Pretty Corpse

by Linda Berry

  “I’m so sorry, Mom,” Lauren said.

  “The Strangler did it, didn’t he? He messed up the code so the gate wouldn’t open. He had it planned.”

  “It was no accident,” Lauren agreed. “Luckily, Courtney’s fine. Long story short, he’s in custody. The terror is over.”

  “Thank God. I’ll let the family know.”

  Lauren heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel and looked up as Dave Valona approached the Buick. A Giants cap was pulled low on his forehead and an unlit cigarette dangled from his lips.

  “Mom, we’re still at the crime scene in Oakland. I gotta go. I’ll call in the morning and fill you in. Courtney’s staying with me tonight.”

  “Be safe.” A pause. “I love you, dear.”

  “Love you too, Mom.” She clicked off and rolled down the window.

  “Gotta light?” The cigarette bobbed as Valona spoke.

  “Thought you were trying to quit.”

  “Only when Keach is around. She hides my cigarettes. Bummed this one off a CSI. Damn addiction.” He scowled, tore the cigarette from his mouth, and crunched it under his foot. “We got something in the house you need to identify.”

  “Fine. Courtney’s coming with me.”

  He shrugged.

  Lauren and Courtney followed Valona into the bungalow, past the living room where items were being dusted and photographed. He brought the procession to a halt at the threshold of the room in the hallway that had been locked earlier.

  “Your kid better wait here.” Valona leveled a grave look at Courtney, who pouted and leaned against the wall with her arms crossed.

  “You okay for a minute? I’ll make it quick.”

  She nodded, forced a little smile. “I’m okay.”

  Lauren turned back to Valona. “Gordon’s room?”

  He nodded, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. He handed her a pair and she did the same. She entered the brightly lit room and Valona shut the door behind them. Lauren was struck by the sparseness of furnishings. Monastic. A narrow bed, small desk, chest of drawers, bare walls, and hardwood floor. A complete absence of personal effects like photos, books, computer equipment. Not even an alarm clock. Nothing that could give a sliver of insight into the workings of the sex offender’s mind. The bed was made up military style, not a wrinkle on the brown blanket or crisp white pillowcase. The fastidiousness was echoed by the clothes in the closet. Each hanger faced the same direction and hung an equal distance apart.

  Gordon Keener’s carefully controlled environment did not surprise her. She thought of the lush, fragrant roses he cultivated with skill and care, an expression of meticulous patience and artistry—a great talent terribly misguided, hidden away behind his mother’s white-washed facade. By now, Gordon was sitting in county jail. He had to be cringing. Good. Let him have a taste of what he did to his victims.

  Josie Keach stepped aside to let Lauren view the items lined up on Gordon’s desk. A clear plastic pouch held her daughter’s folded clothes. Clipped to the outside were two baggies, one containing Courtney’s jewelry, the other holding Polaroid photos taken when she was dressed in the bridal gown.

  “Courtney’s?” Keach asked.

  “Yes.”

  Next to the pouch sat the Polaroid camera, a tray with one lipstick tube, white makeup, cosmetic brushes, and a rectangular wooden box. A gold ring was tucked into a small blue velvet jewelry box. She picked up a clay pot and immediately recognized the oil blend before she lifted the lid. “Tools of the trade,” Lauren said bitterly.

  Josie gestured to the dresser. The drawers had been pulled open. The bottom drawers revealed neatly folded t-shirts, underwear, balled socks. The middle drawer had five wigs of different hair length and color, and several pairs of framed glasses. His disguises. The top drawer held four more plastic pouches with baggies attached, each containing jewelry and a series of Polaroid photos. “The other girls?”

  Keach nodded.

  One of the baggies had been opened by the detectives, and Keach fanned Polaroid photos on the desk depicting the chronology of Keener’s ritual with Melissa Cox. The teen was shown lying in the van in street clothes, in the shed wearing the wedding dress, nude on the planter table with her face painted, and finally posed on the picnic table in Cypress Park.

  “As neatly packaged and documented as any well-run family business,” Valona said.

  Lauren said, “How involved do you think Agnes was?”

  “You tell me. Look what’s hanging in the closet,” he said.

  Her gaze probed the closet, detecting something flush with the wall, hidden behind Gordon’s clothing at one end. Valona reached in and pulled out a red-hooded robe. Shiny satin folds caught the light, and gold embroidery sparkled along the edges. The fabric and fancy stitching told a different story from the rough homespun robe Gordon had worn.

  “Clearly this robe is tailored to be worn by a short, stout person,” Lauren said.

  “Only one comes to mind.”

  “Agnes.”

  “Right.”

  “It appears the Keeners are involved in some sort of weird cult,” Lauren said.

  “Or else they just like to dress up special for Sunday dinner.”

  Lauren fingered the belt looped around the robe, made of spiked metal beads woven in a distinctive pattern. “You get a good look at this?”

  “What about it?” Valona asked.

  “I think it matches the ligature marks on the victims’ throats.”

  “Lemme see that.” He squinted at the beadwork. “Hell, you’re right.”

  “Why is it on her robe?” She and Josie locked eyes. “Did Agnes give it to Gordon at just the right moment? Was she present for the stranglings?”

  “Could be she did all the fun stuff herself.” Valona’s features tightened but he didn’t elaborate.

  “We saved the best for last,” Josie said, still standing by the desk with her arms crossed. “Take a look inside this box.”

  The rectangular box was a foot long and half as wide, a work of fine craftsmanship, birds-eye maple, polished to a satiny finish.

  “No doubt, the sacred device,” Valona said.

  Lauren lifted the cover and felt a jolt of adrenalin shock her system. Resting on a bed of crimson silk lay a carved ivory phallus, yellowed with age, riddled with hairline cracks. It looked centuries old. The red silk matched Agnes’ robe, and was the same shade as the hybrid roses and lipstick used in the rituals. Looking closer, she saw that the rounded tip of the phallus was finely coated with a waxy substance. Lauren thought back to her discussion with her father. “A homemade concoction of beeswax, honey, and paraffin was found inside the victims. Now I know why. It was used as a lubricant.”

  “How’d you know that?” Valona gave her a sharp glance.

  “I have my sources.” She felt certain the conclusion she and her father had reached about the offender had been accurate. “Gordon didn’t physically rape them.”

  “That’s not a foregone conclusion,” Josie said. “He could have used this in addition.”

  “I think he’s phobic. Unable to touch anyone skin to skin. This ‘sacred device’ was used to assault the girls.” Feeling queasy, Lauren shut the box, unnerved by the carefully laid out implements awaiting the assault of her daughter.

  Oblivious to the emotional jolt Lauren just experienced, Valona said, “If that’s the case, it’ll be interesting to see whose prints come up on that kinky sex toy.”

  Josie shot him a look.

  “You think Agnes committed the sexual assaults?” Lauren asked.

  “Nothing about her would surprise us at this point,” Keach said.

  Realization bloomed in Lauren’s mind, and she blinked with sudden understanding. “You’re right. Courtney said Agnes was the boss, ordering Gordon around. Her fancy robe implies she’s the Grand Poobah, and the belt on her robe suggests she’s The Strangler. Not a far stretch to imagine she’s also the rapist.”

  “We won’t know the full
Monty till we get the lab tests back, and get the fun-loving duo in the bullpen,” Valona said. “Tonight, they’ll get a taste of the good life in county jail. Fine cuisine with the beautiful people. Maybe after getting the holy hell scared outta them, they’ll be ready for the confessional.”

  An officer poked his head into the room. “Ready for San Francisco, Officer?”

  Lauren nodded, her exhausted brain short-circuiting. “Can Courtney have her clothes back?”

  “Hell no,” Valona scoffed. “That’s evidence. They’ll also want to keep that wedding dress after her exam.”

  “What’s she supposed to wear?”

  In a gallant move, Valona removed his wrinkled raincoat. “Here. Return it tomorrow. Stop by the inquisition.”

  Lauren took the coat and flashed him a smile. “You might have a heart ticking in that deep freeze after all, Dave.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  A SEX CRIMES INSPECTOR met Lauren and Courtney at Mission ER and showed them into the sexual assault exam room. Lauren’s emotions were running high, but she put on a brave face for Courtney. After all the times she’d stood outside that door in the last ten years, she was now experiencing a piercingly painful emotion that only a mother crossing the threshold with her own daughter could understand.

  A nurse performed a cursory examination on Courtney and to Lauren’s great relief, confirmed there had been no assault. Lauren draped her daughter in Valona’s coat, and they left the hospital at two a.m.

  The surveillance car was gone when Lauren pulled into her driveway. Already, word had gotten out that The Strangler was no longer a threat. The uncertainty of her life was finally shifting back to normal. Courtney had nodded off, but she raised her head when Lauren turned off the engine. Lauren followed her gaze out the window. Jack Monetti’s Sequoia was parked on the opposite side of the street. This both surprised, and pleased her.

  “Mom, it’s Captain Monetti.” Courtney stumbled out of the Jeep and met him halfway across the street. Jack wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gently roughed up her hair. For a fleeting moment, Lauren was transported across time, struck by how much it resembled her husband’s playful gestures. When Jack reached Lauren, he pulled her tight to his chest with his other arm. Group hug. Tight, warm, safe. For a wonderful interlude the world seemed sane again.

  Inside, the house felt lighter and blissfully serene. After a quick peck on Jack’s cheek, Courtney headed straight for her room with Lauren following.

  “God, it’s so good to be home,” Courtney sighed. She dropped Valona’s raincoat in a heap on the floor, wrestled into a flannel nightgown, and melted into bed. Lauren sat with her, caressing her hair until she fell asleep. She paused momentarily at the door, observing the peaceful scene before turning out the light.

  Lauren found Jack sitting on the couch in the dark living room. Without hesitation, she snuggled next to him, enjoying the strength and warmth emanating from his body. Dispensing with formality, Jack kicked off his shoes and put his feet on the table. It could always be like this, she thought.

  Jack pulled her legs across his lap, removed her loafers, and began massaging her aching feet. His strong fingers found every nerve, muscle, and tendon, and pressed the painful tension away. Eyes closed, she basked in contentment. Aside from her murmurs of pleasure, neither uttered a sound. Teetering on the brink of sleep, Lauren barely framed the words, “I love you.”

  ***

  When she woke the next morning, birds were chirping sweetly, and diffused sunlight filtered through the windows. Lauren had slept on the sofa in her clothes, too exhausted to peel them off. Jack lay on his back fully dressed on the other sofa, snoring softly, his feet extending a foot beyond the armrest. He hadn’t wakened her to take the longer couch.

  Sitting up, Lauren experienced first-hand what hell must feel like. Every muscle in her body ached and fire raged in her parched throat. Gordon had done a great job on her last night. She half-smiled, remembering how she and Courtney had beaten the holy crap out of him.

  She retreated to the bathroom and indulged in a long hot shower. Her body was a patchwork of bruises of varying sizes and colors, all sensitive to the touch. She washed her hair and scrubbed her flesh, trying to rid memories of Gordon’s body pressed against hers—the smell of his sweat, his hot breath on her neck. When she pictured her daughter lying in his shed, moments away from being sexually assaulted, anger came up so quickly she could feel her body shaking. The hot water could not prevent the chill of revulsion that raced along her spine.

  Still shaky, she toweled dry, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, and padded down the hall to peer into Courtney’s bedroom. Her daughter’s body formed a soft mound beneath the covers and her breathing was soft and even. Lauren felt an overwhelming surge of tenderness, a desire to hold on to her, feel her safe in her arms. After quietly closing the door, she found Jack seated in the kitchen nook nursing a cup of coffee and reading the paper, looking right at home with tousled hair and morning beard. His face looked haggard, but he smiled up at her as if the day promised a lottery winning.

  She smiled back, feeling the deep comfort of friendship in his presence. After pouring a cup of coffee, she slid in beside him.

  Brushing back her wet hair, Jack studied the welts on her neck, his thumb caressing them softly. “You okay?”

  “I’ll live.” She stirred cream into her coffee, and glanced around at all the safe, familiar things. The quiet certainty of security washed over her, diluting the harsh memories of the Keeners.

  “I’m starting to think you have nine lives.”

  “Seems I need them.” She sipped her coffee. Jack had made it good and strong. “You want to shower?”

  Rubbing a hand over his facial stubble, he smiled wickedly. “I was tempted to sneak in with you.” His eyes held hers and an intense heat spread through her body. She lowered her gaze.

  “I’ll get cleaned up at the station. By the way, this should interest you.” He handed her the paper.

  On the front page, the headline screamed out in large bold type: “Cypress Strangler in Custody.”

  Accompanying the article were several old photos of Gordon Keener sporting different hairstyles. One taken last night showed him getting out of the black and white with his arms cuffed behind him, bald head gleaming, nose bandaged, one eye swollen shut—no longer matching the media image he had so skillfully crafted. Lauren burned with the determination to see the Keeners pay heavily for their crimes. She skimmed the article. Her stomach knotted. “I wish they’d kept my name out.”

  “You did a great job,” Jack said. “You outsmarted him. You deserve the recognition.”

  “I didn’t do it for myself.” She folded the paper and pushed it far away from her cup.

  “What matters is there won’t be any more victims, and you got your life back.”

  Lauren met his neon blues, shining with admiration and respect. That was all the thanks she needed.

  “You know, there’s talk of promoting you to detective.”

  “Really?” She felt a warm rush of excitement. “I’ve dreamed of being a detective.”

  “We need good minds like yours. Detective Starkley. Has a nice ring to it.” He studied her for a long moment. “You want to talk about last night?”

  She shivered, shook her head. “No. Not now. But I will see a counselor. Courtney needs counseling, too. I’ll make our appointments today.”

  “Good. Take a week off.” He smiled in the relaxed, easy fashion she found totally charming. “That’s an order.”

  She chewed her bottom lip, confessed, “I’m going to Oakland this morning to watch Keener’s interrogation.”

  His eyebrows rose a little and he placed his cup down with exaggerated care. “Haven’t you had enough of this case, Lauren?”

  She exhaled. “I have to do this, Jack. For Steve.”

  There were several moments of silence, and then Jack drew a deep breath, and sighed. “I’ve learned I can’t dissuade you. Not whe
n your mind’s made up. Let me know if I can help in any way.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  He swallowed the rest of his coffee and glanced at his watch. “Gotta run. I’ll call you later.”

  She walked him to the door. He stood awkwardly for a moment, his eyes searching hers. “Do you remember what you said last night just before dozing off?” His gaze held her motionless while he waited for an answer. She felt her blood warm pleasantly. “Yes.”

  “Did you mean it?

  “Yes.”

  His expression softened, and he brushed a strand of wet hair from her cheek. “When all this nasty business is behind us, you and I are going to hide out in a little town down the coast.”

  “I’d love to escape with you.”

  “Quiet dinners, sunsets over the Pacific, maybe even dancing.”

  “I’ve never seen you dance at any of the station parties. I can’t picture you cutting loose to music.”

  “Slow dancing,” he clarified. “So I can hold you in my arms without interruption.” He curved his arm around her waist and drew her tight against him. They kissed. Sweet. Slow. Deep. Longing, like an ache, spread through her. Memories of his lovemaking stirred her blood.

  “I love you, too,” he whispered, and then gently pulled away.

  Lauren opened her eyes to see him heading out the door, his long-legged stride carrying him down the sidewalk. She stood in the doorway, shaken by his kiss, watching as he drove away.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  AFTER spending a tense forty-five minutes inching across the Bay Bridge in rush-hour traffic, Lauren arrived fifteen minutes late at Oakland County Jail. With Valona’s raincoat draped over one arm, she was led by an officer through a labyrinth of partitioned cubicles, then down a long hallway to an observation room. When she entered, Keach shot her a smile and lifted a mug of coffee in salute. She looked elegant in a form-fitting burgundy suit and black heels, hair and makeup perfect. Lauren felt lackluster next to her in khaki pants, a white turtleneck to hide the welts on her neck, and sensible brown loafers. Valona looked as rumpled as usual in an ill-fitting gray suit, frosted doughnut in one hand, coffee mug in the other.