Redemption Lake

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  O’Donnell raised his eyebrows. “Guilt?”

  “More like grief,” Radhauser said.

  Tim held up his flashlight. “I’ll start outside.”

  “If your siren got any neighbors out of the sack, go talk to them. See if they saw or heard anything. The 911 call was made by a female. See if one of the neighbor women will admit to calling.”

  Radhauser asked Travis to join him in the living room. When the boy was settled on the sofa, Radhauser asked generic questions at first to put him at ease. He got Travis’s age, information on where he went to school, and what he’d been doing that night. He asked for Jennifer’s last name, address and phone number. Travis’s mother’s full name and where she worked. He wrote everything down in his notebook. “How old was your mother?”

  “Thirty-four,” he said. “She had me when she was seventeen.”

  “What’s your father’s name?”

  “Mitchell Travis Reynolds.”

  “Is he in the picture?”

  Travis stared at the floor for a moment, then looked back up at Radhauser. “He was a helicopter pilot shot down in Vietnam a month before I was born,” he said so wistfully Radhauser could almost see the wish he’d known his father fall out of the boy’s mouth. Poor kid. He was pretty young to be an orphan.

  A moment later, as if someone had just lit a match under him, Travis shot up from the sofa. “Something is wrong here. My mother.” He stopped. Started again. “I know this sounds weird, man, but my mom doesn’t do a lot of cleaning. She doesn’t even make her bed. I mean like never. She’s hardcore about it. I’m the one who empties the ashtrays. I take out the trash and beer bottles. Everything is way too clean tonight.”

  A single drop of blood oozed from the cut and dripped down his forehead and onto his nose. Travis didn’t seem to notice. “You need to listen to me. Somebody cleaned up around here. And it wasn’t me.”

  “I am listening. And believe me, I’ll check out every lead.” Radhauser examined the cut again. “It looks pretty superficial, but you might stop by the emergency room and see if you need a stitch or two.”

  “It’s no big deal. I’m not dying.” With the word dying, another spasm of grief passed over Travis’s face.

  Radhauser’s pity was almost palpable. He’d only realized after the death of his family how shameful it feels to be pitied. He hammered a box of unopened cigarettes against his wrist and then removed the wrapping. He’d stopped smoking six months ago, but still carried a pack in his pocket, still felt the occasional need to stick one in his mouth.

  “You can smoke,” Travis said. “My mom does.” He dropped his gaze to the empty ashtray. “I mean, she did.”

  Radhauser took out a cigarette. “I know this is hard, and there’s no good time to do it, but I have a few more questions. Are you up to it?”

  “I guess.”

  With the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, Radhauser looked at Travis for a moment. He sat on the edge of the coffee table, close enough to Travis that their knees were nearly touching. “Does your mother make a habit of leaving the doors unlocked?”

  “Only when she’s home. We’ve lived here almost my whole life. No one ever bothered anything.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “I dropped her off at The Silver Spur Steak House at five forty-five pm. She had a six to two am. shift, but Gracie planned to cover her last hour. The bar closes at one, then the waitresses clean up and reset the tables.”

  “Do you have any idea how your mother got home?”

  He told Radhauser about his plans to go home with Matt, and what Gracie had said about Crystal getting into a car right after he’d dropped her off. “Knowing Crystal, she might have thumbed it.”

  Radhauser made a note in his book to interview Gracie and the other waitresses at The Silver Spur.

  “Why do you call your mother by her first name?”

  “She was a kid when she had me. It was just the two of us and we were best friends.” He lowered his head.

  Radhauser gave him a moment. “Does she have a history of taking rides from strangers or other dangerous behavior?” The unlit cigarette moved with his lips when he talked.

  “Are you going to smoke that thing?”

  “I’m trying to quit,” Radhauser said. He repeated his last question.

  “Not when she’s sober,” Travis said.

  “Do you have any idea who may have phoned 911?”

  Travis looked dazed. “Someone called 911?”

  “That’s how the paramedics knew to come out here. Is your mother close to any of the neighbors? Do any of them drop by?”

  “She pretty much keeps to herself.”

  “The caller was a female. Does she have a friend who might have been with her?”

  “She’s pretty tight with Gracie, but she was at work.”

  “I’m sorry to put you through this, son,” Radhauser said. “Do you want to call a relative? An aunt or uncle, your grandparents?”

  “Call?” Travis repeated the detective’s word as if it were a foreign language. “It was mostly just Mom and me. I have a couple aunts in Mesa. But I haven’t seen them for years. I’m closer to my friend Matt and his parents.”

  Radhauser took the unlit cigarette from his mouth and replaced it in the pack. “I’ll leave the calling up to you, son. Has your mother ever intentionally hurt herself?”

  Travis hesitated. “I already told you she drinks too much. Sometimes she passes out. But something about this house isn’t right. Somebody cleaned it. My mom wouldn’t do that. She just wouldn’t. And who broke the bathroom mirror?”

  “People can be unpredictable, especially in a crisis,” Radhauser said. “Sometimes they drink too much. Or dress up or down. Sometimes they’re angry enough at themselves to cut off their hair or strike out at their reflection.” He paused and stared at the coffee table. “Sometimes they light candles and clean house.”

  “What if she took a ride with some sleazebag? What if he followed her into the house? What if he—” Travis winced, and something bitter and hopeless washed over his face.

  Though Radhauser knew the sample would most likely be compromised, he made a note to request a rape kit.

  When Radhauser glanced up from his notebook, Travis had gone pale and was breathing way too fast. The kid was having a panic attack. “Put your hands on your thighs. And take long, slow breaths.”

  Travis did as he was told.

  Radhauser placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I hate to keep you any longer. But I need forensics to fingerprint you. It’s routine. We want to eliminate the prints that belong to people who spend a lot of time in the house.”

  “You should fingerprint my friend, Matt Garrison, then. He’s here almost as much as I am.”

  “Anybody else, son? Think hard. It’s important.”

  “Gracie. And Baxter. Maybe Millie, she’s another waitress, but I don’t think she and my mom hung out much.”

  Radhauser jotted the names in his notebook. In order to preserve the already compromised scene, he walked Travis outside to the Bronco. “You can wait here where it’s warm,” he said. “Is there someone you’d like me to call to be with you now?” He opened the back door for Travis.

  “Matt,” Travis said as he slipped into the backseat.

  “Give me his number. My mobile phone doesn’t work out here. But I’ll radio dispatch to call him. While Matt is here, we’ll have forensics fingerprint you both.”

  Travis gave him the number.

  Radhauser was glad to know Travis had a friend. He wished he’d had someone, anyone, with him the night he got the news about his family.

  He stood by the open car door for a moment, feeling bad about leaving Travis alone. He poked his head back inside. “I don’t give up easy, son. If someone killed your mother, I’ll figure it out and I won’t stop looking until I find him.” Radhauser closed the door and returned to the living room.

  Tim O’Donnell rounded the corner
of the house, shaking his head. “I think it’s a suicide.”

  “How many suicides have you investigated where the victim used a razor blade on anything but their wrists?”

  “None,” he said. “But that doesn’t make it impossible.”

  “Tape off the entire area. I still need to photograph the bathroom and take one more look around. Make a list for forensics.”

  “The forensic boys can handle the photographs.”

  “You know I prefer to take my own,” Radhauser said.

  A muscle along the side of O’Donnell’s jaw throbbed like a heartbeat. “You’re the boss.” He didn’t sound happy about it.

  Radhauser didn’t have time to worry about anyone’s mood. This was his case, and he wouldn’t label it a suicide until he was absolutely sure.

  Chapter Six

  While Tim O’ Donnell walked the outside perimeter and flagged it with yellow CRIME SCENE tape, Radhauser slipped on a pair of latex gloves and a pair of disposable shoe covers. He started in the kitchen. There were no dishes in the sink. He opened the dishwasher. It held a couple glasses, two plates and a cereal bowl. Though it always pissed them off, Radhauser started a list of things to be bagged for the forensic guys. Glasses. Plates. A cereal bowl. He rummaged through the cupboards, but found only the usual things; flour, sugar, cake mixes, boxes of cereal, peanut butter, and a loaf of wholewheat bread.

  He checked under the sink, found cleaning supplies and dishwasher soap. He emptied the garbage can, which was lined with a white plastic bag, onto the counter.

  On the evening his wife and son died, Radhauser had forgotten to empty the kitchen trashcan. When he returned home from the morgue where he’d said goodbye to Laura and Lucas, their German Shepherd, Witka, had pulled every paper towel, egg shell, potato peel and apple core out of the can and scattered them over the floor. The crusts of bread from the wholewheat toast Laura still trimmed off for Lucas had lain, hardened and still, against the doorframe. It had seemed odd to Radhauser then, and again now, that Witka hadn’t eaten the bread. Maybe she’d known.

  Now, he set Crystal’s empty garbage can back on the floor. Aside from some paper towels, a few wadded-up tissues, an empty pack of cigarettes, about a half-dozen Pabst Blue Ribbon bottle caps and another six Corona, the garbage held nothing unusual. He added tissues, a cigarette pack and bottle caps to his list. He photographed her bulletin board, removed the pushpins from her calendar, took a photo of each month, then pinned it back onto the cork.

  Next, he tackled the victim’s bedroom. The bed was neatly made and still held the smell of detergent. He turned it down and examined the sheets and pillowcases. He found a dark pubic hair, added it and a long straight hair on the pillow to his list. Trace evidence that could easily be overlooked. He bagged both hairs for forensics.

  The bedroom trashcan yielded nothing of significance. The victim’s red leather purse sat on the dresser. He picked it up and emptied its contents. The usual. He opened the wallet. There was a picture of her son behind the little plastic window where most people kept their drivers’ licenses. Travis stood in a batter’s box wearing a yellow and green baseball uniform.

  Radhauser stared at the photo for a moment, wondering if Lucas would have played high school baseball. After the funerals, Radhauser had packed away his photographs of Lucas and Laura, even their wedding album and Luke’s baby book. He’d believed he had to hide those images in order to keep on living. Now he wondered. Was it possible to find a place for grief that didn’t erase the faces of the wife and son he’d loved?

  He examined the rest of the wallet, where he found three dollars and forty-two cents. A checkbook with a balance of forty-six dollars and seventeen cents. A tube of hot pink lipstick. A pack of cigarettes. A teal blue Bic lighter. A book of matches from The Silver Spur Steak House.

  After he finished, he headed down the hall toward the bathroom with his camera. As always, he tried to clear his mind. He needed to observe the scene and the victim with absolute clarity. He moved slowly, taking in the doorway, the linoleum floor, and the missing piece of the broken mirror over the sink. The toilet with its lid lifted as if a male had been the last one to use it. Could someone have used the bathroom? Not likely, he thought. Not with the victim in the tub and Radhauser standing guard. The paramedics would know better. There was something reddish brown splattered on the underside of the toilet seat that looked like vomit.

  He glanced at the empty liquor bottle. Maybe the victim had been so drunk she’d lifted the toilet seat and vomited before getting into the tub.

  As he looked around, Radhauser searched for anything out of the ordinary. There were two chrome towel bars on the bathroom wall, but no towels hanging on them. He looked around the bathroom for a linen closet, but found none.

  He made a note to ask Travis if there were towels on the racks when he’d left for his dance. Radhauser purposely avoided looking at the bathtub until he’d had time to take in the rest of the room.

  He noted the mirror shards wrapped in toilet tissue in the trashcan and added them to his list for forensics, along with a blue smear of what looked like toothpaste he’d found hardened on the sink.

  At the bathroom window, O’Donnell’s flashlight bobbed along the east wall. If any evidence lurked around the perimeter of the house, Tim would find it.

  Radhauser set up remote flashes on mounts that lit up the bathroom as if it were still daylight. He photographed the scene and the victim from every angle, then placed plastic numbered tents near the body, the sink, the toilet, and the puddle of blood on the floor, the blood splatters on the tile and tub, the single-edged razor blade, and the vodka bottle.

  Paramedics told him the shower curtain had been closed when they arrived, but the blood spatter didn’t support it being closed when the victim bled out. It was too clean. If she’d killed herself with the shower curtain closed, the inside of it would be bloodied. Someone closed the curtain after the victim was killed. Who? A frightened 911 caller who’d wanted to protect Crystal or couldn’t bear to see her that way might have closed it. Or a remorseful murderer. A fly buzzed angrily against the bathroom window.

  Radhauser closed off his thoughts to speculation and made sure every possible angle and object was preserved on film. He tried not to think about what he shot or to whom the body belonged, that she was a parent, a woman who worked hard for a living. A person who mattered—at least to that boy waiting in the back seat of Radhauser’s Bronco.

  Lastly, he focused on the body. The victim wore only a pair of gold cross earrings, no rings or other jewelry. Her hands were small and neatly manicured, her nails polished red. No visible trace evidence under her nails. But he added them to his forensic list. Though her hair had been cut off in clumps, there were no scissors in sight. Maybe she’d used the razor blade. Or maybe she’d dropped the scissors into the bath water. Or maybe some angry murderer had cut her hair.

  Though he was no splatter specialist, the blood on the back wall seemed consistent with a severed carotid. A plume hit the wall and made a big spot, splattered pretty evenly and dripped back down the tiles and into the tub. One thing was for certain, if someone severed it for her, they’d have her blood on their body and clothing. And that could explain the missing towels. Could one of the pieces of glass in the trashcan have been a murder weapon? He gathered up his evidence tents. The forensic guys would bring their own props. Radhauser headed back to the living room.

  Tim poked his head around the front doorframe. “I found nothing.” He grinned, shot Radhauser a raised eyebrow look. “By the way. You look like a fag in that necklace.”

  “It’s a bolo, but thanks,” Radhauser said, and blew him a kiss.

  Tim laughed.

  “I want to know what you think went down here, but before you tell me, talk to the boy in the back seat of my car. He seems like a good kid. But I want you to assume he’s hiding something.”

  O’Donnell stood in the doorway for another moment, staring at Radhauser.

>   “What?” Radhauser said.

  “I hope I grow up to be just like you.”

  “Oh yeah,” Radhauser said, slightly amused. “And what would that be?”

  “A cowboy pitbull on steroids.”

  Radhauser laughed and grabbed Tim’s flashlight, then picked up his camera and went out the front door to Tim’s patrol car. He didn’t want to disturb any prints the 911 caller may have left on the house phone. And he didn’t want Travis to hear what he had to say. He radioed Lottie. “Time to call Crenshaw,” he said.

  “You think it’s a homicide?” she asked.

  “I’m sure leaning that way.”

  “What should I tell him?”

  “Tell him we’ve got a woman with her throat slashed in a bathtub of blood. Tell him her hair has been chopped off and clumps of it are on the floor and in the bathroom trashcan. And some of it is floating in the tub. Tell him I made a list for the forensic guys. And I bagged a couple of hairs.”

  “He’ll love that.”

  Radhauser gave Lottie Matt Garrison’s phone number, signed off, then retraced O’Donnell’s steps around the perimeter of the house. Radhauser moved slowly, shooting the flashlight about. He photographed some smooth-soled footprints in the pollen on the back patio. They were probably useless, but you never knew. He’d wait for forensics to dust for fingerprints. If his instincts were correct, Crystal Reynolds didn’t take her own life. And there was bound to be something, somewhere in this scene, that pointed directly to the person who did.

  Chapter Seven

  Loren Garrison, professor of Philosophy at the University of Arizona, sat at the oak game table in front of the fireplace, waiting for his son to return. He glanced at the clock. 12:30am. Matt always phoned when he intended to be late. When Nate Sherman dropped Sedona off to spend the week with Loren and Matt, he mentioned Karina wanted to see Matt before they left on their honeymoon and asked him to have Matt call her at Hacienda del Sol.