“Uh, yeah, sorry. I didn’t look at the time. This is Deputy Howell, Washington County Sheriff’s Office, here in Utah. We have a homicide—”
“Gwen . . .”
“So you do know her.”
“Is she . . .” Dave slumped into his chair. He couldn’t say the words.
A pause. “Oh. No. Gwen Marcey isn’t the victim. She found the body and stumbled across the suspect’s hiding spot. Didn’t catch him, but we were close. She gave us a pretty thorough police report. I’m just following up.”
Dave exhaled. “Yeah, so how can I help you?”
“Just wondering about her.”
Dave scratched his cheek. “She’s the best. Like a sister to me.”
“She’s your sister?”
Dave shifted in his chair. “Practically. She lived with my family. My dad got her interested in law enforcement. She taught some classes for the police academy.”
“Sketch classes?”
“Yeah. Also cognitive interviewing and signs of deception.”
“I took some of those classes recently,” Deputy Howell said. “Never heard of her.”
“She’s . . .” Dave rubbed his chin.
“Yes?” Deputy Howell said.
“She took some time off.”
“Why?”
“A lot . . . a lot of personal things. She’s fine now. More than fine. She can sketch anything you need, conduct interviews, do statement analysis—”
“Statement analysis?”
“Yep. Catching lies by people’s words. She’s good at it.”
“I thought she just drew pictures.”
“Yeah, but she has to draw from the surviving victim’s memories, so she has to be good at interviewing. And she has to know if they’re lying.”
Another long pause from Howell. “I see. Well, thanks.” He hung up.
“You didn’t tell him,” Louise said from the door.
“I didn’t hear you knock.”
“I didn’t. I was getting ready to leave. Why didn’t you tell him about Gwen’s troubles?”
“What’s to tell? Gwen’s fine now. And she needed that job.”
Louise’s lips settled into a frown. “But you said she was like a sister to you. I thought your dad actually adopted her.”
“He told everyone that, but Gwen never disclosed her background to anyone. You were here. You remember how hard he searched for any of her family members.”
“Harrumph. I would think you’d at least warn him.”
“About what? What’s past is past. She’s in remission from cancer. Her divorce is final, and Robert is at least paying child support. Her daughter is out of trouble and in a good school—”
She shook a finger at him. “You told Gwen to send her daughter to that school.”
“It was the only solution.”
“But it’s a school for juvenile delinquents!”
“And for kids who need some extra guidance, which Gwen couldn’t provide while working in Utah. And Robert—”
“Don’t even get me started on that man. That . . . that . . . monster blamed her and Aynslee for his writer’s block.” Louise sniffed a final time and left the room.
Dave had never liked Robert either and would have loved to have had a reason to arrest him and put him away for good. But now that Gwen was working on a homicide investigation, maybe her life was turning around. As long as Deputy Howell didn’t read Robert’s stupid novel where he painted Gwen as a self-centered nutcake.
Dave looked at the cup of tea. Nerve tea, Louise called it. It wasn’t his health, or nerves, he was worried about.
CHAPTER
FIVE
I RECLINED IN THE SEAT, CLOSED MY EYES, AND longed for a large mug of steaming coffee. The stupid pill made my brain feel like swirling dust bunnies. I debated about asking the officer driving the patrol SUV to swing by a convenience store before leaving town. Glancing at his name tag, I changed my mind. R. Young. Undoubtedly a descendant of Brigham Young. Mormons didn’t drink coffee. Or tea. Or any strong drink. Just my luck.
Like a replay of last night’s light show, the interpretive center swarmed with law enforcement vehicles flashing blue, red, and white strobes. Khaki-clothed deputies bustled about looking serious and a bit lost. Harsh fluorescent lighting streamed from the center’s windows.
Deputy Young escorted me past fluttering cadmium-yellow crime scene tape toward Deputy Howell, who was directing the action just inside the door. He turned as we approached. “So, we meet again. Did you call me from the motel?”
“Is that why I’m here?”
“No. Sorry about the early hour.”
He didn’t look sorry. “I just wanted to tell you that Ethan has some of Bekka’s things. He doesn’t want to give them to you, but you might follow up anyway.”
Howell pulled out a small notepad and jotted something down.
I stared longingly at the break room. Maybe someone had started the coffeepot. I tried to stifle a yawn. Unsuccessfully.
“I know you’ve been working here and thought you’d be able to help us. Your sheriff vouched for you.”
I stared intently at his face. Nothing twitched. Dave must have kept silent about the past year. I glanced around the room. It looked like a tornado had touched down: cold air whipping through broken windows, graffiti spray-painted over newly installed pine paneling, overturned trash containers, ivory papers from ripped books, and two legs poking from beneath a shattered case. George.
My muscles tightened. I’d never worked on a case where I personally knew the victim, let alone had been a friend. Don’t act like a rookie. I cleared my throat. “Is this related to the other murder?”
Howell narrowed his eyes at me. “We’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind. When did you leave work yesterday?”
“Around five thirty. Later than usual. George saw me out—”
“Did he lock the door after you?”
I folded my arms. Bad interview technique. Never interrupt a witness. Instead of snapping at him, I slowly counted to four, letting the deputy cool his impatience. “I don’t know. I was focused on my c—”
“Were any other cars in the parking lot?”
I could add leading questions to interruptions. “No.”
Howell rubbed his chin. “We’d like—”
“I did see a pickup.”
“You just said the parking lot was empty.”
“You asked if I saw any cars. My answer was no. There was an indanthrene-colored pickup.” Don’t bait him. Just answer and go back to bed.
He stared hard at me for a moment, then, unexpectedly, grinned. “Yeah, yeah. Your friend Dave said you were good. What’s an Indian-anthem, uh, . . . pickup?”
“Indanthrene. Dark violet-blue, leaning more toward blue. Like navy, but with a richer, warmer tone . . .”
Howell frowned at me.
“Anyway, late model.”
Howell nodded. “Can you tell me more about the argument at the opening?”
“A bunch of protesters showed up. Do you think they came back and did this?”
“We’re exploring every possibility.”
“I could do composite drawings of the four of them: Button Down, Black Dress, Chunky Woman, and Beer Breath.”
Howell pursed his lips. “Beer Breath?”
“Oh, sorry. That’s how I remember them.”
“I’ve never used a composite artist before. Let me think about it.”
“Sure. Just let me know. Who . . . uh . . . who found . . . the body?”
“We got an anonymous call from a pay phone. Could you look over your area and tell us if anything is missing?” Howell scratched his hastily shaved chin.
I nodded. “Are you done taking photographs and measurements?”
“We’re still processing the body. If it isn’t too upsetting, could you take a look at George and see if you notice anything unusual?”
“Sure.” Being dead is unusual . . .
“Deputy
Young will stay with you so you won’t step in the wrong spot.”
Young puffed his chest out and lifted his lip in a slight sneer.
I sneered back. He blinked rapidly and glanced around. Turning, I started a triumphant march to my area, but flames rushed to my face as the hot flash took over. I knelt down and pretended to tie my shoe until I figured my face no longer had a sweat sheen. I hoped he didn’t notice that I didn’t have any shoelaces.
After pulling a small notebook and pen from my pocket, I drew a line down the center of the paper. On one side I wrote, Known, on the other I wrote, Unknown, then stepped away from the officers and slowly surveyed the room. My gaze lingered on the break room. No light showed under the door. No coffee. In the early-morning gloom, I saw only my reflection in the windows and the room behind me.
Is someone still out there, watching?
I approached George’s body but found the closer I got, the more I had to pry each foot forward. Once again the rank, metallic odor of blood burned my nose. I couldn’t feel my hands, and bile seared my throat. Be a pro.
He was sprawled across an exhibit. His slacks bunched under him, exposing white athletic socks poked into heavy-duty work shoes. A large pool of deep-maroon blood created a moat around his feet, his glasses forming a plastic island.
I put my hand over my nose and mouth to block some of the smell. Something glittered on his hand, and I leaned forward slightly.
“He fell backward,” a deep, male voice said.
I spun, losing my balance, and windmilled my arms to keep from cascading onto my dead friend. The man grabbed my arm and yanked. I catapulted forward, clutching him in a parody of a lover’s embrace. The woodsy-spice scent of Brit cologne enveloped me.
“Nice to meet you too,” he said.
Heat rushed up my neck as I pushed away from him. “You . . . um . . . what’s the matter with you?”
He took a step backward. “Sorry. I thought you knew I was here.” His raised eyebrows seemed to imply I was acting like an amateur.
“Obviously I didn’t.” I turned and crashed into Deputy Howell. Didn’t these guys believe in personal space?
“Ah, Gwen, I see you’ve met Mike. Special Agent Mike Brown, FBI.”
Special Agent Mike Brown, FBI, held out a neatly manicured, tanned hand.
I took it and sized him up. Under umber-brown hair, his eyes were the brilliant, peacock blue of my favorite tube of watercolor, framed by black lashes a model would covet. His shoulders were barely contained in a federal-blue suit, with a starched dress shirt and maroon-striped tie. No wedding ring. My gaze drifted back to his face.
He nodded at me slightly.
I let go of his grip and quickly looked away, hoping I wouldn’t suffer another inopportune hot flash. “So. FBI. At a homicide. What brought you here?”
“Deputy Howell gave me a call.” Mike nodded at the man. “I was in the area.”
I folded my arms and stared at Howell. If I was lucky, he’d jump in with more information to fill in the silence.
“I met Mike at the NA,” Howell said.
National Academy. Ten weeks of training at Quantico offered to select law enforcement officers. My opinion of Deputy Howell rose. “Classmate or instructor?”
“Instructor,” Howell said. “Domestic terrorism and crime scene.” He smiled at Mike. “Now he’s the senior resident agent in Salt Lake.”
I looked at my shoes. An expert in domestic terrorism just happened to be in Utah, and there just happened to be two murders within twenty-four hours? That put a different filter on the events.
“Blood spatter.” Mike pointed to George. “Before terrorism, I was an expert in bloodstain pattern analysis. That’s why Deputy Howell invited me over.”
Yeah, right. Or he could be checking out some local group of fanatics. “So, what does George’s blood pattern tell you?”
“Like I said, before you jumped into my arms—”
I glared at him, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“George fell backward into the case. They may not have intended to kill him, but he severed an artery and bled out in a matter of minutes. He has a nasty bump on his head, so he was probably unconscious and couldn’t call for help.”
I sincerely hoped George was unconscious when the glass sliced him. Deep breath. No tears. I deliberately turned and studied the body. “How could a fall shatter the glass like that?”
“One side was open, so it had less reinforcement.”
“Open? But the display had nothing of value in it. Just copies of survivor accounts.”
“Survivor accounts?”
“You know, documents, diaries, newspaper articles, and some letters. Was—”
“No.” Mike obviously anticipated my next question. “This was the only open case.” He caught Howell’s attention and stepped away.
Under Known I wrote, Survivor display case open and sketched the deadly tableau. I could see the mark on George’s temple along his graying hairline where someone had struck him. I stopped drawing and concentrated on his hand. The glittering object was a ring. It had an enameled American flag with two eagle wings on either side. I sketched the ring and avoided George’s empty stare. He was wearing the same neatly pressed, beige pants and steel-blue work shirt from the night before. I closed my eyes and rewound the previous evening, then jotted some notes.
Mike and Howell were talking as I walked over. “I appreciate the offer to take over, Mike,” Howell was saying. “But I think I can run a homicide scene.”
I poked the pencil behind my ear and cleared my throat. “He’s dressed the same. I didn’t notice that ring.” I recalled the day I’d arrived at the center. George helped unload my car, then invited me to dinner with his grown children. I could taste the meatloaf with the surprise of raisins, along with corn pudding, homemade bread, and parsley new potatoes.
I quickly moved away from the body before I made a fool of myself. Someone had spray-painted “LDS Liars!” and “Brigham Young is a murderer!” on the walls. Interesting. LDS: Latter-day Saints. The correct name for the Mormon Church. Not Mormon, the name of the original author of the Book of Mormon. Put that together with the presence of Mike, domestic-terrorist expert, and you could have someone pretending to be anti-Mormon. I glanced at Mike. He was watching me.
I ducked my head and wrote, Mormon connection? Check violent splinter groups under Unknown and headed to my work section.
The sight stopped me dead. Someone had used what appeared to be an ax to smash into every box, container, and sculpture stand. They’d shredded books, ripped photographs, and stomped the remaining plaster reconstructions into clay and dust.
I stifled a cry. This was the center of the violence, which had rippled outward. How could I know if anything was missing? Nothing was left undamaged. Weeks of work . . .
I waved Deputy Young over. “I’d need to see if anything is still intact.”
“That’ll have to wait until they release the scene.”
“In that case, could you drive me back to the motel?”
“If Howell agrees, sure.” He wandered over to speak to the deputy.
“Seems your project drew the most destruction.” Mike held out a paper cup of water.
I took it and sipped. Too bad it wasn’t coffee. “Thanks. That’s what I was thinking. Fortunately, I already ordered backup skulls. But that was the last of my clay.”
He crouched, pulled on a latex glove, and selected a shattered length of wood. After peering at one end, he replaced it in the exact same angle, lifted a second wood chunk, then repeated the process. “Pulaski would be my guess.”
“You think a Mormon firefighter did this?” I crumpled the empty cup and looked for an unscathed garbage container.
“What’s a Polanski?” Deputy Young asked, returning.
“Pulaski. A firefighting tool, with an ax on one side and a mattock on the other.” Mike took my cup. “Why did you say the unknown subject was a Mormon?”
“Tell m
e why you’re really here, and I’ll tell you why I think it’s a Mormon.”
“Fair enough. How about I take you to breakfast and we can talk about it?”
I didn’t want to have breakfast or any meal with Mike. He was far too aware of how he looked. In spite of my best efforts, I felt my breath shorten and a warm flush dart up my neck. “No, thanks.”
“I’m not asking you for a date,” Mike said. “I wanted to hear your theories.”
Heat seared up my neck and face. I turned away and fought for air. The hot flash passed, but before I could grope for something intelligent to say, Deputy Howell marched over with a cell phone pressed to his ear.
“Got it. Right.” He dropped the phone into a pocket and looked at me. “Seems we have another problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Rebekah Kenyon died five years ago.”
CHAPTER
SIX
REBEKAH LOOKED SERENE UNDER THE BUZZING fluorescent light. And very dead. I avoided staring at the crimson slash across her throat and breathing in the copper tang of her blood. The white vinyl zippered body bag concealed the rest of her. Thankfully. Once again I thought of my own daughter. She hadn’t wanted to go to the Selkirk Academy, and I really didn’t want to send her, but Robert was too busy running around being a big-shot author, and I needed her safe and unable to act out until I was done with this job. I’d make it up to her. Somehow.
“We’ll be sending her to St. George for an autopsy when the ambulance arrives. We need a sketch of her so we can get an ID,” Deputy Howell said. “Can’t exactly release a photo with her looking like that.”
We were in the back of a funeral home, not the area of low lights, deep-pile carpets, and banks of flowers, but one of cold metal, tile, and nasty-looking equipment. Deputy Howell leaned against a counter across the room, as if he were afraid of catching something from the girl.
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