Killing Ways

‘Jesus, Ren.’ Everett craned his neck. ‘I need to see who you are savaging. “Filled with loss and white carbs” …’

‘I know, I know,’ said Ren. ‘And, really, can something be filled with loss? Like, with an absence of something. But why abandon all hope at that age? You’ve half your life left. Go to the fucking gym.’ Like Ben. Like Gary.Like you. ‘And I say this while not actually finding super-buff bodies attractive.’

‘Which makes no sense,’ said Everett.

‘I maintain that a lot of unhappiness in life is caused by people trying to make sense of things,’ said Ren. ‘Try this: for one week when someone says something strange to you, just say to yourself “interesting and senseless, goodbye”. Like, goodbye to considering it any further.’

‘If I did that, I don’t think I could actually carry out my job,’ said Everett.

‘OK – maybe restrict it just to things I say.’

‘The things I can do with those reclaimed hours,’ said Everett. ‘Go to the gym, for example.’

‘Shall we dance?’ said Ren. ‘It’s filthy rap.’

‘Yes, we shall,’ said Everett.

They hit the empty dance floor and immediately drew attention. Everett was clean-cut, dark-haired, side-parted kind of handsome. Ren had an exotic look of wild abandon.

‘And so they danced, and the eyes of the onlookers fell upon them!’ said Ren into his ear.

This is high-larious!

Everett was laughing at her, but when he really started to move, Ren was the one who had to fall away to the side she was laughing so hard. He was an excellent dancer.

They went back to the bar and slumped into their seats.

I am soooo shitfaced. ‘I think I look like a whore when I dance the way I really want to dance.’

‘I agree,’ said Everett. ‘Don’t ever change.’

‘And you dance like no one is looking,’ said Ren. ‘Pinterest gold.’

At two a.m., a cab with Ren in it pulled up outside the home of Annie Lowell, a dear Bryce family friend, who had allowed Ren to house-sit her beautiful, historic home while she was touring Europe.

‘This is me!’ said Ren, reaching forward and handing the driver twenty dollars.

She looked out the window. Then back at the driver.

‘Oh, shit,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t live here any more.’

3 (#uec5b7518-c87b-5cf1-8417-13f4ed28e2a9)

It was a beautiful ninety-degree morning in Denver: the landfill site sweltered under the same sun that was giving everyone else’s day a glorious start. Ren was sitting in the passenger seat of her Jeep.

This cannot be my life.

Outside, the rest of Safe Streets were already dressed in white Tyvek suits, Kevlar gloves, and black half-face masks, sharing a range of looks that covered misery, repulsion, sorrow, and panic.

The panic was flickering in the eyes of Janine Hooks, Ren’s closest friend, and ex-Jefferson County cold case detective. Janine had joined Safe Streets three months earlier. She was a brilliant, thorough investigator with a sharp, wise mind and a heart of gold. Ren was certain Janine had an eating disorder, but had never dared to raise it.

It breaks my heart how tiny you look inside your suit.

Janine was staring down at her feet, lining the tips of her boots up.

Terrified about wearing a mask. Or shy around Robbie.

Robbie Truax was ex-Aurora PD, with Safe Streets from the beginning. Janine had met him first through Ren, and was comfortable liking him from afar, a little less so now that they were up-close colleagues.

Everett came into Ren’s line of vision, walking her way. He pulled open the door of the Jeep.

‘How’s my girl?’

‘Seriously,’ said Ren, ‘I have zero idea how I got into the apartment I did not remember I lived in.’

‘Too much grammar in that sentence …’

‘But you look fine – that’s not fair,’ said Ren. ‘I don’t think I can go through with this.’

‘You can. You can always puke into the mask.’

‘Jesus Christ. Thanks. My ultimate nightmare.’

Fifteen minutes and one fake urgent phone call later, Ren was suited up with the others.

I made it.

They stood in a group, still apart from the other searchers.

‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Let’s go through the hand signals again …’

Everyone looked at her. She pushed her hand into the circle, low down, and raised her middle finger. ‘Fuck. This.’

The others smiled.

And fuck this heat.

Ren surveyed the landscape ahead of them: rotting food, filthy diapers, decaying animals … stop the inventory of this hellhole.

‘Stretched out before us,’ said Ren, ‘is a landscape that looks like how my mouth feels. There may be a cadaver in both. May your masks serve and protect you.’

She walked toward the rest of the searchers: Denver PD detectives, Sheriff’s Office investigators, landfill site workers, and volunteers.

Volunteers, you extraordinary people. Have you no place else to be? God bless you all.

They moved in and began the search. It was as hot, foul and arduous as they expected. Two days later, they were back. Four days. Five. On day six, the body of Hope Coulson, hanging from black plastic coming undone, was hoisted from a stinking mound of life’s waste and set on the ground at the feet of the Safe Streets’ team. Janine Hooks’ eagle eye had spotted the bag, the Duck tape wrapped around it at each end with extra at the center.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.