“You know,” the detective says, “even if you weren’t all banged up, you’d still be considered a suspect. Everyone’s a suspect. Especially boyfriends and husbands.”
And then, finally, “Do I, like, need a lawyer?”
“If what you’ve told me so far is true, then no, sir, I wouldn’t think so.”
The man’s shoulders sink. “Okay. That’s a relief.”
That would have been Carmody’s cue to say, “I’m innocent” or “I didn’t do it.” But he didn’t. He said, “That’s a relief.” And now he’s clamming up again. On one hand Mills would expect the guy to speculate wildly, either as a deflection or, just as credibly, an honest reaction. On the other hand, Mills fully understands if Carmody is shifting into denial and burrowing away from the truth.
Mills thinks Carmody’s silence is fascinating even if he doesn’t exactly consider him a serious suspect for now. After all, there are three bodies, not one. If the murders are connected, Neil Carmody was a busy man during his business trip to Phoenix.
Five minutes later they’re at the PD without either of them saying another word. But as Mills escorts Carmody into the station he can see fear return to the man’s eyes. The building has that effect even on the most innocent of visitors. Mills introduces a slightly jittery Carmody to Detective Morton Myers who has just returned from Camelback. Mills will leave Lindsey Drake’s boyfriend here so Myers can casually question him. That was the plan. To make sure the guy’s story is consistent.
“You have a picture of Lindsey on your phone?” Mills asks the man.
“Yeah. Several.”
“Myers will have you text one to me,” Mills says, suddenly transactional, all business. “I’m heading to Camelback.”
The mountain is already casting its mammoth shadow over its lower neighbors as Mills approaches the cave. This is as typical a Phoenix afternoon, of life and death, as any other. He has dug bodies out of Dumpsters under the valley’s glorious sunlight; he has fished bodies out of canals beneath a cerulean sky; he has stumbled upon humanity’s inner darkness on the calmest, breeziest, easiest desert mornings and afternoons. There was always darkness, even in the Valley of the Sun, a contradiction that had started to turn off some kind of light within him, as well.
“The boyfriend is now with Myers, as you requested,” he tells his sergeant who’s standing at the mouth of the cave. “He just sent me a picture of our likely victim.”
“What happened when you questioned him?”
Mills describes in copious detail his conversations with Carmody at the hotel and in the car.
“A business trip. . . . A hiking accident,” the sergeant recites as if he’s scribbling mental notes. “Have you checked out his story?”
“Not entirely.”
“Make it entirely,” the sergeant orders. “Proof of his every move here in Phoenix.”
“Like I said, he’s with Myers,” Mills explains, the umbrage in his voice not entirely subtle. And then he tells his boss, with just enough hubris to level the playing field, that they have to rethink the Elizabeth Spears case.
“So soon?”
“I had Myers running background on her ex, her coworkers, her roommate, but I think it’s a waste of time. Unless we can establish a personal connection between the three victims, their personal relationships with others don’t matter.” Mills pauses. Sergeant Jacob Woods says nothing. “We have one killer,” Mills continues, “and three random bodies.”
The sergeant completes the logic. “We’re ruling out a copycat,” he says, “because the scene at South Mountain has been sealed.”
“Exactly,” Mills says. “There would be nothing to copy. I want to keep Preston on the Squaw Peak case. That’s a Jane Doe someone forgot about.”
His boss gives him a sober nod of affirmation.
“Now if I can get in the cave and compare the picture to our corpse, that would make my day.”
“Just so you know, Mills, this is an asshole-free crime scene.”
“You sure about that?”
“Don’t test me. Not in the mood,” his boss warns him. “The cave is yours, but you might want to get your psychic friend out of there.”
Mills peers into the hole in the mountain, then back at Woods. “You let him in there?”
“With supervision, of course. Myers went in with him first. Now a tech is keeping a watchful eye over your psychic.”
“Gus doesn’t disturb crime scenes. He penetrates them.”
Woods ignores him, bends a few degrees, and cups his hands around his mouth. “Parker,” he shouts. “Come outta there.”
Gus emerges at that moment, dust and dirt coating his arms and legs, frosting his hair. “You don’t need to shout, Sergeant. The cave’s not very deep.”
Mills laughs quietly, admiring how unflappable Gus can be.
“Hey, Alex,” Gus says with a wave. “You okay?”
“Okay?”
“Disinfected?”
“Fully.”
“Recovered?”
“Not sure what you mean.”
“I sensed you were traumatized at the Peak.”
“It takes a lot to traumatize me, Gus. More than a few maggots.”
“But there were more than a few maggots,” Gus says.
The sergeant leans in close. “If you boys are done socializing, I’d like to keep the investigation moving.”
“Don’t mean to impede, Sergeant Woods,” Mills assures him, then to Gus, “You get any solid vibes in there? Pick up on anything?”
“Confusing images. A man beating a woman. Blood. And tattoos.”
“Nothing specific about the victim?”
“No. But I keep seeing a house in flames. In New England.”
“New England?” the sergeant asks.
“Yeah. I don’t know why.”
“Carmody’s from Massachusetts,” Mills says.
“You do know we’re looking for something really specific here?” the sergeant asks. “You know, like a lead. Like a place where the killer might be hiding? Or maybe what he’s wearing, or what kind of car he’s driving?”
Gus nods. Then he squints and asks, “Has anyone searched the victim’s car?”
Only now Mills notices the cave dust caked in Gus’s eyelashes.
“Of course. Chase is on it now,” Woods says. “He’s doing a preliminary with a couple of techs before they stick it on a flatbed and send it to the lab.”
Mills has to bite his tongue. Seriously, he has to grind his teeth into his tongue and tighten his jaw lest he release a slew of obscenities (fuck, damn, fucking fuck, Jesus, fuck)—not directed at the sergeant, and not necessarily at Timothy Chase either, but at the circumstances, the circumstances that sort of apply the writing to the wall. My fucking job, my fucking life, I thought I had it all figured out. But no one has it figured out. Mills has burned a tremendous quantity of mental calories trying to avoid the inevitable. He had checked into a successful life; he’d been a strong husband and a strong father, and he’d been a local hero. But nothing stays the same. Inevitably things change. Inevitably you lose your grasp on power or success, or both. Usurpers line up. Shit happens, and you get evicted from your successful life. Trevor is the latest author of Alex’s inevitability, but he had a hunch when Chase joined the force. “Chase,” he says casually. “When did he get here?”
“He came with me,” the sergeant replies.
Mills nods. Then he rolls his head and cracks his neck, if for no other reason than to feign indifference.
Gus asks, “Did he find a coffee cup?”
The sergeant looks at the psychic confused and says, “What’s that?”
“A coffee cup. Did Chase find one in the car?”
“I don’t know,” Woods replies. “He wasn’t looking for a coffee cup. The techs are looking for signs of a struggle, hair, blood, broken glass, that sort of thing.”
“Of course, but isn’t everything in the car considered evidence?” Gus asks.
&
nbsp; “Yes,” Woods replies. “And everything in the car that is not obviously or overtly suspicious will be inventoried, as well.”
“Good,” Gus tells him. “I sensed the victim stopping at some kind of convenience store for coffee. She might have even filled up with gas on the way here.”
“We’ll check it out, Mr. Parker,” the sergeant assures him. “But let’s wait to hear from Myers. I’d be interested to know if all Mr. Carmody’s statements are consistent.”
The men descend from the ledge and meet up with Chase who’s watching a tech bag evidence from the car.
“Wow,” Gus says.
“Wow, what?” Woods asks.
“The car. It radiates a certain sadness.”
“Come on, Parker, the car . . . radiating sadness?”
Mills jumps in before Gus has to. “Sergeant, Gus takes his cues from everything.”
Woods shrugs. “Whatever.”
“Look at it just sitting there,” Gus continues as if he had not considered a word the sergeant has said, “implicated in a crime unwittingly, regretfully, and now it understands that it had no power to save Lindsey Drake.”
Woods says, “Really? You’ve got to be kidding me, man.”
“I’m not,” Gus insists. “Just let me sit in the car for a few minutes. I bet I can all but solve the crime. I feel . . . actually, I know the answers are in there.”
The sergeant bows his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Parker, but we can’t let you do that. You might compromise or destroy evidence. We have a good idea what happened in the cave. We have no idea what, if anything, happened in that rental.”
“But, Sergeant . . .”
“No,” Woods insists. “Maybe when we’re done going through the car.”
“All I’m saying,” Gus argues, “is that I know I can tell you more from inside it.”
“Look,” Chase says to the group, “once the car is completely processed, if and when it ends up in the impound lot, it does no harm to give Gus access. There’s no risk of evidence tampering if we sign off.”
“Right,” the sergeant concedes. “But that might take a while. I’d sure like to catch this fucking psycho sooner than later.”
“You know there are two sets of tire prints,” Chase tells them, a remarkable happiness in his eyes.
“Two sets?” Mills asks.
“Yeah, one set right in front of the rental’s. Both equally fresh.”
“What about a coffee cup?” asks the sergeant. “Or a recent receipt?”
“Bagged them both,” Chase says. “I got a cup from Circle K. And a gas receipt.”
Gus offers one of his signature all-knowing smiles. A prophet among us, Mills thinks.
“Good work, Tim,” the sergeant says. “It’s getting dark. Get the car out of here and finish tomorrow.”
“We need to finish with the tire prints. You know, in case it rains tonight,” Chase tells him.
“Rain in the desert?” Mills mutters.
Chase just glares.
“I think we’re going to have to make a statement,” the sergeant tells them. “We found two bodies today. The place is buzzing with the media. We blocked them off down the road.”
“Gus, would you mind excusing us for a moment?” Chase asks.
Gus looks immediately to Mills.
Mills does a quick assessment of the politics. There’s no ground to stand. Not yet. He nods at Gus, and the psychic steps away.
“So, what is it, Timothy?” Mills asks his colleague.
“It’s obvious,” he says with mild condescension. “I think we hold the boyfriend.”
Mills does a mental double take. “Are you serious? What’s his motive for all three murders? This guy, for all we know, has no connection to South Mountain or the Peak.”
“For all we know,” Chase tosses back.
Mills plants his feet firmly in the ground. “I think the body at the Peak was there long before Mr. Carmody showed up in Phoenix.”
“For all we know,” Chase repeats, taunting passively.
“But something about the guy’s story concerns me,” the sergeant interjects. “He said his girlfriend came back to Camelback to finish taking pictures after their hike was cut short by his accident. So what is she doing here?” He gestures upward to the cave, now unseen, above them.
Both detectives look at each other and then at the sergeant.
“Well?” the sergeant continues. “She would have gone back to the north side where they were hiking. How would she have even known to come out to this ledge? Out-of-towners don’t just stumble upon the view here. No one hikes over here.”
“She followed someone up here,” Chase says.
“Two sets of tire tracks would indicate that,” Mills affirms. “So if Carmody is our guy as you suspect, then why do you think he’d lead his girlfriend up here in separate cars?”
Timothy Chase narrows his eyes.
As counterproductive as it might be to the investigation, Mills can’t help but find pleasure poking holes in this guy’s theory. The thrill comes on so fast he doesn’t have a chance to chastise himself for acting like a child. When you poke holes in Chase’s theory, you poke holes in his ego, and Mills can justify that because the guy is just a fucking blowhard half the time. Bill O’Reilly with a badge.
“Maybe he didn’t lead her up here,” Chase concedes. “But maybe he has an accomplice. Maybe that accomplice has a connection to South Mountain and the Peak.”
“So Neil Carmody and his buddy come to Phoenix to go on a killing spree?” Mills asks.
“Stranger things have happened,” Chase muses in a stage whisper.
“I’m sure they have,” the sergeant says. “But that’s not what happened here. And I think you know that, Tim. Look, you go figure out the personality of this killer. And let Alex go find him.”
“You can’t let Carmody leave,” Chase insists.
“We can’t make him stay,” the sergeant says.
“He’s a person of interest,” Chase argues.
“Agreed. And we can question him until the cows come home or he calls a lawyer. Whichever comes first. But we can’t make him stay,” the sergeant says.
Then Mills says, “Of course he’s going to stay. You think he’s going to up and leave his girlfriend’s body here?”
And the sergeant says, “Alex is right.”
Chase shakes his head and turns back to the victim’s car.
The sergeant makes a silent, calming gesture, as if he’s smoothing out ruffles with his hands, as if he’s a kindergarten referee. But then he pivots sharply, perhaps sensing Gus’s presence behind him. “I thought I asked you to excuse us.”
Gus, his face a mix of Zen and crazy awe, says, “Yes, you did. But I sensed you were talking about the boyfriend.”
“Sensed? Or eavesdropped?” the sergeant asks.
“Sensed. I’m sorry to interrupt, but the boyfriend was never here, on this side of the mountain.”
“And you know this how?” Woods asks, his tone betraying his impatience.
“All I’m saying is that the victim was in that cave with a stranger. No one else,” Gus explains. “I don’t know about the boyfriend. I think maybe he took a fall. But not here.”
The sergeant takes a step back as if yielding, physically, to the swath of Gus’s power. “You knew about the hiking accident?” Woods asks wide-eyed.
Mills tries to conceal the smile of vindication rising on his face.
“Uh, not specifically,” the psychic says. “But I sensed the man was hurt somehow and that he wasn’t here with her.”
“That might be true,” Woods says, then shifts to Mills. “But we’re keeping Carmody until Myers—or you, Mills—checks out his story.”
It’s not a suggestion. It’s a signal to Mills to yield to the swath of the sergeant’s power.
“I’m going back to the cave to ID her with the photo,” he tells his boss.
“Be my guest,” Woods says. “But, Mr. Parker, you stay her
e.”
14
Gus wants to leave before the press conference begins. He finds the vapidity of reporters alarming and distracting. They could never know what he knows. Few people could ever know what he knows. But he particularly cringes when watching reporters trying to figure things out as if they’re amateur sleuths from Sherlock University. The TV people are actors and actresses. The newspaper people take themselves too seriously. He supposes they’re in the same game, though: truth.
He sees Detective Timothy Chase coming down the road.
“You heading out?” he asks Chase.
“Just for a bit. Gotta check on our guy at the Peak.”
“I don’t suppose you mind dropping me off. I need a lift.”
“You don’t want to wait for your buddy Mills?”
“No. He’s busy. I’ve been gone all day. I got to feed the dog, let her out.”
“Let’s go,” Chase says. “Anything for a man with a dog.”
“You have a dog?”
“I did.”
They’re quiet for most of the drive. Gus gives the detective street directions and watches Chase watch the road. Chase must know that Gus is studying his profile, the way the detective flexes his face, the way he emphasizes his jaw; it betrays a self-consciousness, as if Gus has invaded his privacy. Gus makes a stab at modesty. “Well, I think I really fucked up,” he says.
Chase doesn’t turn, doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “How do you mean?”
“I saw a murder last night, and I assumed it was the murder at Squaw Peak. But that body’s been there for a while.”
“So?”
“So the murder I saw last night had to be the one at Camelback. But I had no clue.”
“The way I see it,” Chase says, “is that there was a murder last night. And something else led you to the Peak. Both hunches were true. And like I told you before, I welcome any hunches.”
“Is this your case now?”
Chase turns to him abruptly. “Of course not,” he says. “I’m not the case agent.”
“No, but I’m betting from this point on the case is all about psychology.”
“That’s probably a good bet, Mr. Parker.”
And that’s about it. Gus mutters directions. Chase confirms with a grunt. The ride takes maybe ten minutes.
Desert Remains Page 13