by Dea Poirier
I place the ID back into her wallet. Though I’ve got gloves on, I don’t want to touch anything in this room more than necessary. We’re going to have to collect everything we can. My fear is that lingering DNA in this room will have compromised any evidence. The killer who did this thought this out, planned it. Was the ashtray a last-minute idea? Or did he pick this place because it was here?
“I need to interview her family as soon as possible,” I say.
“We’ll have them identify the body today. I’d prefer if you held off on an interview until tomorrow. They’ll likely be too shaken up to be of much use. I’m sure you understand this’ll come as a shock.”
I don’t like to wait. But this is his case, his team, his town. If he thinks it’s best for me to wait, I will. “Every minute the clock keeps ticking on this, it’s going to make it harder to find who did this,” I say. I’ll follow his orders, but he needs to be aware that time is of the essence. In small towns like these, homicides are rare. This could be the first one he’s ever worked, and he may not understand the typical procedures. “Did the CSI team have any idea of timeline?” I ask.
“They’re directing us to the ME. They don’t want to make any guesses without her review. She’ll have news for us today, initials anyway,” he says as he scratches his chin.
“Do you mind if I go talk to her? Or do you have someone on your team that you’d rather go?” I want to do it myself, but I have to be careful of stepping on toes. I don’t know the protocol for this station or how protective everyone is over their sandbox.
“No, I’d prefer it if you went.” He glances toward the door.
A question occurs to me, something I need to clarify before moving further. “What role exactly would you like me to play in this, Sergeant?”
“I need you to take the lead. We don’t have anyone who has handled a homicide before. We can do most of the local interviews, but the rest of the investigation, I’d like you to assist us with that. We’ve got no experience here. I’m going to have you work with one of our officers. If you have any questions about Camden, the victim, she can help.”
“Who?” I ask. Though I worked closely with one officer in Vinalhaven, I haven’t had a partner since I left Detroit. And having one wasn’t something I’d considered.
“I’ll grab her,” Sergeant Pelletier says as he walks out the door. He’s gone for a minute and returns with a woman I’d guess to be in her early twenties and close to my build, though where I’m blonde, she’s got long dark hair, as well as large brown eyes. Her brow is furrowed when Pelletier brings her into the room. Obviously he didn’t discuss any of this with her—the shock is clear on her face. She glances at the body, then focuses on me, like she’s forcing herself not to accidentally look again. Her pale complexion manages to go whiter. To her credit, though, she doesn’t flinch like I expect her to.
I extend my hand toward her. “I’m Detective Claire Calderwood.”
“Officer Austin Harleson,” she says as she takes my hand. Her grip is stronger than I imagined it would be.
“Good to meet you,” I say to Austin, then glance back at Sergeant Pelletier. “If you don’t need me for anything else, I’m going to look for the person working in the motel office last night.” Someone had to have seen the victim before she entered this hotel room. I need to determine if our vic booked this room herself or if she was brought here by her killer.
“The coroner will be grabbing the body. Take Austin with you to do the questioning,” he says as he motions toward the door.
I head out of the room, Austin trailing along after me. Once we’re both outside, I turn to face her. “This your first homicide investigation?” I ask, though Sergeant Pelletier said as much. But I’ve got to break the ice with her somehow.
Her eyes are a bit wide, jaw slack, not quite deer in headlights, but definitely getting there. “Yes, I’m a beat cop. He’s never brought me in for anything like this, not that we get a lot of murders or anything. But I didn’t think he’d trust me with something like this,” she says, glancing between the door and me as she speaks.
“Are you up for this?” I ask. Homicide isn’t for everyone. In fact, there are quite a few officers I know who have never wanted to work homicide, and I don’t want to force her if this isn’t her cup of tea.
“Of course I am. I want to work the bigger cases; I’ve just never been given the chance. I won’t screw this up. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.” She pulls her shoulders back as she speaks, as if the action might make her a little taller.
There are plenty of hardheaded, stubborn cops already. We need more people like Austin. As long as she’s willing to learn, I’m willing to show her the ropes.
I continue toward the office at the end of the row of rooms, Austin beside me. The rest of the rooms are quiet as we pass, the blinds open, revealing empty rooms. If there were patrons staying in the motel, they’d have heard or seen the cop cars outside, and I’m sure we’d have people gathering around to watch. Though I have to wonder if anyone staying here last night heard a struggle or fighting coming from the victim’s room.
The office stands at the end of the line of rooms. An old, weathered bench sits out front. Faded decals of snowflakes are stuck to the inside of the door, as if they’ll liven this place up. Through the dirty glass door, I can see someone behind a wooden counter, their eyes trained on me. I open the door, and it chimes as Austin and I enter. The guy in the office squints at me from his slumped position in a desk chair, his blue eyes crinkling along the sides. A fresh crop of reddish stubble ghosts his jaw. His skin is pale, translucent, showing the spiderweb of blue veins beneath.
“How can I help you?” he asks, glancing from me to Austin. His eyes linger on her, on her uniform, then down to her service pistol, which is exposed by her open coat. I’m thankful I dress in plain clothes. Wearing the uniform attracts way too much attention and makes people twitchy.
I introduce myself as I approach the large desk that sits in the middle of the room. Other than the desk, the room is rather bare. A calendar hangs on one wall, as well as a picture of a snowy mountainside and a map of the preserve, and what looks to be a fake potted tree stands in the corner.
“I’m Brenden Glass,” he says, looking between us again. “What do you need?”
Did he not see all the cop cars in the parking lot? He must know about the body. One of his housekeepers called us in. “We’re here about the woman who was staying in room seventeen.”
He glances toward the computer on his desk, clicks the mouse three times, and types something. “What do you need to know?” His eyes settle back on me.
“Could you tell me who paid for the room?”
“Melanie Thomlinson,” he says after verifying the information on the computer.
She used her real name. That surprises me. Then again, in a town this small, it’s not like anyone would buy her using a fake one. They likely knew her. “She reserved the room, then?”
“Yeah, she came in last night around ten and asked for one.” Brenden leans back in his office chair. It squeals in response to the movement. I note the time so we can pass that information along to the ME to help her establish the timeline.
“You were working at the time?” I know most motels like this have small staffs, but that’s a long shift.
“I was. Usually work until around eleven or so, sleep for a few hours in the back.” He motions toward a door I hadn’t noticed. “If anyone needs me, there’s a bell outside that’ll wake me up.”
“Do you usually work long hours like that?”
“My family runs the place. I work up here whenever I can. It’s a pretty easy gig. I like working the night shift.”
I can understand that. I’m a bit of a night owl myself. “What time was her body found?” The call came into the Camden station around seven, but I want to be sure that not much time elapsed between when she was found and when the call was made.
“Probably around six thirty or so,” he says.
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“When Melanie came in, how did she seem?”
He cocks his head to the side. The look in his eyes tells me he has no idea what I’m asking.
Austin takes a step forward. “Did she seem scared? Did it seem like she didn’t want to make the reservation?”
Good questions for a newbie. Maybe the sergeant knew what he was doing putting her on this case after all. Some people have the instincts for this job; some don’t.
“She seemed normal to me. I didn’t notice anything,” Brenden says.
“Was there anyone with her?” I ask.
He stares off into the distance for a moment. “No one came in with her, but there was a man standing outside.”
“Did you get a look at him?” Austin chimes in again.
“Not really. He just looked like an average guy. I couldn’t see his face. He stayed too far from the windows.”
“Could you get a guess on his weight? Height?” Austin asks.
“No,” Brendan says. “I didn’t get a look at him.”
“Do you have surveillance around the building?” I ask, though I didn’t notice any outside.
He shakes his head. “No, no real reason to. There’s not much crime over here. Not usually, anyway.”
“Were there any complaints about noise last night?” I ask. If there was a struggle, someone could have heard something—that could at least help us start to nail down a timeline of Melanie’s death.
“No one made any complaints last night. Then again, we only had one other person staying here, and they were right next to the office.”
“Why was Melanie staying so far from the office?” Austin asks.
“She requested a quiet room. Said she was a light sleeper.”
Chances are, if Melanie thought her life was in danger, she wouldn’t have requested a secluded room. Hell, she wouldn’t have booked the room at all. This leads me to believe that her killer was someone she knew, someone she was comfortable with. But that’s not out of the ordinary. Random killings are rare. Most of the time a victim knows their attacker.
“Has she ever booked a room here before?” I ask.
His attention turns back to the computer. “Let me modify the search,” he says, clicking the mouse again as his brows furrow. “No, I don’t see that she did.”
“Is there anything else you can think of that stood out to you?” I ask Brendan.
“Not that I can think of.”
I pull a card from my pocket and slide it onto his desk. “If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”
“I will,” he says.
I turn toward the door, and Austin follows me. The cold air hits me as soon as I step outside, but I still pause to jot down notes from the interview. I need to interview her friends, her family. We have to figure out who Melanie trusted.
Austin and I walk back to the gathering of police vehicles, and I explain our next move. We need to go to the ME’s office to see Dr. White, who I worked with last year during my homicide investigation. “I want to pick Dr. White’s brain as soon as she starts working on the autopsy. Are you okay to attend an autopsy?” I ask Austin. If she didn’t have her sights set on homicide, this may be her first rodeo. She may have never even seen a body before today.
Her already pale face goes a few shades whiter, like that’s the last thing she expected to do today. I know the feeling. But at least her first autopsy will be with a fresh body.
“I’ll be fine,” she manages.
I walk to my car, then unlock it, and she climbs in the passenger side. The coroner has about a thirty-minute head start on us. My hope is that once we get there, Dr. White will already have the body on the table. That is, if she doesn’t have any other pressing cases today.
Austin sits in the passenger seat, her hands folded in her lap, shoulders tucked. Her eyes are focused on the road ahead. She looks every bit as uncomfortable as I feel.
“If you’d rather ride in your squad car—” I start.
“No, it’s fine,” she interrupts before I can finish. “Sorry.”
I glance at her and throw the car into reverse. Her cheeks are painted scarlet, and it makes her look a few years younger, like she’s barely twenty. I turn left out of the motel parking lot and head back toward Route 1. Heavy gray clouds roll across the sky above us, blocking out the afternoon light. It doesn’t look like snow this time; instead it looks like the clouds might dump rain. I hope they don’t. With the temperature as low as it is, we’ll end up with a thick layer of ice on the roads.
“How long have you been working for Sergeant Pelletier?” I ask. I want an idea of how long she’s been doing this, but if I ask her how long she’s been out of the academy, I’ll sound like a bitch.
“Almost three years,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to be a cop, though.”
I can’t help but wonder how she’s going to handle her first trip to the morgue. I still remember mine. The case is etched in my mind. I walked in to find a woman who had been beaten to death by her husband in a domestic abuse incident. During the investigation, we found out it’d been going on for years. It broke my heart, but nailing the bastard was so satisfying. “So how are you feeling about your first homicide?”
She shrugs. “I don’t have a feeling on it yet. And it’s my first murder but not my first body. I’m not going to get sick seeing the body.”
I turn to appraise her. “You’re going to have to explain that,” I say when she doesn’t elaborate.
“It’s a long story,” she says, brushing it off.
“Good thing we’ve got a long drive.” There’s no way she’s getting out of this without giving me more details.
She’s silent for a beat. Then she finally glances toward me. “You might as well hear it from me. God knows you’ll end up hearing about it from someone in town. No one can keep a word to themselves about anything.”
That doesn’t surprise me in the least. Every station has its own drama. Usually it’s someone dating someone they shouldn’t. But the biggest distraction is always when someone in the station is getting attention no one else thinks they deserve. Nothing can kill morale faster than an officer getting a promotion that seems unwarranted to the rest of the force.
“My mother was an addict. It wasn’t so bad when I was younger, but it seemed the older I got, the worse she ended up. When I was thirteen, I tried to get her cleaned up.” She smiles sadly. “She was actually clean for six months. But we had a fight. I said some things I shouldn’t have, stormed out. When I got home the next day after cooling off, she was in our trailer. She’d relapsed and used too much. And she died.” She looks down at her hands laced together in her lap. “I tried to save her. I looked up how to do CPR. But it was too late.”
“I’m sorry,” I offer. It’s awful that she had to live through that. My heart aches for her. No child should lose a parent that way. She’s lucky that she’s on a different path.
She shrugs. “It’s why I’m here. I think that too many of the guys on the force just see cracked-out junkies who are too weak to face the real world. But I’ve seen it firsthand. My mom wasn’t weak. Drugs got their claws in her, and they were too deep. That’s not her fault, and I’m sick of the world looking at addicts like they’re pieces of shit.” She finally looks away from the window. Determination glimmers in her eyes when she focuses on me again. “So what about you? What’s your story?”
My fingers tighten on the wheel as I focus, and though my instinct is to keep up a wall, to give her as few details about myself as possible, it’s nice to be around someone again who doesn’t know my life story. It catches me off guard. I’m so used to people here just knowing my history. That’s what growing up in a small town will do to you. It’s hard to remember that once I get off the island, my life before and Rachel’s memory all stay back in Vinalhaven, that the ripples of what happened there don’t extend beyond Pen Bay. I’d wager since Austin hasn’t recognized me, she hasn’t seen me on the news. I take a deep breath and
fill her in on the details about my years in Detroit and then my case last year. Because I know if I don’t tell her, she’ll just find out somewhere else.
“Jesus,” she says, but thankfully it’s not pity or concern I hear in her voice—it’s disgust. “I’m glad you caught that piece of shit.”
“Me too,” I say and consider how many more girls might have died if I hadn’t.
We pass through small cities on our way to Augusta. The clouds finally part, revealing a sliver of blue sky. Snow clings to the sides of the road, reflecting the rare afternoon sun, but it’s so bright I have to squint against it. As we turn into the small parking lot of the medical examiner’s office, there are more cars packed in than usual. I pull into a space, throw the car in park, and climb out of my Mustang, Austin following suit.
As soon as I turn toward the building, another car door flies open. I turn, the noise drawing my attention. A woman with a sleek bob and curves I would kill for straightens to her full height. She’s got on an open black peacoat revealing black slacks and a gray blouse beneath. I eye her as she strides toward us.
“Detective Claire Calderwood,” the woman says. I raise a brow as I survey her. Though she looks familiar, I can’t place where I know her from.
“I’m Lillian Landry. I’m a journalist with the Pen Bay Pilot.”
I press my lips together and cross my arms while I wait for the inevitable, her questions—but I can’t decide yet if they’ll be about the new body or Rachel. I try not to sneer, but I’m not sure I manage. Even after coming to terms with Noah’s line of work, I still can’t convince myself that journalists are looking out for anyone but themselves.
She opens her mouth to say something, but I hold my hand up, silencing her.
“I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
Her head bobs as if that’s the response she was expecting. “I know, figured as much. But how are things since you caught Rachel’s killer? Have you really had enough time to process that before jumping back into another murder investigation?”
Enough time to process it? No amount of time will help me process my sister’s murder. But I have nothing to say to her. This is what I feared when Noah wanted to publish his story, that it wouldn’t be only everyone in my tiny hometown that knew about my life but the whole world. They may think they know my story now because of Noah, but all they have is a keyhole view into my life.