Behind The Veil: A Gina Harwood Novel Page 4
He took a moment to compose himself and inhaled deeply through his nose. “Why did you go all good cop? No, scratch that,” he said, lowering himself into the metal interrogation chair in front of her. “I get that whole he-man, she-woman smooth thing, fine. Can you tell me next time so I have some time to prepare before you switch roles on me?”
“Jesus, Snyder,” she grinned at him. She reminded him of a toothy, carnivorous beast when she smiled like that. Going in for a kill. “Be a little flexible. Why were you so hard on the kid anyway? He's not a suspect, and his mom just died.” Her smile faded and she looked at him accusingly. “He doesn't know anything. I doubt his sister will either.”
“Doesn't mean we shouldn't try.” Morgan fought a surge of guilt. He had been harsh on the boy; he wondered why he thought it was a good idea to bring the two of them in to begin with. He had the vague impression that it hadn't been his doing, anyway, so he didn't understand why he felt so defensive about the choice.
“I think we should let Mr. O'Malley off the hook.” She looked annoyingly thoughtful again, the plastic splintering with a horrible sound between her canines.
“Yeah, you just said he didn't know anything. Why wouldn't we?”
“No, the father. The husband. Peter.”
Morgan started forward. “He's the only suspect we've got, Harwood. Christ. Just let him go?”
She glared at him down her nose. “He's got a solid alibi and we have no evidence linking him. We have nothing. Forensics hasn't been a whit of help. No searches have come up with any matches to known killers' m.o.'s.” Morgan breathed a sigh of relief as she set the pen down on the table. “We let him go, throw a tail on him for a while, and see if we get lucky. Exhaust all our other avenues in the meantime.”
“We don't have very many other avenues,” grumbled Morgan. “And he is lying about something.”
In such a modestly-sized city, any sort of gruesome killing spawned a media frenzy, and the public was hungry for an arrest to be made. The department heads were even hungrier. They'd read the file, the forensics reports, and the briefs, but it didn't really matter; they wanted bold, swift, and decisive action – that meant a killer behind bars, quick and clean.
Morgan was pretty certain that wasn't going to happen unless Harwood had one of her occasional magic tricks up a sleeve he couldn't see. Traditional sleuthing hadn't uncovered anything but smoke and mirrors. Not even any good suburban scandal. No motives. No murder weapon or gloves or physical evidence – cops were still combing the area, but so far, to no avail. Morgan even spent some time out there the previous night; watching, waiting, looking, thinking.
He'd seen Harwood in her civvies, doing the exact same thing. She hadn't seen him.
She sighed deeply and brought a hand up to rub the bridge of her nose. The shadows spilled over her face and, for just a moment, Morgan thought he saw someone else entirely sitting in front of him. A beautiful, single woman in her early thirties, strawberry hair cascading over her shoulders, too-light skin that freckled and burned in the sun. A tight body and a quick mind. Then, the light returned, and it was only Harwood. He shook his head.
“Let's get the sister over with,” she announced, her voice clear and strong, and not sounding anywhere near as tired as she looked.
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Weed didn't help his friend like he hoped it would. For that matter, it didn't help him as much as he hoped, either. Marcus set the cashed pipe on the table and let out the smoke he'd been holding on to. He grimaced and fanned at the smoke.
What was this world coming to when Marcus Owens couldn't get high to solve his problems?
Marcus' fingers started their automatic routine of packing the next pipe, but he forced them to stop and settle once he noticed their activity. No use wasting more money. He looked over at Jake, who was staring at the ceiling. He didn't look alive.
“Dude,” said Marcus hazily, his tongue feeling familiarly too-thick in his mouth. “You ok?”
He'd given up trying to get Jake to party with him a few years ago. Jake tried it a few times, but he said he hated how stupid it made him feel; like his brain wasn't working. Marcus knew the feeling, but that's exactly why he did it. He preferred it to the thoughts that crept in when his brain was up to its normal speed. Thoughts were way easier to handle when he was high; they usually consisted of random connections and, inevitably, hunger. Sometimes no thoughts at all, just the comfortable feeling of neurons smothered under a hazy blanket of smoke.
Jake didn't move any part of his body except his mouth, which seemed out of sync with his words. “I'm not ok, Marcus. My family is broken.” It seemed to take Jake a long time to form each word. Marcus wasn't sure if that was the case, or if it was taking him a long time to hear each word. “I think Dad lied to me.”
Marcus considered this sagely. “About what?” was his eventual reply.
“I'm not sure,” said Jake's mouth, followed later by the words themselves floating through the air and crashing into Marcus' ears. He winced from the impact, and decided to put the rest of the weed back in its stash hole. No more tonight.
Marcus tried again. “Why would he lie?” he asked, concentrating on clarity.
Jake didn't answer verbally, just shrugged and fell over to his side on the orange sofa, staring forward, unblinking. This disturbed Marcus considerably, since his friend looked dead lying there, unmoving. He looked away and hummed to himself; stealing a glance back at the sofa, Jake hadn't moved and was still not blinking. Concentrating hard, Marcus could see his chest inflating and deflating, and breathed a sigh of relief.
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The funeral was a blur of faces Jake barely recognized, teary-eyed and offering their well-wishes as the family stumbled in to find their seats. He felt numb, the seemingly unending well of tears having run dry. Everything was viewed through a haze of grief, tinged yellow around the edges, like an antique cloth. His father's face looked better, his right eye visible and the bruises less virulently purple across his face; the nose was taped up but his profile looked almost normal again.
Jack Fowler held on to Harry as though he were the only way she were able to walk anywhere without falling down. Jake supposed that could actually be the case. His sister was wearing an ancient black dress that was at least a size too big for her; it was the same dress she'd worn to their godfather's funeral a few years back. This bothered Jake for a moment, thinking reproachfully that Harry should have bought something nice and new for their mother, until he realized that his suit was also the standard black suit he wore to both funerals and weddings. He barely remembered putting it on that morning. He felt like he could barely remember anything at all.
Marcus sat at the end of the front row, the family row; this wasn't a problem since there wasn't much family to fill the row. Just the immediate family – no aunts, uncles, grandparents. Jake hadn't ever given this much thought before now; at the moment he was glad for any distraction from being in the present moment. Their grandparents had all died before Harry or Jake were born. No siblings to beget cousins. No extended family. Just them.
Friends of the family were well-represented though; some, Jake knew from dinner parties his mom had thrown when he was younger (at which he had been cruelly forced to be 'presentable' for guests). Some were his dad's coworkers; some, he guessed, were his mom's. He hadn't ever gone to visit her at work; he had no interest in a hobby store, and didn't bother asking her about what interest she took from it, or why she even worked at all when she didn't need to. He should have, he realized. He didn't really know who she was at all, beyond her role as his mother.
This wasn't turning out to be a distraction at all. Jake frowned and concentrated on finding a less painful subject.
Marcus was pretty well cleaned-up, by Marcus standards, Jake noticed. His goatee was trimmed, his unruly hair was tamed into a slightly lopsided ponytail, and he had on long, black jeans and a button-down shirt. Jake was taken aback. He had no idea Marcus owned a
button-down shirt. Marcus turned slightly and caught Jake's eye for a moment, before quickly looking away; he was weeping, his whole face shiny with tears and the collar of his shirt a slightly darker blue from the liquid.
Jake swept his eyes away, his gaze landing on the ornate, closed coffin in front of him. Snapping his eyes shut, Jake prayed to be anywhere else, any time else, to not have to go through this. He prayed to be swallowed up by the earth, never to be seen again. He felt Harry lace her fingers through his and squeeze; he took her hand in both of his and squeezed back. Jake opened his eyes and steeled himself as the funeral director indicated for everyone to be seated.
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The first twenty-four hours of any case were critical, thought Gina. Any clues, traces, senses of what happened and whodunnit, the first twenty-four hours were by far the most likely to yield that kind of information. If that first day were marked by mistakes and carelessness, the whole case would be tainted. If anything were missed...
She scowled at the air. If there was anything to have been missed in the first place, they missed it. They were a week out. The crime scene was now just pictures and memories, and sheaves of paper. The body had been autopsied, sampled, and turned back over to the family. The initial media frenzy about the gory killing had turned into a media spectacle about incompetent police work – it didn't matter whether the story was deserved or not, public opinion had a way of disregarding facts. And unfortunately, public opinion tended to directly impact the pressure placed on them by their superiors.
In this case, the pressure was high, and sustained. She rather thought they would be happy if Gina and Snyder just plucked a homeless man up off the street and scapegoated him. It didn't matter if the charge stuck, it just mattered that the threatened public referendum didn't actually come to pass. Not that she (or Snyder – much as she disliked him, he was painfully ethical) would consider that, of course; at least, not for more than a few minutes.
She scowled again. She hated politics.
“That's attractive. You should do that more often.” Snyder's voice assaulted her ears and she turned to see him mocking her scowl. “How does it look on me? Dashing? Dangerous?” He twisted his face up again, looking ridiculous.
She turned back around to the file and turned the page wordlessly.
“Oh, come off it, Harwood. Silent treatment went out of fashion a decade ago.” He slumped into his chair. “I'm not having any better a time than you are.”
“Then we can be miserable together.” She didn't look up from the page containing pictures of the body. She turned the page to re-read the transcript of Peter O'Malley's interrogation for the hundredth time.
“I suppose if we're fired, at least that'd be something,” he continued glumly. She rolled her eyes beneath her lids and bit her lower lip. “Then you wouldn't have to put up with me, and I'd probably see my family more.”
Surprised, Gina turned to look at her partner, who looked as pathetic as he sounded. “What family?” she demanded.
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I didn't just pop out of a cabbage patch. I have parents. A brother. Two nieces I never see.” He shrugged.
“Oh,” she said lamely, turning back around.
“What did you think?” he snapped. “I don't have time for a wife, Harwood. And according to my exes, I don't have time for a girlfriend either.”
Gina felt her cheeks redden. “I... I know,” she said. The uncertainty in her voice made her angry, with herself and at Snyder. “I don't think the time is the problem, Snyder. Looked at yourself lately? Christ. I've seen mutts take better care of themselves,” she muttered, having a hard time getting her wayward tongue to still. She hated it when she got mad, she was liable to say anything – to anyone. The trait had earned her a two-week suspension a few years back when she flew off the handle at the Chief.
Snyder looked at her like a hurt puppy, and she regretted saying anything at all. He stood and walked back out of the office, leaving her staring at the same sentence she'd already restarted twice.
Gina sighed and closed the folder, pushing it aside. She picked up another, much thinner file – a young, African-American victim, single gunshot wound to the head. Execution-style. Gang-related, probably drug-related, and much, much more cut and dry.
4
November was probably the worst month of Jake's twenty-five-year existence. Normal everyday actions proved difficult, let alone activities that took any brainpower or emotional investment. The sometimes-relationship he'd been keeping up with a girl named Mandy fell apart, simply because he had a hard time seeing the point of it all. Girls didn't seem to take being thought of as pointless well enough to stick around. His band suffered, with Matt railing on him to “try harder,” sometimes with a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and a few words about the “pain” he must be feeling; those conversations sucked. Only Marcus seemed to understand that he really didn't want to talk about it, really didn't want to have anything expected of him. Not yet. Not now. Just let him escape into some mediocre music he didn't feel and leave him the hell alone. On the plus side, he'd been chosen as Employee of the Month at Telemarq, because all they wanted in their employees was a falsely cheerful and otherwise devoid semi-human that could follow a script. This month, Jake fit that description to a tee. That, he could manage.
December announced itself with an unwelcome crash. Any hopes Jake might have had of rekindling a normal life evaporated with the frigid winds of the coldest winter Tulsa had seen in thirty years.
5
“You haven't heard the best part, yet...who it is...” Snyder leaned against the door frame of the coroner's examination room, his bright teeth gleaming at his partner.
Gina glared at Snyder. “Yeah, how weak do you think my memory is, exactly? I don't usually forget people I've questioned.”
His face fell. She twisted her mouth into a triumphant grin. “Oh, well. You didn't mention, so...” he let the rest of the sentence trail off, but he didn't need to say it. He thought she didn't recognize the victim. He thought she'd forget someone closely involved with the most gruesome, intriguing, and hopelessly unresolved case in her career.
Snyder obviously thought very little of her; she felt a pang in her chest, a tightness. Disappointment. “Harriet Fowler,” she announced coldly, eyes challenging him. “Daughter of Susan O'Malley.” She grimaced. “You really thought I didn't recognize her? I knew the address before I even saw the body. Jesus, Snyder,” she spat. “Find yourself another partner if you think so little of me.”
He looked confused and more hurt than she thought possible. “I don't, I...” he never finished that particular sentence. It was a habit of his that annoyed her, yet another. He just let himself trail off, and moved to examine the corpse on the table.
Gina Harwood sighed and joined him.
It hurt a little, made her tricks a little less effective, this knowing the victim. Not that she really knew her, after all – she had only talked to her a few times. About her mother. About the family. Her father. Recognizing the body's face as someone she spoke to less than a month ago made it far more difficult to de-gender, de-humanize the corpse. It wasn't “it.” It was Harriet, who insisted, even through her tears, that she be called “Harry.” Even to a detective she didn't know, who had only called her in to ask her hard questions about her family history. To no avail, of course. They were no closer to solving Susan O'Malley's murder than when her blood was still steaming hot on the kitchen floor.
And now she was joined by her daughter.
The crime scenes couldn't have been more different. Harry's body wasn't discovered in her home, she was found dangling off of the 21st street bridge; a morning walker had noticed the rope first, out of place, something ever-so-slightly different about his daily ritual. His name was George Compton, and it came as no surprise to Gina that he was mildly OCD. Anyone who would notice a new rope, among many, tied to one of the struts of the pedestrian bridge had to have an attention to detail bord
ering on a disorder. Eventually someone would have noticed the body from below, probably, but Compton's discovery of Harry's body hanging upside-down, tied at the swollen ankles by a thick fisherman's rope was timely. The body was only a few hours old when it was cut down by the authorities.
Gina considered how aging started over at death. What a cruel joke, she thought. She mentally advised Harry that she didn't look more than an hour old, if that; assured her that she looked great for her age. She smiled ruefully at the thought.
“What's so funny?” Snyder furrowed his brow at her; his brow was heavy with grief. He felt it too, she thought, this dealing with a corpse with a name. A name they knew, a body that had a personality, feelings, had cried in front of them. Had asked to be called by a more familiar name. Had begged them to stop asking her questions she couldn't answer.
Her smile melted away into a puddle of sadness. “Nothing,” she almost whispered. “Sorry.”
He turned back to the body. She saw him brush a strand of hair from her forehead with his gloved hand. This was hard for him, she realized. Maybe harder for him than for her. Gina was puzzled. Morgan never seemed to have a problem with the dead. They were just dead.
She furrowed her brow, examining the thought for what had struck her as wrong. 'Snyder never seemed...' she amended to herself. Not 'Morgan.' 'Snyder.'
If Snyder noticed her mental gymnastics, he ignored them entirely. He was listening to the doctor, nodding at all the right moments, making small “mm-hmm” sounds whenever there was silence. His face had reworked itself into an impassive mask; an unmoving, official face. A face that felt nothing. A face that just did a job.
Gina envied him, then, and not for the first time. Then, envy gave way to disappointment in herself. This bickering with her partner, it got them nowhere. It didn't bring Harry any closer to life; it didn't bring her killer any closer to a cell. It was counter-productive. It was stupid, childish.