“Well, I never took any course. But I’ve broken this kind of news enough times to know what to do. The trick is to not leave ’em hanging. Get to the worst of it fast.”
Get to the worst of it fast, Russ reminded himself. He arrived Monday morning right at nine o’clock, opening time. He found the branch manager first off and filled her in on the situation. She expressed sympathy, and welcomed him to use her office when he told Kristen the bad news. She left for the service counter and came back with a young woman in tow.
“Kristen McWhorter?” Russ asked. The branch manager silently shut the door behind herself on the way out.
“Yes . . .” Kristen said, frowning. She was pretty, in a milkmaid sort of way that even her ink-dark punk hairstyle and thick black eyeliner couldn’t conceal. “Did my father do something?” she asked.
“Your father? No. I have some very bad news for you, Kristen. This past Friday we discovered your sister Katie’s body near the kill, about a quarter-mile upstream from Payson’s Park. She had been murdered.”
Kristen stood perfectly still, blinking. “No,” she said. “You’re mistaken. Katie’s in Albany. She’s a freshman at SUNY-Albany, and she hasn’t been home since school started. She’s in Albany.”
“She was identified in a photograph by someone who knew her in high school. We’d like you or your parents to view the body to make a positive identification.”
“I’ll go. I’ll go right now. It’s not Katie. She’s in Albany. I’ll get my coat right now. You have the wrong person. Oh, no, I’m starting my shift right now. I have to talk with Rosaline about getting off.”
Russ gestured through the glass walls at the manager. “I’ve already spoken with your boss, Kristen. Everything’s set.”
The manager came in carrying a heavy coat and a purse. “I brought these from the break room. They’re Kristen’s.”
Kristen grabbed at the purse and started scrabbling through it. “Wait! Wait! I can prove to you it isn’t Katie. I can call her house. I have her number. I have it here.” She dug through the purse like a small, desperate animal digging for shelter. She fished out a plastic address book the size of a box of cigarettes. “Here. Her number’s here. I can call her, she’s in Albany.” She looked around the office, frowning. “It’s a long distance number, though. Can I use your phone to make a long distance call, Rosaline?”
“Of course you can,” the manager said. She took Kristen by the shoulders and steered her to the phone on the laminate desk. “Go right ahead, Kristen.” She looked behind the girl’s back at Russ, asking him wordlessly for guidance. Kristen hammered out the number.
Russ made a smoothing gesture with his hands to let the manager know she was doing fine. “C’mon, c’mon . . .” Kristen said. “Pick up.” Her face brightened. “Emily!” she said. “It’s Kristen, Katie’s sister. Can I speak to Katie?” There was a pause. “Is she in class?” There was an even longer pause. Kristen’s eyes filled with tears and she pressed her palm against her mouth. She looked up at Russ. “She says Katie took a bus to Millers Kill on Friday morning. She hasn’t seen her since.” She blinked and the tears spilled over her cheeks. “Oh God, oh God . . .”
Russ held out his hand for the receiver. “Let me talk with her,” he said. Kristen surrendered the phone. “Hello, this is Russ Van Alstyne, Millers Kill Police. Who is this, please?”
“I’m Emily Colbaum. Katie’s housemate.” The voice on the other end of the line was shaky. “Has something happened to Katie?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Colbaum. We believe she was killed Friday night. Can I ask you a few—”
The sound of wailing cut him off. He waited. Kristen was leaning against the branch manager, mopping her eyes with a wad of damp tissues. She had black makeup smeared on her cheeks and her dried-blood-red lipstick had come off entirely. “Emily? Miss Colbaum?” he tried again. He was answered with more sobbing. He put his hand over the receiver. “Kristen, will you come over to the morgue with me now? Or do you need more time?”
She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “If it’s her, I want to know. Let’s go.”
He tried the phone again. “Miss Colbaum? Emily, do you think you can talk with me? Or do you need some time to get yourself together?” She sobbed out something about feeling light-headed. “Emily, listen to me. Are you listening? Is there anyone else there at the house with you? Another roommate?”
There was a confusing sentence about Heather, who had missed an organic chemistry final.
“Good. I want you to give her a yell—” he held the phone away from his ear as she did just that. “Uh . . . good girl. You make sure she stays with you until you’re feeling calmer, okay? If you need to, you go on over to the university clinic and tell ’em what happened. There’ll be someone you can talk with there, maybe fix you up with a sedative if you need one.” Wet, weepy snuffles. “I’m going to give you the number of the police station here in Millers Kill. You got a pen and paper? Good girl.” He told her his direct office line. “I’ll be calling you to talk later, Emily, but in the meanwhile, if you think of anything, anything at all, call that number. If I’m not there, you can talk to our dispatcher, Harlene.”
Emily blubbed a watery thank you and hung up, promising to call with any information she might have.
Kristen was gamely struggling her way into her long black coat, crying soundlessly, mopping her face with the ineffectual tissues. “Would you like me to come with her?” the manager asked, her face creased with what Russ judged to be equal parts worry over her employee and the prospect of leaving the bank unattended on a Monday morning.
“No, I have a, um, grief specialist waiting for us at the morgue. We’ll make sure Miss McWhorter’s taken care of.”
He held the office door open for the women. “Kristen, don’t worry about coming in to work tomorrow,” the manager said. “I’ll make sure your shifts are covered. Take all the time you need, honey.” She hugged the girl awkwardly.
Outside, it was another bitterly cold and clear day. Kristen rubbed her gloved hands over her cheeks as they drove. The heater wheezed and complained and started warming the car minutes before they reached the county morgue’s parking lot. Clare was already there, waiting in an older-model cherry-red MG that was going to give her more trouble than she could imagine on the winter roads. She got out as he parked the cruiser.
“Let’s get inside before we do introductions,” he yelled across the lot. She nodded and disappeared into the building, climbing the steps two at a time. He held Kristen’s arm to steady her until they got into the waiting room, then released her to help her out of her enormous coat. She had stopped crying and was looking around her with the same absorption she would have shown watching a fascinating movie. Not that there was anything fascinating about the dun-colored walls that someone had attempted to brighten with scenic travel posters. He had seen that look before, many times. It was the look you got when the bottom fell out of your world, and your own life seemed as distant and unreal as any big-screen fantasy.
“Kristen?” Clare took the girl’s coat from Russ and tossed it on a chair next to her own. “I’m Clare Fergusson.” She held out a hand to Kristen, who took it mechanically. “I was there when your sister’s body was discovered.” Kristen’s lips flexed and quivered. “I’m also a priest.” Given the clerical collar peeking out from underneath her black sweater, Russ thought that was pretty self-evident. He went to the window separating the waiting room from records storage. Tapping the bell three times brought the morgue assistant, who took in the scene in the waiting room and went to unlock the inner doors without a word. “Would you like me to come with you?” Clare went on, gently leading Kristen to the hallway. “Sometimes, it can make it less scary to be with someone else.”