The Face of Death

by Cody McFadyen

“Lividity confirmed that they hadn’t been moved postmortem. They died as and where they were found. Liver temps put time of death at roughly five A.M.”

  “That’s the first thing that reads weird to me,” Barry says.

  I look at him. “What’s that?”

  “TOD is five in the morning. The cops were called hours later. What kind of gun did she use?”

  Alan doesn’t have to consult the file. He’s already considered the question Barry is posing. “Nine mil.”

  “Loud,” Barry opines. “Noisy. She shot the dog and she shot herself. Why didn’t anyone hear anything?”

  “Cathy Jones asked the same question,” Callie replies.

  “Sloppy,” Alan says in disgust, shaking his head.

  He’s talking about the inductive police-work. Alan spent ten years in Los Angeles Homicide before coming to the FBI, and he was known for his attention to detail and his refusal to take shortcuts. He would have thought about the sound of the gunshot if he’d been the one investigating ten years ago.

  “Go on,” I tell him.

  “Sarah was found outside, in a near catatonic state. No mention of a burn on her hand anywhere in the file.” The look he gives me is significant. “So when we went to see her in the hospital, I checked. She’s got a small scar there.” He frowns, more disgust. “Sloppy again. They didn’t check shit, just ate what they were spoon-fed.”

  I point out what’s important. “Bad then,” I say, “but good for us now. They weren’t looking, which means that there could still be something here that will lead us to him.”

  “What about the gun?” Callie asks, thoughtful.

  Alan gives her a quizzical look. “What about it?”

  “Did they look into it? Did the Langstroms even own a gun?”

  Alan flips through the file, nodding as he finds something. “It was unregistered. Serial number filed off. Says here they figured she’d bought it on the street.” His voice becomes sarcastic. “Yeah, because Linda Langstrom would know exactly where to go to buy a hot gun. Why would she even bother? If she planned to kill herself, she wouldn’t have been worried about it being traced.”

  I look at Barry. “Would the gun still be in evidence?”

  “I’m guessing yes. Evidence destruction is a hassle. It takes about an hour to fill out the paperwork, and from what I’ve seen so far, the guys on this case didn’t seem inclined to go the extra mile.”

  “Then let’s get it, Alan. Have Ballistics check out the gun.”

  “Might have a history,” he says, nodding.

  “What next?” I ask.

  “Bullet was a hollow point, so there was maximum destruction on exit.” He flips a page. “Linda Langstrom’s fingerprints were found on her husband’s neck. Consistent with her being the doer. There was the note, and the antidepressants.”

  “What about that?” I query, interested.

  “Nada,” he replies. “Just a note that she had them. No follow-up.”

  “Other physical evidence?”

  He shakes his head. “CSU only fine-toothed in here, and even that was pretty perfunctory. They left the rest of the house untouched.”

  “They weren’t looking for evidence to break a case,” Callie muses. “They were collecting evidence to confirm what they already knew.”

  “Thought they knew,” Alan clarifies.

  “Where was the dog killed?” I ask.

  Alan consults the file again. “Near the entryway.” He frowns. “Take a look at this.”

  He hands me a photograph. I peer at it and grimace. In it, Buster the faithful dog is headless, lying on the hardwood floor near the entryway. I take a closer look and my eyes narrow.

  “Interesting, huh?” Alan asks.

  “Sure is,” I reply.

  The photograph shows Buster lying on his side. His head—or where his head would be—is pointed toward the front of the house. A bloody hacksaw lies a short distance away.

  “If Linda Langstrom was the killer,” I say, “why was the dog in the entryway? And why was he facing toward the door? It’s suggestive of him responding to someone entering the house, not someone already here.”

  “There’s more,” Alan says. “Blood evidence found in Sarah’s bedroom. Testing showed that it was nonhuman. That backs up her story about the dog’s head being tossed on her bed. It doesn’t fit. Linda cutting the dog’s head off is already a stretch. Tossing it into Sarah’s room? No fucking way.” I can see anger building in Alan. I don’t respond, letting him run his course. “You know, it’s not that this guy was that fucking smart. The cops on this case were lazy. Sloppy. Didn’t give a shit. I would have caught the discrepancies with the gun, and I sure as hell would have thought long and hard about the damn dog. Once I heard Sarah’s story, and I confirmed that her hand was burned, I would have been all over this house. Fuck.” He boils for another few seconds and then he puffs out his cheeks and exhales, a long sigh. “Sorry. I’m a little pissed. Could be that none of this had to happen.”

  “Maybe not,” I acknowledge. “It’s also possible you would have processed the house and found nothing, and ended up ruling it a suicide too.” I pause as a thought comes to me. “You know what the really terrible thing is? That it wouldn’t have mattered. Sarah had no family. If he didn’t leave any forensic evidence—and I’m betting he didn’t—then the outcome for Sarah would have been the same even if they believed her.”

  “Foster care and all the bad it brought her,” Alan says.

  “That’s right. Now we have the benefit of hindsight and new information. Let’s concentrate on rectifying things.” I turn to Callie. “I want you to get together with Gene, and then I want you to turn this house inside out. Let’s see if we can find something, now that someone’s actually looking.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “In fact,” I say, deciding, “get on that now. You can take the car, I’ll catch a ride with Alan.”

  She nods, not responding with words. I sense a brief struggle in her and watch as a hand strays to her jacket pocket.

  Pain, I realize. It just hit her hard. Out of nowhere.

  I can tell from her eyes that she knows I know. I also get the message in bright flashing neon: Move on, let it go, privacy is the altar I worship at.

  “What do you want me to do?” Barry asks, breaking the moment. “Not that I don’t have plenty to keep me busy. Lots of other dead people out there, and this isn’t exactly my jurisdiction. Thankfully, I know a lady detective who works the Malibu precinct.”

  “I appreciate that you came when I asked, Barry. Really.”

  His smile is faint. He shrugs. “You never cry wolf, Smoky. So I always come. What else do you need from me?”

  “The evidence, all of it. Especially the gun.”

  “Will do. You’ll have it today.”

  “And something else that you might not like.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to look into the detectives that ran this case back then, discreetly.”

  A long pause as he considers what I’m asking, why I’m asking.

  “You thinking one of them could be the doer?”

  “The work was sloppy. I’ve seen worse, and I understand why they came to the conclusions they did, but I don’t understand why there was never any real follow-up with Sarah. I see notes from Cathy Jones, who was a rookie. I don’t see any interview of Sarah by the detectives assigned. I want to know why. If I poke around, it will send up alarms.”

  Barry sighs and shakes his head. “Fuck. Yeah. I’ll look into it.”

  “Thanks.”

  I look at the room, thinking. Taking in the tomb that used to be a home. I nod, satisfied that we can leave, for now.

  “Let’s go,” I say to Alan.

  “Where to?”

  “Gibbs. I want to meet this lawyer.”

  “If his lips are moving, he’s lying, honey-love,” Callie says.

  We all head out the door.

  “What are you doing when your l
ips are moving, Red?” Barry asks.

  She smiles. “Enlightening the world, of course.”

  This is Callie, I think. This will always be Callie, pain or pills or not, a wisecracking, taco-loving, donut-dunking friend.

  We all climb into our respective vehicles and head off in different directions.

  “How long will it take us to get there?” I ask.

  He checks the clock on the car dash. “About forty minutes would be my guess.”

  “I’m going to spend the time reading.”

  I pull the diary pages from my purse.

  She is him, I think, and he is her.

  Sarah is a microcosm. The Stranger is showing her to us to approximate the story of his own life. Understanding what Sarah went through is the closest I’ll come, right now, to understanding what he went through.

  I settle back. The clouds start crying again.

  Sarah’s Story

  Part Three

  35

  Let’s take an honesty break.

  It occurs to me that writing this as a story is about more than just being a good writer. It’s about distance. As long as I write about these things in third person, it’s almost like it’s happening to someone else, a fictional character or something. Isn’t denial great?

  If you really want to get deep and start lobbing metaphors, then we can talk about how similar this is to a seriously fucked-up fairy tale. Gretel with no Hansel, and the witch is way too smart. She got me in the oven and she’s roasting me slowly. Red Riding Hood, but the wolf caught me and instead of swallowing me whole, he’s taking the time to chew his food.

  So, where were we? Oh yeah: the group home.

  The group home was an arena and we were its gladiators.

  The group home was where I learned how to fight. I learned the difference between a warning and an attack. I learned that you didn’t have to be afraid to hurt someone, and that size wasn’t the only thing that mattered.

  I learned to be violent, in a way that I’d never even thought of before. Was that a part of his plan?

  I wondered. I wonder. It doesn’t matter. It’s not really me, anyway, right?

  “I SAID, GIVE ME THE PILLOW.”

  Sarah set her mouth and forced herself not to look away from Kirsten.

  “No.”

  The older girl was incredulous.

  “What did you say?”

  Sarah trembled inside, just a little.

  Stand up to her. No more fraidy-cat, remember?

  It was easier to say or think than do, that was for sure. Kirsten wasn’t just three years older, she was a big girl. She had broader shoulders than most of the other girls in her age group, she had big hands, and she was strong. She liked violence. A lot.

  Doesn’t matter. You’re eight now. Stand up to her.

  “I said no, Kirsten. I’m not letting you boss me around anymore.”

  An ugly smile curled the bigger girl’s lips.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Sarah had been living at the Burbank Group Home for two years. It was a Lord of the Flies environment, where might made right, and adult oversight was based on punishment, not prevention. It was an atmosphere that nourished the angers and brutality of someone like Kirsten.

  Sarah had no friends here. She’d kept her head down and her eyes open. She’d acquiesced to Kirsten’s demands to hand over desserts and better bedding and the thousand other small tortures the older girl devised.

  But Sarah had recently seen the future, and it had changed her view of things. She’d found out what happened in the dorms of the older girls. Here, she was being asked to hand over a pillow. There, she might be asked to hand over herself.

  The idea of this tapped into something in Sarah, something unyielding and angry and stubborn.

  Sarah had spent a lot of time observing Kirsten. She realized that the older girl relied entirely on her size and strength. There was nothing skillful about her attacks. She always—always—went for the slap first. Sarah had received enough of them. Teeth-rattling, bone-jarring, raising bruises that could last a week.

  Now was no different. Kirsten stepped forward, cocked her arm back, and sent her hand whistling through the air toward Sarah’s cheek.

  It was the kind of attack that only worked on opponents who were too afraid to fight back. Sarah did what anyone would do if they weren’t afraid—she ducked.

  Kirsten’s hand passed through the air above her head. A look of pure surprise crossed the older girl’s face.

  Now, while she’s off balance!

  Sarah’s life was simple. Wake up, shower, eat, school, and then back to the dorms or common areas. It gave her plenty of time to think about things when she needed to. Consideration had revealed to her that a closed fist was superior to an open hand.

  She stood up, cocked her arm back, made a fist, and punched Kirsten in the nose as hard as she could, her whole body behind it. The impact shocked her.

  That hurt!

  It hurt Kirsten too. Blood burst from both nostrils and the bully stumbled back, falling, landing on her butt.

  Now, finish her. Don’t let her get up!

  Sarah had seen girls oppose Kirsten’s reign of terror twice before. She’d noticed in those instances that Kirsten wasn’t satisfied with a slap or two. One of the girls had been kicked unconscious, and then Kirsten had shaved her head. The second girl had her arm bent behind her back until it broke with a horrible, audible crack. Kirsten had stripped her naked while the girl screamed, and then had locked her out in the hallway.

  Sarah knew that this defeat would have to be just as decisive.

  Kirsten was already struggling to get back up. Sarah kicked her in the face. Her foot caught Kirsten in the mouth, causing her lower lip to split open. Kirsten’s eyes bugged out, she screeched in pain, and there was blood everywhere.

  A dark and savage joy began rising in Sarah. This wasn’t waiting for something bad to happen. This wasn’t waking up from one nightmare to find yourself living another. This was

  (better)

  This was under her control.

  She kicked Kirsten again, this time catching her in the nose. The older girl’s head snapped back, and the blood sprayed, a brief but satisfying fountain. Kirsten looked up at Sarah in terror.

  Sarah’s nostrils flared at the sight of it.

  More. Don’t stop.

  She jumped onto Kirsten, pushing the girl onto her back, and she began to punch her, over and over and over, until her fists went numb, and then she stood up and kicked Kirsten in the stomach, arms, chest, legs. The older girl curled into herself, trying to protect her face.

  Sarah didn’t feel out of control. Just the opposite. She felt detached. Joyous, but detached. Like she was eating a particularly delicious piece of cake in a dream.

  She stopped when Kirsten began to sob.

  Sarah stood over her for a moment, catching her breath. Kirsten was sobbing, her arms curled around her head. Sarah caught glimpses of bleeding lips, a crooked nose, an eye that had begun to swell shut.

  You’ll live.

  She got down on her knees and put her lips up to Kirsten’s ear.

  “If you ever try to hurt me again, I’ll kill you. Do you hear me?”

  “Y-y-yes!”

  A thunderclap inside her, and the anger was gone. Just like that. Something her mother had once said came to her.

  “If you can turn your enemies into friends, then you’ll live a better life, babe.”

  She hadn’t known what it meant at the time. She thought she might, now.

  She stuck her hand out.

  “Come on. I’ll help you get cleaned up.”

  Kirsten peeked an eye out, still fearful. She gave Sarah’s hand a distrustful look.

  “Why would you help me?”

  “I don’t want to be your boss, Kirsten. I just want you to leave me alone.” She leaned forward, wiggled her hand. “Come on.”

  After a few more seconds of disbelief, Kirsten un
curled. She sat up, eyeing Sarah with a mixture of fear and interest. Her hand was shaking as she reached out to take Sarah’s. She winced as she stood up.

  Kirsten’s face was a mess.

  “I think I broke your nose.”

  “Yeah.”

  Sarah shrugged. “Sorry. Do you want me to help you clean your face in the bathroom?”

  Kirsten regarded the smaller girl for a moment. “Nah. I’ll go myself, and then I’ll go see the nurse.” Kirsten tried to smile, failed, and shrugged instead. “I’ll tell her I slipped and fell on my face.”

  Sarah watched as the older girl limped off. Once she was gone, Sarah sat down on her bunk and put her head in her hands. Her adrenaline rush was over. She felt shaky and a little sick to her stomach.

  She lay back and looked up at the bottom of the bed above her.

  Maybe things are going to get better now.

  It had been two years. Two years since her parents died and Theresa killed Dennis and she came here to this violent, friendless place. The Stranger still visited her dreams sometimes, but less and less.

  She was only eight, but she wasn’t an innocent anymore. She knew about death and blood and violence. She understood that the strong survived better than the weak. She knew what sex was, in all its guises, though she had (thankfully) not yet experienced it firsthand.

  She’d also learned to hide her emotions, or evidence of them. She had three objects, three talismans, whose meanings she kept hidden from the other girls. There was Mr. Huggles. There was a family picture of her, Mommy, Daddy, Buster, and Doreen. And there was the photo of Theresa’s mother.

  She’d grabbed it from its hiding place underneath Theresa’s mattress. She intended to return it to Theresa someday.

  She thought about her sister a lot, sometimes. She knew she’d always consider Theresa a sister, that she’d always remember that one safe night of Go Fish and laughter. She knew she’d never forget why Theresa had done what she did. Sarah understood all of that, now.

  She reached into her back pocket and pulled out the picture of the beautiful young mother. Sarah ran her fingers over it, smiling at the laughing eyes and chestnut hair.

  She knew that Theresa was in juvenile detention until she was eighteen. Cathy Jones had told her.