CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
On the way to the Bitten house, Bree drove to Steve Winner’s place. He lived in a small cabin at the end of a long dirt lane. Dead leaves piled up against the front porch. Cobwebs clustered in the rafters. She parked in the empty spot in front of the cabin, and they went to the door.
Standing aside, Bree knocked. “Sounds empty.” All she could hear was raindrops pattering through the canopy.
“Looks creepy.” Matt cupped a hand over his eyes and tried to peer through the dirty front window. “I’m getting a strong Deliverance vibe.”
“He’s not home.” She jogged down the porch steps and pivoted in a circle. Several outbuildings lined the rear yard. Even from a distance, she could see padlocks on all the doors, even a small shed. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called his name. No one answered.
Matt said, “You could scream your head off and no one would hear.”
Bree shuddered.
Matt scanned the clearing. “If only we could look around.”
“We can’t.” Any evidence they could potentially discover during an unauthorized search would be inadmissible. It would all be thrown out of court. “Let’s go. Having a creepy house does not make him a killer.”
They both jumped at a loud bang. An engine approached. The vehicle wasn’t the silver Prius from the original forest crime scene, but an ancient Ford pickup, swiss-cheesed with rust spots.
Steve Winner stepped out, his long hair down, his head tilted with suspicion. “Can I help you, Sheriff?”
Bree said, “I was passing by and thought I’d bring that statement for your signature.”
“Oh. OK.” He shrugged, but he didn’t invite them inside.
Bree handed him the paper. He read it quickly and signed his name at the bottom.
She took back the sheet. “I need to ask you about that stalking charge on your record.”
Anger sharpened his gaze. “I didn’t do anything. She made it up to get even with me for breaking up with her.”
“You broke up with her?” Bree asked.
“Yes.” His lips flattened. “It was her word against mine, though, and she had a better attorney, and her daddy was politically connected. I was screwed.”
Bree nodded. “Thanks for the clarification.”
She and Matt climbed back into the SUV. As soon as the doors were closed, Matt asked, “Believe him?”
Bree started the engine. “I don’t know. Regardless, he stays on the suspect list.”
Fifteen minutes later, the sun peeked through a break in the clouds as Bree parked in front of the Bitten house. Her head ached from lack of sleep. She’d considered calling Mr. Bitten before driving over, but notification should be done in person when possible. Phone calls were too impersonal for such an intimate task.
Matt squinted through the windshield. “Haven’t seen the sun for a while.”
“Feels wrong for it to come out at this moment.” Bree braced herself to see the Bittens again. “Mrs. Bitten barely got through our discussion last night. This is going to be rough.”
Next to her, Matt said, “Is it ever easy?”
The Bittens lived in an upscale neighborhood. A three-car garage concealed any vehicles, so there was no way to know if anyone was home. Motor vehicle records showed they leased two luxury rides: a late-model Mercedes and an Audi SUV.
A paver path lined with black solar lights meandered from the driveway to the front stoop. A six-foot arched window topped the glossy black door. Through it, Bree could see a crystal chandelier. Sunlight streamed through the window and reflected off the crystals in a kaleidoscope of rainbow prisms that felt obscenely cheerful given their news.
She pressed the doorbell. The elegant chime echoed inside the house. Footsteps approached, quick and light. Not Mr. Bitten.
Bree braced herself. The door opened. Mrs. Bitten froze at the sight of them. Then her knees folded. Matt leaped forward and caught her before she hit the floor.
She recovered in a few seconds, getting her feet under her body. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ve got you.” Matt steadied her.
Bree glanced up and down the street. The neighbor next door was standing at her mailbox, staring at them. Bree stepped into the foyer and closed the door. She noticed that the furnishings were sparse. The people in this neighborhood generally had money. They hired professional decorators, and they didn’t leave rooms bare. Did the Bittens live above their means?
Matt helped Mrs. Bitten into the living room and lowered her onto a white sofa.
“Is your husband home?” Bree asked.
She nodded just as Mr. Bitten strode into the room. He stopped short. “Sheriff.” His tone was punctuated with finality. He knew why they were there. He went to the sofa and sat next to his wife, taking her hand between both of his, before looking up at Bree. “It’s Trish?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.” Bree choked on for your loss. The words felt hollow, and so did she.
Mrs. Bitten didn’t react. She just stared straight ahead, not focusing on any of them, or anything.
Bree hated the words she needed to say next. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
Anger flickered in Mr. Bitten’s eyes. “My wife is in no condition.”
But his wife straightened her shoulders. “I want—need to help.” She pulled her hand out of his.
Her husband tried to capture her hand. “You should rest. You’re not strong.”
Mrs. Bitten’s eyes were dry. Red blotches bloomed on her cheeks. “I’ve been resting since January. What did that get me? A dead daughter. I should have been looking for her.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What if I could have saved her?”
“No, ma’am,” Bree said in a firm voice. “You couldn’t have.”
Mrs. Bitten’s head turned. Slowly, she met Bree’s gaze. “How long has she been ...”
“Six to twelve weeks.” Bree did not say that Trish was likely beaten and held prisoner for at least a week or two before being murdered. It was always hard to decide how much information to give the family. Bree wouldn’t lie to the Bittens if they asked her a direct question, nor would she omit information she expected the media to cover. No one wanted to learn horrible things about their loved one’s murder on social media. But she wouldn’t volunteer gory details either. Later, Bree knew, they would probably come to her with more questions. But people could absorb only so much horror at one time. Today, the Bittens had heard enough.
“All this time ...” Mrs. Bitten pressed a fist to her mouth.
“All this time, we were looking for her,” her husband continued. “And she was already dead.”
“Already discarded.” Mrs. Bitten’s voice went flat, as if she simply couldn’t understand—couldn’t process—what had happened. “She was out there in the cold, all alone.”
Mr. Bitten’s jaw slacked, then tightened again. His hands rested on his knees, the fists opening and closing. As if, unless he was providing support to his wife, he didn’t know what to do.
They sat, side by side, not touching, not connecting. How had their marriage fared before Trish’s disappearance? It was broken now.
They were broken.
Finally, Mr. Bitten exhaled hard, as if he’d been holding his breath for minutes. “How did she die?”
“We don’t know,” Bree said.
“You don’t know!” His face flushed an unhealthy shade of red.
“No, sir.” Bree didn’t want to tell them why. But they needed to know. “She was in the clearing too long for a cause of death to be evident ...” She avoided the word decomposition but her meaning was still clear, another detail a family should never have to hear.
Mrs. Bitten keened and swayed. Her husband didn’t move. But Bree could see him processing the information, unlike his wife, who was clearly in shock.
“Can you make a list of her friends?”
Mr. Bitten nodded. “Of course.”
“Did she have a boyfriend?” Matt asked.
“Yes. His name is Jacob Gatt. I have his number.” Mr. Bitten pulled out his cell and read off the digits.
“How long did they date?”
“About a year. He’s been devastated by her disappearance. Now—” Mr. Bitten’s fingers curled around his phone. Bree thought he was going to throw it, but he relaxed in a few breaths.
“Was he ever a suspect?” Matt asked.
“What? No.” Mr. Bitten looked confused. “Why?” His eyes saucered with realization and surprise. “Do you know something?”
“No.” Matt held out both hands, palms forward. “Police always start with the people closest to the victim, then work outward. It’s standard procedure.”
“Jacob is a nice kid. The first month, he texted me every day for updates.” Mr. Bitten frowned. “He still contacts me every couple of days.” He paused. “He’s going to be devastated to learn ...” Mr. Bitten covered his eyes with one hand. His shoulders shook for a few breaths. Then he exhaled hard and raised his head. He swiped a hand across his bloodshot eyes.
“Did Trish have a job?” Matt asked.
“Not a formal one. She was taking extra classes, trying to finish two years’ worth of credits early and transfer to a state school. Sometimes, she babysat for the next-door neighbor for extra cash.” He jerked a thumb at the wall, indicating which neighbor. “Their names are Kier and Marion Reich.”
Bree wrote the names in her notepad. “Did Trish ever complain of issues with the Reichs?”
“No. She loved the kids. They have four between the ages of six and twelve. Whenever she babysat, Trish planned fun activities. Really creative stuff. They wrote plays and acted them out. Once she helped them direct their own short movie. She wanted to be a teacher.” Mr. Bitten choked on the word teacher. With his elbows propped on his thighs, he leaned forward and rested his forehead in his hands for a minute. With a great sigh, he lifted his head. “She would have been a good one.”
Bree gave him a minute to compose himself.
He made a fist and pounded it on his own thigh. “I wish we’d have been able to send her to a big school, but we just couldn’t afford it.”
“You’re a lawyer?” Bree asked.
He sniffed. “I know what you’re thinking. Lawyers are rich. One of our partner’s has been ill. It’s put a strain on the firm’s cash flow.” The bitterness in his voice told Bree there was more to the story. They’d dig into the family’s finances.
“Do you know if Trish kept a calendar?” She cast a worried look at Trish’s mother. Her eyes had not regained their focus on the present.
“On her phone,” Mr. Bitten said. “It never turned up, but the police accessed the data on her cloud account.”
“Thank you.” Bree stood. “I’ll contact them, but I’ll probably have more questions for you later.”
“Is there someone we can call for you?” Matt’s gaze flickered to Mrs. Bitten.
Her husband turned to look at his wife. “I’ll call our older daughter, Diane. She’s going to be heartbroken. She and Trish were only two years apart.”
“They were close?”
Mr. Bitten nodded. “Best friends.”
Bree drew an asterisk next to Diane’s name.
“Could you direct us to Trish’s room?” Bree asked.
“Top of the stairs. Second door on the left, but I don’t know what you’re going to find. The police already searched it. They took some photos and papers with them.” Mr. Bitten’s voice cracked. “Plus her toothbrush.”
The toothbrush would have been used to collect Trish’s DNA.
He stared at his phone. He didn’t want to make his call.
Bree didn’t blame him. “I assume they took her laptop too?”
Mr. Bitten shook his head. “No. She had it with her, but she backed up her schoolwork on the cloud as well.”
She and Matt took the stairs and entered Trish’s room.
Trish had redecorated since childhood, and the room reflected a young adult’s taste with pale lavender walls, modern white furniture, and a pale gray carpet. Framed photos of her family and friends hung in artful groupings on the walls. Some of the frames were empty. Bree assumed the Scarlet Falls PD had taken the missing pictures. Bree pulled out her cell and took photos and video of the room.
With heavy steps, Matt went to the closet and began digging through jacket pockets. Bree took the nightstand and bed. She found nothing unusual. She moved to the desk, but anything obvious and interesting would have been collected by the SFPD.
“We’ll need to find out what the SFPD collected as evidence.” Bree pulled off her gloves.
“I hope they cooperate,” Matt said.
“The detective on the case is Stella Dane.” They’d worked with Dane in the past. “She’s a good cop.”
They went back downstairs to find Mrs. Bitten still staring into space. Mr. Bitten had poured them each a short tumbler of amber-colored liquid. He clutched his between both hands. His wife’s was untouched. He drained his glass, rose, and went to a bar cart in the corner to refill. “You’ll keep us informed?”
“Yes,” Bree said.
His head inclined and stayed bowed as they saw themselves out. Outside, Matt stood on the front stoop, sucking air in and out of his lungs like a bellows.
Bree touched his arm. “You OK?”
“Yeah. These cases always get to me.”
She gave his forearm a small squeeze. “The day they don’t is the day you have to worry.”
“I know, but it sure doesn’t feel that way.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Bree felt the sadness and frustration, the crushing grief, hovering in the air. The house didn’t need to be shrouded in black. It had its own aura of darkness and despair that clung to it like ash. This would never be a happy home again.
Matt strode down the stoop. “Think they’ll recover?”
Bree followed him down the driveway. “No. No one recovers from losing a child. Some do learn to move forward, but any happiness they achieve is never the same happy they had before.”
Time did not heal all wounds. Sometimes they developed thick scars. Other times, they festered.
Bree left a message for Stella Dane. Then she drove in silence toward Jana Rynski’s apartment, with only radio chatter filling the background. She now understood that the ultimate level of comfort in a relationship was the ability to be silent together.
Finally, Matt asked, “How many murder cases can a person work before losing perspective?”
Bree thought about her very first homicide investigation. “None?”
He snorted. “You’re probably right. My first homicide investigation was a convenience store clerk who took a gunshot to the face in a robbery. Guy stole thirty-seven dollars from the register. Thirty-seven dollars. When I notified the family, when I viewed the surveillance video, when I interviewed witnesses, that number kept screaming through my head. I couldn’t understand how a person can have so little empathy, so little humanity, that they can put a gun to an unarmed man’s face and pull the trigger with no hesitation. Like swatting a fly.”
“You grew up with a nice, normal family. Nothing I encountered on the job was a surprise for me.”
“I guess it wasn’t.” Matt reached across the console and covered her hand with his. “I’m sorry you grew up with that.”
Bree had no response. The violence in her childhood had been thrust upon her, but she’d volunteered for the rest. “A day might come when one or both of us has simply had enough. We should probably be ready for that.”
Matt nodded. “Before I met you, I didn’t know what to do with my life. The years stretched out in an endless timeline of uselessness. Now, I know we’ll figure it out together.”
“We will.” Comforted, she squeezed his fingers. They would be a team no matter what the future held. A beat passed before she asked, “What do we know about Jana?”
Matt accessed the vehicle computer. “No criminal record. No moving violations. She’s lived at her current address for several years.”
The GPS announced their arrival, and Bree turned into the entrance. Jana lived in an older apartment complex. Three two-story brick buildings squatted in a U formation around the parking area. Units were built back-to-back, with a walkway around the building to access the units on the opposite side. Because of the design, there were no back doors, no patios, no balconies. Bree slid the SUV into a space and reported their location to dispatch.
“She’s on the first floor. The end unit.” Matt pointed to the building straight ahead.
They stepped out of the vehicle. Weeds grew through cracks in the asphalt. The smell of rotting garbage wafted from a dumpster at the back of the lot. A ring of broken glass surrounded the dumpster and community recycling bin.
The buildings were old and dated. Rust edged the kickplates of the white storm doors. AC units hung crookedly in windows. Black mold splotched the walkway where oak trees blocked the sunlight. This was a no-frills complex.
Two steps led to Jana’s front door. A long crack bisected the concrete stoop. Bree and Matt flanked the door, as always staying away from the dead center. Bree knocked. No one answered. She knocked again.
“She could be at work.”
“Bree.” Matt frowned at the window next to the door. He pointed to gouges in the paint next to the window lock. He moved to the window and rose onto his toes to examine the hardware more closely. “Someone forced the lock. It’s broken.”
Goose bumps rose on Bree’s forearms. She used her sleeve to jiggle the doorknob. It turned and the door swung open a few inches. The hairs on the back of her neck quivered. Something was not right. “It’s unlocked.”