Blood Loss

28

Ren was dressed in her new ski jacket: black, technologically advanced, biker style, $400. The model in the photo online had been wearing it on a shining white ski slope, under a brilliant blue sky, with a look that said Add to Basket. Its first outing for Ren was part of a very different picture, one that would sell nothing other than the message that life was cruel, and bleak, and without hope.

At Ren’s feet lay the naked body of Shelby Royce. She was face up, covered in a light dusting of snow. Her limbs were splayed in a terrible way. Her right arm was bent at the elbow, the small hand almost closed, the fingertips bright with blue nail polish. The other arm was by her side, palm up. Her blonde hair was streaked across her face. Underneath the frosty strands, her eyes were open, their irises frozen and cloudy. A gaping hole had been blown through her torso, the burnt black edges dotted with tiny snowflakes.

Beside her, what looked like a black G-string was curled into a tiny ball, and beside that, a black ribbon lay twisted like a telephone cord.

Ren spoke to Paul Louderback, who was by her side; neither of them took their eyes off the body. ‘You know, I wasn’t much into dolls,’ said Ren. ‘But my friend had a Barbie doll, and every now and then we’d play with her. She was mainly naked, and we took her limbs and we stretched them into the most extreme poses we could, and it would be fun, and then we’d throw her away … until the next time.’ She turned to Paul. ‘It was ultimately joyless.’

Paul looked like he was in a trance. All he could do was shake his head.

Robbie Truax walked up with his camera. ‘This is terrible.’

He moved solemnly around the scene, capturing every element with forensic detail, every photo a stone tablet for a future judge and jury. He always took extra photos — the stunning landscapes, the snow gathered on the fork of a branch.

There was a series of five framed photos on a wall in Robbie’s living room. Not one of them gave any indication that the photographer was between one foot and five feet away from a dead body.

When he told Ren, she called him The Morbid Mormon.

But then he explained: for every one photo of the horror of death, he took one of the beauty of life, or art, or humanity: anything to restore the balance. Photos to make people think of life.

And that is the Robbie Truax I know and love.

Bob Gage came up beside Ren.

‘The kids who found the body had been to the vigil,’ he said. ‘They say they were just going for a drive, got out to stretch their legs. Bullshit,’ said Bob. ‘None of them live out this direction. There are six vacation homes here, that’s it. None of these kids’ families own any of them …’

Ren looked around. They were impressive timber-frame houses on half-acre lots, set back off the road, accessed by a curved driveway. The body was not outside any one house, but at the edge of a wooded area at the end of the street.

‘Do you know any of the kids?’ said Ren.

‘A couple of the parents,’ said Bob. ‘I’ll talk to them. We’re trying to get a hold of the owners of the houses too. They’re all out-of-towners.’

‘Are there property management companies taking care of the places while they’re gone?’ said Ren.

‘Mike’s on it,’ said Bob.

Summit County Coroner Denis Lasco made his heavy-footed way across the snow, puffed up by a giant orange parka that added more bulk to his bulk.

‘Agent Bryce,’ he said. He was heaving for breath.

‘Hi Denis,’ said Ren. ‘Good to see you. If only we were meeting for another reason.’

‘No-one meets me for another reason,’ said Lasco.

‘Aw that’s not true,’ said Ren.

‘It’s the way I like it,’ said Lasco.

‘That’s not true either,’ said Ren.

Lasco trudged a little closer to the body.

‘Trust me it’s a dead body,’ said Bob Gage.

Lasco was known for his reluctance to commit to anything at a scene.

Bob kept talking. ‘Female, sixteen years old, photo’s been all over the newspapers recently, gunshot wound to the chest. Resulting in? The girl’s dead.’

‘I have yet to confirm her demise,’ said Lasco.

‘This is what you’re dealing with,’ said Bob to Ren.

‘What we’re dealing with is all of you dancing jigs on crime scenes,’ said Lasco. ‘Can we all please stand back? Right the way back. All of you.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said Bob. ‘We’ve done this before.’

‘With varying degrees of success,’ said Lasco. ‘And when I say success, I mean “effective evidence preservation on the part of the Sheriff’s Office”.’

Bob’s eyes flashed. He didn’t reply, but turned and retraced his steps to the trees. Ren did the same. Bob’s cell phone rang.

‘Let the shitstorm commence,’ he said, as he hit Answer.

Ren noticed a green and navy parka lying against the tree trunk beside her.

‘I’ve seen that before,’ said Ren, turning to Bob reflexively.

Bob had walked away.

Ren heard Mike Delaney’s voice behind her. ‘Yes, you have,’ he said. ‘And the owner is in his shirt a hundred yards away, minus his face.’