Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
Bloody murder
REED
The first time I saw a dead body, I realized I’d never be able to do this job without a way to distance myself from what I’d experience in the line of duty. And I desperately wanted to be in law enforcement.
I’ve always known what my career would be. Never once doubted it. As sure as the sun would rise in the morning, I was born to bust the bad guys.
One of my earliest memories was when I was about three or four years old.
Although some of the details are fuzzy, I distinctly remember interrogating an older kid in my foster home.
I got him to confess to stealing cash from the Fun Fund, which was donated money our foster parents used to take us to the movies, buy toys, or order pizza.
Shit like that. At that tender age, I was already hunting down clues and interviewing witnesses, bound and determined to deliver justice.
And I did.
For my efforts, my foster father gave me an extra bowl of ice cream and let me pick the movie.
Based on my limited memories from that time, he was a good man.
I can’t recall his name, but I’ll never forget how he looked at me that day.
He was so proud of me for finding the money that his emotions spilled over, making me proud of myself as well. It was as if his pride was infectious.
I’d never experienced anything like it. That feeling of contentment and satisfaction that comes from deep down, permeating your entire sense of being. In that moment, you’re enough. It’s warm and peaceful.
And so damn rare for me.
I’ve been chasing that high ever since.
Got close a few times over the years. Yet it was never the same. Something has always been missing.
Each case I close.
Each accomplishment I achieve or goal I hit.
It’s never quite enough.
For many years, I wondered why I didn’t experience that type of pride.
Why does that rightness elude me in my adult life when it came so freely as a child?
Then I realized it’s because I was still whole back then.
My spirit wasn’t broken yet. Things went downhill sharply the day my blood family was ripped apart, and I was sent to live in a new place.
Alone.
Who cares if you split up the brothers? As long as they have good homes, right?
Too bad that wasn’t the case for us.
The damage made me strong, though. Stubborn too. That’s why I was bound and determined to thrive in this profession regardless of the grim circumstances.
All I needed was a strategy. Something concrete to signal my brain that it was time to disconnect.
Eventually, I figured out how to do it.
A lifetime of pretending I don’t have feelings served me well in this regard. Essentially, I expanded on my natural instinct to close myself off. However, rather than blocking my emotions like I did growing up, I remove my feelings entirely.
They aren’t destroyed or muted, only set aside.
To do this, I visualize extracting all the vulnerable parts of myself from my physical body. As if an actual vapor cloud escapes my frame, hovering in the air until I return to collect it. All my emotions remain in that lingering swirl of mist, shielded from whatever horrors I’ll see.
Over the years, I’ve become so good at doing this that it only takes a couple of seconds to create that haven.
Like I need to do right now.
As soon as I exit the SUV, I briefly close my eyes. Within the span of two shallow breaths, I force a white mist to brush through me until it comes out the other side. When it does, it’s thicker and more viscous.
Is that my spirit or soul leaving me? I don’t know. It’s whatever lingers inside that makes us who we are, beyond the bones and blood.
With those pieces of me safe in the fog, I can walk into the crime scene, do what I need to do, and walk out without bringing what I saw with me when I leave.
Then I won’t relive the horror every night when I close my eyes. Nor will I turn to vices to drive away those demons. I’ll never be weak like that again.
When I open my eyes, I move like a feather without any emotional baggage to weigh me down.
Agent McBride circles the hood of the SUV, joining me. Andrews trails right behind us. We have our badges ready as we approach the yellow police tape at the edge of the yard.
I address the uniformed officer stationed at the perimeter. “Who’s in charge?”
He points toward the front door. “Detective Wheeler. He’s inside. Gray hair. Plain clothes.”
Ever the touchy-feely one, Andrews pats the guy’s shoulder as we pass. “Thank you, officer.”
Entering the house, I’m whacked with the stench of stale cigarette smoke mingled with the rusty tang of fresh blood. There must be a boatload of it if we can smell it from the other room. A hint of initial body-decomposition odor makes it even more pungent.
“Sumbitch,” Luke curses under his breath, cupping his mouth and nose. He cuts his wide eyes at me. “That stank would choke a maggot on a gut wagon.”
Andrews saves me from having to respond. “I’ll have to take your word for that, kid.”
From the foyer, I take a cursory scan of the visible portions of the house. There isn’t much to analyze yet. The body was found in the bedroom, so that’s where I’m expecting to see the worst of it.
Stepping deeper into the room, I examine the living area.
There’s a lamp knocked onto the floor, sofa cushions skewed, a coffee table on its side, and mail scattered across the living room floor.
A foot to the right lies a spilled bottle of bourbon.
Curiously, there is no cup. Drinking out of the bottle, perhaps?
I scan the walls. No splintered wood or bullet holes. No smashed glass or books strewn about. As I peer down the hallway, I note some framed photos on the ground.
Addressing my partners, I muse, “I’m betting the vic was on the couch when the unsub came in. Struggled in here before they dragged him into the bedroom. Knocked shit off the walls on the way down there.”
Andrews nods. “Agree.” Like me, he’s in control of his reaction.
On the other end of the spectrum, Luke is trying not to gag at the hideous smell of death. Maybe I should teach him my little cloud technique.
Nah. I’ll let Andrews worry about that. Giving a fuck about others is his shtick.
The detective in charge sees us approach, gaze darting between our trio and landing on Andrews. “You guys FBI?”
“You must be Detective Wheeler. I’m Special Agent Warren Andrews.” My partner waves an open hand in my direction. “Agents Reed Hayes and Luke McBride. What do you have for us so far?”
Detective Wheeler rolls out his shoulders and launches into his explanation. It’s a recap of what we already knew from the briefing SSA Chase gave us at mobile command. Name of the victim, how the body was found, and so on.
“Where’s the girlfriend now?” Andrews asks.
He tips his head to the right. “She’s sitting at the kitchen table with a social worker. Fair warning. You’re not getting much from her. We barely got her name.” He glances at his notepad. “Ginny Lawrence. And if she weren’t in her work uniform, I wouldn’t have caught the casino connection.”
Which means we’d still be sleeping.
Andrews sidesteps to peek into the kitchen, then returns to my side. “After I see the body, I’ll attempt to question her. I’d like to know exactly what she saw first.”
A crime scene tech strides up to us, holding shoe coverings.
The detective waits for us to put them on, then says, “Right this way. Brace yourselves. I’ve never seen anything like this in all my twenty years on the job.”
Can’t wait.
I lower my head and bend slightly in an after you gesture.
“Looks like I picked the wrong day to quit sniffin’ glue,” Andrews jokes quietly from behind me, quoting an older film that I can’t quite place.
I ignore him. No time for laughs. Not for me, anyhow. I appreciate that not everyone handles this the same way. For some people, joking helps them process dark shit.
Before we enter the bedroom, I ask Wheeler, “We saw your CSI van out front. Did you get anything yet?”
He huffs, making his thick mustache flutter. “I was told to stand down. They’re waiting for you to green-light them.”
No chance we’re letting them process the scene. On the way, we confirmed an ERT—evidence response team—was already en route.
McBride chimes in, voicing my thoughts. “Appreciate that. You can send ‘em on their way. The bureau’s ERT is only a few minutes out.”
“It’s all yours then.” He gestures with an open palm toward the bedroom door. “Good luck.”
Having already viewed the photo of the body, I’m prepared for what I see once I pass the threshold. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, I point my chin at the coroner’s tech standing beside the bed. “Pull the cover back, please.”
When she does, Andrews and McBride both falter back. I fight the impulse to do the same.
“Fucking hell,” I utter, unable to bite my tongue. “That’s a lot of blood.”
“And body parts,” the tech adds, devoid of all humor.
Agent McBride drops another colorful gem of Texas wisdom. “This poor bastard. He drew the wrong bull, I’ll tell ya that.”
Andrew whistles. “No wonder the girlfriend’s a mess. I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
He departs to question her while Luke and I meticulously study the scene.
I circle the bed, taking care with each step not to disturb any evidence. McBride does the same, staying farther away from the body and scanning the rest of the room.
I analyze the victim for clues while actively blocking out his obvious suffering. And there was clearly a lot of it.
Among the carnage, a patch of skin near his chest was carved out and removed. That’s unusual.
Glancing at the coroner’s tech, I ask, “Any idea whether this patch of skin is still here or did the killer take it?”
If we don’t find it, then it’s either a trophy for the perp or could point to some type of ritual killing. Alternatively, it might be a marking they didn’t want to leave behind for us to find.
From behind me, Agent McBride pipes in. “You mean this?”