Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

"That's the first thing that reads weird to me," Barry says. I look at him. "What's that?"

"TOD is five in the morning. The cops were called hours later. What kind of gun did she use?"

Alan doesn't have to consult the file. He's already considered the question Barry is posing. "Nine mil."

"Loud," Barry opines. "Noisy. She shot the dog and she shot herself. Why didn't anyone hear anything?"

"Cathy Jones asked the same question," Callie replies.

"Sloppy," Alan says in disgust, shaking his head. He's talking about the inductive police-work. Alan spent ten years in Los Angeles Homicide before coming to the FBI, and he was known for his attention to detail and his refusal to take shortcuts. He would have thought about the sound of the gunshot if he'd been the one investigating ten years ago.

"Go on," I tell him.

"Sarah was found outside, in a near catatonic state. No mention of a burn on her hand anywhere in the file." The look he gives me is significant. "So when we went to see her in the hospital, I checked. She's got a small scar there." He frowns, more disgust. "Sloppy again. They didn't check shit, just ate what they were spoon-fed."

I point out what's important. "Bad then," I say, "but good for us now. They weren't looking, which means that there could still be something here that will lead us to him."

"What about the gun?" Callie asks, thoughtful.

Alan gives her a quizzical look. "What about it?"

"Did they look into it? Did the Langstroms even own a gun?"

Alan flips through the file, nodding as he finds something. "It was unregistered. Serial number filed off. Says here they figured she'd bought it on the street." His voice becomes sarcastic. "Yeah, because Linda Langstrom would know exactly where to go to buy a hot gun. Why would she even bother? If she planned to kill herself, she wouldn't have been worried about it being traced."

I look at Barry. "Would the gun still be in evidence?"

"I'm guessing yes. Evidence destruction is a hassle. It takes about an hour to fill out the paperwork, and from what I've seen so far, the guys on this case didn't seem inclined to go the extra mile."

"Then let's get it, Alan. Have Ballistics check out the gun."

"Might have a history," he says, nodding.

"What next?" I ask.

"Bullet was a hollow point, so there was maximum destruction on exit." He flips a page. "Linda Langstrom's fingerprints were found on her husband's neck. Consistent with her being the doer. There was the note, and the antidepressants."

"What about that?" I query, interested.

"Nada," he replies. "Just a note that she had them. No follow-up."

"Other physical evidence?"

He shakes his head. "CSU only fine-toothed in here, and even that was pretty perfunctory. They left the rest of the house untouched."

"They weren't looking for evidence to break a case," Callie muses.

"They were collecting evidence to confirm what they already knew."

" Thought they knew," Alan clarifies.

"Where was the dog killed?" I ask.

Alan consults the file again. "Near the entryway." He frowns. "Take a look at this."

He hands me a photograph. I peer at it and grimace. In it, Buster the faithful dog is headless, lying on the hardwood floor near the entryway. I take a closer look and my eyes narrow.

"Interesting, huh?" Alan asks.

"Sure is," I reply.

The photograph shows Buster lying on his side. His head--or where his head would be--is pointed toward the front of the house. A bloody hacksaw lies a short distance away.

"If Linda Langstrom was the killer," I say, "why was the dog in the entryway? And why was he facing toward the door? It's suggestive of him responding to someone entering the house, not someone already here."

"There's more," Alan says. "Blood evidence found in Sarah's bedroom. Testing showed that it was nonhuman. That backs up her story about the dog's head being tossed on her bed. It doesn't fit. Linda cutting the dog's head off is already a stretch. Tossing it into Sarah's room? No fucking way." I can see anger building in Alan. I don't respond, letting him run his course. "You know, it's not that this guy was that fucking smart. The cops on this case were lazy. Sloppy. Didn't give a shit. I would have caught the discrepancies with the gun, and I sure as hell would have thought long and hard about the damn dog. Once I heard Sarah's story, and I confirmed that her hand was burned, I would have been all over this house. Fuck." He boils for another few seconds and then he puffs out his cheeks and exhales, a long sigh.

"Sorry. I'm a little pissed. Could be that none of this had to happen."

"Maybe not," I acknowledge. "It's also possible you would have processed the house and found nothing, and ended up ruling it a suicide too." I pause as a thought comes to me. "You know what the really terrible thing is? That it wouldn't have mattered. Sarah had no family. If he didn't leave any forensic evidence--and I'm betting he didn't--then the outcome for Sarah would have been the same even if they believed her."

"Foster care and all the bad it brought her," Alan says.

"That's right. Now we have the benefit of hindsight and new information. Let's concentrate on rectifying things." I turn to Callie. "I want you to get together with Gene, and then I want you to turn this house inside out. Let's see if we can find something, now that someone's actually looking."

"My pleasure."

"In fact," I say, deciding, "get on that now. You can take the car, I'll catch a ride with Alan."

She nods, not responding with words. I sense a brief struggle in her and watch as a hand strays to her jacket pocket. Pain, I realize. It just hit her hard. Out of nowhere. I can tell from her eyes that she knows I know. I also get the message in bright flashing neon: Move on, let it go, privacy is the altar I worship at.

"What do you want me to do?" Barry asks, breaking the moment.

"Not that I don't have plenty to keep me busy. Lots of other dead people out there, and this isn't exactly my jurisdiction. Thankfully, I know a lady detective who works the Malibu precinct."

"I appreciate that you came when I asked, Barry. Really."

His smile is faint. He shrugs. "You never cry wolf, Smoky. So I always come. What else do you need from me?"

"The evidence, all of it. Especially the gun."

"Will do. You'll have it today."

"And something else that you might not like."

"What?"

"I want you to look into the detectives that ran this case back then, discreetly."

A long pause as he considers what I'm asking, why I'm asking.

"You thinking one of them could be the doer?"

"The work was sloppy. I've seen worse, and I understand why they came to the conclusions they did, but I don't understand why there was never any real follow-up with Sarah. I see notes from Cathy Jones, who was a rookie. I don't see any interview of Sarah by the detectives assigned. I want to know why. If I poke around, it will send up alarms."

Barry sighs and shakes his head. "Fuck. Yeah. I'll look into it."

"Thanks."

I look at the room, thinking. Taking in the tomb that used to be a home. I nod, satisfied that we can leave, for now.

"Let's go," I say to Alan.

"Where to?"

"Gibbs. I want to meet this lawyer."

"If his lips are moving, he's lying, honey-love," Callie says. We all head out the door.

"What are you doing when your lips are moving, Red?" Barry asks. She smiles. "Enlightening the world, of course."

This is Callie, I think. This will always be Callie, pain or pills or not, a wisecracking, taco-loving, donut-dunking friend. We all climb into our respective vehicles and head off in different directions.

"How long will it take us to get there?" I ask.

He checks the clock on the car dash. "About forty minutes would be my guess."