Pretty Corpse

by Linda Berry

  A sound outside the car startled her. A figure blurred past her window. Instantly, the cold steel of her Beretta was clenched in her hand.

  “Lauren?”

  Recognizing the voice, she holstered her weapon. The shadowy figure circled the car to the passenger side and the door opened. Accompanied by a cold blast of air, Jack Monetti eased himself into the passenger seat. The two sat in silence. He handed her a handkerchief. Jack always had a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—eyes red-rimmed, face puffy, tear stained. She rolled down the window, gulped in a lungful of cold air. No car waited outside. “How’d you get here?”

  “Got dropped off down the street. We need to get your car back to the station. I thought you could use some help.”

  “Thanks.” Sniffling, she poured Steve’s coffee out the window, placed the cup in the holder, and started the engine. After the defroster partially cleared the window, she eased the car into the traffic lane. A heaviness of spirit weighed her down. They didn’t speak, but Jack’s presence numbed the sharpest edges of hurt. When they arrived at the station, he reached over and took her hand, just held it, the warmth of friendship seeping into her flesh. Their eyes met. His were impossibly gentle in a face weary with responsibility. She half-smiled, pulled her hand away, and they walked into the station together.

  “I’ll come by in the morning,” he said. “See how you’re doing.”

  She shook her head. “No. I need to be alone.”

  “Don’t try to do this by yourself, Lauren. Let me help.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she shook her head again. Until she could control her emotions, she needed to be alone. She thanked him, hurried up to the locker room, changed into her civvies, and left the station. It was four thirty a.m. when she entered her darkened kitchen. She steeled herself for what was to come. She would have to make difficult phone calls this morning, before people found out about Steve from the paper or TV.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE FUNERAL came and went. For ten days, friends and family gathered around Lauren like a protective shield, hovering over her and Courtney, their presence heavy and warm and at times oppressive. Holly Baker, Jack Monetti, and innumerable police officers paid their respects, laden with casseroles, flowers, kind words. Her sister and mother came with Harry. Her father hobbled through with Dagmar. Sofie was a constant presence, slanting through the darkness like a beam of light—directing, managing, covering for Lauren, who vacillated between crying jags, numbness, and disbelief. One hour faded into the next, indiscernible. The weather remained steadfastly overcast, interrupted by an occasional drizzle.

  People went back to their lives. Courtney went to school. Lauren had nowhere to go. Another four days of administrative leave stretched before her like an eternity. There was no reason to dress, to eat, to run errands, do housework. Unbathed, hair straggly, she sat in her bathrobe at the kitchen table, Tango curled on her lap. With a curious detachment, she noted the thick carpet of leaves covering her yard—vibrant red and gold against the gray slate of early morning. A profusion of weeds strangled her vegetable garden.

  A deep, incapacitating gloom enveloped her. She shuffled to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and eyed the leftover pain pills prescribed for her jaw. Desperate to dull the ache of loss, she shook two pills onto her palm. A container of Ambien sat next to the pain pills, given to her by her mother last week. Lauren had resisted taking sleep aids, but restless nights had left her exhausted. She shook out two pills and downed all four with a glass of tap water.

  Retreating to her room, Lauren lay in bed with the shutters closed. The edges of reality began to blur into the velvety world of dreams. Fragments of funerals drifted through her mind. She found herself in her garden on all fours, pulling weeds out of the wet earth. The weeds turned into human bones. Lauren kept digging, shaking off the black dirt, stacking them into two small pyramids, trying to sort out which were Ken’s, which were Steve’s. Caked in mud, she was suddenly back in bed. The room tilted at an angle. She clung to the mattress to keep from sliding to the floor.

  The room righted itself, and a dark figure stole into her room from the hallway. He kept to the shadows, then approached her bed and stood over her soundlessly, watching. With great effort, she reached over to turn on the lamp. He touched her wrist with a gloved hand, shook his head no. It was her husband, solemn and formal in his fireman’s uniform. “Ken,” she whispered. She opened her covers, inviting him to join her.

  Ken lowered himself into their bed, his head falling heavily on the pillow. She gave a little gasp as his features morphed into Steve, lying stiffly in dress uniform, arms crossed, head facing upward. Warily, she touched his cheek. The skin had no softness, no warmth. He turned to face her. Lauren was transfixed by the intensity in his eyes. She sensed there was something he urgently needed to tell her, but the message wasn’t computing.

  “Why were you the one who died?” she whispered.

  Steve didn’t answer. His image started to fade.

  “Wait. Don’t go.” She watched helplessly as he threw the covers aside, left the bed, and vanished. Questions cried out for answers. Two shots were fired that night. Had one been meant for her? Should there have been a double funeral? If she had been closer to Steve, covering for him, could she have saved him? Overcome with guilt, she whispered, “Steve, forgive me.”

  Lauren heard another voice layered over her own, far, far away. A hand touched her shoulder, pulling her with a jolt from the world of shadows, from Ken, from Steve.

  “Mom, are you okay?”

  Lauren opened her eyes and Courtney’s features came into focus. The frown on her daughter’s brow, the details of her clothing, even the freckles, stood out in clear definition. She wore her jacket, her book bag over one shoulder, her face reddened from the cold. Lauren glanced at the clock. Courtney just arrived home from school.

  “You were talking to yourself. Are you sick? You look awful.”

  “I’m fine. I was dreaming.” Lauren adjusted the pillows behind her back and pulled herself into a sitting position.

  Courtney dropped her book bag to the floor and sat next to Lauren on the edge of the bed. “Mom, you need to snap out of this. The house is a mess. There’s nothing to eat.” She touched Lauren’s hair. “Your hair’s greasy. You’re scaring me.”

  Lauren didn’t want to be rushed. She wasn’t ready to face the world. A faint sense of indignation surfaced, but then her daughter’s troubled expression evoked a wave of tenderness, and guilt. “I haven’t been here for you the last few days, have I?”

  Courtney shook her head.

  “Tell you what, I’m going to get cleaned up. Then we’ll go out and grab some dinner. Any place you like. How’s that? We’ll pick up groceries on the way home.”

  Courtney’s smile looked relieved.

  For the first time in days, Lauren became aware of the extent of her self-absorption. Since Steve’s death, she had excluded Courtney and everyone else from her life, had forbidden TV, had stopped the newspaper. The media would be having a field day with the lurid details of The Strangler’s assaults and Steve’s murder. She buffered herself from the onslaught, but her daughter had been out there every day. What were the kids saying at school? What was the emotional impact on an innocent adolescent?

  Courtney pecked Lauren on the cheek. Acutely ashamed of her maternal neglect, she felt the heat rush to her cheeks. “Give me twenty minutes.” She got out of bed and padded into the bathroom, disgusted with her own body odor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  FOR LAUREN, the outing was an ordeal, but the noisy pizza shop was a needed distraction for Courtney, who made detours to several tables to gossip with friends from school. Lauren was gratified to see that her daughter was popular and well adjusted, despite the hardships she was enduring at home. Lauren had no appetite and pushed away her slice of pizza after a few bites. She had better luck with a cup of minestrone. Courtn
ey and two girlfriends polished off the remaining slices without a problem.

  They returned home at seven thirty. Lauren put the groceries away. Courtney loaded the dishwasher, wiped off the counters, swept the floor. Lauren started laundry. The place looked like home again. Lauren knew it was time to get out of her head and do what had to be done. Her daughter needed life to return to normal.

  “Can we make popcorn and watch a video together?” Courtney asked.

  Lauren took in her daughter’s eager expression. “Sure. After you’ve done your homework. Do it here in the kitchen. I’ll make hot chocolate and sit with you.”

  “Okay.” Courtney grinned. “Let me grab my book bag.” She disappeared and returned shortly, set the heavy bag down on a chair, and pulled out a stack of books and notebooks.

  The milk was heating in a pan and the cups were sitting on the counter next to the cocoa. Lauren leaned against the counter and watched her daughter, who had inherited her need for order. She set everything in its proper place on the table—books, notebook, pen, highlighter. Her brow wrinkled when she opened her math book and a small white envelope slipped out. She picked it up. Her frown deepened as she glanced up at Lauren. “It’s addressed to you, Mom. I don’t know how it got in my bag. I used this math book in class today. It wasn’t in here then.”

  Equally puzzled, Lauren crossed the floor, took the envelope, and turned it over. “Lauren Starkley.” Scrawled in an unfamiliar hand. Unsealed. She opened the envelope, pulled out a sheet of white bond paper folded in half, unfolded it, and read:

  I did not kill your partner

  But I was there

  I saw who did

  At the bottom of the page was a reference to a quote, similar to those inscribed on the gold bands of The Strangler’s four victims. Lauren’s body went rigid. Her mouth felt dry. Frightening implications multiplied in her mind as she reread the note several times. Looking up, she saw her daughter’s eyes widen with curiosity. It was important not to transmit her fear to Courtney. “Honey, did you leave your book or your bag alone at any time today?”

  “I don’t know. Why? Who’s it from?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute. First, I want you to think hard. Retrace your movements throughout the day. Then write down everything you remember on your notepad. Every time you left your bag alone, even for a few moments.”

  Courtney’s displeasure showed on her face.

  Lauren forced a smile. “Just humor me, okay?”

  “Okay.” Courtney agreed reluctantly, then she had her pen positioned over her paper and was squinting her eyes in thought.

  “I’ll be right back,” Lauren said. “I have to make a business call from my office.”

  ***

  Twenty minutes later when Lauren’s mother-in-law was seated in her kitchen next to Courtney, Lauren explained who the note was from. Sofie paled. A look of fear crossed Courtney’s face but in an impressive show of maturity, she reached across the table to squeeze her grandmother’s hand.

  “It’s a prank,” Sofie blurted out. “From one of the kids at school. A typical teenage prank.”

  The doorbell rang. It had taken thirty minutes for Detectives Valona and Keach to cross town. Jack Monetti arrived right on their heels, dressed in jeans and a navy-blue turtleneck under a thick flannel shirt.

  “Thanks for coming.” Lauren escorted them to the living room where they soberly examined the envelope and note, which she had placed in plastic bags to preserve fingerprints.

  Valona, who wore an ill-fitting gray suit and multi-colored knit cap, read the note out loud in a gruff voice. Without a change of expression, he asked, “Do you have this Bible quote?”

  Lauren picked a Bible off the coffee table and handed it to him, already opened to the appropriate page. Valona read out loud:

  There be three things that mine heart feareth;

  and for the fourth I was sore afraid:

  the slander of a city, the gathering together of an unruly multitude, and a false accusation: all these are worse than death.

  There was a long silence, which Valona unceremoniously interrupted. “What a pile of crap. The prick wants to throw us off track and make us think Steve’s shooting was a random crime. I don’t believe that for a second. Steve’s murder was part of The Strangler’s grand Halloween show. The finale.”

  “I agree,” Keach said. “Steve’s murder is consistent with The Strangler’s MO. Meticulously thought out and executed. Tight as a terrorist master plan.”

  “Now he wants sympathy from you,” Valona said. “He wants you to like him. Guess he thinks marrying his rape victims exempts him from guilt. It’s just a honeymoon.”

  Lauren cringed.

  “We found evidence of one shooter. We’re pursuing one suspect,” Keach said emphatically. “What do you think, Jack?”

  “Go with the evidence. It points to The Strangler. He’s stepping up the intensity. What he’s doing to these girls isn’t enough anymore. He needs a bigger thrill.” Jack released a bitter sigh. “Now that he’s gotten off on killing, he might start snuffing his victims.” He looked at Lauren, brow deeply creasing. “Now he’s singling out you and Courtney.”

  Lauren felt her shoulders stiffen. “I’m not worried about myself. I keep a gun handy. But Courtney ….”

  “He got close to her without raising her suspicion.” Jack’s penetrating blue eyes held hers for a long moment. “We’ve got a serious problem on our hands. We’ll provide her with a police escort to and from school starting tomorrow. If he’s watching, he’ll see we’re taking this seriously.”

  “I appreciate that, Jack.”

  “Can we talk to Courtney?” Keach asked.

  “She’s in here.” Lauren led them into the kitchen, made introductions, and the newcomers squeezed around the table. To Lauren’s surprise, Courtney looked relieved to see Jack, and gave him a winning smile. While the group made small talk, Lauren busied herself pouring coffee and distributing cups.

  The detailed notes Courtney had jotted down left her well prepared for the detectives’ questions. “I left my bag alone two times. Once on the table in the cafeteria, while Emmy and I went to get our lunch trays. Emmy left hers, too.”

  “Did you notice anything different about your bag when you returned?” Keach asked.

  “I didn’t really pay attention.”

  “Was the lunch room crowded?”

  “Not real crowded. We got in early.”

  “Did you see any adult men in the cafeteria?”

  “No. I had my back to the tables most of the time while waiting in line.”

  “What about male students?”

  “There were a few dozen people there by the time we got back to our table. Half of them guys, I guess. I wrote down the names of those I remember.” She handed her notebook to Detective Keach, who scanned it. Lauren had already recognized one name on the list. Chris Larsen, the quarterback at Cypress High. The suspect list she’d given Inspector Camino would have been forwarded to the homicide detectives more than a week ago.

  Sure enough, Keach homed in on his name. “This Chris Larsen, he was friendly with Melissa Cox, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was he in the cafeteria?”

  “At our table. Waiting for us,” Courtney announced with undisguised pride. “He’s been eating lunch with me lately. You don’t have to worry about Chris. He’s cool. I feel safe when he’s around.”

  Lauren silently groaned. Hell had broken loose while she’d been in hibernation.

  If Courtney’s disclosure aroused Keach’s suspicions, she hid it well, and continued in a friendly tone. “I see you also left your bag on the bleachers inside the gym during your swim class. Is that a habit?”

  “There’s not enough room in the lockers. A lot of girls leave stuff there. No one’s ever out there besides us, except the coach.”

  “Coach Tenney?”

  Courtney nodded.

  This time Lauren noticed Keach’s
mouth tighten and she cast her partner a subtle glance. Lauren assumed they had the coach under surveillance.

  “What about your math class with Mr. Perez, Courtney?” Lauren asked. “Did you leave your bag alone at all?”

  Courtney considered this. “Oh yeah. I forgot. Once, while I ran to the restroom. My book was sitting on my desk.”

  Keach scratched some notes in her pad and looked uninterested. She questioned Courtney for several more minutes and then thanked her. “If you don’t mind, Courtney, we’re going to keep your list.”

  “Sure.”

  Lauren accompanied the detectives out of the kitchen. Jack stayed behind, nursing his cup of coffee and chatting with Sofie and Courtney. She heard laughter coming from the kitchen as she opened the front door and, despite herself, she smiled. She stepped out on the front porch with the detectives and shut the door behind her. Keach asked how she was doing. Lauren gave the requisite reply, “Fine.” They all knew the ropes, and no one wanted to hear a cop whine.

  “We’ll send this note to the lab,” Keach said. “Why the suspect is communicating through you, I don’t know. But I suspect he’ll contact you again. If and when ….”

  “I’ll be in touch immediately. Any progress with the investigation?”

  Keach cleared her throat. “Wish I had good news. We’re pursuing a string of leads, but so far, we have nothing that connects us to the shooter. The rape kit produced nothing. There were dozens of prints inside and outside the hearse. None matched what we have in the database.”

  Lauren’s throat tightened. “What about the suspect list I gave Camino?”