Die Smiling (5 page)

Sixteen minutes after I'd put in the call, Buckeye's white crime scene van nosed up the driveway and pulled in behind my Explorer and two other sheriff's vehicles. Buck asked me if I was okay and wanted to take a look at my arm, but I told him it could wait. So as they donned protective gear and removed a couple of aluminum equipment cases from the back, I filled them in about what had happened. When I described Hilde's body, they all turned and stared at me as if I'd made the whole thing up.

Unfortunately, I pretty much knew what they were thinking. Nothing remotely resembling this kind of gruesome murder had happened at the lake before I moved here from LA. It began last summer with one sicko nightmare from my past, happened again last Christmas, and now here we go, number three. I was probably what was attracting killers to this rural, tranquil, beautiful setting, just as I had attracted death to those around me all my life. They knew it. I knew it. Everybody knew it.

Buckeye snapped on his gloves and slammed the rear door of the van. I watched him pick up his case and look at me. He had a white beard and mustache that was usually trimmed close to his jaw but was a little long at the moment. He resembled the guy on that old Captain Kangaroo children's show with his white hair and rotund body. Mr. Greenjeans had been the Captain's sidekick, and there was a running
Where's Mr. Greenjeans?
gag circulating around the coroner's office. He wasn't joking now, however; he was dead serious when he said, “So you're sayin' this guy cut off the vic's lips and left them in the shower drain?”

I nodded. “That's what we think. He was still in the area and took a coupla shots at us, but he got away in a boat before we could get to him.”

“God Almighty. Was she mutilated any other way?”

I shook my head, shrugged. “Not that we could tell. Body looked clean of visible wounds. Strangulation, maybe, but there's a lot of blood at the mouth. You'll have to tell us. Bud's stringing tape down behind the house where the perp shot at us, then ran.” It was then I realized one of Buck's primary team members was missing. “Where's Shaggy?”

Shaggy's real name was John Becker, and he was undeniably one of the best forensics technicians in the state of Missouri, albeit a long-haired, hippie, nine-earrings-in-each-ear kind of guy. We called him Shaggy after the character in
Scooby-Doo
. He lived for his job and was always on time and ready to process a crime scene at the drop of a hat. His absence at the morgue was an unheard-of event.

“He called in sick today. Yesterday, too.”

“You gotta be kidding me? Shaggy did?”

“Yeah, we're all in shock. He didn't say what the problem was, but I know he's got allergies that act up this time of year if he's not takin' Claritin. Or could be a Bruce Willis marathon runnin' on TBS.”

Shag's obsession with the ex–Mr. Demi was legend, but nobody smiled at Buck's remark. Not with this kind of crime scene facing us.

Buck said, “Vicky, get all your stills of the victim, then do both the inside and outside up here, then let Bud show you where the perp went down the hill. You'll have to do the videos, too, till Shag gets back.”

Vicky Jackson was our crime scene photographer, in her forties with three kids who drove her crazy with soccer practice and swimming meets and a husband who adored the ground she walked on. She was a charter member in good standing of the renowned, prestigious Red Hat Society of Camdenton fame and wore her purple boa well.

I said, “Vicky, take special care with this one, but I warn you, this guy spent a lot of time cleaning up after himself, so you're gonna have your work cut out for you.”

Buckeye said, “Until Vicky gets done inside the house, we'll process the vic's car. That it over there?” He pointed at the red Fusion.

“Yeah. It's a rental, so I doubt if you'll find anything inside. I'm pretty sure everything went down inside that bathroom.”

Two of Buck's people walked up the driveway to Hilde's vehicle as Vicky ducked under the yellow tape and climbed the front steps.

Buck and I watched her for a moment, then he looked down at the bloodstained sleeve of my torn T-shirt. He shook his head. “You sure that's not too bad?”

“Yeah. I got lucky and ducked the right way.”

“Lucky, huh? Lemme see.”

I stood still, trying not to grimace as he carefully stripped off the already blood-soaked Band-Aids and probed at the wound with a gloved forefinger.

“This's more'n any nick. Hurts pretty bad, I reckon. You probably oughta get some stitches.”

I shrugged. “Sure, it hurts. So what? We almost had him, Buck. If he hadn't had a boat stowed down at the cove, we would've nailed him cold in the act.”

“Hold still and let me clean this properly so it won't get infected. Hell, Claire, this is getting to be a real bad habit with you.”

Yeah, as if I invited people to take potshots at me. Impatient to get started inside the house, I didn't want to wait for him to retrieve his medical bag and fix my arm, but I did. He was right, and I knew it. I wasn't Batman, not even Robin. I'd figured that out a long time and a couple of major surgeries ago. Too bad I wasn't. If I wore a cape and could fly, I bet I would've gotten the perp before he reached that boat. I watched Buckeye squeeze a long ooze of antibiotic goop into the wound and close the gash with four butterfly bandages. Then he handed me a bottle of water and a couple of Extra-Strength Tylenols. “These oughta do the trick. Trust me, you're gonna need them before the day's done. You find the shell casings from the gun that got you?”

“The guys are down there now. I don't think he had time to pick up after himself, and we got a pretty good lock on his position.”

I took the capsules, swallowed both at once, then chugged down about half the bottle of water. Buck picked up his case and headed for the porch as soon as Vicky finished up inside and came back out the front door. Buckeye assigned a new young guy with red hair named Kenny Porter to head down with Vicky to process the hillside. Buck yelled for one of the techs working the Fusion to assist him inside.

Rubbing my aching arm, I watched them trot off to their assigned tasks. They were extremely good at their jobs, all of them. Buck didn't hire a tech who wasn't top of his class. If the killer had left trace evidence behind, they'd find it and not corrupt the scene while they did it. But I still wished Shaggy was on duty. He had my vote as the best of the best.

I leaned back against my SUV's front fender and waited for Bud. I wanted the people inside to get a good start before we nosed around. I hoped the time alone stringing the tape had helped Bud pull himself together. He was pretty blown away, but he'd have to get with it and quickly, too, or he'd be reassigned. The sheriff might do that anyway, once he found out Bud's close relationship with the vic's sister. Ten minutes later Bud walked around the back of the house and strode toward me. His face was set in hard, angry lines. He was all right now. My face looked like that, too.

I asked anyway. “You okay, Bud?”

“Yeah. I'm tryin' to figure out how to tell Bri. She called a few minutes ago, but I didn't pick up.” He stared out into the distance where the lake water was now a polished silver mirror. “This sucks, Claire. Makes me sick.”

“Yeah.” His description was right on. I said, “Need another minute or are you ready to get started?”

“I'm ready.”

I handed him the protective gear I had retrieved earlier, and we carried it to the porch, then donned the gloves and booties in order not to contaminate the crime scene. I put mine on in a hurry, eager to get to work, so I had to wait while he snapped on his latex gloves and slipped some paper booties over his shoes. He didn't seem as eager as me; he was probably still thinking about Brianna. We said nothing as we opened the door and entered the bungalow. Just inside the front door, we stopped and took in the place.

A female technician named Lana Foster was dusting for prints along the kitchen counters. She was a real cool lady I knew pretty well from Buck's Memorial Day fish fries at his place. She cropped her hair off almost to the scalp and wore jeans and peasant blouses under her protective suits. She loved guns as much as I did and was quite the expert on ballistics. She'd come aboard from the St. Louis PD and knew her stuff almost as well as Shaggy. She glanced at us without speaking, nodded, then concentrated her attention back on her work. Buck and the other tech were not in sight, but I could hear their voices in the back, where it sounded like they were processing the body in the bathroom. It was dusky inside the living room because of the closed shutters, so I reached over and switched on the black-shaded brass floor lamp beside the door.

“You done in here, Lana?”

“Yep. It's all yours.”

Looking around, I decided the living room had most likely been ransacked. Not just a messy model's abode as we'd first thought. “Maybe the perp was desperate to find something, or he at least wanted us to think so.”

Bud said, “Yeah, maybe he staged it to look like a robbery gone bad. Or maybe she put up a hell of a struggle before he dragged her into that bathroom.”

I got a mental picture of the woman's mouth, lips gone, those rivers of blood staining her chin, and knew Bud was probably imagining the same sickening visual. I didn't look forward to my dreams tonight, not that I ever did.

“Let's hope she got some DNA under her fingernails before he subdued her.”

Bud said, “Wonder why he dressed her up in that crown and stuff?”

“He's playing some sick game of his own. You know how psychopaths like to mess around, play God with their victims, you know, enjoy the vic's fear.”

Bud shook his head. “He was tryin' to send a message to somebody with that sticker on her shoulder, but he had to know hangin' around here this long was pretty risky, in broad daylight, too. Anybody could've seen him. What I can't figure is why he lingered to take shots at us instead of getting the hell out of Dodge.”

“If I hadn't ducked, I'd be dead now. Or you would be. Maybe he just didn't want us coming after him.”

“Then why'd he pinpoint his position by shooting at us? Why not just do her and leave? He had her staged, the scene cleaned up. We hadn't seen him. Doesn't make sense.”

“Maybe he wanted to see us find her. Make himself feel powerful to watch the police and crime scene investigators show up and admire his handiwork. Or like we said, we might've just surprised him and he panicked. Who knows what he's thinking? This guy's nuts.”

Bud's phone started in with its stupid classical tune, and I knew by his expression that caller ID popped up Brianna's name. He didn't pick up. It rang until his voice mail picked up.

Carefully sidestepping the books, videotapes, dishes, and clothing strewn around on the shiny red oak floor, I made my way to the black leather bar that separated the living room from the kitchen. Four black iron bar stools were pushed in on the living room side. Hilde's Gucci purse was still there, and I saw a desk-size appointment calendar on the counter near where Lana was working.

“You done with the purse?” I asked her.

“Uh huh. Calendar, too. I'm wrapping up the kitchen now.”

I sorted through the contents of the purse with a gloved finger. Billfold, still snapped shut, a glittery rhinestone key ring shaped like a big heart that held seven keys, a large clear plastic cosmetic case full of every conceivable kind of makeup and hair product. I pulled out a small red velvet address book tucked into a side pocket, and then I picked up the calendar and thumbed through the pages.

“This is gonna help, Bud. It's got a list of all her appointments and appearances for the last three months. Next month's, too.”

“Good. I just found her portfolio.”

Bud held up a book measuring about eight by ten inches and bound in fancy crocodile leather. Hilde's name was etched on the bottom right corner of the front cover, beautifully, in flowing gold script. Bud opened it and stared at the first photograph. “Man, this bites so bad. Why'd it have to be her?”

I moved closer and looked down at the picture. She had been a beautiful woman, maybe even prettier than Finn, though I never would have believed that possible. I thumbed through the pages and found lots of poses, many of them after she'd won a pageant and was seated and holding a scepter, crown, and the obligatory roses. She always had a big, lovely smile on her face. I thought of the killer's quote, and my stomach turned. I put the book down on the counter. He considered her a villain. Why?

“You know that quote he left on her, Bud?”

“Nope.”

“It's from
Hamlet
, I think.”

“I dunno where the hell it's from, but it sounds pretty personal to me. What I wanna know is why he chose her. It's gotta be a some kind of betrayal thing. Otherwise, it's probably random. Hell, she's been here at the lake less than a week.” Our eyes met and he shook his head. “Oh, God, this is gonna kill Bri. She talks about Hilde all the time, was real proud of her.”