Killing Ways

1

‘That lady died.’ Special Agent Ren Bryce turned to Everett King, one of her newest colleagues, an ex-trader, financial and IT expert, and quick, firm friend. ‘The one from the crash at Sky Ridge Medical Center. No one came forward to claim her, no match with any missing persons...’ She shook her head. ‘Rodeal reckons she was held captive somewhere for months at the very least: she had rope burns on her wrists, bruises on her ankles as if she’d been shackled, she was starved, beaten. But they found nothing in the neighborhood canvas. They ran her details through the system — nothing. Imagine that’s your life... tortured and neglected to death.’

‘Like your liver,’ said Everett.

Ren was shaking a bottle of Fiji to help dissolve the two Alka-Seltzer she had broken into it.

‘My liver is well tended to,’ said Ren.

‘Like a captor tends to his captee.’

‘Stockholm Syndrome.’ She took a drink. She had already drunk a bottle of freshly squeezed pineapple juice. Hangover Cure Supreme. The Alka-Seltzer was a rarely required second step. The previous night was a blur of bright lights, colorful drinks, and dancing on chairs and half-empty dance floors with two girls she had met at her bipolar support group two weeks earlier. They had presumed that, like them, she was unlucky enough to be a bipolar-loved-one wrangler, not the wranglee. That was often the case. Ren didn’t want to lie, but she didn’t want to correct them. She just wanted to party. The women were at the support group to learn how not to enable their loved one. Instead, they were fine-tuning the art of enabling a stranger. But there was no law against it. Ren smiled to herself: there should, in fact, be laws to fully support it.

Ren had been off her meds for three months.

‘Did you see the video of the crash?’ she said.

‘No.’

‘Rodeal was quite the hero — dived for his wife, totally saved her life, broke his arm in the fall. Sexism in Emergencies: it’s not all bad when a man thinks women need to be saved.’

‘It was his wife...’

‘I’ve dealt with him, work-wise,’ said Ren. ‘I walk away with a twitch in my eye. Sometimes I think he expects me to be the one serving the refreshments.’

‘Oh, baby girl, you always servin’ up the refreshment!’

‘And you keep topping up those glasses, handsome man.’

‘God help this guy,’ said Everett, nodding toward the glass panel of the interview room where murder suspect Jonathan Briar was perfectly framed. Briar’s fiancée, twenty-three-year-old Hope Coulson, had now been missing from their Denver apartment for twenty-eight days. Briar had ignited public suspicion with the first dopey words out of his mouth when asked about her on live television: ‘Aww... I’m sure she’ll be back,’ he said, smiling like an idiot, next to Hope Coulson’s weeping parents.

‘He doesn’t yet know that he meets a lot of the criteria for the Ren Bryce Book of Wrong,’ said Everett. ‘Stoner — check! Skinny dreads — check! Mouth too small — check! And my second favorite: rat-colored hair — check! I mean, rats are gray. His hair is mousey.’

‘Rats are creepier.’

‘And my all-time-favorite,’ said Everett. ‘Eyes overly almond: check!’

‘Because I like almond-shaped eyes,’ said Ren. ‘Too almond, though — that’s a problem.’ She looked at Everett. ‘I’m a nightmare. I know. Judgey McJudgicles.’

‘On the upside of his issues,’ said Everett, ‘every time he appears on screen or in print, the line of volunteer searchers grows.’

Hope Coulson had captured the public’s hearts. She was a sweet, blonde, kind-hearted kindergarten teacher, a volunteer for everything from painting the ladies’ nails at her local retirement home to delivering Meals on Wheels to the housebound, to being stationed at First-Aid tents at community events. At one time, Jonathan Briar looked like nothing more harmful than a guy who was batting above his weight. Now, he was looking like a killer.

Ren drank the rest of the Alka-Seltzer, then held a hand to her stomach.

Ooh. Not good. Drank too quickly, despite best efforts.

‘You drank that way too fast,’ said Everett.

‘Ugh.’ She threw the empty bottle in the garbage. ‘OK. Shall we dance?’

‘We always do.’ He turned the door knob and let Ren go first.

Jonathan Briar almost jumped from his seat. ‘Did you find her?’

So dramatic. So forced.

Ren shook her head. ‘No, Jonathan. No, we did not. Not yet.’ She sat down. ‘Jonathan, I’m Special Agent Ren Bryce, and this is my colleague, Special Agent Everett King. How are you holding up?’

Briar shrugged. ‘I’m OK... I guess.’

‘Let me explain who we are,’ said Ren. ‘Agent King and I are members of the Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force. Not to alarm you — we do handle all kinds of crimes — but we are technically a violent crime squad. We’re multi-agency, meaning there are FBI agents like us, and there are detectives from DPD — that’s Denver PD, along with members of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, Aurora PD, etc.

‘We have to consider that Hope may have been the victim of a violent crime. Of course, we don’t know that yet. I understand you’ve been questioned by DPD—’

‘Every day!’ said Jonathan. ‘Every day since she left.’

‘Left?’ said Ren.

He shrugged. ‘It’s exhausting.’

Not my point. ‘You said “left”,’ said Ren. ‘Do you think Hope just left?’

Jonathan looked away, shrugging again. ‘It’s better than thinking anything else.’

‘Back to what I was saying,’ said Ren. ‘We’re talking to you today at the request of Detective Glenn Buddy at Denver PD, and because some new evidence has come to light.’

‘What evidence?’ said Jonathan.

‘I want to show you a photograph of your fiancée, Hope,’ said Ren, ignoring the question. She set it down on the table. ‘Well, actually it’s a photo of you and Hope. When was this taken?’

Jonathan swallowed. ‘Christmas just gone. At my mom’s house. Why?’

‘You look really happy,’ said Ren.

‘We were,’ he said, nodding.

Were: past tense.

Jonathan blinked, but there were no tears.

‘Now, here’s another photo,’ said Ren. She set down an aerial photo of a landfill site.

‘Do you know Fyron Industries?’ said Everett, shifting forward in his seat. ‘They manage this landfill site. It’s off of I-70. The dumpster by your house — that’s where that goes.’

Jonathan looked at Everett as if he had just crawled from a dumpster himself.

Everett took out a red Sharpie and drew a large box on the photo. ‘This area here,’ he said, ‘is three acres square. The garbage runs twenty feet deep if we’re to go back almost a month to when Hope went missing...’

Jonathan recoiled. ‘What the hell are you showing me this for? What do you mean “go back almost a month”?’

Don’t look at me for answers. That’s not how this goes.

‘To search this area, we’re calling in all the favors we can,’ said Everett. ‘Law enforcement across a lot of different agencies, along with volunteer civilians. That’s the effect Hope has had on people. They’re coming from all over to offer to search a stinking hellhole for her, to suit up and go right in there to look for your missing fiancée. If we can in any way limit all that searching... or if we knew, for example, that we were wasting our time, or anyone else’s time... or if there’s somewhere else we should be looking...’

As Everett spoke, Ren was studying Jonathan Briar. You are a dull-eyed dope-smoking moron. I have little time for dope-smoking morons.

‘Is there anything you’d like to tell us?’ said Ren.

‘No!’ said Jonathan. ‘No. Except that you are wasting your time: thinking I did this!’ There was no anger, just a whining, pleading exhaustion.

‘Everyone in your position tells us we’re wasting our time,’ said Ren, ‘but, as you know, a lot of the time we’re not. The odds are not in your favor. Before we go in here,’ she pointed to the landfill photo, ‘before we bring people into this wonderland, we’d like to know the truth.’

‘I’ve told you the truth!’ said Jonathan. ‘I’ve told you a million times. I’m innocent! Last time I saw Hope she was alive and well. What more can I tell you? That’s my story.’

‘Story?’ said Ren.

‘You know what I mean,’ said Jonathan. ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’

‘Were you and Hope happy?’ said Ren.

‘Yes!’ said Jonathan. ‘Fucking leave me alone with the happiness bullshit! I don’t think I can take this any more! I feel like I’m losing my mind, here. All you people looking at me! It’s fucking driving me insane!’

Snap. Snap. Show your hand.

‘Jonathan, we found traces of Hope’s blood in the living room,’ said Ren. ‘Do you know how that got there?’

‘She cut her finger, I don’t know. Were they drops, smears, spatters?’

Go, CSI.

‘If they were drops or smears,’ he said, ‘then she cut her finger a while back. If they were spatters, then, I guess, someone might have killed her at home, right? Is that your point?’

How Not to Talk to Law Enforcement 101.

Ren looked at Everett.

Jonathan started to cry. ‘I love Hope. I always have. From when I was nine years old. I wouldn’t lay a finger on her. All I ever want to do is protect her.’ He cried harder. ‘What if you find her and she’s dead?’

Wow. Have you really only thought about that now?

He kept talking. ‘What if she’s there in all that garbage and she’s dead? Then what happens? Then do you just, like, assume it’s me? What evidence is going to be on that body at that stage? I’m terrified of what’s going to go down. I want Hope found, but I also don’t want her to be just pulled out of some garbage. I mean, I know what you’re thinking, it’s disgusting anyway, it’s a murder, who gives a shit, but I do.’ He went quiet. ‘I do, because Hope would. She wouldn’t want anyone seeing her that way.’

‘What way?’ said Ren, keeping her tone neutral.

Jonathan leapt from his seat. ‘Dead on a garbage heap! What do you think I mean? Why do you people always think I mean something I don’t mean?’

Because you say weird shit. Because your answers are weird. Your phraseology. Your language. Your focus.

‘Sit the fuck down,’ said Ren.

Jonathan sat down, but kept talking, the words speedy and tumbling. ‘Dead after weeks, rotting away and all that other shit. Jesus! Who would ever want anyone to see them that way? I know I never would. But what happens then? I say nothing to you today because I know nothing and then you arrest me? Like, will I look suspicious to you because of that? I mean, I’ll say anything not to come across as someone shady. I wasn’t there that night at the time you’re talking about. I was working! I’m not thinking about how Hope looks because I killed her in some horrible way. I’m thinking about what a fucked-up mess dead bodies are after all that time.’