Killing Ways

Ren closed the door behind her and walked with Everett into the bullpen – the open-plan office the task force worked out of. Their boss, Supervisory Special Agent Gary Dettling, had his own office. The admin team had theirs. There were two interview rooms, two conference rooms, an A/V room, two cells, rest rooms, a creaky elevator, a haunted basement – everything brought together under the roof of one of Denver’s oldest buildings, The Livestock Exchange Building – an icon of cowboy heritage.

‘Well?’ said Gary, looking up, hands on his hips. He was a fit and handsome man of few words.

I am tiring of you, Gary. The look that says ‘impress me’, ‘prove yourself to me’ every time. Your smart-ass bullshit. Everything.

‘Early morning landfill search it is!’ said Ren.

Gary’s face said it all.

Ren looked at Everett. ‘I don’t know about you, but is Briar just a dumb asshole?’

‘That’s in no doubt,’ said Everett.

‘I get that he doesn’t have a face for TV,’ said Ren, ‘and that indefinably weird shit falls out of his mouth, but …’ She shrugged. ‘Does he say things that raise my suspicion because he is guilty or because he is just dumb, dumb, dumb? Because he has no filter? Because he cannot understand that in an interview with a Fed, you might want to not say some of the shit your low-flying brain fires out? I mean, even if you just imagine the physical distance between your brain and your mouth – that’s time to pause, isn’t it? Pause while it’s at your nostrils or something. God, do you ever feel like the world is just populated with a lot of really dumb people? His face! I want to slap it.’

She drew breath.

You are all looking at me funny. Am I talking too fast again? Keep up, bitches. Jesus.

‘So, here’s what we know,’ said Ren. ‘Hope Coulson was last seen, alone, at eight thirty p.m. leaving Good Shepherd Church on East 7th Avenue where she’d gone to host a youth meeting. Everyone else had left ahead of her – a person walking by ID’d her. She was to drive right home – that’s what she told Jonathan. He was out working at the pizza place, her last text to him at eight fifteen p.m. was “See you at home, kiss kiss”. That’s it. We have no witnesses. There are no HALO cams in the immediate vicinity.’

Denver had over one hundred HALO – High Activity Location Observation – cameras, all monitored from a central location by DPD.

‘Hope Coulson’s car was still in the church parking lot the next morning,’ said Ren. ‘Did she leave her car because she was planning on drinking? Wouldn’t she need her car to get to work the next morning? Was she having an affair? In that case, again, why wouldn’t she drive home if she was planning to take a guy back there? Unless she was going back to his place.’ She shrugged. ‘And if she was going for a drink alone, wouldn’t she have chosen somewhere near her apartment? She was a twenty-minute drive from there. So she either walked a route with no HALO cams, or someone drove by and picked her up. But this can’t have been pre-arranged on her phone, because there were no calls or texts to indicate that. And nothing came up with friends, family, acquaintances, work, church members, etc. The neighborhood canvas came up empty. We have a list of vehicles and owners with no priors.’

‘Could something have happened at the church?’ said Everett. ‘I don’t know – someone made a pass at her. Maybe she needed to go have a drink, calm down … she decided to have another …’ He paused. ‘Yet, no one from the local bars ID’d her. Her face has been everywhere. At this point, we would have heard something.’

‘My gut is just not liking Jonathan Briar for this,’ said Ren.

‘How many times has the partner killed the wife or girlfriend in the house at night, then claimed they never made it home?’ said Gary.

‘Many, many times,’ said Ren. ‘Just this is not one of them.’

As everyone dispersed, Ren sat down at her desk and dragged her keyboard toward her. She started typing up her notes, super speedy. Her phone rang.

Go away.

She kept typing.

Fuck. Off.

The phone kept ringing.

Her cell phone beeped.

Jesus Christ.

She glanced at the text. It was from Gary: Pick up.

She picked up. ‘Hi.’

‘Can you come into my office, please?’

‘Sure,’ said Ren. ‘What’s the emergency? Nothing you can say over the phone?’

Silence.

Alrighty then.

She walked into Gary’s office.

‘You stink,’ said Gary.

‘Wait ’til you smell me after the landfill search,’ said Ren, sitting down.

Gary was staring at her.

‘Hold on – are you serious?’ said Ren. ‘What do you mean stink? Literally?’

‘In a way that tells me if I don’t open a window, I’ll have to check my own blood-alcohol level.’

Oh.

Shit.

‘Please tell me,’ said Gary, ‘that you did not go drinking last night with some lost soul you picked up at your meeting.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Ren. ‘I didn’t even have a meeting last night.’ Which is the truth.

‘Just remember you’re not there to make friends,’ said Gary. ‘Or even eye contact. The rule is you walk in there alone, you walk out alone.’

‘That’s me – Renegade.’ She fired an imaginary gun. She paused. ‘Was that your way of trying to find out if I’m going to my meetings?’

He eyeballed her. ‘Lose the tone. This is about my concern that you are over the blood-alcohol level this morning.’

‘I apologize for my tone,’ said Ren. ‘And yes, I did drink last night. As people often do after work, meeting or no meeting. Is that forbidden? Is the whole of Safe Streets fired?’ Stop. Talking.

Gary dared her to hold eye contact with him.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Ren.

‘Go.’

Eight hours later, Ren and Everett were six drinks down in a new bar off Sixteenth Street.

‘Do not let me drink tonight,’ said Ren.

They laughed. Ren looked around her. ‘There is nothing more unattractive to me than a group of men in their late forties in leisurewear on a night out,’ said Ren. ‘Especially the ones who were once hot, you can see the traces, and now they’re just beat-down and filled with loss and white carbs.’