”
Ashley’s eyes pop out of their sockets. “Are you planning to kill someone?”
“No, but I’m planning to protect us. Don’t you agree?”
“All right. It’s not a bad idea to have some protection,” Ashley says, sighing and massagi
ng the skin over her temples. “I could file for a firearm legally.”
“Acquiring a legal firearm takes a long time,” Olivia states like a gun expert. “Besides, it can be traced back to the owner.”
“I kind of see your point.” Ashley caves in with another sigh. “But how do we go about getting one? I don’t know any arms dealers. Do you?”
Here is my moment to step back into the spotlight, and I grab it without thinking of the consequences, my husband being a cop and all. “I do.”
If I can pull this off, I will no longer be looked at as the middle-class stay-at-home mom who needs her rich friends to stay relevant. I have a few secrets up my sleeve, too. And why couldn’t I pull this off? This is suburbia, bitches. Everything goes here.
Ashley picks up her jaw from the ground. “Don’t tell me you’ll ask Brad.”
“Oh, it’s not Brad I’ll ask.” I step through the doorway that connects the kitchen with the living room and shout up the stairs, “Cathy! Can you come down here for a sec?”
Ashley turns me around by my shoulders and looks straight at me, her face filled with puzzlement. “Why are you calling your sister?”
“Because if you want an unregistered firearm, we need to talk to her.”
Part Two
Who Killed Skyler O’Neill?
Ashley
THURSDAY
“Do you know if Skyler had a boyfriend?” asks the detective, who looks like an older version of President Obama, from across the table. He’s questioning me at the Rancho Bernardo police station where Betty’s husband works. Since I know nothing about police work, Brad was kind enough to enlighten me about the San Diego police department’s jurisdiction laws. Based on the GPS coordinates of the location where Skyler’s body was found, the case fell to the SDP’s Northern Division. If I understood it correctly, the Fifty Shades Killer had already left bodies in three jurisdictions in the past decade. Untangling the jurisdictional lines with a single killer sounds like a messy business to me.