by Alex Barclay
‘That and the fact there were no other suitors,’ Janine had said.
‘You had me at “skeletal remains”.’
They all laughed, and over the laughter, he shouted for everyone’s attention again …
‘Seriously, everyone,’ he said. ‘I am going to miss you all, I am going to be back in here bugging the crap out of you, you all know that. No one should have favorites, but I’m retiring, I can say what the hell I like, and Janny Hooks, I will miss you most. If you asked me the main quality I think a cold case detective needs, I would say “tenacity”. You have it, more than anyone I know. If I had to throw in a few more, I’d say passion, loyalty, thoroughness, persuasiveness. Janine Hooks will make use of every resource she can, she will find resources hiding in the back pockets of politicians or down the sides of sofas, or up people’s fat lazy asses. She will find things. Janine Hooks will find things.’ He raised his glass to her. ‘Cold cases, warm heart.’
Like the magnanimous man he was, he had set her up to succeed. And she would never forget it. And she knew that, toward the end of his speech, he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at his successor, he was telling him ‘Don’t you cut this unit, don’t you let Janine Hooks go’. Because in the three years she’d been stuck with his successor, she had to fight for everything she got. So the tenacity, the resource-finding, the doggedness, was seared into her and to not do what she was doing was unimaginable. And fortunately, her current sergeant – the third since her first boss left – was third time lucky. He got it. Maybe he didn’t quite get her, but he got her job, and maybe that was all Janine Hooks needed him to get.
They got on well, she knew he liked her. But she suspected he worried about her. He had already made his decision about moving her to the main office when Special Agent Ren Bryce appeared one day. Janine could see what he was thinking: Janine Hooks has a friend! A hot, sociable friend who seems heterosexual! Or maybe not, these confusing days! Janine knew that with her short, side-parted dark hair and her small bones and her tucked-in shirts and tidy pants and no makeup that she sent out a message. But, didn’t everyone?
Anyway, by then it was too late for the sergeant to change his mind about her move. She was capable of making friends, it appeared. In the general population, out in the investigators’ bullpen, she could make even more.
Janine lingered in the office doorway. She gave one last glance around. She went to her desk, and pulled out the first of the cards that were spiked into the soil around the plant.
Be careful. This could be a plant. Love, Ren XX
There was a second card beside it.
Hope you’re not feeling too uprooted. Love, Ren XX
There was a third.
Stay strong, man. Love, Ren XX
There was a fourth. Janine laughed. Seriously?
Is this a moving experience for you? Love, Ren XX
Janine laughed again. She could always rely on Ren. They were friends just a year, but she knew she was closer to Ren than she had ever been to anyone. She went to pick up the plant. It was only then she noticed the flashing light on her desk phone. She pushed the button.
The message had come in the day before while she was out with the sergeant – he had treated her to pizza across the street at Woody’s. She didn’t know who felt more guilty – him for uprooting the homebird on a Sunday or her for ordering just a salad.
She pressed the phone to her ear. The line was crackling from a loose connection. At least she’d have a new phone now. Ren told her to find the positives.
‘Hello … Detective Hooks?’ The accent was Irish, with a hint of American. ‘I found your name online and I wanted to talk to you about one of your cases. Could you please call me back? My name …’ She paused. ‘My number is 555-134-2235.’
Janine scribbled the number on the back of one of Ren’s cards.
In all forty-seven of her open cold cases, Janine knew of no specific Irish connection. She decided to let this young, nameless girl be the first call she made as soon as she laid her comfort plant on the desk of her new office. She wondered if the guys would laugh at her.
‘Nice plant,’ said Logan. Their desks faced each other. ‘My mom’s a florist,’ he said. ‘I had one of those in my college dorm. I looked after it well until lightweights started pouring drinks into it.’
‘You should see this one on tequila …’ said Janine.
Logan laughed. She laughed back.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘take one of these.’ He reached across the desk and handed her a giant chocolate chip cookie wrapped in paper.
A cookie and horticultural bonding. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
She started to unwrap the cookie but instead of eating it, she picked up the phone and called the Irish girl’s number. It rang for several seconds. She was about to hang up. Then someone answered.
‘Hello,’ said Janine. ‘My name is Janine Hooks, I’m calling from Jefferson County Cold Case—’
‘Janine?’ came the voice.
Janine paused. ‘Ren?’
4
‘This can’t be good,’ said Janine.
‘It’s not good,’ said Ren. ‘Who were you calling?’
‘I got a voicemail on my office phone yesterday – I just heard it now – a young woman, didn’t leave her name, wanted to talk to me about one of my cases. She didn’t say which one.’
‘Did you make any appeals recently?’ said Ren.
‘No,’ said Janine. ‘I mean, the website is always there, anyone can read it any time, but …’ She shrugged.
‘Gary’s with me,’ said Ren. ‘I’m putting you on speaker.’
‘Hey, Janine,’ said Gary, ‘we got patchy coverage here. Can you call this in? Your guys are not far, we drove past them at the junction with Pine Valley Road … we’re on Stoney Pass Road now.’
‘Sure,’ said Janine. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Well, your poor caller was pregnant,’ said Ren, ‘and now she’s laying dead by the side of the road … GSW to the head and chest.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Janine. ‘Where exactly?’
‘About half a mile from the junction with Highline Road … I can see a sign for Evergreen Abbey to the left and The Darned Heart Ranch to the right.’ She paused. ‘Darned Heart? Seriously? Craft and brimstone …’
‘This is weird, guys,’ said Janine. ‘That’s a ranch for troubled teens—’
‘The tautologous troubled teen …’ said Ren.
‘The Darned Heart already has some scar tissue,’ said Janine. ‘It used to be The Flying G Ranch, a girl scout camp. A girl scout aide was sexually assaulted and strangled there back in ’63. August 18th. It’s one of mine …’
‘No way,’ said Ren. ‘That is weird. What happened?’
‘Victim’s name was Margaret “Peggy” Beck,’ said Janine. ‘Sixteen years old. She was alone in her tent overnight, because the friend she was sharing with was in the infirmary. The next morning, little Peggy was found dead, zipped up in her sleeping bag. At first, the folks at the camp thought it was natural causes, so they didn’t call the authorities right away. They just packed up her things to hand over to her parents. It was the last day of camp, the other girls were being collected by their families. Eight hours went by before the authorities were finally called. It turns out that not one of those girl scouts heard a thing during the night. Even though Peggy fought back, the poor thing – they found skin under her fingernails. Three hundred people were interviewed during the investigation and nothing. It breaks my heart, that one.’
‘Did you process the skin?’ said Ren.
‘Yup. No match,’ said Janine.
‘When you say “troubled teens”,’ said Ren, ‘how troubled?’
‘Zero to hero: addiction issues, attitude problems, problems with the law, eating disorders. I checked out their website when they opened to see what we were letting ourselves in for. And it costs an absolute fortune to stay there. They pull in a lot of spoilt little rich kids.’
‘
Have you had any problems with them?’ said Ren.
‘Our guys have definitely brought a couple of runaways back,’ said Janine.
‘Runaways?’ said Ren. ‘Kids can run away from this place? Isn’t security tighter than that?’
‘I’m speculating here,’ said Janine, ‘and this is not official, but I think it’s all part of the treatment. The ranch’s policy is to trust the kids, because they know these kids’ parents have given up trusting them. So, management believes that because they have faith in these kids, they won’t disrespect them …’
Ren laughed.
‘I know,’ said Janine.
‘Is it privately owned?’ said Ren.
‘Very privately,’ said Janine. ‘By Kenneth and Kristen Faule. He’s ex-NFL … Broncos. They never had kids of their own, so this was their way of … you know “giving back”.’
‘Hate that expression,’ they both said at the same time.
‘They take in teens from all over,’ said Janine. ‘If their parents are flashing enough cash …’
‘They’re not going to give us access too easily,’ said Ren.
‘No,’ said Janine. ‘And I’ve met Kristen Faule. Do not be fooled by her Disney ways … she’s one of those cornered mama-bear types.’
‘Disney ways,’ said Ren. ‘Hmm. So, what was the nature of your meeting?’
‘Well, she came to pick up one of the kids that Kohler had brought in,’ said Janine. ‘Of course, she was pissed, like it was our fault.’
‘I’m rolling my eyes.’
‘She totally rubbed me the wrong way,’ said Janine. ‘Since the ranch opened, it’s like we’ve become unwitting participants in her treatment plan. She lets the kids roam free, we pick them up.’
‘Seriously, how many times has this happened?’ said Ren.
‘Fewer than my annoyance indicates,’ said Janine.
‘And what about the abbey?’ said Ren.
‘It used to be a religious abbey,’ said Janine, ‘but now it’s a “community of women”. As far as I can tell, it’s like a hippy commune, women’s shelter and self-sufficiency thing rolled into one. Really, though, I don’t see how they’re any different than the nuns; a bunch of women living together, saying prayers, doing charity work. They have basically no possessions – any money they do get is handed over to the director and distributed to whatever charities they all decide on. Three years ago, when I first took on The Flying G case, I spoke to the director …’
‘Slash head of the cult?’ said Ren.
‘Oh, they’re definitely not a cult,’ said Janine. ‘They’re missing the undercurrent of crazy …’
‘How big is the property?’ said Gary.
‘About one-hundred-and-fifty acres,’ said Janine. ‘You know something – if this girl is pregnant, this could have nothing to do with my case or The Darned Heart – she could have been headed to the abbey, if she was trying to get away from a bad situation.’
‘True,’ said Ren.
Gary had gloves on and was walking around the side of the Hyundai. He was opening the back door.
Grr. This is Janine’s scene.
‘I hope that’s your car door I hear opening,’ said Janine.
You’re a brave woman.
‘Please tell me you are wearing gloves,’ said Janine.
You’re a very brave woman. Gary will not dignify that with a response.
‘We got her purse,’ said Gary, standing up, swatting away the flies that had begun to gather. ‘And passport … Irish.’ He opened it. He looked at the photo, then at the victim.
‘Her name is Laura Flynn.’
5
Ren walked over to Gary. He handed her the passport. She looked down at the photo. Laura Flynn was a sweet-looking girl with light brown hair, kind blue eyes, a heart-shaped face. She was the type of girl a man would be happy to bring home to his mother.
I haven’t spoken to my mother in weeks. I hope she isn’t worrying about me. Does this girl have a mother somewhere worrying about her? Is some mother over in Ireland going to have to take the worst possible call to take as a parent?
Laura Flynn was just twenty-six years old.
The same age I was when I was diagnosed. She looked down at Laura Flynn’s body.
Twenty-six-years old. And I thought I got a death sentence.
Perspective, Ren. Perspective.
‘The lining is torn,’ said Gary, looking into the victim’s purse. He swiped his hand through the tear, found nothing.
‘That’s weird for a very new-looking purse,’ said Ren. ‘Maybe she was stashing something in there.’
‘Guys, how do you think an Irish girl like that could know anything about The Flying G case?’ said Janine. She paused. ‘To be open-minded, I will say “any of my cases”.’
‘And it’s an Avis rental, Janine, by the way,’ said Gary. ‘If you can work some magic.’
‘OK,’ said Janine.
‘No SatNav,’ said Gary.
They could hear Janine typing. ‘Hold on, guys, news just in: someone reported a burning vehicle at The Darned Heart at twelve thirty today.’
‘What?’ said Ren. ‘First a burning vehicle, half an hour later, a bank robbery, and two hours after that, a woman’s body is found …’
‘Sounds about right,’ said Janine.
‘Well isn’t this a darned part of Jefferson County,’ said Ren. She took Janine off speaker. ‘Come our way.’
‘Sure,’ said Janine. ‘I shouldn’t be more than an hour. And thank you so much for my plant – it’s beautiful. And your notes. You’re nuts.’
Oh, you have no idea. Or maybe you do.
Ren and Gary walked toward his SUV. They looked up when they heard the sound of an engine coming from the same direction they had driven in.
‘What, pray tell, is this?’ said Ren.
A minibus appeared up ahead.
‘We need to screen this off,’ said Gary. He took a crime scene screen from the trunk of his SUV and went back to the victim’s car. Ren approached the minibus, holding up her badge. The driver leaned out the window.
‘Where are you coming from?’ said Ren.
‘Boulder,’ said the driver, a warm-faced woman with a frosted nest of honey-colored hair. ‘Just taking m’ladies back to Evergreen Abbey.’ She smiled.
Ren looked in and saw twenty or so women. The ones who weren’t sleeping were craning their necks toward her and out the front of the bus.
Ren leaned into the driver. ‘We’ve got a crime scene up ahead … Is there another way you can reach the abbey?’
‘There sure is,’ said the driver.
‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said Ren. ‘Thank you.’
She nodded.
You are dying to ask me what’s going on.
‘Can I take your name and the name of the director of the abbey?’ said Ren.
‘Sure,’ said the driver. ‘She’s Eleanor Jensen, and I’m Betty Locke, chaffeuse, locksmith, carpenter …’ She smiled.
‘OK, Betty, thank you,’ said Ren. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
Ren went back over to Gary.
‘Ladies of the abbey,’ said Ren. ‘Someone better go talk to them before this gets legs.’
This is beyond screwed up. There is a pregnant woman behind that screen in front of me.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Why, on this beautiful, seventy-degree, clear-blue-sky Monday is a pregnant woman lying dead on the side of the road?
Where were you going? What were you hoping to do? Had you named your baby, had you picked out clothes, painted a nursery?
Stop.
Ren stared up at the sky, but the clouds were moving too quickly, morphing into strange shapes, drawing her eyes left and right, making her head spin. She lowered her head and let out a deep breath.
She looked into the car. There was an iPod on the floor, some candy wrappers. She looked into the back. There was a pair of women’s shoes behind the passenger seat. Ren glanced down at the
victim – she was wearing silver and blue sneakers, but she had nice black pants on, ones she could have dressed up with different shoes.
Maternity pants …
‘She either had a passenger or was about to have one,’ said Ren to Gary. ‘A lady driver would keep her change of shoes in the passenger well, unless she didn’t want them in the way of a passenger. Where was the purse?’
‘Behind the passenger seat,’ said Gary.
‘Someone was about to join her very soon,’ said Ren. ‘Driving alone, she would have that beside her otherwise.’
Ren looked around the car, the trees, the road. She walked out into the middle of the road and did it all over again.
‘So,’ she said, ‘the car was parked. If this woman had arranged to meet someone … she could have chosen this spot, where the trees are diseased … there’s just one short stretch of reddish brown along this part.’
They turned as a Jeep came toward them.
‘It’s Dr T,’ said Ren.
Barry Tolman was the Medical Examiner for Jefferson County. He was quiet and unassuming, a dignified pacifist of a man who got to see the results of the violent happenings of Jefferson County and sixteen other counties. They met him by the victim’s car.
‘Hello, there, Ren, Gary.’
‘Hi, Dr Tolman,’ said Ren.
‘You’re going to have to start calling me Barry.’
‘Sorry,’ said Ren. ‘I know. My parents drilled respect for doctors into me.’
‘You can say “elders”,’ said Tolman.
Ren laughed.
‘This is what I’m talking about …’ said Tolman, looking down at the body.
‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘I read your interview in the Post.’
‘I am a tired old man,’ he said. ‘No one is listening. “People kill people, not guns”, “Take the guns out of the hands of the mentally ill”. It’s always the crazy activists with the catchphrases. Like the mere act of repeating their mantras legitimizes them. Hell, a sane guy buying a gun is not necessarily going to be sane ten months later when he walks in on his wife sleeping with his best friend … or when he’s up to his eyeballs in debt and his employer throws him out on the street … Do we hand this person a weapon that can kill sixty people? The voices inside are the loudest.’