The victim’s genitalia are that of an adult female.. There is evident bruising and soft tissue damage to the area around the genitalia, and the labia minora have been sewn closed with black thread. The prepuce has been mutilated with a sharp implement, and the glans clitoris has been crudely removed, perhaps with scissors.
After removal of the stitches, an internal examination indicates that the victim was subjected to forced sexual intercourse, with evidence of semen found both internally and externally. There is also evidence of foreign object insertion, consistent with a lengthy cuboid made of a hard material such as wood or metal, which has left residual damage to the vaginal walls.
Damage to the anus indicates that the victim was violently sodomized, with deep abrasions to the anal canal and bleeding evidenced . . .
Bruising is evident on both legs, concentrated on the inside of both thighs, consistent with violent sexual assault . . .
I am just skipping through it now, the details too gruesome to read in their entirety. But where is the cause of death . . .?
I skip to the conclusion and read on.
Although death could have resulted from any combination of the injuries sustained by the victim, in addition to the weather conditions which led to frostbite and hypothermia, the damage to the skull was by far the most lethal of the victim’s multiple injuries. The cranium was indented, and the force of the skull against the brain from injury 2-14 (see accompanying diagram) in particular, caused severe bleeding of the brain which ultimately resulted in the victim’s death.
Cause of death has therefore been established as brain bleeding from a depressed skull fracture, exacerbated by the victim’s other injuries and exposure to climatic elements.
I put the report down, the urge to vomit passing only after several seconds. The savagery, the ferocity of her attacker is overwhelming. What kind of person are we dealing with here? To keep someone captive and torture them, it is simply inhuman. Quite simply, the kind of person we’re dealing with is a monster.
I’m glad it wasn’t me.
The thought enters my brain before I can catch it, and I immediately feel the familiar guilt. It was always the same back in New York; I’d see victim report after victim report, crimes that defied belief, people doing things to each other that simply didn’t seem possibly. And every time, despite my best intentions, the thought would always be there, my inner instinct for survival screaming out at me, daring me to contradict it.
I’m glad it wasn’t me.
And although I feel bad about such a thought, the truth is, I am glad. The suffering endured by that poor little girl in those few days before she died was more than anyone should have to deal with in a hundred lifetimes. It cannot be comprehended by anyone who hasn’t been there, nor should it be. It can destroy minds just thinking about it.
I remember Lynette just before she died, before the life sparked out of her; the look in her eyes, asking me just to be with her. I feel a love for her more powerful than anything, a love which can never be returned; and in that same moment, I also feel hate. Hate for whoever did this to her, hate for Kim Gaskell and her husbands, hate for the terrible circumstances which led to the destruction of Lynette’s young life, a process which started long before she ever moved to Alaska.
I sigh.
I’m glad it’s not me.
Would I trade myself for her, my life for hers, endure what she went through if it meant I could save her? I wish I could say yes, but the truth is, I don’t know. Sadly, if I’m honest with myself, I don’t know if I could. And now I hate myself.
I notice the dim sunlight then, which is only just starting to filter in through the living room windows, and in that instant an image flashes before my eyes. It is a face I don’t quite remember – a man, early fifties perhaps, grey moustache atop a kindly, patrician smile, a full head of hair swept back over a creased forehead, bright blue eyes behind steel-framed glasses. Despite the friendly smile, the feeling that hits my gut for that split-second is one of pure terror; I feel powerless, helpless, alone. A secondary image, a blazing red moon, enters my vision then, wiping his face out completely.
The red moon disappears an instant later, and the feeling of terror goes too, just as soon as it appeared. I remember him now; a man I’ve not thought of for years, since I was girl, back in Boston. Desmond Curtis, a friend and business associate of my father’s; they played golf together, I think.
But why am I thinking about him now? And why did his face make me feel like I’d been violated in some way, hitting me with that cold, dread fear?
I shake my head, trying to clear it. The autopsy report must be affecting me more than I thought. I think that I’d better take a break before looking at any more.
I take a sip of my coffee, lukewarm now, and relax back onto the sofa, closing my eyes.
Then I remember De Nares mentioning that there was evidence that more than one perpetrator may have been involved. I wonder what that evidence is. Does he think the autopsy indicates that one person held the victim while another raped her? She had ligature marks on her wrists and neck, and was obviously tied up; it doesn’t necessarily mean there was anyone else involved. Unless De Nares was just trying it on, get me to start talking?
Maybe I’m missing something. I put the coffee down and pick up the ABI’s preliminary crime report. I wonder if they’ve put together Lynette’s movements prior to her abduction? Or suspected abduction, I suppose it should be; nothing has been proven yet except the girl’s death. Was she abducted? Did she go willingly with her killer? Where did they go? Where was she held?
I open the file, and then freeze. There is a noise from upstairs; a door opening. Creaks on the landing. Creaks on the stairs.
Quickly, I put the file back as I found it, hiding it beneath the Sports Illustrated. I grab the paper, open it to page two. Then I think again. It’s yesterday’s paper; have I already read it? If so, it might seem strange if he sees me reading it again. Or would it?
It’s too late anyway. I see his feet on the stairs, then the rest of him. He sees me on his sofa and smiles. Is it relief he feels?
I put the paper down casually, smile back at him.
“Morning,” he says as he reaches the bottom. “Have you been down here long?”
I wonder if it’s a test of some sort. “Not really,” I say.
Ben runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry, not much of a host, am I? Guess I had a few too many last night, I slept like the dead.” He winces. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”
Two sorries in the space of a few seconds. Is that a sign of something? Does he feel bad about last night? I wonder how I feel, decide I still don’t know.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, smiling again. “I’m a light sleeper, and a bit of an early bird.”
Ben nods his head as he passes me on the way to the kitchen. “Me too, normally at least. I’m gonna make myself a coffee, you want another?”
“Sure,” I say. “White, no sugar please.”
Ben grunts an acknowledgement, and then he’s gone, leaving me to my thoughts. I think about following him, but would that be too pushy, too needy? He’s got a hangover, needs his space. Besides which, he probably hasn’t done a lot of entertaining, living along here with just his memories. I don’t want to crowd him.
I’m still thinking about what to do when he appears at my side, pushing a coffee mug towards me. “Thanks.”
“You’ve not tasted it yet,” he says, face deadpan. He’s a hard one to figure out, I’ll say that much for him.
He starts to sit down in the recliner, stops himself. Passes the coffee table and plops down on the sofa beside me instead. “You hungry?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer honestly, “I guess I am.”
“Well, I’m not much of a cook,” he says, making me wonder why he asked me in the first place. Does he want me to make something?
He must see the look on my face, and another smile crosses his own. “Hey, I’m not asking you t
o make anything,” he says, the smile widening. “I was wondering if you wanted to go out for breakfast with me?”
I don’t hesitate. “Why not?” I reply, strangely happy.
It’s the first time I’ve been asked out on a date in months.
5
The Noisy Goose Café isn’t the most romantic place in the world, but its blueberry pancakes more than make up for it.
It’s convenient too, stationed just outside the center of town, off the Glenn Highway, just a five-minute drive from Ben’s house. Ben and I sit at a table by the window, and outside – beyond the highway – I can see railroad tracks and the site of the state fairground, empty and barren at this time of year. In the distance, I can also see the mountains towering over everything.
There’s a heavy layer of snow covering the world outside, and it’s nice to be in here where it’s warm and cozy. It’s wall to wall pine, with models of ducks and geese everywhere. A sign on the wall reads, Flying is the 2nd greatest thrill known to man. Landing is the 1st. There’s even a model walrus hanging around on the floor next to the illuminated cake cabinet.
I like it.
“I’ve been coming here since I moved to Palmer,” I hear Ben say, drawing my attention back to him. The winter sunlight filtering through the café window shines warmly on his face, and I look at him as if for the first time. He has a square jaw on a rectangular face, all hard edges; weather-beaten skin stretched over a sharp frame. His grey-blue eyes are hooded slightly by folds at the corners, and they soften his face nicely. His salt and pepper hair is kept Marine-short, and he has the wide-shouldered body of a manual laborer. With his heavy checked flannel shirt, I could definitely buy him as a lumberjack. He’s handsome, I decide finally, in a Philip Marlow tough private-eye kind of way.
Handsome, into jazz, and he doesn’t seem to think I’m a lunatic; that’s a lot of positives, in my book. I look at him, raising my eyebrows, asking him to continue; I’m sure he wants to say more.
“My first day here in fact,” he carries on, jaw muscles tightening and relaxing as he feasts on his bacon and eggs. “I didn’t know anyone, got a transfer out of the San Francisco PD and just chose the furthest place I could, turned up in Palmer on a Saturday with work starting Monday. There was a mix-up with my things, so they weren’t gonna get delivered ’til Wednesday, so there I was, stuck in a new house with just the clothes on my back and my carry-on bag, wondering what the hell to do. So I just wandered around until I found this place. When I got here I was so hungry I ate three of the lunchtime specials straight down.” He stops to eat more of his bacon and eggs, and I have no trouble believing his story. “Been coming here ever since. Never was much of a cook. My ex used to do all the cooking, I guess.” He looks sheepishly into his coffee mug.
I nod my head in understanding. “I know just how you feel,” I say, conversation with Ben feeling natural, not at all stilted as my efforts have typically been over the past few months. “I never used to cook either. When I was a girl, we had a lady who used to cook for us.”
I check Ben’s expression for any sign of distaste; the image of cooks and servants doesn’t sit well with some people, even if I was just a girl at the time with no control over my parents’ lifestyle choices. His expression remains interested and non-judgmental; he probably knows all about my background from briefings written up for the investigation. I’m probably not telling him anything he doesn’t already know anyway. Still, I continue.
“And then when I went to college, I found I just didn’t have the knack for it. And, awful as it sounds, I was just too used to good food to put up with my own, you know? So I ate out. A lot. And then I shared a house with a girl who was really good in the kitchen.”
“You’re still friends?” Ben asks.
“Her name’s Kate. Still my best friend,” I say with a smile.
“Do you miss her, living up here?”
“Yes. I guess I do. But you know how it is when people start work, we only got to see each other a couple of times a year anyway, busy schedules and all that. We still talk on the phone.” A beat pause. “Are you still in touch with anyone from San Francisco?”
He shakes his big head. “Not really. I left a bit of a mess behind if I’m honest.” He pauses as we hear a gust of wind shrieking along the railroad tracks outside, and we both look out of the window, seeing the snow begin to fall again, slanting at an angle with the cold breeze. A passing car wobbles dangerously in the cross-winds. We turn back to each other.
“Gonna be a cold one,” Ben says seriously. He moves his mug away from him, spreads his hands on the table. “But as I was saying, I left San Fran under a bit of a cloud. When I got hitched to Dana I was like a love-struck teenager, you know? Now I can see she never really felt the same way, not really. Like her friends; she kept her circle of friends, got me to drop mine, and I’d lived in the Bay area all my life, but she fluttered her lashes and I forgot all about them.” He shrugs his big shoulders again. “But what you gonna do, right? That’s just how it is. So I never really saw any of my old friends anymore after that, her friends became my friends, although I could tell they didn’t like me too much. I don’t think they were used to cops in their little clique, I made them nervous. Probably for good reason, most of ’em were on coke or were misusing meds of some kind. I think the reaction from them is one of the things Dana wanted from me; I was a bit different from the guys her and her pals usually went for, which was doctors, lawyers, businessmen, you know the type.”
I do know the type; I was engaged to one of them myself. But Ben isn’t being judgmental; it’s almost as if he doesn’t see me as that same type. I wonder how he does see me? I nod my head, keeping contact with those hooded grey-blue eyes, urging him to continue. He moves his mug further up the table, and eventually does.
“So I’m there doing my thing, working hard, long shifts, and eventually, I guess, my wife followed the same pattern as all her friends. She started drinking too much, doing a bit of coke herself on her Saturday nights out with the girls.” He shakes his head. “I suspected what she was doing, tried talking to her about it, but she denied it, and I dropped it. Carried on with my work. We’d been married eight years before I realized she’d been cheating on me.” The muscles in his jaw tighten, his hands on the table balling into fists. “And not once, not just with some other guy she’d fallen in love with.” He shakes his head sadly. “When I first heard the rumors, it was from another guy in the PD, telling this story about some girl he’d heard about getting . . . being caught in a delicate situation, in a nightclub bathroom with one of the barmen. Some people thought it was her, I discounted it, but then I started to pick up on things, things I’d missed before, maybe intentionally, I don’t know. But I started to get crazy, I started to follow her, I even started to use other cops to trail her. Misusing departmental resources, my chief called it when he pulled me into his office to give me a warning. The first of many, as it turned out.
“Anyway, one thing led to another, I found out Dana had been putting herself about all over the city, I confronted her about it, she told me it was my fault, I’d driven her to it, you know the usual cop routine, I was obsessed with my work, didn’t show her enough affection.” He moves his head, cracks his neck. “Who knows, maybe she was right? Anyway, so I’m at home during a work shift, getting it all out in the open with her, when there’s a knock on the door, a guy’s turned up with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a smile which fades just as soon as he sees me there.” His hands open, palms up. “And I just lost it. I took that bottle and near beat him to death with it, right there on my front porch.
“My department did its best, and I ended up not being charged, but the damage had been done. Me and Dana filed for divorce, which turned really messy; she claimed I’d cheated on her, she took some of her own coke to the station, saying it was mine, I even got tested but came up clean as a whistle, I asked her to get tested but she refused and the claims were thrown out, but it was a real nightmare.
My reputation in the department was going downhill rapidly, and I knew I had to get out of there before things got even worse. So I started looking for jobs elsewhere and when I saw the position of Chief of Police come up here, I jumped at it. And you know what?”
“What?” I ask.
“It’s worked out perfectly. The big city was never for me, too many people, I just never knew it. The outdoors is in my blood, and this is my true home.” Once again, he shrugs those big lumberjack’s shoulders up and down. “I guess things always happen for a reason, you know?”
My hands move across the table as if they have a mind of their own, covering Ben’s, squeezing them. I stare into those grey-blue eyes and nod in complete understanding. “Yes,” I say. “I do know.”
Silence follows, and it is a few moments of bliss, just a feeling of pure contentment with another human being. Ben breaks off first, reaching for his mug of coffee. “So I’m gonna try calling Doctor Sandwell today, see what we can find out about what happened to you.”
“Doctor Sandwell?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Ben nods, a look of curiosity appearing across his face. “Doctor Alistair Sandwell,” he says slowly, “remember?”
I nod eagerly. “Of course I do.” I smile. “Doctor Sandwell.”
Ben smiles back. “You have no idea, do you?”
Should I try lying to him? But if I tell him I have no idea what’s happened for the past few days – including sleeping with him – will he think I’m crazy? Hell, maybe he’d be right.
I shake my head. “The last thing I remember is running head first into the wall back in the cells on Sunday.” I watch him closely for his reaction, but he doesn’t even bother to hide it.
Ben laughs, shaking his head from side to side. “Well I’ll be damned,” he says and – unbelievably – slaps his thigh, as if it’s some sort of comedy show. “I’ll be damned. I knew it,” he carries on, still shaking his head. “I knew it. When we were talking just now, I could tell from your eyes, you know? You were seeing me as if for the first time, as if the past few days hadn’t even happened.” He composes himself. “So you don’t remember last night?”
Red Moon Rising Page 10
