The Face of Death

'Understandable,' I murmur. 'Are Sims and Butler still here?'

'Yep.'

'Go on.'

'They enter the home and it's a fucking bloodbath from the get-go.'

'Have you been inside?' I interrupt.

'No. No one's been in there since she got hold of a weapon. So they go in, and it's obvious that something bad happened, and that it happened recently. Lucky for us, Sims and Butler have dealt with murder scenes before, so they don't lose their heads. They give anything that looks like evidence a wide berth.'

'Good,' I say.

'Yeah. They hear noise on the second floor, and call out for the girl. No answer. They proceed up the stairs, and find her in the master bedroom, along with three dead bodies. She's got a gun.' He consults his notes. 'A nine mm of some kind, per the officers. Things change fast at that point. Now they're nervous. They're thinking maybe she's responsible for whatever happened here, and they point their weapons at her, tell her to drop the gun, etc., etc. That's when she puts it to her own head.'

'And things change again.'

'Right. She's crying, and starts screaming at them. Saying, quote,

'I want to talk to Smoky Barrett or I'll kill myself!' End quote. They try to talk her down, but give it up after she points the gun at them a few times. They call it in and'--he opens his arms to indicate the overwhelming presence of law enforcement around us--'here we are.' He nods his head toward the SWAT commander. 'Lieutenant Dawes knew your name and got someone to get ahold of me. I came here, checked things out, called you.'

I turn to Dawes, study him. I see a fit, alert, hard-eyed professional policeman with calm hands and brunet hair in a crew cut. He's on the short side, about five-nine, but he's lean and coiled and ready. He radiates calm confidence. He's a SWAT stereotype, something I always find comforting whenever I encounter it. 'What do you think, Lieutenant?'

He studies me for a few seconds. Then shrugs. 'She's sixteen, ma'am. A gun's a gun, but . . .' He shrugs again. 'She's sixteen.'

She's too young to die, he's saying. Definitely too young for me to kill with- out it ruining my day.

'Do you have a negotiator on-site?' I ask.

I'm asking about a hostage negotiator. Someone trained in talking to unbalanced people carrying guns. Negotiator is a bit of a misnomer, actually; they usually operate in three-man teams.

'Nope,' Dawes replies. 'We currently have three negotiating teams in LA. Some guy decided today was the day he was going to jump off the top of the Roosevelt Hotel in Hollywood--that's one. There's a dad about to lose custody of his kids who decided to put a shotgun to his head--that's two. The last team got T-boned in an intersection this morning on their way to a training seminar, if you can believe that.'

He shakes his head in disgust. 'It was a truck that hit them. They'll live, but they're all in the hospital. We're on our own.' He pauses. 'I could handle this all kinds of ways, Agent Barrett. Tear gas, nonlethal ammo. But tear gas is going to fuck up what sounds like a murder scene. And nonlethal ammo, well . . . she could still shoot herself even after getting hit with a beanbag.' He smiles without humor. 'Seems like the best plan involves you going in there and talking to a crazy teenager holding a gun.'

I give him my best sucking-lemons sour-face. 'Thanks.'

He gets serious. 'You gotta wear body armor and have your weapon out and ready to fire.' He cocks his head at me, interest sparking in his gray eyes. 'You're some kind of super shooter, right?'

'Annie Oakley,' I reply.

He looks doubtful.

'She can put out candle flames and shoot holes through quarters, honey-love,' Callie says to him. 'I've seen her do it.'

'Me too,' Alan growls.

I'm not trying to brag, and this is not bravado. I have a unique relationship with handguns. I really can shoot out candle flames, and I really have shot holes through quarters thrown into the air. I don't know where this gift came from--no one in my family even liked guns. Dad was gentle and easygoing. Mom had an Irish temper, but she still covered her eyes during the violent parts of movies. When I was seven, a friend of my father's took me and my dad to a shooting range. I was able to hit what I wanted with minimal instruction, even then. I'd been in love with guns ever since.

'Okay, I believe you,' Dawes says, raising his unencumbered hand in a gesture of surrender. His face grows serious. His eyes get a little distant. 'Targets are one thing. Have you ever shot a person?'

I'm not offended by him asking this. Since I have shot and killed another human being, I understand why he asks, and know that he's right to ask. It is different, and you can't know just how different until you've done it.

'Yes,' I respond.

I think the fact that I don't offer any further details convinces him most. He's killed too, and knows it's not something you feel like bragging about. Or talking about. Or thinking about if you can help it.

'Right. So . . . body armor on, gun out, and if it comes down to a choice between you and her, do what you gotta do. Hopefully, you can talk her down.'

'Hopefully.' I turn to Alan. 'Do we have any idea--at all--why she's asked for me?'

He shakes his head. 'Nope.'

'What about her--any details on who she is?'

'Not much. People here are into the 'good fences make good neighbors' philosophy. The old guy, Jenkins, did say that she was adopted.'

'Really?'

'Yeah. About a year ago. He's not close with the family, but he and the dad talked to each other from their driveways every now and then. That's how he knew who the girl was.'

'Interesting. She could be the doer.'

'It's possible. No one else had anything substantial to offer. The Kingsleys were good neighbors, meaning they were quiet and minded their own business.'

I sigh and look toward the house. What had started out as a beautiful day was turning into a bad one fast. I turn to Dawes.

'If I'm acting as negotiator, that means I have command for now. Any problems with that?'

'No, ma'am.'

'I don't want anyone getting trigger-happy, Dawes. No matter how long it takes. Don't go behind my back and start rappelling from the roof or anything cute.'

Dawes smiles at me. He's not offended. This is standard fare. 'I've been to a few of these, Agent Barrett. Contrary to popular belief, my guys aren't itching to shoot someone.'

'I've worked with our own SWAT, Lieutenant. I know all about getting pumped up for a call.'

'Even so.'

I study him. Believe him. Nod.

'In that case--do you have some body armor I can borrow?'

'You don't have your own?'

'I did, but it was recalled. Mine and four hundred others in the same lot--faulty composition resulting in them being overly brittle, or something like that. I'm waiting for a replacement.'

'Ouch. Good catch on their part then, I guess.'

'Except that I had reason to wear it three times before they figured out that it might not actually stop a bullet.'

He shrugs. 'Vest won't protect you from a head shot, anyway. It's all a roll of the dice.'

With that encouraging observation, Dawes goes off to get my Kevlar.

'He seems calm enough,' Alan observes.