occurred to Longarm for the second time that after battering the girl to death, the killer had bothered to arrange the body with some care, folding the hands, closing the eyes, doing those small services that one did to prepare the dead. But not, of course, washing her, or they never would have seen the semen dried on her flesh. Damned interesting, he thought.
“I think … I’m pretty sure I know who she was,” Parminter said finally.
“Yeah?”
“She was … I believe she was one of Norma Brantley’s girls.”
“And that would be?”
“A trollop. One of the girls working in the local whorehouse,” Parminter explained. “I don’t know her name, but I believe I saw her there a couple weeks ago. Just a glimpse. I could be wrong.”
“Yeah, well, it’s one of the hazards of the occupation, isn’t it. Guy gets a little too vigorous when he’s beating up on a whore, sometimes they go under. No real harm done, the way most see it. Just some hooker. Not like a real person’s been harmed.” Longarm scowled. “I don’t think I ever heard of anybody getting any serious punishment for killing a whore. You know?”
The mayor looked away, either no longer interested or perhaps mildly embarrassed to have been able to recognize the dead girl.
Hell, the case was as good as closed already, Longarm figured. Eventually old Darby Travis would come home. If and when he did, someone might go to the trouble of asking him about the girl who’d been found dead in his cabin. Or then again, no one might bother with useless questions. Easier yet, Travis wouldn’t bother coming back, and pretty soon the whole thing would be forgotten and done with. It seemed a shitty fate for what had been a pretty girl.
But it wasn’t Longarm’s business.
He let go of the girl’s shoulder, allowing the body to roll onto its back again.
When he did that he caught a momentary glimpse of something shining on the cold, pale left-side cheek.
The tiny, gleaming spot caught the light and reflected it back like a diamond chip. It didn’t seem …
Longarm tugged the body toward him again and held the lantern close. There. On the cheek. And there again frozen on a curling eyelash.
Tears.
The girl was crying when she died. Alone. Unwanted. Undefended. Garbage in human form. But so young and so pretty and crying as she died.
Something about that reached inside Longarm’s belly and twisted his gut in knots.
Something about the tears frozen onto her cheek touched him and made him want to make whoever killed this girl—barely more than a child, she’d been—understand the waste of it, make the son of a bitch know the pain and the despair and the ugliness of her death.
Not that he could take a hand in it, of course. This death was not his case to look into. The jurisdiction was strictly local. Of course it was. “Reckon we can go now,” Longarm suggested.
“What about …?” The mayor motioned weakly toward the naked corpse lying on Old Man Travis’s bed.
“She’ll keep. Till the spring thaw anyhow.” Longarm arranged the bedclothes to cover the girl’s slim body, pausing for only a moment to peer at what should have been a serene and lovely face. Then he turned, brisk and frowning. “Let’s get the hell outa here, Mr. Mayor.”
Chapter 8
The trip from the Travis cabin back to Kittstown was even colder and more miserable than the walk out had been. But then Longarm and Parminter had been away from heat for a much longer period now, and were thoroughly chilled even before they set out. By the time they reached the warmth and the shelter of Parminter’s store, Longarm was fairly sure his nose hairs were so brittle they were fixing to break off. The tips of his fingers stung as if they were afire—an odd sort of reaction to the cold but a common one—and his ears were completely numb.
Parminter shed his coat with a grunt of anticipation and said, “I have some brandy behind the counter, and personally I intend to have a slug of it. Sort of put some heat in my belly. Care to join me?”
Brandy wasn’t Longarm’s normal tipple of choice. But there were times when a departure from the norm could seem a right splendid idea. “I’d be grateful.”
The mayor produced a bottle that was dusty with age, and handed it over. Longarm removed the cork and took a long pull at the slightly sweet contents. The flavor was nothing he would want to repeat, but the warmth that flowed through his stomach was more than welcome. “Damn, but that’s better. Thanks.”
He handed the bottle back to the mayor, who helped himself to a drink and offered, “Another?”
Longarm shook his head. “No, that’s enough to light the fires but not so much as to effect the judgment. Look, would you mind if I tagged along when you go talk to Norma Brantley?”
Parminter looked puzzled. “Why would I want to talk to Norma?”
“Sorry,” Longarm quickly apologized. “I kinda thought you’d be wanting to look into that girl’s murder.”
“Murder is a very serious word, Longarm. And you said it yourself. The girl was a whore. It isn’t like a regular citizen was killed.”
“If you don’t want to call it murder, then how ‘bout manslaughter? That’s a perfectly good legal charge in this territory. And there’s not even the possibility of a hanging sentence to upset the voters. You could charge the mur —I mean the killer—you could charge the killer with manslaughter.”
“It could have been accidental,” Parminter suggested. “Don’t you think?”
“No, sir, fact is I don’t think even a high-priced lawyer would have balls enough to pretend that was accidental.
