by Elle Gray
Except this isn’t any other case, is it?
“Her name was Stella Hughes,” I say. “She was a junior.”
“Marcus Hughes’ daughter?”
I nod. “Yes. That’s her.”
“Jesus,” he whispers, his face falling. “Yeah, I read about that in the paper the other day. Just tragic.”
I don’t think the word tragic quite covers it, but I’m not going to debate the semantics of it right now. In the grand scheme of things, it’s just not that important.
“You sure she was a regular here?” he asks.
“Her roommate said they’d come in from time to time, yeah.”
His expression is troubled, but in that moment, I don’t know if it’s because he’s genuinely sad for Stella, or if it’s because he’s worried about the name of his bar coming up in conjunction with a murder victim. Though he probably shouldn’t be too concerned about that. In my experience, people aren’t turned off by something like that. If anything, something notorious, like a murder, tends to make a place even more popular. People are kind of sick like that.
“When was the last time she was here?” he asks, licking his lips nervously. “Do you know?”
“A few weeks ago,” I reply. “Which brings me to why I’m here. I needed to see if you recall an incident about the last time she was in.”
“Incident?”
I nod. “Yeah, a guy maybe in his thirties or forties apparently got in her face,” I explain. “Screaming at her. The works.”
Don screws up his face, looking like he’s trying to remember. After a moment though, he shakes his head.
“No. Afraid I don’t recall anything like that.”
“How often are you here?”
“Most every single night. I enjoy hanging out with the kids. I tell you though; they didn’t build girls like that when we were that age. Know what I mean?” he replies with a knowing grin. “Anyway, this place is my pride and joy. I’d sleep here if I could.”
Don confirms for me everything I’ve thought about him to this point. He’s a smarmy, creepy older man who thinks he can hang onto his youth by luring in co-eds with cheap booze, and probably a few drinks on the house for his favorites to convince them to take an interest in him. I don’t want to tell him out loud that he makes me sick, but I’m getting close.
“Anyway, so you don’t recall the incident?”
He shakes his head. “No, sorry.”
“Do your surveillance cameras work?”
I point to the one mounted in the corner, and he grimaces as he looks at it.
“They work, but unless there’s an incident like a robbery or a fight or something, we only keep the footage from the previous week,” he explains. “If she was in here a few weeks back, I’m not going to have the footage.”
I nod. I knew it was a long shot before I ever stepped foot in this place. But still, I have to do my due diligence. I have to cross every T and dot every I. Stella and Marcus both deserve it. They deserve somebody who isn’t simply going to go through the motions and mail it in. More than that, I demand that sort of diligence and thoroughness of myself, regardless of the case I’m working on.
It’s not that I don’t think Detective Lee will be thorough. It’s just that to me, he seemed more protective of his turf than he seemed interested in working the case. To me, working a case means using all of the resources at your disposal. I’m clearly a valuable resource. But he seemed more concerned that I was going to step on his toes and/or make him look bad. And that doesn’t fly with me.
He may come to surprise me. But I kind of doubt it.
I pull a card out of my coat pocket and hand it over to Don. He takes it and looks at it for a moment before slipping it into the pocket on his shirt.
“If you think of anything, remember anything, give me a call,” I say.
He nods. “I will.”
“Also, if you can ask some of your regulars if they remember anything…”
“I’ll do that. No problem,” he replies.
“Thank you.”
I walk out of The Husky, figuring I’m probably not going to hear from Don Gwynne anytime soon. If at all. I’m pretty convinced he’s not going to even remember talking to me ten minutes from now. After all, he’s got co-eds to hang out with.
Ten
Evergreen Point Condominium Community; West Seattle
“Dr. Jekyll”
The moonlight slants in through the window, casting a silvery spotlight in the middle of the room while leaving most of the corners cloaked in shadows and gloom. There’s enough light to see by, so I’m able to move about the room freely and without fear of running into anything. I really do hate slamming my shins on furniture.
I glance at the glowing numbers on the clock and take note of it. It’s half-past nine, but Bethany is at hot yoga tonight, so I don’t expect her to be home before ten-thirty or eleven. I’ve got all the time in the world.
For a secure condominium community, getting into her place was disturbingly simple. The residents here should really check to see if the people they’re letting in really are Postmates delivery drivers. A lot of really unsavory people could get in if they’re as careless as they are.
I push those thoughts out of my mind and focus on soaking in the atmosphere here in her place. I breathe in the subtle fragrance of lavender. It’s pleasant. Some people tend to overdo it, the scent in their homes thick and cloying. But Bethany seems to manage it just right.
I look at the bookcase on the far wall and see everything from historical biographies to bodice-ripping smut. Her taste in literature is obviously as diverse as her taste in men. Over the last couple of weeks that I’ve been watching Bethany, I’ve seen her bring three different men to her place. Three.
That has pretty much confirmed my initial thoughts about her; about what she is. It’s true that I don’t see any sign that she’s married. And there is definitely not a man living here, putting the question of whether or not she has a boyfriend in doubt, but that hardly seems to matter. She brought three different men home in less than two weeks.
“I see you. I see what you are,” I mutter to her empty condo.
I stroll into her kitchen and open up the refrigerator. There are a lot of fresh fruits and vegetables inside, along with several half-empty bottles of wine. Reaching in, I pull the first one out. It’s a nice Chardonnay. Pulling out the cork, I take a swallow of it and smile. It’s rich, full-bodied, with a hint of oak to it. Her morals may be loathsome, but her taste is impeccable.
I replace the bottle and grab a couple of berries from a bowl before I close the refrigerator, then walk out of the kitchen and down a short hallway and step into her office. I flip on the light and look around at her workstation. She’s got an electric standing desk with a computer seated on top of it. She’s also one of those large balancing ball chairs under a traditional desk against the wall beneath the window. A second computer sits on the traditional desk as well as several thick binders filled with papers of her work. Bethany is a computer software engineer, and judging by the condo she keeps, the car she drives, and the clothes she wears, she does pretty well for herself.
Her office is clean and well organized. Not surprising, since her entire place is. And like the rest of her place, it’s tastefully decorated. But when I walk into her bedroom, I shake my head and give her a “tsk tsk tsk” when I see her bed was left unmade.
A small smile upon my lips, I cross to the bed and flop down onto my back, letting myself sink into a feather-soft mattress. Admittedly, it is a really comfortable mattress. It’s like laying on a cloud. I close my eyes and breathe deep. I can smell her over the faint scent of lavender. Grabbing hold of the blanket, I put it to my nose and inhale the soft aroma of peaches and… vanilla.
“Peaches and cream,” I laugh softly to myself.
Rolling out of the bed, I pick up one of her pillows and put it to my nose, detecting the subtle fragrance of citrus in her shampoo. I drop the pillow back
into place and then go to her closet. I take hold of the barn-style door and slide it open, revealing the wide, deep walk-in. When I step across the threshold, the lights come on automatically, revealing an extensive— and expensive— wardrobe.
Aside from her obvious addiction to retail therapy, Bethany does not have any other vices. She lives a very clean life. Eats right. Does yoga twice a week— at least— and runs almost every day in between. She takes good care of herself and always wants to look her best. Bethany is careful to project a certain image.
I know what she’s doing. She’s advertising. Putting herself on display for all those men she’ll bring home and spread her legs for. Eventually, she’ll find one guy she fancies more than most. He’ll be rich. He’ll be accomplished and have a good career. She’ll charm him. Wrap him around her finger and make him fall in love with her. And then the poor schmuck will probably marry her.
They may have a good couple of years together, but eventually, her true nature will emerge. She’ll start putting herself out there again. Advertising. And it won’t be long before she’s spreading her legs for strange men again, all the while that poor schmuck who married her sits at home, wondering what happened to the wonderful woman he married and the happy life they were building.
If he’s lucky, he’ll come home early one night and catch her with one of her lovers and then have the courage to act. Of course, if he’s not lucky, she’ll be able to pull the wool over his eyes for a long time, smiling to his face and pretending that everything is all right, all while letting a parade of men use her like a cheap tramp. It’s also possible the poor schmuck will just lie to himself and let himself be deceived because he lacks the strength and the courage to do what needs to be done.
Yes, I know her type. I know her type all too well.
And if I’m being honest, I also know my type all too well. I was one of those schmucks. Too weak to do what needed to be done. I lacked the strength. I was simply happy that somebody as beautiful as Moira would look at me twice, let alone want to be with me. So I pretended. For a long while, I pretended that everything was fine. That we were happy. And that we were building a loving, stable life together.
But deep down, I knew. I knew what Moira was doing behind my back. I knew about her parade of lovers. Knew that she was smiling to my face, and at the same time humiliating me behind my back. And I did not have the courage to face it. I did not have the strength to put an end to it. To her.
The courage and strength to do what needed to be done did not come until later. Much later. It did not come until Moira was no longer in my world. And if I’m being truly honest with myself, that courage was not born of a conscious act. It was an accident. A coincidence that turned out to be a happy one.
Happy in the sense that it allowed me to find that strength that I had lacked. It imbued me with a courage I never knew I possessed. And that was what ultimately shattered the lock that opened the cage within me; the cage that had held my Mr. Hyde bound inside so tightly.
And with that cage door open, with my Mr. Hyde running free, I feel powerful. I feel like I have become who I was always truly meant to be. And more than anything, I feel free. None of that would have happened without Moira. Without her betrayal. She cut deeper into me than anything ever had and revealed my true self to myself.
So in a way, I should be thanking her. She helped me find my way to myself. To the man I am now. The man I was always supposed to be.
I spy her hamper in the corner of the closet and walk over to it. Reaching inside, I pull out one of her shirts. I hold it up to the light. It looks like a nightshirt. I crush it to my nose, drawing in the scent of her— the real scent of her body, not just the perfumes and body washes. I breathe deeply and hold the scent inside of me and smile, savoring her fragrance and the memory of her face.
I know everything there is to know about Bethany. I know her better than she knows herself. And soon, I will have her in ways no other man has ever had her. In ways she never could imagine.
Soon.
Eleven
Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle
Paxton
It’s been almost a week since my impromptu lunch date with Detective TJ Lee, and I’ve not heard back from him. I’m starting to get the feeling I won’t. He might not bear a particular grudge against me, but he’s still part of the blue brotherhood and I’m not. Which, these days, means I’m the enemy.
Brody is sitting across the table from me in the conference room, otherwise known as the Fishbowl, now. It’s a fitting name given that it’s essentially a big glass box. It’s become our de facto war room since it’s a lot more comfortable than crowding into our respective offices when we need to work together.
Knowing that we sometimes work on things of a sensitive nature, Brody took the initiative and had the glass walls of the Fishbowl and all of the individual offices smoked a couple of weeks ago. We can see out, but people can’t see in. It was a great idea. Not something I’d ever have thought of. Especially now, when the first picture pops up onto the large screen on the wall. It’s the first one in the sequence of the crime scene photos and depicts the pure savagery inflicted upon Stella Hughes’ body.
“Jesus,” I whisper.
Brody pulls the picture down and shakes his head. “I can’t look at it anymore,” he says with a heavy sigh. “You’re going to have to go through that crap on your own. I already sent the book to your tablet.”
“Yeah, I got it,” I tell him. “I’ll take a look at it on my own. Don’t worry about it.”
Knowing I’m not going to get any help or cooperation from TJ, I decided to unleash Brody on the SPD database. The SPD is like any bureaucracy. They’re addicted to their reports and long, extensive paper trails. But being in the twenty-first century, and in a city as technologically advanced as Seattle, those paper trails are all digital. And if it’s digital, Brody can usually get to it.
We’re looking at the copy of the murder book; cop-speak for a case file. The murder book is the bible of any investigation, containing the entire paper trail for a given case: the chronology, autopsy photos, notes, interviews, and forensic reports. It’s got the whole nine yards, encompassing the investigation from the initial call out to the time a suspect is arrested.
The book aids both the investigators and the prosecution, assuming there is one. With solve rates on murders hovering around sixty percent, there are many crimes that are never prosecuted. But assuming there is one, the prosecutors rely on the murder book heavily, so the investigators are supposed to be meticulous about keeping it. Of course, having been on the inside of the SPD, I know that there are some who aren’t exactly the most diligent.
I click to the section that contains the crime scene photos. I draw in a shallow breath, then exhale slowly and force myself to look through them. Stella lays on a patch of grass and debris on the ground in a small copse of trees. Her eyes are wide open, and she stares at the sky. Her lips are parted, and her face is ashen, spattered with blood, and her chest is a ruin of blood and viscera.
Stella’s naked from the waist down, but there’s no evidence of sexual assault. Her shirt has been cut away, her ribs cracked and exposed. It reminds me of the way a surgeon would perform a heart transplant or something to that effect. Or at least, it looks like the way it’s depicted in movies and on TV.
“This is where he did it,” I mutter, shaking my head. “A hundred yards from the cops who were searching for her.”
Brody nods, his face grim and pale, but remains silent. I know I’ll need to study these photos again and look at them closer. But for the moment, I’ve had enough. I move to the section in the book containing the autopsy photos.
Unlike the crime scene photos, these are clean and sterile. The horrors visited upon her are less visceral and emotional. Seeing her laid out on the cold steel beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting, is more clinical. It seems less personal, making it somehow easier to look at. Somewhat, at least.
I
know that I have to take it all in. Marinate in it. I have to absorb every last detail because if I have any hope of catching the monster responsible for this, I have to understand him. And the only way to understand him is to study his crime. Every facet of it, regardless of how distasteful or upsetting it might be. To give Stella— and Marcus— the justice they deserve, I need to get into his head. I have to interpret and understand every last detail.
“Cause of death was determined to be strangulation,” Brody notes, reading from the report on his laptop.
Letting out a deep breath, I try to set aside my personal feelings and try to compartmentalize it all once again, reminding myself this is a case like any other. I need to get my head in the game. Clearing my throat, I sit up and try to look at the screen objectively. I focus first on the deep purple bruising on her throat. It’s not hard to distinguish the individual fingers.
“And the other… injuries?” I ask.
“The medical examiner’s report says they were made post-mortem,” he replies.
If there’s anything to be thankful for in this, it’s that. Stella didn’t suffer. I call up the section containing the medical examiner’s reports. The dry, sterile reports are nothing but the facts. They’re totally impersonal, making it easier to absorb the information dispassionately and set my brain on the path it needs to be on.
“She was cut open from neck to groin,” Brody gasps. “Jesus.”
“Not just cut. But sliced. The ME notes that the slices were clean. Precise. Surgical. The ribs were cracked open, and the heart was removed with the same precise cuts,” I recite from the report. “In addition, there were twenty-three stab wounds; also post-mortem.”