Fear No Truth

by LynDee Walker

  Just inside security, a tall man in a rumpled black suit sat slumped on a bench, head cradled in his hands, eyes pointed at the bright-white floor tile.

  “Mr. Andre?” Graham asked, stopping next to him.

  A ravaged version of the man from the canvas over Erica’s fireplace sat up and blinked red-rimmed eyes at Graham, putting out a hand.

  Brent Andre looked flat-ass destroyed. No other words for it.

  Graham shook the offered hand and pulled Brent to his feet in one smooth move, gesturing in the direction of the morgue. I fell into step beside them, waiting for a window to introduce myself. Graham opened it for me, ticking his head in my direction. “This is Faith McClellan from the Texas Rangers. She’s assisting with our investigation of Tenley’s death.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Andre.” I kept my voice low. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s not necessary for identification, and I can’t imagine it’ll be easy.”

  Brent Andre’s chiseled chin quivered as he nodded. “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up soon, you know?” The rasp in his voice rivaled Louis Armstrong’s. Poor guy. It takes a whole lot of tears to do that to a person’s throat.

  We turned the corner, and I patted Mr. Andre’s shoulder. “I understand.”

  He shuffled along, giving no sign that he’d heard me.

  I opened my mouth to explain how the identification would go as Skye Morrow stepped out of the alcove in front of the doors to the morgue. “Good morning, Detective.” She smirked at me. “Ranger.”

  My eyes rolled back before I could stop them, but I managed to bite down on the Who let you back here? before I was outright rude. Skye had been around the Austin cops scene for longer than she’d admit under military torture. She knew everyone, and people owed her more favors than a mafia don.

  I loathed her right down to her Louboutin stilettos. But I couldn’t deny that she was good at her job.

  “Morning, Ms. Morrow.” Graham nodded, putting a hand on the small of my back and propelling me forward.

  “Skye.” I managed it without choking on the word, which could be called an accomplishment.

  “Little Faith McClellan has made it all the way to the Texas Rangers.” Skye reached one perfectly manicured crimson talon toward the silver star on my shirt, clicking her tongue. “I wonder what your mother has to say about that?”

  “I’m sure you’ve spoken to her more recently than I have.” My tone was cool, but not unprofessional.

  Graham landed a light elbow to my ribs, and I slid my eyes sideways. Mr. Andre’s vacant stare hit me like a whole tidal wave of ice water. He didn’t need to watch a cop–reporter catfight in the middle of the worst week of his life. I nodded to the doors. “If you’ll excuse us. Police business. I know you understand.”

  Skye eyed Mr. Andre, her most charming smile lighting her face as she started to extend one hand.

  “This way, sir.” I stepped between them, not-so-gently knocking Skye’s arm aside with my elbow, and pulled the door open.

  I kept my eyes on Skye as Graham ushered the victim’s father into the sterile, frigid room. “Leave them alone. It’s only been a day.” I kept my voice low, but every word could’ve sliced a tin can.

  “That’s about five thousand Twitter cycles,” Skye said. “Why are you here? What interest could the Rangers possibly have in this girl?”

  “I’m afraid that pertains to a pending investigation. Sorry. No comment.” I flashed a half smile that said I wasn’t sorry at all.

  “I’m sure I can call up my old friend Billy Boone in Waco and find out what you’re doing here,” Skye said, her lips curling into a smile when my eyes widened.

  Witch. She really did know everyone.

  “Dig all you want.” I kept my voice even, stepping into the room. “Just leave the family be.”

  Skye tipped her head to one side. “Promise me a sit-down with them first,” she said. “That’s all I want from them, anyway.”

  Ratings. Money. Did anybody really give one damn about anything else? I swear it was hard to tell some days.

  I nodded as the door slipped closed, and blew out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding as Skye turned on her heel and strode away. I didn’t say when she could sit down with the Andres, and I did get her off their back.

  The problem I’d invited was that Skye was smart. Just my being there would make the case more interesting than the parents, which is why she gave up so easily.

  It also left me racing two clocks instead of just one. Fan-goddamn-tastic.

  18

  By the time I’d gotten rid of the Hill Country’s nosiest reporter, Brent Andre was a puddle of tears. Tenley’s father leaned on Graham’s shoulder, his raw sobs punching me in the gut. I pulled in a slow breath, the formalin in the air stinging my nose and making my eyes burn.

  Jim resettled a thick white sheet over Tenley’s waxen face, nodding a somber hello to me as Graham led Mr. Andre from the room.

  “That part of this shit never gets easier,” Jim said when the door shut behind them. “You see Skye out there?”

  “You the one who let her back here?”

  Jim shrugged. “I owed her a favor from way back. Now I don’t anymore. And why does she care about a rich kid who leapt off the dam, anyway? She doing some sort of after-school special on the dangers of pushing your kids too hard?”

  My teeth closed over my bottom lip. “I don’t know.” Rather, I knew Skye would want to have the story first, but that train left yesterday. Her early-morning trip to the morgue still made no sense.

  The only logical conclusion was that she knew something.

  But was it something we already had, or something I needed to know, too?

  Damn. I tapped one foot as Jim prepped tools next to the drain table. “You okay?” he asked, cocking one unruly eyebrow. “I know you have a strong stomach, but she’s—” He paused, laying a hand on the sheet over Tenley’s arm. “Are you absolutely sure you want to be in here for this?”

  Nope. But I just nodded. Tenley needed me. “I have to get this one right, Jim.”

  “I’m happy to slip you an unredacted report if you’d rather go find Graham. You know, out there . . . away from the smell.”

  Tempting. No matter how many times I did this, that part never got easier to take—I was practiced enough to know better than to eat beforehand.

  “I want to stay.” I couldn’t say I thought I might see something he didn’t, but I knew it was possible, even as good as Jim was.

  He nodded and clicked on a little silver stick voice recorder. “Today is Wednesday, April twenty-fifth. James Prescott, Travis County Deputy Medical Examiner. White female, positively identified by fingerprints and next of kin as Tenley Louise Andre, age seventeen, of Austin.”

  He continued with the description of the body discovery as he pulled the sheet back. “Examination attended by Faith McClellan, Texas Department of Public Safety, Rangers Division.” I stepped closer to the table, my eyes on Tenley’s beautiful face. A bluish undertone had developed since yesterday morning, but she was no less gorgeous.

  “No bruising or marks on the face or neck,” Jim noted.

  There were no marks on the rest of Tenley’s front, either, save the healing scrapes on her knees I’d noticed the day before.

  Jim clicked the recorder off and crooked a Come here finger my way. “Any idea what could’ve done this?” He gestured to Tenley’s knee.

  “She was a runner, so my first guess is that she fell recently. But it’s spring; maybe it’s a razor mark.”

  He leaned over the scab, eyes scrunching up behind his glasses. “I don’t think so,” he murmured, waving me even closer to the table. “See the long, individual cuts here?”

  I leaned over, linking my fingers behind my back so I wouldn’t accidentally reach for anything. “I’ll be damned.”

  Jim was good. I’d caught the wide rust-brown scab on Tenley’s knee, but not what looked like a fresh set of wispy
slices running through it. “It didn’t even have time to clot,” I breathed.

  “Which means this happened days to maybe weeks ago”—Jim’s finger hovered above the larger wound—“but these . . . they came right before her heart stopped beating.”

  “Could she have hit her leg on the way down?”

  He shook his head. “The wall of the dam is too smooth. I can’t see a way for just this knee to hit it hard enough to do this without leaving some other evidence of injury. This skin was dragged across something for several inches. The way she was lying, I’m not sure how she could’ve been contorted enough in the air for the concrete to do that with no other marks visible on her.”

  I met his eyes. “So, she fell. Before she fell.”

  “Sure as hell looks that way. Which could mean she was running, especially in those shoes.” He shrugged. “But you’re the cop. I’m just the body guy.”

  I nodded, a tingle starting in the pit of my stomach and spreading to my toenails and the roots of my hair. I knew it: whatever happened out there, this girl didn’t intend to die yesterday. “Any evidence of sexual assault?”

  “You have reason for me to pull a kit?”

  “Not one I want to share?” I hitched the last word up at the end and offered a sweet smile.

  Jim snorted. “Keep your secrets. I probably don’t want to know anyway.”

  He moved to the end of the table and arranged Tenley’s legs before he flicked on an overhead lamp and positioned it for proper lighting. After retrieving a sealed kit from the cabinet to his left, he opened it and laid out a small plastic comb, a long cotton swab, and a sterile baggie.

  I turned my back. The girl was dead. Privacy wasn’t really a concern anymore. But it still felt intrusive to watch.

  Jim cleared his throat after ten of the longest minutes in history ticked by. “Sex, probably. Assault, I can’t say for sure.”

  I turned back as he sealed the comb and swab inside the bag, straightened Tenley’s legs, and prepared to roll her over. “Care to elaborate?” I asked.

  “There’s some bruising and swelling in her vaginal tissue, and slight”—he hit that word hard—“tearing. That’s all common in sexual assault. But when you’re dealing with a rapist who’s also a killer, I might expect the injuries to be more pronounced. Doesn’t mean she didn’t have rough sex with someone within twenty-four hours or so of time of death, though. Also doesn’t mean she didn’t decide to jump if she was assaulted.”

  Damn. “Why does every answer bring three new questions along for the ride?” I shoved my hands into my snug pockets. “You got a good swab?”

  “Of course. I might be an older old man before it gets processed, but it’s there.” He nodded to the tray.

  I flashed a half smile. “Thanks.”

  “Just doing my job.” He reached into his pocket, turned the recorder back on, and listed the findings from the pelvic exam, then turned it off again and rolled Tenley to her stomach.

  Jesus. “Good thing Graham went out,” I whispered, my eyes stuck on Tenley’s head, my brain not wanting to process what I saw.

  The gold hair was purple black with dried blood across the misshapen back of Tenley’s skull, globs of sand and bits of tissue I didn’t care to dwell on caught in the bloody mess that had been a waterfall of flaxen waves less than forty-eight hours ago.

  “Massive trauma to the posterior skull,” Jim said into his recorder. “Observed are possibly fatal blood loss, congealed-in sand and dirt, and sections of scalp attached to fragmented bits of skull in her hair. No visible brain matter.” He moved the light. “Bruising along the back of the neck suggests trauma to the C-3 and C-4. X-rays should confirm. Shoulders show expected levels of lividity, as does the victim’s lower back and—” He stopped on a sharp breath, pulling my eyes from the gruesome mess at the top of the table.

  “Victim has a slash over her right buttock, approximately”—Jim fumbled with a tape measure—“eight centimeters in length, down at an inward forty-degree angle.”

  I stepped closer, the wound holding my full attention.

  “No evidence of clotting or bleeding.” Jim clicked the recorder off and turned away from the table.

  “Faith.”

  I didn’t answer at first, my eyes fixed on the gash.

  “Yeah?” It came out mangled. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Sorry. Uh. What the hell is that?”

  “I’ve been at this longer than I care to remember most of the time. A blade did that to her skin.”

  I nodded. “It looks like it, yes.”

  “After she was dead.”

  I pulled in a slow breath, the chemical sting in the air bringing tears to my eyes. “How sure are you?”

  “I’m sure,” Jim said, shaking his head. “The head injury fits with a jump. But this . . . does not.”

  He pulled out the recorder. Didn’t touch the “Record” button. Stuck it back in his pocket and paced four lengths of the floor before he inspected Tenley’s legs and resettled the sheet over her.

  “You okay, Jim?”

  “I admit, I thought I knew what we had here before we started. But you wouldn’t be here unless you thought this wasn’t a suicide. So, Ranger McClellan, tell me: What the hell happened to this young woman?”

  19

  Graham jumped, sloshing freshly refilled coffee over the back of his hand, when I tapped his shoulder. “Damn, woman. Make some noise when you walk,” he snapped, grabbing a handful of napkins and blotting the hot liquid. “I liked that layer of skin where it was.”

  “Sorry, I wasn’t trying for stealth.” I took the cup so he could run his hand under cold water.

  He reached into his pocket with his good hand, pulled out a bright-yellow paper square, and laid it on the counter. I leaned over. Neon-purple and turquoise ink lines scrolled into an almost-psychedelic jumble of numbers and words. Smack in the center was yesterday’s date decorated with tiny flowers and butterflies.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Dad found it on the desk in their study last night next to his mostly unconscious wife. Says it’s Tenley’s handwriting.” Graham leaned one hip against the counter, ribbons of water sluicing over his scalded skin. “Secrets. Freedom. Fly. Kinda sounds like a kid who was planning to, oh, I don’t know . . . jump off the dam, maybe?”

  I reached for the note and held it up to the light. Long, sure, loopy lines. Bold strokes.

  “This doesn’t look like the work of a girl who was depressed or afraid to me,” I said. “People in Tenley’s world seem to tell a story of two girls: one who was impossibly hard on herself and desperate to make her mother proud, and one who was popular, smart, and confident. I’m going to say this was done by the latter.”

  “Dammit, you’re stubborn.” He sighed. “You miss the part about flying?”

  “Did you miss the one about joy?” I shot back. “I’m only as stubborn as you are.”

  He shut off the water and wrapped his burned hand in a paper towel. “It makes sense, Faith. And under the circumstances, finding a note is enough to call this a suicide and move the hell on.”

  I pulled air in through my nose for a ten count, my fingers curling into a fist at my side. Don’t yell. He hates yelling, and you need his help, Faith.

  “We seem to have a few more things that don’t add up.” The words slid, one by one, through my teeth.

  “Such as?”

  “She’s got little bitty cuts on her knee that hadn’t scabbed over,” I said. “They were too new.”

  “What kind of cuts?”

  “Jim is going to swab them when he’s done. I decided my time would be better used out here in light of what we found. But they look like gravel to me. Pretty fine gravel.”

  “Like the kind of fine gravel you might find on a high school track?” Graham raised one eyebrow.

  Smart-ass.

  I shrugged. “I guess we’ll see what the swab finds. But no high school track made the three-inch gash somebody carved
into her right hip after she was dead.”

  “Define gash.”

  “Looked like she was cut with a blade. Deep enough to bleed. No blood. Downward and inward line at about a forty-degree angle.”

  Graham drummed his fingers on the countertop, looking behind me. “That, I don’t like the sound of.”

  “Oh good, then we don’t have to stop to have you sent up for a psych eval.” I rolled my eyes. “Who would like the sound of that? But it means whatever happened to this girl, she didn’t jump off that wall.”

  I tapped a toe, my teeth latching around the inside of my cheek. I was right about this, dammit. Graham used to trust me. Why didn’t he just believe me?

  “Who goes to so much trouble to make something look like a suicide and then carves up the corpse after the fact?” Graham shook his head. “This makes no goddamn sense at all.”

  I didn’t answer, something floating around the back of my brain that I couldn’t quite grab ahold of. He was right. None of it made any sense. It was our job to see the twisted logic in an illogical situation.

  “Let’s say you’re right, and this wasn’t some random sicko who found her and started to chop her up and thought better of it,” Graham began, and I raised one hand.

  “Are you even listening to yourself? She was cut postmortem, under her replaced clothes, and then turned over and arranged. For the love of God, Graham. Tenley Andre was murdered.”

  He pinched his lips together, his eyes darting from one corner of the room to the other. “Yeah.” It floated out with a long sigh, so low I almost didn’t catch the word.

  My forehead drew down, my voice dropping as I stepped closer to him. “This isn’t you at all, is it?”

  He shook his head so slightly a blink would’ve made anyone miss it and put a hand on the small of my back, propelling me toward the door.

  We were halfway down the block before he spoke, the sun warming the back of my neck even as a chill stole through me at the creepy-solemn set to Graham’s jaw.