by Anne Frasier
“Are you okay?” Jude asked.
Uriah gave himself a small shake. “Fine.”
The chaos was over, but it was still a crime scene. Plastic evidence cards were everywhere. “I’ve never seen such high numbers,” she said.
“I didn’t even know they went so high.”
“They don’t.” She pointed. Some of the cards had been hand numbered.
Uriah rolled his shoulders like someone getting ready to dive into a pool.
The house smelled of death. It was mostly the blood, warming in the heat of a fall day, but it was also other bodily fluids and excrement.
Later, once the building was no longer a crime scene, a company would come and erase all signs of the murders. They’d roll up carpet and deep clean the floors to remove bloodstains. They’d wash the walls and ceilings. Any contaminated furniture would be wrapped and hauled away.
Odd to think the house might belong to Iris now. It gave Jude a better understanding of the way people had reacted to her father’s and brother’s deaths, knowing she was the beneficiary even if she refused everything and anything.
They heard footsteps. A young guy with a BCA logo on his blue polo shirt appeared. “We’re almost done,” he said. “I think the house will be released soon.”
“How soon?” She didn’t like hearing they were going to lift the crime-scene status, especially considering the scope of the murders. But she wasn’t surprised. She’d gotten the memo about their plan to be more efficient due to budget cuts. Get in, document the scene and collect evidence, and get out.
“I don’t know, but I’d advise you to do what you need to do,” he told them. “Go through it again. You can have it all to yourselves.”
He left the building.
Sometimes that helped. To be alone at the scene without the mental and physical clutter of others. In her mind, she went over the events of the previous night. The killers had come in the front door. That had been established. From there, they’d moved to the dining room and kitchen. They’d probably broken up so the murders in the two locations could take place simultaneously. It had to have been fast, with no time for the kitchen staff to signal for help.
Cameras on the target house had been blocked, but security footage supplied from other homes had revealed the four people dressed in black moving up the street at around seven thirty. No vehicle, and so far no cameras had provided the starting point for their approach. From the coroner’s approximate time of deaths, the murders had taken place soon after.
“At some point, Iris ran upstairs and hid,” Jude said, trying to work out the timeline. “Possibly while her family was being killed.”
Uriah held a pad of paper. He’d already drawn the layout of the rooms, but he was adding notes to the bottom of the page as he examined the bloody affirmation on the wall.
All I seek is already within me.
“She screamed,” Jude said, “and dogs barked, alerting neighbors. Tristan Greer arrived and called 911. The killers ran, and her life was saved.”
“They wouldn’t have gone back downstairs to pose the bodies,” Uriah said. “That must have been done when she was hiding.”
“Or she witnessed it.”
“Entirely possible,” Uriah said. “The 911 call was logged at 9:02 p.m. That’s an hour and a half to account for. Why didn’t she call for help?”
“She said her mother took her phone away during dinner. It was found downstairs.” They’d discovered nothing on it that seemed suspicious, but her contacts were being checked out and flagged for interviews.
Done with the dining room, they turned to head to the kitchen.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He didn’t look okay.
“Fine.”
No sooner was the word out of his mouth than he swayed, stumbled, and dropped like a stone. Jude tried to catch him, but fainters were fast. She managed to slow his descent enough to keep his head from hitting the floor with full force as she fell to her knees beside him. He was breathing, and his pulse was faint and fast. She loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. He would not want her to call 911. She pulled out her phone anyway, and in less than three minutes, she heard sirens.
Uriah roused, gradually becoming aware of his surroundings. He let out a groan of embarrassment and insisted upon sitting up. Tried, let his head fall back to the floor. All the while she held a hand to his chest, trying to keep him down.
“I’m okay,” he whispered weakly, eyes closed.
“That’s what you said seconds before you hit the floor.” Was it the migraines? Something else?
“I don’t need an ambulance.”
The EMTs looked confused when they stepped inside. The blood. The flies. A man on the floor. They were expecting a gunshot victim. Jude explained the circumstances and who they were, although they probably already knew.
Uriah’s vitals were checked. He had a weak, rapid pulse. His blood pressure was low. The EMTs started a fluid IV.
“I can walk,” Uriah said when the stretcher appeared.
“You might as well get the full treatment,” a tech told him. “We’re here anyway.”
After another struggle to sit up, he quit arguing. He was helped to the stretcher, his pad of paper placed on his stomach, and wheeled out of the house.
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Jude climbed into the back of an ambulance and took a seat on a side bench as doors slammed and the vehicle roared off toward the hospital, siren blaring and lights flashing.
In the hospital emergency room, Jude borrowed Uriah’s phone to call his dad.
“They want to run a few tests,” she told Richard.
“I knew something was wrong.”
“It could be nothing.”
He was there in thirty minutes. “I called your mother,” he told Uriah. “She’s renting a car and will be here tonight.”
“That’s not necessary. Where’s my phone?”
Jude handed it to him. He poked at the screen, then put the device to his ear. “Mom, I’m fine. No, I’m okay. I shouldn’t even be in the hospital. You don’t need to come. Really.” He disconnected and looked from Jude to his father. “She’s coming,” he said with irritation.
A doctor appeared and did a quick basic exam, pinching Uriah’s skin, looking at his mouth and eyes, listening to his heart, and perusing his vital readings. “I suspect you’re suffering from dehydration and exhaustion.”
“So basically, I just fainted.” To his father, Uriah said, “Call Mom again. Tell her not to come. I don’t want her driving all the way here by herself when she’s worried and distracted.”
Richard pulled out his phone and attempted to dissuade his wife. “Wait until morning,” he said. “I’ll call you and let you know how he is.” He hung up. “She wouldn’t listen. She’s going to come, regardless, but I think she’s less worried, anyway.”
“Dehydration can be serious,” the doctor said. “And then there are those headaches. We’d like to keep you overnight for observation. Run some tests. An MRI, for one thing.”
“I can’t stay here. I’ve got too much to do.”
“Exactly why you should stay,” Jude said. “I’ll return to the crime scene and go over everything. When I’m done, I’ll text you. If anything new comes up, I’ll call.” Then she appealed to his logical side. “You aren’t going to be of much use if you don’t take care of yourself. It’s just overnight.”
He finally gave up and instructed her to go back to Headquarters, fill everyone in, follow up on anything urgent even if it didn’t relate to the latest murders, then get back to the scene of the crime. Outside the room, the doctor spoke to Jude in a low voice. “He might be here longer than overnight, but I’ll deal with his reaction to that when the time comes.”
Her heart pounded. “Do you think it’s something serious?”
“The headaches concern me, and I just want to make sure we don’t miss anything.” He paused.
“Is ther
e something you aren’t telling me?”
“It’s not for me to discuss with someone who isn’t a family member.” He excused himself, and Jude went to find that family member.
With her direct question about Uriah’s overall health, Richard pulled her aside. Most people knew not to touch her, but one of his hands gripped her arm as he urged her to a less busy area of the hallway.
He seemed to be struggling with information he didn’t feel comfortable sharing. Finally he said, “He’s supposed to have checkups every three years, but as far as I know, he hasn’t had any since he was a teenager.”
“Checkups?” She frowned. “A lot of people get headaches. Why does he need checkups?”
“Nobody’s supposed to talk about it,” he said, then seemed to come to a decision. “Uriah says it’s history, but I’m going to tell you because you’re his partner and I think you should know. He had leukemia when he was a kid. And when he started getting these headaches so frequently, his mother and I couldn’t help but worry. I came up to check on him.”
Her knees went weak and she felt faint herself. “Does Chief Ortega know?”
“I don’t think anybody in the department knows. When he was cured, he closed that chapter of his life.”
“Thanks for telling me, Mr. Ashby.”
“He’s not going to be happy about you knowing,” he said. “Whatever you do, don’t make a big deal out of it. He’ll hate that.”
“I won’t.”
Before returning to Homicide, she checked on Iris. The girl looked happy to see her, and told her the trach tube was coming out early—tomorrow, in fact—but it was no surprise that she had no new or helpful information. And everything, even the Fibonacci murders, seemed unimportant now in light of what Jude had just found out about Uriah.
Her strong reaction to his health scare left her with an unsettling self-awareness. As soon as something was dead, tenderness and mercy bloomed in her. She could easily love the dead, even a dead plant, even a cat who’d gone missing and might not return. But after all she’d been through, she was terrified to care about a living, breathing person.
CHAPTER 39
Six hours later, after filling in for Uriah at the police department, Jude took a cab back to the crime scene. In the hours since Uriah had passed out, the status had been lifted and After the Fact cleanup-crew vans were parked in the driveway. Inside, removal was under way. Three men were on site, all wearing white biohazard suits that looked like something appropriate for a moonwalk. Large, heavy-grade plastic bags were everywhere, tagged with hazardous-waste stickers.
She flashed her badge. “Who released this scene?”
She got a name and made a call to someone new in the BCA. She chewed him out, didn’t get anywhere. Not wanting to bother Uriah, she called Chief Ortega to see if she could put a halt to the cleanup.
“Once the crime-scene status has been lifted, it’s lifted,” Ortega said. “The scene is contaminated now and no evidence can be collected from this point on. I’m sure the BCA wouldn’t have lifted it if they didn’t think they’d been thorough.”
“It’s premature.” Frustrated, Jude ended the call. “Who’s in charge here?”
A man dressed head to toe in protective gear crossed the room and pulled his breathing apparatus to the top of his covered head. She didn’t know his name, but she was pretty sure she’d seen him somewhere else, probably at other crime scenes. It was hard to get a solid take on someone dressed in a moon suit and snug white hood. Funny how clothes and hair were such important factors in identifying a person.
“I’m in charge,” he said. “And I’m not crazy about you walking around with no gear.” He wasn’t angry, just matter-of-fact. “I can get you suited up.”
“That’s okay.” Wearing the suit seemed like overdoing it, since people had been walking about hours earlier without protection. But gear was standard protocol for cleanup companies.
The guy grabbed something from a box. “Here. At least put on a mask.” It was one of the higher-grade white ones with a carbon filter. It would help with odor and bacteria.
She accepted the mask. Walking away, she had a thought, paused, and turned back. “You were at one of the Crisis Center telethons, weren’t you?”
“Yep. I missed the last one, but I was there for the first and I plan to be there for the last, unless I’m working.”
“It’s a worthy cause,” she said, surprised at her small talk.
“One more thing.” He handed her a pair of shoe covers. “Go ahead and look around, but please don’t touch anything. We’re all about containment; we don’t want anything tracked outside, and we don’t want anybody picking up anything harmful.”
“No problem.”
She slipped the thin blue covers over her boots. He went back to what he was doing and she cupped the mask in her hand, placed it against her face, and brought the two elastic bands, one at a time, behind her head.
Like always, whenever she walked through a place where horrific things had happened, she felt a sense of peace that was almost spiritual. Maybe it was self-preservation, something her mind did to calm itself so she could sweep the sense of horror aside and take in the necessary.
They’d gotten a surprising amount done in a short time. Area rugs had been rolled up, bagged, and tagged for disposal. Most of the blood was gone, but the affirmation quote was still there. Even through the charcoal filters of her mask, she could smell bleach and cleaning products.
The crew hadn’t moved upstairs yet, and the carpet leading to the second floor was still stained with footprints. She pulled out her phone and took pictures. Some of the prints were large and some were small enough to belong to a woman. Maybe Iris. Maybe some would match the prints from the theater.
Upstairs, in Iris’s bedroom, Jude opened the closet and turned on the light. It was tidy and appeared undisturbed. After a moment, she shut off the light and closed the door.
Everything personal—like diaries, laptop, phone—had been logged into evidence and was gone, but Jude went through drawers again anyway, removing them, checking behind and under. Remembering the photo she’d found in her house, she pulled the dresser from the wall. Nothing. Not even any dust. Iris said she’d been hiding under the bed and they’d dragged her out. Sheets and blankets and mattress pad had been bagged as evidence and removed.
Jude sat down on the floor next to the bloodstained carpet, her back against the bed, legs straight, ankles crossed. She pulled off the mask and closed her eyes.
Ever since Richard Ashby had told her about Uriah, she’d been walking around with the sensation of something stuck in her throat, and a nagging feeling she couldn’t identify. Now she recognized it as a profound and insidious fear. There was no reason to be afraid, she told herself. He would be fine. He was fine. Just exhaustion and dehydration.
A clock was ticking somewhere nearby. Muffled voices carried from downstairs. Soft conversation, doors opening and closing. That was broken by the sudden and intrusive roar of a vacuum.
She slid down until she was flat on the floor, so she could put herself in the same physical space as the victim. Eyes open, she looked up. The white ceiling above her head was spattered with blood. It was amazing how far blood could travel. And it was amazing that Iris had survived. Or maybe it wasn’t. What are you covering up, Iris? Was she protecting someone? Had she known one of the killers? If at least part of her story was true, she was the one who’d let them in to begin with.
Oh hell. There were stars on the ceiling. Yellow plastic, the kind that glowed in the dark. They’d been arranged in constellations. Jude recognized the Big Dipper.
When things were good, Iris might have looked up at the stars just like this. And she’d looked up at them last night, while her blood soaked the carpet and her life faded away. Navigating the world was hard for any young woman, but you never expected the uncertainties to come from the evil of others. That wasn’t in a young girl’s dreams.
Jude made a pass thro
ugh the rest of the upstairs. Three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Toilets had been dismantled, the pipes searched, because criminals often tried to flush evidence. But it seemed it had all ended in Iris’s room.
She went back downstairs, returned the mask and shoe covers to the person in charge. He told her thanks, tossed them in a box with a hazard label, and walked away, back to the dining room and the affirmation he was removing. She watched him a moment, then left the building. Outside, she called Uriah to see how he was. It had been a struggle to keep from calling him every hour. And it was a struggle to keep her voice normal as she attempted to calm her pounding heart.
“Heading to Radiology for the MRI,” he said. “My mother is here, and my brother is thinking about flying in.” She heard the irritation in his voice, and that made her feel a little better even though a large part of that irritation was probably due to her calling 911 in the first place.
“They care about you,” she said, fresh fear of the MRI results rising in her. She pictured the safety and security of her basement cell. “We all do.”
Getting an MRI was a little like flying. Both required the relinquishing of control. No phones to answer. No crime scenes to attend to. No press conferences. No witnesses to interview. Uriah figured his embracing of the tube and the noise and the disembodied voice in his ear was confirmation of just how much he needed a change in something, probably attitude. In what other life would an MRI be considered a vacation?
The roar of the machine faded and the voice of the man behind the glass told him he was done. With a jerk, he was out of the cylinder and staring up at the ceiling. Earplugs removed, bare feet to the floor. The IV was slipped from the back of his hand. Someone grabbed his arm, asked if he was okay. Another someone told him a radiologist would be reading the scan soon.
The other weird thing? He wasn’t worried. He’d seen the concern on his father’s and mother’s faces, and had reassured them everything would be fine. And it probably would be fine. But if it wasn’t . . . He’d deal with it. If he got bad news, he didn’t want anybody treating him differently, and he wouldn’t want anyone at work to know. He’d do what he could for as long as he could, and when he couldn’t do it any longer, someone else would take his place.