Killing Ways

Ren nodded.

‘Stop wasting ink and paper.’

Internal eye roll. ‘On an unrelated note – here are three victims of a violent rapist and murderer … can you see how similar they look?’

Gary looked across the line of photos. He looked back at Ren. ‘Yes.’

‘Three victims … that makes a serial killer, official definition. I’d like to call a meeting with DPD, see if we can—’

‘Who’s this third one?’ said Gary.

‘Donna Darisse, a prostitute reported missing this morning.’

‘So she’s not dead.’

‘Not found. She’s been missing since yesterday afternoon. Didn’t show up to collect her six-year-old from a play date. Apparently, that was totally out of character.’

Gary stared at her. ‘Let me know when you have a body.’

‘There will be a body,’ said Ren. Mark my words!

‘I’m not doing this unless you’re one hundred per cent,’ said Gary.

‘OK – who …’ the fuck ‘could be one hundred per cent about something like this?’ Seriously.

‘At the very least, a body is a one hundred per cent guarantee of a death.’

High-larious. ‘I want Donna Darisse to be safe and well,’ said Ren. ‘I just don’t feel in my gut that she is.’

‘Let me know when you have a body.’

I heard you the first time.

‘There’s another thing,’ said Ren, ‘I spoke with Jonathan Briar, and—’

‘And his lawyer, I hope …’

Not so much. ‘Well, I just had a few little—’

‘Ren, for crying out loud! What were you thinking? He’ll never let us talk to him again if you—’

‘It was fine,’ said Ren. ‘We got along OK. I helped him out in his apartment. He answered my questions, but … he was lying about something, about a night out they had two weeks before Hope Coulson disappeared.’

‘If you think he was lying,’ said Gary, ‘that he’s got something to hide, then the next time we might need him for something, that lawyer won’t let us within a mile of him. Jesus Christ, Ren. You know this. Why are we having this conversation?’

Gary’s phone beeped. He checked it. He turned the screen to Ren.

‘Looks like you’ve got your one hundred per cent guarantee,’ said Ren.

13 (#ulink_ec822cbe-585e-554b-8aa5-4d5159cfde10)

Ren and Gary drove through the city of Arvada and ten miles along Highway 72 into the unincorporated part of Jefferson County.

And another jurisdiction joins the party.

The flashing lights of the police cruisers led them to the small collection of warehouses where Donna Darisse’s body had been found by a carload of college kids looking for nothing other than an out-of-the-way place to go through a few six-packs.

Cliff James was standing sentry.

‘Hey,’ said Ren, hugging him.

He held her extra long.

‘How’s Brenda doing?’ said Gary.

‘We’re doing good,’ said Cliff. He smiled, but his eyes were sad. ‘It’s not a pretty sight back there.’

Donna Darisse lay beside a row of dumpsters, outside one of the warehouses.

Robbie, Everett and Janine were gathered a distance away from the body.

Poor Janine. So much for her plan to be unconscious.

Ren and Gary went straight to Donna Darisse’s body. She was naked, except for her bloodstained white cowboy boots, lying on her stomach, facing away from the wall, her arms behind her back, her wrists bound with cable ties. Her face was swollen to twice its size, the flesh bursting and cut and oozing. Her red dress and tiny red lace G-string were discarded ten feet away, along with a blonde wig. Cheap glamor, transformed into something poignant and tragic when met with such boundless savagery.

Ren looked for a moment at the stars above, and breathed in and out, in and out, until she could face looking back down.

This is beyond horrific.

From her lower back, down her bare buttocks, and between Donna Darisse’s legs was a terrible mess that could have been nothing other than the result of a chemical burn.

Acid.

Ren felt like her body was liquefying inside. She felt spikes of pain in the same places where Donna Darisse had been brutalized. Her stomach churned.

I have no words.

They went over to join the others. Everyone looked grim-faced and tired.

‘Dr Tolman is on vacation,’ said Janine. ‘We have a stand-in …’

A hooting laugh broke out. They all looked up, knowing that it meant who that stand-in was: Dr Mark Gaston, the new Medical Examiner for the 18th Judicial District, which covered Arapahoe, Douglas, Elbert and Lincoln Counties. Gaston was forty-five, but looked early thirties. His pouting lips were his most striking feature, followed by the prince-from-an-animation hair: light brown, thick, and wavy, the type of hair that marked out generations of the same family, the type that was celebrated in portraits.

Arrogant hair. Book of Wrong.

Gaston walked toward them.

Ren leaned into the others. ‘Gaston always looks like he’s been called away from seducing a nineteen-year-old. “OMG – you’re a Medical Examiner! So hot!”’