Her Perfect Bones

by Ellery A Kane

  He skimmed over the other photos and set them aside; useless snapshots, dark and oddly angled, of storm clouds gathering in a bruised sky; a bee perched on a windowsill; a chest of drawers squatting in the corner of the bedroom with a few items—a paperback novel, a tube of lipstick, and a homemade doll with strange button eyes—scattered haphazard on top.

  Last, a blurred image. Indiscernible, but it chilled him just the same. With its violent motion, its vibrant colors. Will could make out a hand reaching toward the camera. A flat palm, terrifying in its whiteness, the fingers stretched, long and talon-like, by a trick of the camera. The arm covered by the sleeve of a dark jacket. A patch of color on the shoulder, distorted. Another burst of color on the wall behind.

  Earlier, JB had taken one look at the photos and the fingerprints on the camera and pronounced the case solved. Chuck Winters, guilty. Another notch on his imaginary Detective of the Year belt.

  Unconvinced, Will sorted through the rest of the folder, including Winters’ mug shot, taken in 1980, just before he’d served half of an eight-year sentence for rape. Then, he reshuffled the photographs, losing Winters and his shit-eating grin somewhere in the middle. JB had a point, but Will’s cop clairvoyance—that wicked sixth sense he’d inherited from his father, Henry—had never let him down.

  On top of the stack, he placed the last photograph Jane Doe had taken. He traced the fingers, thin and bony as twigs, certain of one thing: that hand did not belong to Chuck Winters.

  As Will tossed his overnight bag in the trunk of the rental car, his cell buzzed in his pocket. He groaned at the number on the screen. Mainly because it didn’t belong to Olivia. He’d missed a call from her in the air, and she hadn’t left a message.

  “Hey, JB. What’s up?”

  “Clearly not you. Looks like you beat the odds for a safe landing.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.” Will opened the door and positioned himself behind the wheel, already feeling out of kilter; back here in San Francisco, his personal ground zero, having to answer to his ex, Amy Bishop. Homicide Inspector Amy Bishop, no less. “Any news? Got an ID on our victim yet?”

  “Not yet. But I have been doing some first-class detective work. Prepare to have your mind blown, City Boy.”

  Will shook his head, catching his own tired eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “I canvassed your neighborhood. As you’d expect some thirty years later, nobody knows a goddamned thing. And I watched the rest of Grimaldi’s little home movie. That guy is one sick puppy. I tell ya, I could barely keep down my kale chips. Do you really think that blood was fake?”

  Remembering the way Brenda had cried out in pain, he certainly hoped so. “The police report didn’t mention any serious injuries related to the kidnapping, but we need to find out. Either way, Grimaldi’s a suspect.”

  “I still like Winters for it though.”

  “Really? Don’t you think Brenda could be our Jane Doe?” Even as he said it, Will wasn’t convinced. He’d pegged Grimaldi as a narcissist, but not a dummy. If the old man had killed Brenda, he would’ve left that tape buried in a box until they put him six feet under.

  “I could see how a lesser detective might think that. But, I did a deep dive in Winters’ file. It takes a sharp eye, an experienced eye to spot—”

  “Just spit it out already.”

  JB whistled through his teeth. “Alright, alright. Guess you haven’t talked to Oliv—”

  “No, I haven’t.” Will suppressed a growl.

  “Sheesh, somebody’s in a mood. Just check your email, City Boy. And turn that frown upside down. Research says you look smarter when you smile.”

  Grumbling, Will hung up the phone.

  Smarter when you smile, my ass.

  He pressed a few keys on his cell and opened JB’s message, clicking on the attached arrest report.

  Fog Harbor Police Department Arrest Report

  NAME: Charles “Chuck” Winters

  ADDRESS: Unknown

  DOB: 2/3/60

  AGE: 26

  SEX: M

  RACE: CAUCASIAN

  ARRESTING OFFICER: JOHN McWATERS INCIDENT TYPE: TRESPASSING; BURGLARY

  NARRATIVE:

  AT 10:30 A.M. ON MARCH 13, 1986, CHARLES “CHUCK” WINTERS WAS PLACED UNDER ARREST AT 246 WOLVER HOLLOW ROAD ON SUSPICION OF TRESPASSING AND BURGLARY.

  ON THE ABOVE TIME AND DATE, I WAS ON UNIFORMED DUTY IN A MARKED PATROL CAR, ASSIGNED TO WEST FOG HARBOR. AT THAT TIME, I RECEIVED AN ECC BROADCAST FOR A POSSIBLE BURGLARY IN PROGRESS AT A CABIN ON WOLVER HOLLOW ROAD.

  THE CALLER, MARGARET ROLLINS, MET ME AT THE FRONT ENTRANCE OF THE RESIDENCE. SHE REPORTED THAT SHE RETURNED TO HER VACATION PROPERTY AFTER OBSERVING UNUSUAL ACTIVITY ON HER ELECTRIC BILL. UPON ARRIVAL, SHE DISCOVERED WINTERS NAPPING IN HER BED.

  I ENTERED THE PREMISES AND FOUND THE SUSPECT SLEEPING, AS ROLLINS HAD DESCRIBED. I PLACED HIM UNDER ARREST WITHOUT INCIDENT. WINTERS WAS A PAROLEE-AT-LARGE AT THE TIME OF THE OFFENSE.

  SEVERAL ITEMS WERE LATER DETERMINED TO BE MISSING FROM THE HOME, INCLUDING THREE BOTTLES OF WINE, SEVERAL ITEMS OF WOMEN’S CLOTHING, A FAUX RUBY RING, A MAGNAVOX VCR, A NIKON CAMERA, AND CAMERA ACCESSORIES. THE ITEMS WERE VALUED AT $2000.

  Eleven

  After leaving the bank, Olivia and Emily had parted ways, with Em rushing off to her afternoon class and Olivia returning to Valley View to collect the remaining artifacts of her father’s life. The gray walls of the prison entrance closed in around her, and her lungs pinched shut as she examined the contents of the prison-issued plastic bag. A single tattered photograph of her, Emily, and their mother, taken years ago, before her father had transferred from Crescent Bay State Prison. Her father’s wedding ring, the simple gold band he’d worn even after Mom had died two years back. His Narcotics Anonymous booklet, highlighted and dog-eared. And a sketchbook, nearly full with lifelike pencil drawings that she couldn’t wait to show Em, though a part of her also dreaded it.

  Olivia cradled the bag against her chest like a shield of armor and plowed through the exit door, straight into Warden Ochoa. Her grip loosened, and the bag dropped to her feet.

  As she collected it, the stunned warden blinked at her. “Doctor Rockwell, are you alright?”

  “Fine. Just a little queasy.”

  “I can imagine. This place will do that to you. Even on a good day. Again, please accept my sympathies for your loss.” Warden Ochoa brushed past her, straightening her suit jacket as she walked.

  “Wait. I was hoping to get a word with you.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m running late for a meeting. Get in touch with my secretary. She’ll pencil you in.”

  Olivia’s fists tightened at her sides, squeezing the bag in a stranglehold. “I want to read the incident report.”

  Warden Ochoa turned to her. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Not until we finish our inquiry.”

  “Then, I’d like to see the video. Surely there are cameras on that hallway. At least, let me visit the holding cell where it happened. Or talk with the guards who were on duty. How about Officer Boon? He was the one who cut him down.”

  “Also not possible. Working at a prison yourself, I’m sure you understand protocol.”

  “Protocol?” Olivia reeled back as if she’d been slapped. “You mean, like checking a cell for safety hazards before locking an inmate inside? Or not leaving an inmate unsupervised?”

  “I understand your concern, and I assure you we are looking into those issues.” Warden Ochoa reached for the entry door, already signaling to the guard to buzz her through.

  Olivia told herself to let it go. But her father’s eyes, smiling at her from that old photograph, wouldn’t let her. “You’re right. I do work at a prison. I know how to recognize bureaucratic BS. And I can certainly tell when I’m getting the runaround. Which makes me wonder if you had anything to do with—”

  “I think what Doctor Rockwell means to say is that she understands what a difficult job you have and would be grateful to be kept up to date
on the investigation.”

  The familiar know-it-all voice came from behind her. As Olivia turned to meet its source, she didn’t know whether to knee him in the groin or collapse into his arms.

  Twelve

  “And who are you, exactly?” Warden Ochoa’s voice didn’t ask. It demanded. She bore little resemblance to her employee picture on the prison website—her frown lines deeper, her eyes less forgiving—but Will supposed working in a place with iron bars could do that to a person; harden them from the inside out. He wondered if his brother still looked the same, living behind these stone walls for the last two years.

  “Detective Will Decker, Fog Harbor Homicide. I believe Warden Blevins told you I’d be stopping by.”

  When the warden’s scowl softened at his smile, Will made a mental note to thank JB.

  “Oh, yes. Detective Decker. Funny, I pictured you differently. Not quite so…”

  “Pushy?” Olivia hissed.

  Warden Ochoa seemed not to hear her, remaining oblivious to Olivia’s side-eye as she leaned in conspiratorially. “It’s just that most cops who pass through here are not nearly as friendly.”

  Will directed his smirk at Olivia as he answered the warden. “You catch more flies with honey, I’ve heard.”

  Olivia groaned, stalking away from them toward the parking lot. When he realized what she carried, he excused himself from the warden for a moment and took off after her, wishing she would’ve just kicked him below the belt instead.

  “Hey, hold up.”

  She spun around, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the bag. He thought of reaching for her hand but her clipped tone cut him off at the knees. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you. We found a body in a barrel in the cabin next door to mine. I’m hoping to talk to the guy who left his prints behind.”

  “And he’s in Valley View?”

  “No, he’s at a halfway house downtown. I’m here about my brother.” Will hung his head, spoke to the pavement. When he peeked up, she glared at him like he’d committed a crime. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Aside from you waltzing in here with your friendliness and butting into my private conversation with the warden?”

  “It looked like you needed a little help. Charming wardens is obviously not your forte.”

  “Well, I didn’t ask for your assistance.” In the silence, he caught a glimpse of sadness behind the walls she’d put up around herself.

  “Ben called me. He told me about your dad. I’m really sorry.” His brother’s revelation—They got to him. I don’t know how. But he’s dead—bit at the back of his brain, derailing his focus. “We should probably go somewhere private to talk.”

  She paused briefly, before she rolled her eyes, dismissing him. Then, she turned tail, losing no time covering the expansive parking lot and leaving him trailing behind.

  “Am I missing something here?”

  The click of her heels against the pavement gave him his answer. A definitive yes that stopped him cold.

  “Are you coming?” she called to him, hand on hip.

  “I didn’t realize I was invited.”

  As Will jogged toward her car, Olivia retrieved something inside it. She thrust an envelope at him, smacking it against his chest. “Go on. Open it.”

  “Is something in there gonna bite me?”

  She cocked her head at him.

  “Just checking.”

  Will slid his hand into the envelope, his thoughts spinning as he withdrew a stack of SFPD Confidential Informant expense vouchers. He’d rarely used them himself. He kept most of his CIs off the books and paid them in whatever currency they valued most—cash from his own pocket, food, a hot shower, or a clean bed.

  “What are these?”

  “It turns out my dad was an informant for SFPD. But look who signed off on the payments.”

  Will scanned the first receipt, until he located the signature line. He gaped at it, as if it really had bitten him. Two poisonous fangs straight through the heart.

  Thirteen

  Deck’s mouth hung open, much the way Olivia’s had, and she felt stupid for assuming he’d already known about his father’s connection to hers. Stupid for not trusting him. For acting so childish. She should’ve just phoned him that morning, the moment they’d left the bank, and let him talk some sense into her.

  “So you didn’t know about it then?” she asked.

  “No. Of course not. I haven’t talked to my dad since Ben’s trial. And anyway, he never would’ve told me something like this. Besides, these are old. Really old.”

  Olivia leaned against the car, feeling lightheaded again. “I just figured you knew. That maybe you’d asked me to have my dad look after Ben because of it.”

  She could still picture Deck fighting his tears when he’d come to her back in December. First, to tell her the Oaktown Boys had threatened him. And then, to ask her for a favor. To tell her father to protect his brother from the gang.

  “I promise you, I had no idea. I’m the detective with a dead body in the basement of the house next door to his, remember?”

  “True.” She attempted a laugh. “You are pretty clueless. It sounds like we’re getting to the real reason you came to San Francisco. Go ahead. Admit it. You want me to look at the case file.”

  Truth, she wished she could snatch the file from him right there, open it up and get lost in someone else’s pain for a while. Every last grisly bit of it. Sometimes it felt selfish, being a forensic psychologist, because lately, losing herself in the misery of others had become as necessary as breathing.

  Deck held up his hands in mock surrender. “You got me. I do want your help. But I need to talk to the warden about Ben. I came to Valley View to get him the hell out of here.”

  Olivia hunkered down in the driver’s seat of her idling rental car and studied the case file Deck had left with her. She’d opened it carefully, sifting through the evidence and leads Deck and JB had collected so far from the scene at 248 Wolver Hollow Road. More than once, she’d paused to study the photographs taken on the camera found with the body. The last one transfixed her. Especially when she closed her eyes and imagined it from that poor young girl’s perspective. The final picture she’d snapped, a blur. Still, that palm reaching out to block the camera made an emphatic statement about her subject. Whoever had been there, pinned by her gaze and the lens of the Nikon, had been desperate to remain unseen.

  As riveting as she found the photographs, Olivia’s eyes kept drifting to the prison entrance where Deck had disappeared at least fifteen minutes ago. After he’d told her about Ben’s panicked call, she’d insisted he track down Warden Ochoa immediately. Partly, she’d needed time to think, to let the truth settle into her bones: her father hadn’t killed himself. Warden Ochoa’s evasiveness had convinced her of that. And it ached in a way she’d never expected. Like a hole in the center of her chest, punched clean through.

  She sorted the photos again, this time with a different focus. The girl behind the camera, rather than the subjects she’d captured with it. Jane Doe had appreciated the wonder and beauty of simple things; a bouquet of poppies and yellow violets in a makeshift vase, a cluster of clouds just before the rain. Even the photograph of hardened ex-con, Chuck Winters, cast him in a lovely light. Somehow the girl had coaxed a genuine smile from him, the kind that reached his eyes, which more than unnerved Olivia. But what struck her most about Jane Doe’s photos was an unusual absence. Most teenage girls, no matter the generation, preferred people as the subjects of their snapshots. Jane Doe had photographed no one but Chuck. By chance or by choice, she’d been completely alone in Fog Harbor until—Olivia glimpsed the last photo once more, suppressing a chill. That slender hand didn’t belong to Chuck.

  “Who are you, Jane Doe?” A flash of the girl’s mummified face, her hollow eyes in pictures of a different kind—Chet’s autopsy photographs. “How did you end up dead?”

  Fourteen

/>   Will waited until he cleared the prison control booth to curse. If he’d had a rock, he would’ve hurled it back at the bullseye center of the Valley View entrance door, just to watch it crack.

  He hurried across the parking lot, flung open the passenger door of Olivia’s car and dumped himself inside.

  “I’m guessing you’re not as good at charming wardens as you thought, Detective.”

  Will forced a grin, knowing Olivia was just trying to make him feel better. “Warden Ochoa said she couldn’t help me. That I’d have to go through the official channels like everyone else. File a hardship request and hope for the best with the classification committee.”

  “Are you serious?”

  His shoulders lifted in a sad shrug.

  “Well, that settles it. I don’t trust her. She’s just as corrupt as Warden Blevins.”

  “You’re probably right. You know, Blevins told me they worked together at San Quentin.” Will smacked the glove box half-heartedly, the last remnants of his anger turning to guilt. “If anything happens to Ben…”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I wish I could believe that. But he’s sitting in that prison cell because of me.”

  Olivia shifted in her seat, tucking one knee beneath her and facing him head on. He wondered what she saw in his face that made her own eyes go glassy. “Don’t make me go full therapist on you.”

  “I might be in need of a session.”

  She looked at him sternly, placing both of her hands on the forearm he’d rested on the console. He didn’t dare move. “Ben is in that cell because of the decisions he made. You can’t take that on. If you’re at fault, then so am I. I never told anyone about Termite being at the scene of the murder that put my dad away. I let the cops believe my dad’s story.”