by Gregg Olsen
“None of this is your fault. We don’t even know what happened,” Kendall said.
Molly bucked up. She was tough. She could get through this.
“You might not,” she said. “But I sure do.”
Color returned to her face and along with it, a bit of resolve.
“She killed him,” she said. “Jennifer killed Ted. It is as simple as that. There was nothing wrong with him until she showed up here in Washington. I really liked Ted. He was a good man. She was trouble and he just didn’t have a chance.”
CHAPTER 18
It was almost 5 p.m. when Tess Moreau arrived at the coroner’s office. It looked as though the life had drained from her. If her eyes were shut, she would look no better than Ted Roberts did when he was wheeled under the lights of the autopsy table. Her hair was flat and stuck to the nape of her neck as though she hadn’t showered. She also smelled, rather reeked, of wine.
A merlot, Birdy thought. And not a good one.
The forensic pathologist knew better than to ask if Tess was all right. That question had never been uttered a single time in her office. Never would be. No one who came there had ever been all right.
“I went to see Detective Stark, but she’s away. I don’t want to talk to anyone but her. Or you.”
“Kendall’s at a school meeting,” she said. “She has a little boy.”
Awkwardness took over. Tess had something on her mind, but she didn’t seem able to get it out right then. She held her hands together. Her knuckles were white.
“You need some coffee, Ms. Moreau. May I call you Tess?” Birdy didn’t wait for an answer. She went to the house’s old kitchen and found a couple of old, but clean Fathoms O’ Fun mugs. The coffee had been on the heat for hours and smelled like it, but Tess didn’t balk. She needed caffeine.
More than that, she needed Darby.
“Black coffee okay? We’re out of creamer. And unless I buy it or swipe a packet from the coffee stand, no sweetener either.”
Tess was happy for anything with caffeine. She was tired and every bone in her body ached from the kind of hard sobs that come in the middle of the night.
“Black is fine,” she said.
Birdy filled the mugs.
“When can I have my daughter back?”
“I expect tomorrow,” Birdy said.
Tess took a sip. “I want to see her,” she said.
“That’s not a good idea,” Birdy answered. No mother should ever see her child in that condition. In cases in which the body can be presented intact, unblemished by decay, Birdy understood the importance of having a mother or father look at the departed.
“But I need to,” she said. “To make all this real.”
“Darby was a beautiful girl, Tess.” Birdy motioned toward her office for Tess to take a seat, and Tess obliged. “Hold on to that. You don’t want to see her. I don’t want you to imagine the worst either. The girl you loved is gone, but she will always live inside of you.”
Tess set her cup down on the edge of Birdy’s desk and produced an envelope. It had been folded and unfolded so often that it almost appeared as if it would break apart.
“Did you bring something of Darby’s?” Birdy asked.
Sometimes parents did that. They wanted people in law enforcement to know who had been taken from them. That the victim of the car accident, drug overdose, or homicide had been a real person. One dad brought his son’s last report card to prove that he was not some loser. That the drug overdose had been an anomaly. Another father brought in his little girl’s favorite Barbie. Tess didn’t speak. Birdy didn’t force her to either. She drank her terrible coffee and waited.
“I should have done something about this,” Tess said.
“You couldn’t have prevented it. We don’t think Darby was targeted by anyone. Her murder was random and as senseless as senseless can be.”
Tess didn’t say a word for the longest time. She looked deep into her black coffee, her own sad reflection looking back at her. “No. No. It wasn’t.”
“What do you have there, Tess?”
“Where?”
“In your hand,” Birdy said. “The envelope.”
Tess looked down. It was almost as if the frayed paper had landed there of its own accord. Fluttered down from the sky into her lap. She nearly seemed surprised to see it.
“I brought this for Detective Stark.”
“What is it?”
“See for yourself. You will see what kind of a mother I really am. What kind of a mother I was.”
Tess had been drinking. A lot.
Birdy held her hand out to receive the paper, but Tess didn’t hand it over.
“Do you have a family? Husband? Kids?” Tess asked.
Birdy shook her head. “No. I haven’t been so lucky. I do have a nephew staying with me, but I know it’s not the same thing.”
“No, it isn’t,” Tess said.
“Let me see what you’ve brought. Maybe I can help?”
“Can you bring my daughter, my husband, my baby back from the dead?”
“You know the answer.”
She handed Birdy the paper.
“Can you forgive me? Can anyone?”
Birdy kept her eyes on Tess, who was now wobbling a little. Birdy was not going to let the woman drive home. She didn’t want her back in the office on the autopsy table. The envelope had been addressed to Tess’s house on Olalla Valley Road, but the stamp hadn’t been canceled. She opened it and pulled out the brief note held inside.
You took from me. I’ll take from you.
“What’s this?” Birdy asked.
“A warning I didn’t heed. A mistake that cost me Darby.”
“Who sent it?”
“I have an idea.”
“Who?”
Tess stayed mute.
Birdy wanted to tell her to spit it out, but she chose a kinder set of words.
“Please tell me so I can help.”
Tess swallowed more coffee. “Brenda,” she said. “Brenda Nevins.”
The name was so well known that Birdy couldn’t quite believe her ears. It was like hearing the name Michelle Obama and thinking that there must be some other woman with that identical name.
“The killer?” the forensic pathologist asked anyway.
Tess wobbled and started to crumble.
“But why? What did you take from her?”
“Her time. That’s what.”
“But she’s never getting out,” Birdy said.
Tess shifted in the chair. “Her time in the spotlight,” she said. “A TV crew was going to film her for some big interview. She thought she could charm them. You know, tell them she was framed.”
“She wasn’t framed,” Birdy said.
“Of course she wasn’t,” Tess said. “But she lives in her own world. She’s the star of the show and the rest of us are the bit players who do whatever she wants. We’re there to make sure she’s the prettiest, smartest in the room. She pushed things so far that she spent half her time in the hole.”
“Why was she in the hole?” Birdy asked.
Tess gave her a knowing look. “Oh. It was a good one, I’ll tell you. I caught her having oral sex with a guard on a dog-grooming table.”
“Nice,” Birdy said, though it was so outlandish it was hard to process the scenario Tess had described.
Tess drank some more coffee, replaying that image in her head one more time. It was one of those once-ina-lifetime images that never fades from memory, like seeing a baby’s first steps. Except that particular prison porn scene fell completely on the other end of the spectrum of unforgettable images.
“She threatened me,” Tess said. “The guard too. Said I’d be sorry if I ever told.”
“What was his name?”
“The guard?”
“Oh, it gets even better,” Tess said, watching Birdy’s expression. “You mean, her name.”
“I just assumed,” Birdy said.
“A lot goes on i
nside, Dr. Waterman, but I figured you would know that. Her name is Missy Carlyle.”
“What happened to her?”
“She got fired, of course. Took a while. The union fought for her. Honestly, I liked Missy. Some of the gals working in corrections are a little scary, but she was very nice. Very good at her job. She won an award the same year I did.”
Birdy was speechless.
“She turned on me though,” Tess said. “Said I was a liar and everything. Then they produced a tape of the encounter and she was gone.”
“Why do you think that Brenda’s behind the threats?” Birdy asked. “Why would she bother?”
“Dr. Waterman, you might be an expert at what you do, but you don’t know much about the people who do the really nasty things in life. I mean, I get that you see their handiwork in your job, but you don’t understand the motivations behind it.”
Birdy bristled, but didn’t fire back. She didn’t lose sight of the fact that the woman sitting in her office had lost a daughter, had too much to drink, and had been the victim of some kind of terrible harassment from a homicidal maniac.
“No, I guess not. Enlighten me.” Her request was said in the kindest way possible. It wasn’t a pushback, but a genuine call for some kind of an answer from someone with a unique perspective.
Tess looked at her. “I’ve worked in the prison for a decade,” she said. “Every now and then someone like Brenda comes in and you get to see evil close up. Like they really are there in a zoo, a place of observation. They think they are there to do their time. Most of them do. Brenda’s there because it is the only place where she can continue to be what she was born to be.”
Birdy was fascinated. “Tess, tell me, what is that?”
“A game player. Brenda was playing a game when she killed her husband, her child, and then later that poor sap of a fiancé. Just because she’s been put away doesn’t mean the game is over.”
“May I keep this?” Birdy asked, indicating the letter and the envelope.
“I guess so,” Tess said. “I was going to give it to the detective.”
Birdy slid it into another envelope. “I’ll take care of that.” It was doubtful that there would be any latent prints on the paper. There would be no DNA lurking under the stamp. It, like the seal to the envelope, was self-adhesive.
No one’s tongue had licked either.
The image of Missy and Brenda on the dog-grooming table came to Birdy’s mind and she wished it hadn’t.
“I’ll take you back to your friend’s place in Gig Harbor,” she said.
“Dr. Waterman,” Tess said. “Are you sure about me not seeing Darby?”
“Yes,” she said. “If you do, you will wish for the rest of your life that you didn’t. Trust me.”
Tess let a single tear roll from the corner of her eye to the floor.
“I do trust you,” she said. “I have no choice and really, nothing left to lose.”
CHAPTER 19
Elan was waiting by the door when Birdy pulled her red Prius into the driveway. Actually, she almost lurched the eco-friendly car into the driveway. She’d been in a hurry. She carried a pizza from Round Table in Gig Harbor.
“I’m starving,” the sixteen-year-old said, pouncing on his aunt before the door shut. “Don’t you ever buy groceries?”
“I told you I was going to be late. Here’s a pizza,” she said, pushing the box at him like a lion tamer with a chair. “Cold, probably. I’m a very bad aunt. I hurried.”
Elan took the greasy cardboard box and flipped it open. A piece was missing.
“I was starving,” she said. “Hadn’t eaten all day.”
Elan shrugged. “Not that bad of an aunt,” he said, separating a congealed slice from the others. “I like pepperoni. How did you know that?”
Birdy shed her coat and it fell in a heap on the sofa. “You’ve told me that five times since you got here. And yes, I buy groceries. You, on the other hand, eat them at a rate to which I’m not accustomed.” She stopped and regarded Elan. “Looks like you like the pizza.”
He stuffed another bite in his mouth. “You want some? Some more?”
Birdy made an exaggerated expression of disapproval.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she said, thinking that was the most motherly thing she’d ever said to a kid. Maybe ever. But certainly in a long, long while. “And yes, I want some more and I want you to sit at the table.”
That was a little motherly too.
Elan started to speak, but his mouth was still full. He led Birdy into the kitchen while she rummaged around for some napkins, ultimately giving up. She put a roll of paper towels on the table and took another slice of pizza for herself.
“Never said it would be fancy here,” she said. “If you wanted full service you’d have stayed with another favorite aunt.”
There was no favorite aunt. No other aunt period.
Elan smiled and continued to eat. “Hey, the police came to school today,” he said. “People were talking about that case you’re working on. You know, the one you won’t tell me anything about?”
Birdy swallowed. “Yes, that one,” she said. “What are they saying?”
Elan glowered a little, but it was a good-natured glower. “How come you get to ask me about it, but I can’t ask you anything? People know you’re my aunt. They think I could give them all the gory details about how that kid got butchered out in the woods. Like was it an ax or a machete?”
Birdy set down her pizza, her appetite quelled by his insensitivity. He was young. He had a lot to learn. He was of that generation that didn’t see the horror behind the spatter.
“Her name was Darby Moreau,” she said, keeping her voice even. “She wasn’t some kid who got butchered.”
He looked a little embarrassed. She’d made her point.
“I know that,” he said. “I also know her mom is a freak. And I know some stuff about her and our art teacher who’s been doing her.”
“Elan,” Birdy said, resuming her pizza, “please don’t talk like that.”
His eyes met hers. “Like what?”
Birdy selected another slice, her third. And yes, she was counting. Normally at this point, she’d have blotted the pepperoni with a napkin to save some calories, but this pie was too cold. She’d eat every fatty bit of it. “Like what happened is some video game and you don’t understand that we’re talking about real people,” she said.
He pulled an errant piece of pepperoni from the box and stuck it on his slice.
“I didn’t mean to be disrespectful or anything,” he said. “I was just repeating what I heard. The cop came and kids in art class starting talking about the girl.” He took another bite but waited until he’d swallowed before speaking again. Birdy doubted that he chewed it. She imagined the contents of his stomach just then, like she’d seen in other cases. It was random, but things like that happened. Determining the last meal of a kid like him would be easy.
“About Darby, and I thought maybe if you told me something,” he continued, “I’d be cooler. It isn’t easy to start over.”
“You aren’t starting over,” she said. “And you don’t need any cred. You are cool enough.”
“Why can’t you just talk to me about your work?”
Hadn’t they had this conversation?
She appreciated his interest, but he didn’t seem to understand the reasons for the very need for confidentiality in a criminal case. It wasn’t a reality TV show. It was real life.
“Because I’m part of the criminal justice system and we have rules, protocol, procedure. The whole process depends on it.”
“Whatever,” he said. “I guess you don’t want to know what I heard?”
Birdy was interested, but she played it cool—his word, not hers.
“You can tell me or not.”
“I choose not to,” he said.
In a way, that made Birdy feel a little better. Gossip was often hurtful and destructive. That Elan was enough
of his own person to keep things to himself said something positive about his character. She liked that.
“Let’s change the subject,” she said. “Tell me about your mom and dad. Did you phone them today like you said you would? You don’t have to gulp. Chew. And then swallow.”
Birdy got up and retrieved a small bottle of water from the refrigerator for Elan and a beer for herself and returned to the table.
The teen looked at the beer, accusingly. Their family had a history of alcoholism. Birdy could see a flicker of judgment in his piercing brown eyes.
“I had a very hard, very sad day,” she said, offering up an explanation for something that didn’t need explaining. Being with Tess and hearing the dog-grooming table story was enough to drive anyone to drink. More than a beer was in order, but that’s all she had in the house.
“I don’t care,” he said. “And no, I didn’t talk to my mom or my dad. But I did leave them both texts. I talked to grandma though.”
Her mother. Natalie Waterman managed to infiltrate Birdy’s world in some way every day. Just when Birdy thought her mother wouldn’t be on her mind for a single day, something pushed her there like a bird flu alert on Drudge. Like a tornado that rips apart a small town. Like a flash flood in the desert.
“Really?” she asked, playing it calm. “How did that go?”
He smiled. “She mostly complained about you.”
Birdy grinned back. That was very familiar.
“Did she say I was ungrateful?” she asked.
The kid was enjoying himself. “You really want to know?” he asked.
She cocked a brow.
Elan liked this little conversation. “Ungrateful bitch was what she said.”
Birdy rolled her eyes upward. “I miss my mother,” she said.
“I miss mine too.”
The two of them sat there at the table, both realizing for the first time, they had some genuine common ground. It wasn’t that they shared the same cultural history. That was a given. It wasn’t that they were related by blood. It was more than that. They were bonded by destructive and bitter relationships with their mothers.
“Have another slice, Elan. There isn’t going to be enough for lunch tomorrow.”
