Chapter 3
929 Words
Chapter 3
Jamie had wanted him to find her, Carlan was sure of it. She had signed 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, except for the shuffling sound of the plastic shoe covers they wore and the occasional squeak of latex gloves.
She was exposed to the world, naked. There was little blood. She looked pale and lovely. Peaceful, Carlan thought. Peaceful at last.
“She was like this when you found her?” he asked the tech.
“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. Jamie 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 flinched. Carlan put his hand up, shielding his face from the light, and turned away. He looked down at 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, all 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, very fat man in the doorway. The guy had a huge baldhead and small, narrowed eyes that surveyed the motel room, landing on Carlan. “Who are you?”
“Richard Carlan. Bend Police.”
“What’s your interest in the case?”
“I dated her for a while. Her family asked me to find her.”
“How long have you been in town?”
“I drove over the pass this morning.”
The big cop stared at him. They both knew that in cases like this, 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 older cop leaned over and gently turned Jamie’s head, revealing two deep punctures in her neck.
“So you’re thinking?”
“The lab guys found some blood in the bathtub. I think he probably drained her there and then wanted us to think ‘vampire.’ Or he thought he was a vampire. Who knows what these nutcases 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 corners of the blanket over her.
Just like that, she was gone. Forever.
Carlan would 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 lashed 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 why the vampire charade. Other than that…well, 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,” he 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 out that she had had a restraining order on him. Once, that would’ve been embarrassing, but with Jamie dead, he didn’t care.
He hadn’t left Bend until six a.m., but he’d have to find a way to prove that. Forensics had already determined that she had died sometime between midnight and dawn.
With or without the help of the Portland cops, Carlan was going to find whoever had done this. He was going to make the killer pay. He wanted whoever had done this to feel the same thing.
Whoever had killed Jamie must have family, friends. He’d find the murderer. But more, he’d find whoever 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.” Carlan said suddenly.
“What is it?” Brosterhouse asked. Something in his tone suggested that 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 check 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 as he 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.”
- Writer
