Killing Ways Page 5

  ‘Where did you get to this morning?’ said Ren.

  ‘I took Misty for a run.’

  ‘Oh my God – you took my dog for a run. Bad mom, bad mom.’

  ‘That’s not how it works,’ said Janine. ‘You are hungover. I needed a run, Misty did too: win-win.’

  ‘How is my baby?’ Whom I haven’t seen in four days.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ said Janine.

  ‘How’s Devin?’ said Ren.

  ‘As happy as ever. Is she not one of the cheeriest people on the planet?’

  ‘I swear she doesn’t have a bad thought in her head,’ said Ren.

  ‘Everyone has bad thoughts,’ said Everett. ‘Don’t be idolizing.’

  I do idolize, he’s right. Everyone is better than me.

  Robbie walked into the bullpen with a stack of files up to his chin. ‘Don’t ask,’ he said. ‘Just don’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry I missed you last night,’ said Ren.

  ‘You came out in the end?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘We’re going to have to coordinate better …’

  She sat down at her desk. Something was tugging at her. Something that had just been said.

  What? Idolizing? Bad thoughts?

  She opened up Google and stared at it blankly.

  Win-win! That’s what it is! Stephanie Wingerter.

  Ren jumped up from her desk and went to the file cabinet. She pulled out the file on the rape and murder of Stephanie Wingerter, a twenty-three-year-old meth-addicted prostitute who went by the name of Win-Win. She had disappeared in late June and was found a week later in a shallow grave in Devil’s Head, Douglas County. Ren laid out the photos on her desk. The first was a mug shot – Stephanie’s blank eyes in a skinny, washed-out face dotted with scabs. Her mouth was half-open, showing gaps where two teeth should have been. Her thin, punky blonde hair was a mess, her eyebrows over-plucked.

  The next photos were of where she was found, left to decompose in the beautiful July sunshine. Stephanie Wingerter’s face and body had been ravaged by drugs before any killer had gotten near it, but when he did … her right eye socket was impacted, as was her nose, both left swollen and caked in blood. Her upper and lower lips were split, and there was no pale skin visible – it was all shades of blue, purple, red and black. Dried blood darkened her hair. Her throat had been cut. Much of the lower half of her body was burned down to her ankles.

  Ren read the autopsy report. Cause of death was exsanguination. Accelerant had been poured on her, post-mortem, then lit.

  You poor, tragic soul. Why do some people have to live such miserable lives and die such horrible deaths?

  There were photos of a younger Stephanie from before she became an addict, and she was not unlike Hope Coulson: slim, pretty and bright-eyed.

  Everyone in Colorado knew who Hope Coulson was. Stephanie Wingerter, visible in life only to those in her shadowy underworld, had scarcely registered in the media. She was the type to be considered a victim-in-waiting by people who could never see her as a young woman struggling to survive or desperately feeding a habit that was never on her list of life’s goals, but was, instead, a marker on a gene.

  Ren went through the last photos – what had remained of Stephanie Wingerter’s tiny clothes, filthy, torn and bloodied.

  8

  After work, Ren went to visit Misty, and met with Janine for coffee afterwards in Crema on Larimer Street.

  ‘The sooner I get a house the better,’ said Ren. ‘I miss my girl.’

  ‘Did she go insane when she saw you?’ said Janine.

  ‘She did,’ said Ren. ‘It was adorable.’ She stared down at her coffee. ‘I hope she won’t need therapy after me deserting her.’

  ‘You haven’t deserted her,’ said Janine. ‘You’ve made a major sacrifice, so she can stay in an area she’s familiar with, with someone else who loves her. I visit her, you visit her. Misty is beloved!’

  Ren smiled. ‘She is.’ Sometimes, though, I can’t even raise my game to see her. I’m so hungover, I just want to get back to the apartment after work. Or a bar. Or I can’t face getting up early enough to see her before work.

  ‘Are you being neg?’ said Janine.

  Ren laughed. ‘Maybe …’

  ‘That’s just the alcohol in your system.’

  ‘Why do we do it?’

  ‘Because it’s fun.’

  Ren let out a breath.

  ‘Are you OK?’ said Janine. She put a hand on her forearm.

  Just tell her.

  No.

  Do.

  ‘Thanks for looking out for me last night,’ said Ren. ‘God. I was so wasted.’

  Janine laughed. ‘Nooo.’

  ‘Was I an embarrassment?’

  ‘No! Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Ugh. I think you’re just being nice.’

  ‘No. Honestly.’

  ‘Look, I just wanted to let you know something,’ said Ren. ‘Not that it’s got anything to do with last night. But … I suppose, I just haven’t told you and now it seems weird after all this time. I’m … bipolar.’ Ugh, still hate it.

  ‘Thanks for letting me know.’

  ‘You mean you guessed already!’ said Ren.

  Janine laughed. ‘Not exactly. I figured … there was something there.’

  ‘Something wrong, you mean. When? Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘It’s not exactly something I’m going to throw out there …’

  ‘True. Anyway, there it is, my sorry tale.’

  ‘It doesn’t change a thing as far as I’m concerned,’ said Janine. ‘But, yes, I’m glad you told me.’

  ‘Well, now that we’re working together …’

  Janine frowned. ‘Now that we’re working together?’ She paused. ‘Are you trying to tell me I can’t rely on you?’ She was half-smiling. ‘That if we were in a gun battle you might be across the room dancing to “Happy”?’

  Ren laughed. I love you, Janine Hooks. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘All I will say is please talk to me if you’re struggling … or if there’s anything on your mind.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Ren. ‘And you can talk to me too.’

  Now, have you anything you’d like to tell me? Like about your possible eating disorder?

  There was a sparkle of the onset of tears in Janine’s eyes. She blinked and they were gone, swallowed up.

  Just like that. Talk to me. Or do you think I’m just not the right kind of friend?

  ‘Gary makes me go to these bullshit support groups every two weeks,’ said Ren. ‘In that shit-ass Henderson Hotel. It’s enough to make you blow your brains out. Shit – I was supposed to be at one last night.’

  ‘Don’t the meetings help at all?’ said Janine.

  Not right now. At all. Ooh. You, troubled lady, need to know support groups help. ‘They do help,’ said Ren. ‘Just sometimes they remind me that there’s something wrong with me. And, like, I feel great. I could go there in the best humor ever, and someone’s up at the lectern talking about killing themselves or getting injected in the ass with clozapine and I’m like “that is not my life”.’

  ‘Of course that’s not your life,’ said Janine. ‘I mean, look at you.’

  Yes. Seconds from a clozapine shot at all times. Ooh: that’s a great idea. Shots called Clozapine. I’ll have a round of Clozapines. Like Mind Erasers. Mind Numbers. With a silent ‘b’. The pharmaceutical company probably wouldn’t allow a brand name to be used. Obviously.

  She let out a breath.

  ‘And, Ren, I want you to know I can’t be your friend in half-measures. Like, I don’t half-care about people. I’m all in. Which I hope explains why I was the way I was last night. So if that doesn’t sit well with you …’

  ‘It’s just …’

  ‘What?’ said Janine.

  I hate my behavior being scrutinized. I hate being watched. I hate being stopped. I hate my fun being curtailed. I shouldn’t have told her. Now I have another person in my
life with a worried look on their face. Fuck that.

  ‘Just … thanks,’ said Ren.

  Ren started the drive back to her apartment. She kept thinking of Hope Coulson’s party pictures.

  I am missing something. I need to talk to Jonathan Briar.

  Fuck his lawyer.

  You really don’t want to do that.

  Gary will go—

  La la la la la …

  Ren rang the buzzer outside Jonathan Briar’s apartment building, waiting patiently for him to pick up.

  ‘Hey,’ he said.

  ‘Jonathan, it’s Ren Bryce here from Safe Streets …’

  Silence.

  ‘I was looking at Hope’s Facebook page and there’s something I need to ask you.’

  ‘I have a lawyer now,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘This will take five minutes,’ said Ren. ‘Please. You want to find out who did this to Hope, don’t you? You’re not a suspect. I just have a couple of questions.’

  ‘What about her Facebook page?’ said Jonathan.

  ‘Something doesn’t add up,’ said Ren. ‘Please – can I come up? I’ll show you.’

  Silence.

  Then the buzzer.

  Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

  9

  The apartment was a mess. Ren pushed aside cushions, a hoodie and two dirty plates to sit on the sofa. Jonathan went into the kitchen to make coffee. Ren could see him through the doorway, leaning against the countertop, gripping it, his head bowed. She got up and went in after him. There were fast-food wrappers, Styrofoam boxes, empty soda cans, empty chip packages, all across the countertops. The bin was overflowing.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down on the sofa,’ said Ren, putting a hand on Jonathan’s back. ‘I’ll take care of this.’

  He looked up, tears welling in his eyes. ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Ren.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jonathan. ‘Thanks.’

  Ren opened the cupboard under the sink, took out a garbage bag and started to fill it up. Then she loaded the dishwasher, washed down the countertops and put the kettle on. As she waited for it to boil, she looked around the kitchen. The side of the refrigerator still had notes signed by Hope, and a calendar that had been turned to the new month. Ren went over and flipped it up. Every Monday from the beginning to the end of the year, read: Good Shepherd, 6 p.m.

  Eerie. A schedule that would never be followed through on …

  Ren took out her cell phone and photographed all the months of the calendar.

  Just in case …

  The kettle boiled, Ren made coffee and went back in to sit with Jonathan Briar. He had made a half-assed attempt to tidy the living room, but he appeared to have stalled.

  ‘Thank you for cleaning up,’ he said.

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Ren.

  ‘I told everyone to stay away,’ he said. ‘People offered to help …’

  ‘It’s not easy having people around when you’re grieving,’ said Ren. ‘Sometimes you just want the whole world to go away.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I lost my older brother to suicide when I was thirteen years old,’ said Ren.

  ‘Really?’ said Jonathan.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘His name was Beau. He was only seventeen.’

  ‘Man …’ said Jonathan. ‘Do you ever get over that?’

  ‘No. But it does get easier, and there’s the cliché that I know you won’t believe applies to you … until it does.’

  ‘I can’t imagine … getting past this.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘And you don’t have to. Just take each day at a time.’

  ‘Each day sucks.’

  ‘Jonathan, I wanted to talk to you about a Friday night two weeks before Hope’s disappearance.’ Ren took her laptop out of her bag and opened it to Hope’s Facebook page.

  ‘Hope didn’t update Facebook for thirty-six hours,’ said Ren, ‘which is kind of unlike her, right?’

  She studied Jonathan’s face. He was lost in the photos.

  Shit. I should have prepared him.

  He started to cry again.

  Fuck.

  ‘I’m sorry if this is upsetting,’ said Ren, ‘but I just wanted to find out, did anything happen that night?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  Ooh. I don’t believe you.

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Ren. ‘Hope was drinking all afternoon … she continued when you joined her. She could well have been very drunk that night … Did you guys have an argument?’

  ‘No,’ said Jonathan. ‘But, yeah, she was really drunk. But she never got mean or anything, like some girls do. We didn’t have an argument.’

  ‘Did you come home together?’ said Ren.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘How did you get home?’ said Ren.

  ‘Uh … we … got a cab.’

  Once more with feeling.

  Ren glanced down at the screen. ‘From this bar? The Irish Hound?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long did that take?’ said Ren.

  ‘Five or ten minutes?’

  Love that guessing tone of voice.

  ‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Thanks.’ She paused. ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything else?’

  He nodded. ‘Positive.’

  Positively lie-telling.

  Ren got back to her apartment, changed, and went up to her second gym of choice – the top-floor glamor gym of her apartment building. Its glass windows looked out over the twinkling lights of Denver and made her feel like she was in a hotel. It was blessedly empty.

  Woo-hoo. No stranger sweat.

  Proud to be here: drank only coffee earlier. Albeit the ninth mug of the day. But not alcohol. That makes me a winner.

  She pushed in her EarPods, hit buttons and set the treadmill speed to low. She started with a one-minute walk, then cranked it up.

  Run, run, run.

  Music pounded in her ears, loud and piercing, and hammering. She cranked it up again.

  I am alive. I am alive. I am alive. My mind is a wide-open space. Everything is possible.

  She thought of Hope Coulson. The face of Stephanie Wingerter quickly slid in beside her.

  I know you are connected. You look so … alike. You were both brutalized, discarded. Just … I know you’re connected. I know it.

  What the fuck are you lying about, Jonathan Briar? I told you I don’t think you’re a suspect.

  Ren ran for forty-five minutes, finally slamming her hand on the Stop button, slowing to a walk. She was hot, but barely sweating. She breathed deep.

  I will find you, killer. I will run after you. I will be fitter and better and stronger than you. I will not fail.

  She went back to her apartment. I need Ben. I need to fuck him. I need to fuck. I need to fuck now. She took a shower, then went into the bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed. She dialed Ben’s number. He picked up right away.

  ‘Are you alone?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  She lay back on the bed. ‘I need you to talk me through something …’

  She lay there afterwards, staring at the ceiling, her left arm up over her head, her right hand holding the phone.

  ‘It was fun while it lasted,’ she said. ‘Now we’re just alone, which sucks.’

  ‘I’m at the supermarket …’

  Ren laughed. ‘Ben … I’m sorry about earlier. I was hungover and cranky.’

  ‘That’s OK, baby.’

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m good, busy. How about you?’

  ‘We’ve got that murder case – the Hope Coulson one, and I’m thinking … there are similarities to another rape/murder from two months ago.’

  ‘I thought the fiancé was looking good for the Coulson case …’

  ‘Trial by media, yes. And Gary.’

  ‘You’re still having issues with him …’

  ‘Has he said anything to you?’


  Ben and Gary had been friends for years – Gary trained Ben in the Undercover Program, as he had trained Ren.

  ‘No, but I doubt he would,’ said Ben.

  Paranoia. ‘So, anyway, I got to thinking about serial killers—’

  ‘Whoa, what? You think this is a serial killer?’

  ‘Well … I think the same guy may have raped and killed two women – does that count?’

  ‘Technically? No.’

  ‘OK – forget that,’ said Ren. ‘In general, though, how do you feel about the following? A problem with the wiring of the brain results in: me. And: serial killers.’

  Patient pause.

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Ren.

  ‘What exactly are you saying?’ said Ben. ‘Are you trying to relate the two things? You and serial killers?’

  ‘What I’m saying is – I have something in common with serial killers.’

  ‘That’s just nuts,’ said Ben.

  That’s not a very nice thing to say.

  ‘Is that what you’re actually thinking?’ said Ben.

  ‘No.’ Yes.

  ‘Ren, I know you don’t like me reading up on these things, but I know that bipolar people can sometimes think everything is their fault. Like, they see a natural disaster on the other side of the world, and can manage to feel guilt on some level about that. This sounds to me like a version of skewed thinking.’

  ‘But … think about it,’ said Ren; ‘a serial killer goes around thinking things that no one knows about. He has these internal thoughts that he can’t say out loud because people would know. They would know.’ She paused. ‘And I have thoughts like that.’

  ‘All thoughts are internal,’ said Ben.

  Oh, yeah.

  ‘And your thoughts are not about raping and murdering people … That makes a serial killer just that little bit different.’

  ‘I like how your mind works.’

  ‘It’s pretty much how most people’s minds work.’

  Ouch.

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that, before you get weird.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’m going to stop talking now.’

  Ren laughed. ‘I think that would be very wise.’

  10

  Donna Darisse reached out of the shower, grabbed a faded towel from the hook on the wall, and wrapped it around her slender body. She stepped onto the tiled floor of the tiny bathroom, grabbed a second towel and quickly dried her fine, wispy dark hair. She looked in the mirror. She sometimes expected to see her pre-chemo hair – this fragile, but fighting hair still had the power to startle her.