“I don’t know, sir. The last I saw him he was headed out with one of the search parties.”
“Jesus, why’d he have to be the one who caught the call on Ackerman?” Grossman glared at Rho as if Wayne being the responding officer were her fault. “He wasn’t worth squat at that scene, and now when we could use his help, he doesn’t show up at all. Maybe it’s just as well. This way he can’t lose any of the evidence.”
She stared at him.
“Oh yeah.” He nodded. “When I first joined the department I made it my business to familiarize myself with both personnel and unsolved cases. After I met you and Gilardi it didn’t take me long to figure out that he was the type to lose evidence and you were the type to cover for him.”
“How many people’re aware of that?”
“Not many. But don’t take the blame for his mistakes again, particularly on any investigation of mine.”
“I won’t, sir.”
Denny Shepherd had been standing apart while they talked, but now he came over and grinned nastily at Rho. “Swift, I hope you didn’t fuck up the scene down there.”
She regarded him silently for a moment, deciding she didn’t like Shepherd. He was the type of short man who compensated for his lack of stature by acting tough and talking crudely — and impugning others in order to bolster his sagging self-esteem.
“I did not fuck up the scene, Detective Shepherd.”
“You said you went down there.”
“Only to make sure the victim was dead.”
“Hell, after all your years with the department, you can’t tell a stiff from, what, twenty feet?”
Grossman said, “Shut up, Denny.”
Shepherd shrugged.
Rho looked around for Guy Newberry and spotted him squatting down on the path and examining the footprints in the mud. Most civilians were ill at ease at crime scenes, but Guy conducted himself with assurance. He attracted little attention and was careful not to touch anything or get in anyone’s way, but she knew he was cataloging every detail.
Grossman said, “That the guy who was with you when you found the body?”
“Yes.” She explained who he was.
“We gonna have trouble with him?”
“You mean is he going to put in a call to people he knows in the media? No. He wants to keep anything he finds out here for himself.”
“Good. I want to keep a tight lid on this, so we don’t have a repeat of last night. Scene’s been secured, and everybody’s been warned that they talk to so much as one person, they’re looking for a new job. There’re some press people from Santa Carla staying at the Sea Stacks, but I’m banking on them heading home when there’s nothing further on Ackerman.”
The department’s part-time photographer, Dave Moretti, struggled through the pyracantha thicket, loaded down with camera gear. He motioned that they were free to go down to the stream, and Grossman and Shepherd started over there. Rho remained where she was. She’d already seen the body, and would leave the evidence collection to the detectives and technicians.
Guy straightened and came toward her. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. What had you so interested over there?”
“The tread on Virge’s shoes. It’s similar to the tread on the shoes that made the footprints in the dome, and the ones in the Blakeley house. Same shoe size, too.”
“But if she made those prints, it would mean this wasn’t the first time she came to the canyon.”
“Yes, it would.”
“Look, Guy, I noticed her shoes when I went down to check for a pulse. They’re Reeboks. You can buy them at any department store or factory outlet in the country.”
“Well, it was just an observation.”
And a good one. She waved to Dave Moretti and called, “You think you can get some shots inside these houses?”
“With a flash, sure. What am I looking for?”
She introduced him to Guy. “He’ll show you.”
As the two men walked toward the dome, Rho pulled the zipper of her sweater all the way up and stuffed her hands into its pockets. Dusk was falling now, and her flesh rippled as the wind whistled in the far reaches of the canyon. Another person dead in this desolate place, this time a friend, yet she couldn’t muster up any feeling. The sensation of sleepwalking had returned shortly after she’d seen Virge’s body, coupled with a profound apathy. She was simply going through the motions.
A disturbance by the bridge to the redwood grove drew her attention. Will Scurlock came scrambling up the slope to the driveway, wild-eyed and disheveled. He reached level ground, stumbled, and almost fell. As he righted himself his eyes met hers, pleading with her to tell him that what he’d heard wasn’t so. When he saw her expression he seemed to crumble.
Quickly she moved forward, put her arms around him. “I’m so sorry, Will.” Inadequate words, but none were adequate at a time like this.
“Oh Jesus,” he said, “why Virge? Why?” Then his knees buckled.
Rho sank to the ground with him, cradled his grief-torn face against her shoulder, as long ago she’d cradled Heath Wynne’s. No more going through the motions. This was as involved as the job — as friendship — got.
Guy came out of the geodesic dome with Dave Moretti and saw Rhoda on the ground with her arms around Will Scurlock. The man was sobbing uncontrollably. Will’s fresh grief brought his own, slightly tempered by the passage of time, to the surface. He swallowed, turned away, and motioned Moretti toward the Blakeley house.
“Life sucks,” the photographer said.
“Amen to that.”
“No question about it. Take Will. He had this great family, then all of a sudden his boy’s gone. He and Virge weather the loss because they love each other, but then those murders happen and she starts to lose her mind. Now she’s gone, so what’s he got left?”
“I don’t know. What?”
“Nothing. Well, there’s all that land, but what d’you bet he sells it? Big house like that’s gonna seem awfully empty without her. There’s the business. Will’s always been successful along those lines, but work isn’t everything. For a while there was somebody on the side, and none of us blamed him, given the situation at home, but Will’s too decent a guy to keep something like that going for long, not loving Virge the way he did. So what’s left? Nothing.”
“Who was the woman?”
“Not your business, mister. She’s an okay girl, just kinda mixed up.”
Interesting.
They reached the Blakeley house and went up on the porch. Moretti shook his head. “Damned creepy. I’m glad I wasn’t working for the department back then.”
Guy opened the door, motioned him inside, and with the aid of his small flashlight located the more distinct of the footprints. As Moretti worked, the camera’s strobe created a series of flash-frozen images: a black spider in its intricate white web; a Rorschach blot of bloodstains on the wall; frayed threads hanging from the arm of the sofa. And—
“Shoot this, would you?” Guy said.
The man aimed where he indicated, and the strobe brightly illuminated an area behind the open door where the dust was smeared as if something had been dragged across it. A few long blonde hairs were snagged on a splintered floorboard.
When Moretti finished Guy said, “I’ll stay here. Would you ask Deputy Swift to come down, please?”
Rho took two aspirin from the container she kept in her slingbag and washed them down with coffee. Her head ached, her eyes burned, and the glare of the interrogation room’s fluorescents didn’t help any. She, Ned Grossman, Denny Shepherd, Wayne, and Harve Iverson — the substation commander — had assembled there to brainstorm, as Grossman termed it.
The detective finished passing out a sheaf of papers, sat down, and said, “We have three cases of suspicious or unusual deaths, which may or may not be related. I’ve called this meeting, even though it’s much later than we’d planned, in order to get moving on them. Santa Carla’s currently experiencing a crime wave of its own, and Investigations can’t send anyone else out, so the four of us are it. Commander Iverson will coordinate our investigation with his patrol officers. I’ve told Swift and Gilardi that they’re relieved of patrol duties until further notice so they can concentrate on these cases. I’m aware this will put a strain on the other deputies in the area, but that’s how it’s got to be.”