CHAPTER 3.
She had wanted him to find
her, Carlan was sure of it. Signing in with her own name. Had she
suspected there was something wrong? Was it a cry for help?
"You knew her?"
One of the techs asked. It was quiet in the motel room, the shuffling sound
of the plastic sleeves they wore on their feet, the occasional squeak of
plastic gloves.
She was open to the world,
naked. There was little blood, she looked pale and lovely.
Peaceful. Peaceful at last.
"She was like this when
you found her?"
"We untangled her from
the bedspread. We're thinking whoever killed her knew her, because they
carefully covered her up. They crossed
her arms across her chest."
Carlan shook his head.
She didn't know anyone in Portland. Why had she come here? What was
she doing in a seedy motel? Why had she left him? He'd taken care
of her for years -- she had wanted for nothing. That last time, he'd even
offered to marry her.
Damn her and her
obstinacy. What had gotten into her?
He wanted to lie down beside
her, lay his head on her chest. He struggled for a moment to contain his
impulse, turning away from the tech.
Someone opened the curtains
and the room flooded with light. Everyone in the room seemed to
flinch. Carlan put his hand up, and turned away. He was looking
down on Jamie again, her eyes seemed to be staring at him. Accusing
him. It was his fault she was here. His fault she was dead.
She looked tiny, deflated.
He always called her "Short Stuff," but she had been a dynamo in a
small package. Now she looked like she'd been soaked in bleach
-- the color drained from her.
"Close the damn
curtains." The voice was commanding, and as soon as the room dimmed
again, Carlan saw a very large fat man in the doorway. The guy had a huge
bald head, and small narrowed eyes which surveyed the motel room, landing on Carlan.
"Who are you?"'
"Richard Carlan.
Bend Police."
"What's your interest
in her?"
"I dated her for a
while. I was asked by her family to find her."
"How long you been in
town?"
"I drove over the pass
this morning..."
The big cop stared at
him. They both knew that the boyfriend or husband was always the primary
suspect. Finally, a big beefy hand was extended, "Detective
Brosterhouse."
Carlan shook the hand.
His eyes went back to Jamie.
"Why is there no
blood?"
"Yeah, well, you're not
going to believe this." The old cop leaned over and gently turned
Jamie's head, revealing two deep punctures in her neck.
"So you're
thinking?"
"I'm not thinking
anything, Mr. Carlan. I'd say she was probably killed and drained
somewhere else, but the lab guys tell me every other indicator is that she was
killed here. So I don't know what to think."
Carlan was trying to act
professional, like it was any other crime scene, any other murder he'd
seen. But...it was Jamie. His Jamie.
She looked utterly
defenseless on the floor, her nakedness ... he closed his eyes.
"Can't..."
he faltered. "Can't you cover her up?"
Brosterhouse nodded to the
tech, who flipped one of the wings of the blanket over her.
Just like that, she was
gone. Forever.
He'd find the person who did
this and kill him. She was his -- no one else's. She'd run away
from him, but it was all a misunderstanding. Things had gotten messy,
complicated. He'd struck out, but he hadn't meant any of it.
She hadn't given him a
chance to explain, to apologize, to make up.
Brosterhouse was watching
him. He struggled to keep his face impassive.
"The only real mystery
here," the Portland cop said, “is where's the blood? Other
than that -- it's obvious she was a working girl."
Carlan's face flushed, and
his jaw clenched. He couldn't help it. Brosterhouse nodded his head
as if confirming something to himself.
"I'm willing to let you
help us," Brosterhouse said. "But you need to check with me
before you do anything, got it? Meanwhile, give me the number to your
station in Bend."
Carlan rattled off the
number. They were going to check on him, he knew. They'd find that
she had a restraining order on him. That would've once been embarrassing,
but with Jamie dead, he didn't care.
He hadn't left Bend until
6:00 A.M., but he’d have to find proof of that. Forensics had already announced she had died somewhere
between midnight and dawn.
With or without the help of
the Portland cops, he was going to find whoever did this. He was going to
make the murderer pay. His heart was gone, his anger at Jamie
gone. He wanted whoever had done this to feel the same thing.
Whoever had murdered Jamie
must have family, friends. He'd find the murderer. But more, he'd
find who the murderer loved most and...
"We're ready to move
her now," the forensics guy said to Brosterhouse.
The big cop waved Carlan out
of the room. They stood to one side of the door on the landing as the
body was loaded onto the gurney and wheeled from the motel room.
“Wait.”
“What is it?” Brosterhouse
asked. There was a tone there that
suggested he was expecting Carlan to confess or something.
“Let me see her again.”
“She’s gone, pal. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“No…I need to see something.”
Brosterhouse hesitated. Then went over to the gurney and unzipped the
body bag. Carlan leaned over. He tried not to look at her face, but stared
at her mangled neck.
“She’s missing a necklace, a
silver crucifix. Her mother gave it to
her.” Unbidden and unwanted the image
came to him of the last time he’d seen her
-- her battered face, her bloody fingers holding the crucifix as if it
would protect her from his blows. He
felt a moment of doubt, then his hunger for revenge returned.
“Whoever killed her took
it.”
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