Killing Ways Read online

  ‘I know, but …’ It’s a gut thing. ‘Two women – tied with rope, burned flesh, within twenty miles of each other? I mean – could it be the case that Jane Doe escaped from the same man who killed the others?’

  ‘That he had one old lady in the middle of all those skinny blondes?’ said Gary.

  ‘If I could understand the mind of every killer …’

  ‘I need more.’

  They all wanted proof; it was their job to have proof. But Gary wanted rock-solid. Everything had to be rock solid.

  Goddamn it.

  27

  The next morning, Ren put a call into Undersheriff Cole Rodeal in Douglas County.

  ‘Rodeal – could you cast your mind back to your heroic night in the ambulance bay?’

  ‘Why, I’ve barely moved on from it, I’ve been so busy basking in the glory.’

  ‘The woman who came in … she was burned, wasn’t she?’ said Ren.

  ‘She was burn-ing,’ said Rodeal. ‘She’d just poured lighter fluid on herself, she found it on the floor of the truck, and she lit herself on fire.’

  ‘And you found nothing else out about her – is that right?’ said Ren.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Why are you asking?’

  ‘Nothing other than she was found the same night Stephanie Wingerter disappeared – they both had burns.’

  ‘Totally different burns,’ said Rodeal.

  ‘I know, I know. But lighter fluid as an accelerant …’

  ‘Would it help if you spoke with my wife, Edie? She was around the whole time that lady was at the hospital.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ren. ‘That would be great.’

  Ren waited until after work to drive to the Sky Ridge Medical Center to meet with Edie Rodeal.

  ‘Our Jane Doe,’ said Edie. ‘Yes – she was ninety-three pounds, a serious IV drug user, we found heroin in her system, she was malnourished, she had been beaten, she had broken bones, she had been tied by her wrists and ankles, she had wounds infected with maggots …’

  ‘The stuff that doesn’t make the newspapers …’

  Edie nodded.

  ‘Any personal effects?’ said Ren.

  ‘She came in with nothing,’ said Edie. ‘I mean, her nightgown was destroyed when she set herself alight. She had nothing else with her. The young woman had stumbled across her, the gentleman in the pickup stopped to help them.’

  ‘And did the guy and girl know each other?’ said Ren.

  ‘No. It was obvious from how they were talking. Or not talking. He tried his best.’

  ‘Do you think the woman was psychotic?’ said Ren. ‘Is that why she set herself on fire?’

  ‘We ordered a psych eval, soon as she came in,’ said Edie, ‘but the doctor saw no evidence of psychosis. She refused to speak, so that made any specific diagnosis impossible. She was an abused and broken woman, but he did not believe she was psychotic. He believed she was choosing not to speak.’

  ‘Why would she have set herself alight?’ said Ren. ‘She was being rescued. She had obviously escaped from somewhere.’ She paused. ‘Unless she was trying to destroy something … an identifying mark, maybe – a mole, a tattoo, bite marks.’ She shrugged. ‘But if she was the victim, why would she do that? Were the burns anywhere in particular?’

  ‘Mainly her shoulder,’ said Edie. ‘She had poured most of the lighter fluid there. They were full thickness burns. You wouldn’t even be able to tell what might have been there to destroy.’

  Weirdness. ‘How did she even get to where she was found?’

  ‘Like I said, she didn’t speak to us, but—’

  A young nurse at the counter looked up. ‘Are you talking about the old lady? I heard her moaning something when I went in at night. Kind of singing in her own way. A few times. I thought she might have been hallucinating.’

  ‘What was she singing?’ said Ren.

  ‘Something about tiny fingers pointing at her and about needles. She was distressed. We had to put a lot of lines in.’

  ‘She was an IV drug user,’ said Edie, dismissively. ‘She was used to needles.’

  Ren had zoned out. All she could see were the words she had been staring at for weeks on her Wall of Horrors: words that were written on the napkin taken from Carrie Longman’s jeans: “tiny fingers pointing your way, needle’s pointing to your heart, sharps disposal, sharps disposal, now I know the way we’ll part …”

  “Sharps disposal”. That’s quite a medical expression for a song lyric … usually a songwriter, that wouldn’t be their world. Would it?

  Was the songwriter moon-lighting: medical person by day, singer by night? This Jane Doe was singing those lyrics six weeks before Carrie Longman was at Manny’s. Was the songwriter someone at the hospital who heard the Jane Doe’s ramblings when she was admitted and later used it in a song? Performed it in Manny’s?

  Who was this Jane Doe? What has she got to do with Carrie Longman? Could she have known Carrie Longman? Or known that Carrie Longman was going to be a target?

  ‘Do you have any amateur singers on staff?’ said Ren.

  ‘Everyone’s an amateur singer these days, if you ask me,’ said Edie.

  ‘Anyone who has performed on Open Mic night in Manny’s Bar in Denver?’ said Ren. ‘In any bars?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ said Edie. ‘I’ll ask around.’

  ‘Can you show me any photos of the Jane Doe?’ said Ren.

  The nurse opened the file, passed them to Ren.

  Fuuuuck.

  ‘I know,’ said Edie. ‘Not a pretty picture.’

  ‘And worse than I imagined,’ said Ren, ‘which is impressive.’

  The woman’s face was ruined by drugs, hard-living, abuse and neglect. The fire added new scars, new colors and contours. Her neck was horrifically burnt, her jaw, most of her left ear. Her hair had shriveled on that side of her head.

  ‘A merciful Lord has taken her,’ said Edie.

  ‘Was there any evidence that she was sexually assaulted?’ said Ren.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have anything else on her?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Edie.

  Ren nodded. ‘OK – thank you for your time.’ She paused. ‘Before I go – do you have the names of the two people who came in with her? They weren’t in the newspaper reports.’

  ‘I can’t imagine they were,’ said the nurse. ‘Neither of them was the type to want publicity: she was a sweet thing, wouldn’t want any credit for an act of kindness type of girl, and he was just the loner type who’d be like a bug under a looking glass in the sun with any attention on himself. Apparently, the young woman found the lady wandering along the side of the road. And the young man was driving past and stopped to help. The ambulance got lost trying to find them, and the young man took matters into his own hands. She was a pretty girl, and he looked like he was trying to impress her. He might have thought that this was his only shot at ever being a knight in shining armor. You know – like my husband.’ She smiled. ‘Let me go get those names for you.’ She came back and handed them to Ren on a yellow Post-It.

  Kurt Vine and Amanda Petrie.

  Ren ran them through the system. Kurt Vine lived close to where he picked the two women up. It was an hour from Sky Ridge.

  There is nothing to stop me from dropping by. Amanda Petrie lives too far away for tonight.

  Ren called Gary as she drove. She got his voicemail.

  ‘Gary – I have your rock-solid connection. It’s just not one I expected: this time it’s that Jane Doe and Carrie Longman. It’s a weird one: the lyrics Carrie Longman wrote on the napkin are exactly the same as the ones that lady was singing while she was in the hospital. They were the only words that came out of her mouth. Nuts! Call me.’

  Ren drove on to Kurt Vine’s house, thinking about tiny fingers and needles.

  Creepsville.

  She pulled into a clearing at the front of his house.

  Griiiiiim.

  Everything about it was unmaintain
ed.

  How do people live like this?

  Her cell phone rang. It was Edie.

  ‘Ren, it’s me again – I forgot something. It was only when I was talking to one of the nurses on my break about you coming in. She reminded me that after the crash, when I got up after Cole jumped in to protect me, I ran over to the pickup to check on the occupants. The Jane Doe kept saying that something terrible had brought her there, that she did something bad. I told my friend on the night, but I had completely forgotten it until she reminded me just now.’

  ‘The woman said that she did something bad?’ said Ren. ‘The woman herself?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Edie. ‘I figured it was a reference to setting herself on fire. And it’s fairly clear that something terrible had brought her to the hospital. But just in case there’s any other angle I’m not thinking about, I thought I’d say it to you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ren.

  So this lady may have been complicit in something. Or have been so psychologically damaged that she simply thought she was complicit in what happened to her. Like she’d been told enough times by her captor that she had done something bad.

  Ren walked over to the timber steps up to the porch, and stopped to inspect them.

  Steps through rotten wood, cuts up legs, dies of exsanguination.

  She went up the steps anyway, holding the shaky railing as she did. She rang the bell.

  Sweat was pouring down Kurt Vine’s face, his erection was straining his track pants, hurting him. The stinging, the cramp in his hands – he was locked into it all.

  The doorbell rang. Nothing good had ever come to Kurt Vine when he opened his door at night. ‘I came to collect my debt.’ He shivered at the memory.

  The doorbell rang again.

  ‘Not happening,’ he muttered. ‘Not fucking happening.’

  28

  Ren wandered around the back of Kurt Vine’s house. There was a battered Mitsubishi Montero parked there. She took a photo of the license plate, then went around to the front of the house again and rang the bell. No answer.

  Another time, Kurt Vine.

  She ran the license plate when she got back into the Jeep – it was registered to Kurt Vine.

  No dramz.

  That night, Ren sat on the sofa, writing the lyrics over and over.

  There’s something more to these.

  Sharps disposal … getting rid of the needles … now I know the way we’ll part … death? Anesthesia? Needle’s pointing to your heart: that’s where it hurts? Someone’s heart is being pierced by pain. Or … maybe it’s literal.

  She sat up.

  Heroin? Injecting heroin? Edie said that the woman was an IV drugs user.

  ‘Tiny fingers pointing your way …’ In accusation?

  Was the song written from the perspective of a child about a heroin-addicted adult? A child who thinks they know that the needle will end their relationship?

  ‘Sharps disposal’ is not about disposing of the needles: it’s about the singer. A person who feels he or she’s being disposed of by a drug abuser? By Jane Doe?

  Now, what the hell does that have to do with Carrie Longman?

  Maybe it’s nothing more than she recognized in those lyrics the lives of the people she dealt with every day. Or maybe it was sung by one of the people she dealt with.

  Annnd, we’re back to wondering who the Jane Doe is …

  Ren got up to get a bottle of water from the kitchen. She had left her phone on the table.

  Shit! On Silent!

  Five missed calls from Gary. She called him right back.

  ‘Where the hell were you?’ he said.

  ‘Sorry – my phone was on silent. I was checking out new—’

  ‘Listen: I’m with you tonight.’

  ‘The what now?’

  ‘Can’t talk. I’m with you … if Karen calls. I’m on my way to your apartment. I’ve been there all evening working on the case.’

  Well, fuck you, Gary. ‘OK.’

  Twenty minutes later, Ren buzzed Gary in. She smelled the beer on his breath before she had the door fully open.

  Oh, God, you look just-fucked. Delete image. And, Ren, pull pointy shard of envy from your chest.

  ‘You said it was over.’

  ‘I thought it was,’ said Gary. ‘I wanted it to be.’ He went into the living room and sat on the sofa.

  You don’t look like you want it to be. Not one bit.

  Ren sat down at the other end of the sofa. ‘This is a disaster. I’m not judging you, I’m not in any position to, but please don’t do this. Whoever she is, she’s not worth it.’ WHO IS IT?

  ‘But … I think …’

  Oh, Jesus. No. ‘Do not say it,’ said Ren. ‘Do not say you love her. This is not a conversation to have with me. Save it for therapy.’ She paused. ‘And don’t look at me like that. Do you think you don’t need help? That it’s just for the crazies? Let me tell you something – if a crazy is telling you you need help, you need help.’ I can barely look at you, you’re so fucking excited by this woman.

  ‘You don’t love her,’ said Ren. ‘You’re just having a ball, more excited than you’ve been in years. I get it. I really do. But it will fuck you up, fuck Karen up, especially because of how convincingly you lied. And, I’m leaving the worst till last: this will shatter Claire. She’s seventeen, Gary. This would be so bad for a seventeen-year-old. And you’ve only gotten close in the past two years. How do you think she’s going to feel? End this now. Please. I can’t watch you self-destruct. I’ve done it. It’s not pleasant.’ And I’m probably wired to keep doing it.

  ‘This is different,’ said Gary.

  ‘If this was different, then why does the cliché of the mid-life crisis exist? You’re smarter than that. Can I venture: your girlfriend is younger than you, has longer hair than your wife, isn’t a stay-at-home mom, laughs at all your jokes, and wears killer underwear at all times?’ Which I strongly believe in, actually.

  Gary gave a one-shoulder shrug.

  ‘Well, there you go. This is not different. I’m sorry. Just ask yourself that long list of questions. And imagine, really, really, imagine integrating your girlfriend into your life—’

  ‘Stop calling her that,’ said Gary.

  ‘Mistress sounds alluring and mysterious,’ said Ren. ‘Girlfriend’ sounds pathetic for a man in your circumstances. ‘There is nothing alluring and mysterious about this whole shitshow. So, I’m prompting you again to consider this woman as part of your family, your career, everything. Spend some time with that. Because no one else is going to be as enamored with her as you are. No one will see her as anything other than a homewrecker. You don’t love her: you’re unhappy at home. Sort home out first. Apart from this woman. Try treating Karen the way you’re treating your girlfriend and she might look at you with sparkly eyes too …’

  Suitably stung. Good!

  ‘It surprises me,’ said Ren, ‘that you can respect a woman who has such low self-esteem that she sees herself as deserving nothing better than second place in a man’s life.’

  ‘Jesus, Ren …’

  ‘My final advice is – give your marriage a proper chance. And if you still love your girlfriend, then you love her, you’ll be together and everyone will embrace her with open arms … eventually.’

  The excitement had evaporated from Gary. He looked tired and older and foolish. And then he looked like he was going to some beautiful place, in some wonderful memory with his new side piece, and the light was back in his eyes.

  Gary is off the rails.

  ‘And one more thing,’ said Ren. ‘Men are weirdos – after years of marriage and a child or two, they take their foot off the gas and when the car stalls, instead of reapplying that foot, the man goes out and buys a new fucking car! And – this is the best bit – he thinks that his wife is still in the original car, having the ride of her life. It’s unbelievable. Does any of that make sense to you?’

  What a stupid fucking analogy. Men love
cars. Gary is away in killer-underwear land … driving a Ferrari.

  She let out a breath.

  Gary is off the rails.

  We can’t both be.

  But I’m fine.

  You’re off the rails.

  No, I’m not.

  Gary is my fulcrum. He is my guardian. Without him at the helm … who knows what could happen? I need to get my shit together.

  I’m fine.

  Ren got up, went into the kitchen and made coffee.

  Go, caffeine, go.

  Gary followed her.

  ‘OK,’ said Ren, ‘we were working on the case.’

  But, fuck, I won’t be able to sustain this lying for too much longer.

  When he was gone, Ren abandoned work and took the elevator to the glamor-gym.

  She put on her gloves and started pounding a punchbag that was so pristine she wondered if anyone else ever used it.

  Right, left, hook, hook, right, left, fuck, fuck, right, left, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

  He didn’t even ask me about the lyrics! Nothing! Does he even give a shit?

  She finished thirty minutes later, hot, sweaty, more wired.

  How does that even work? This is not the plan.

  She went back to the apartment, stripped off, threw the clothes in the laundry basket and ran the shower. When it was hot enough, she got in.

  Too hot. Too hot.

  Breathe.

  She turned down the temperature.

  Gary, in the shower, soaping my … stop. Ben. That’s better. That’s way better.

  When she was done, she put on navy blue shorts, a white tank.

  She went into her bedroom.

  Screw you, Gary. I cannot believe you’re making me do this.

  She knelt down on the floor and slid out her shoebox of shame. She opened it. She took out her box of mood stabilizers. She slid out a pack. The information leaflet came with it.

  Ain’t nobody got time for that.

  She was about to throw it loose into the shoebox, when she realized it wasn’t an information leaflet. It was a handwritten note. She unfolded it.

  I knew you’d do it. x

  Ben’s handwriting. Ren stared at the words. Tears welled in her eyes. She slumped back against the side of the bed.