Alex Barclay - Killing Ways

‘Thank you,’ said Karen. ‘Thank God.’ She stood up, and started to walk toward the door. She paused, and turned back. ‘What were you celebrating?’

‘Pardon?’ said Ren.

‘Why the champagne?’ said Karen. ‘What were you and Gary—’

Fuuuck. Fuuuck.

‘—celebrating?’ said Karen.

Ren stared at her feet. They were bare, polished in a beautiful shade of aqua.

Help me. Help. Me.

Oh. My. God. Feet! That’s it! God bless you!

Ren jumped up. ‘It’s the case! Sorry, Karen. I just realized something. There’s another victim. Oh, Jesus Christ. Please, excuse me. I need to call Everett.’

Ren ran into the kitchen, picked up her cell phone, dialed Gary’s number.

‘Everett!’ she said.

‘It’s Gary—’

Duuuuuh! ‘I’m calling because — do you remember Gia Larosa, the young runaway?’ She lowered her voice. ‘Karen is here. What were we celebrating that night — the champagne. Jesus Christ.’

‘Ren, you drink champagne all the time — you don’t need a reason. It’s your drink.’

‘Oh my God, I never thought of that,’ said Ren. ‘That’s how fucking stressed out this is making me!’

‘How’s Karen?’

‘Ugh. Fine. Back to Gia Larosa — do you remember her?’

‘Her body was found on her eighteenth birthday — that stuck with me.’

‘Yes, raped, murdered, found on Lookout Mountain at the beginning of June, torn apart by critters. I remembered the autopsy report saying that she had splinters in her foot... remaining foot.’

She could have run away from him.

Not far — or fast — enough.

‘Maybe,’ said Gary, ‘but it stands to reason that if any woman was trying to run away from a killer outdoors, and she was barefoot, her feet would be damaged. Her shoes were bound to have been kicked off or removed, especially if they were heels.’

Wind out of sails. ‘I’ll look into it tomorrow.’

Ren ended the call.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said, walking back in to Karen.

Karen was standing in the living room with her jacket on. ‘ I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve stayed here long enough. You’re busy, this is an important case. Do you really have another victim?’

‘I think so, yes. From back in June.’

‘And what did Everett think?’ said Karen.

I see the hurt in your eyes. This is vile. ‘He isn’t sure.’

‘Well, you keep doing what you’re doing,’ said Karen. ‘You’re an excellent agent. And I’m so sorry for dragging you into all this. I’m so ashamed.’

‘Oh my God, don’t say that,’ said Ren. ‘Shame is a total waste of time.’ She hugged her.

‘Thanks,’ said Karen. ‘Thanks so much.’

Too obvious to bring up the celebration answer now.

Ren closed the door behind Karen.

Oh, Karen. You do not deserve this.

As Ren got ready for bed, she remembered the autopsy photos and the chipped aquamarine nail polish of Gia Larosa. She remembered thinking that, on the table, Gia Larosa looked no bigger than an eight-year-old. Her belongings were a denim skirt with a jagged hem, a cropped white Ramones vest, a red cotton bandeau top, a plastic charm bracelet.

Tiny, blonde, rough around the edges.

Stephanie Wingerter, Gia Larosa — lost souls, easy targets. Was Hope Coulson a move to a different league for the killer? A greater challenge? And Donna Darisse was a return to a comfort zone?

The comfort of lost souls and easy targets...

Jesus Christ.

Ren pulled Gia Larosa’s file as soon as she got into work the next morning. It was JeffCo’s case, but had started out with Safe Streets, because there was a last-known sighting in Denver. Gia Larosa had run away from her home in Montana, and hitch-hiked to Denver with various truckers, all of whom were cleared of any involvement in her death. Her body was found a month after she arrived in Denver — two days after she went missing.

Ren went through the photos of the crime scene. Temperatures at the end of May and early June were high, but Gia Larosa had been left partially covered by undergrowth, so the problem was not so much the heat, but the critters that had gotten to her. She was too decomposed to tell whether or not she’d been raped. But Ren honed in on one of the little yellow plastic markers at the scene, and an ax handle beside it.

Rape with a foreign object.

The lab report said that the ax handle had no prints on it. It was clean clean — bleach clean. There was evidence of sharp-force trauma to the lower spine that was likely caused by the ax, the blade of which was never found.

Gia Larosa’s cause of death was undetermined.

Ren sent an email out to all the agencies working on the case that Gia Larosa should be considered a victim of the same killer.

Sorry, Gary. Can’t fight another fight with you.

I have an appointment to get to...

Dr Leonard Lone was Ren’s psychiatrist, an intelligent, kind-faced man, gray-haired, bearded, soft-spoken. Behind the air of normality was an abnormally large family fortune, and an enduring, under-the-radar commitment to share it with those less fortunate. Ren secretly called him Batman.

‘How are you doing, Ren?’ Lone opened the door wide in a deliberate flourish.

Greetings, Batman! ‘I’m great, thank you,’ said Ren, taking a seat. ‘You look like you’re in a good mood.’

He sat at his desk opposite. ‘Don’t I always?’

She laughed. ‘Well, yes. But I’m liking the door-opening.’

‘I’m cultivating grand entrances today,’ said Lone.

‘Well, how about this for a grand entrance: there’s a serial killer in Denver. It’s not been formally announced yet. I’m case agent.’

‘Good for you,’ said Lone. ‘That was Gary’s decision?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you feel about that?’

‘Confident, thank you.’

He nodded, then waited for an elaboration that didn’t come.

‘So, with this new responsibility...’ said Lone.

‘Comes great power!’ said Ren.

Lone smiled. ‘Comes the more mundane issues of longer hours, irregular hours, increased workload...’

There’s no such thing as a long hour. An hour is an hour.

She glanced at the clock.

Then again...

‘How has your sleep been?’ said Lone.

Why are we even doing this? I’m smart enough to know the right answers. And smart enough to know never to say out loud anything that egomaniacal. Flag. ‘I’m sleeping well, eating well, working well.’ Suppressing checking the time well.

Dr Lone nodded. ‘Are you happy with your meds?’

Happy I am no longer taking them, yes. Ren nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘The dosage is right for you?’ said Lone.

‘Yes, absolutely.’

‘When do you take them?’ said Lone.

Pause. ‘At night.’ She thought of her shoebox of shame — the meds box — lying under her bed, untouched.

‘Are you having any adverse reaction?’ said Lone.

‘No, nothing — they’re great. I’m feeling very... on an even keel.’

‘Good,’ said Lone. ‘Is there anything in particular you think we need to address today?’

‘Hmm, not really.’ Jesus, make something up . ‘Oh, there is something, actually. What am I meant to do with this information? A married colleague, who I greatly respect, had an affair. I was his unwitting alibi. I have gone along with this, lied to his wife, whom I know well. And I feel like shit.’

‘I don’t need to know names, but is this colleague a superior?’ said Lone.