The Face of Death

'Keep an eye on things anyway.'

'They'll have to go through both of us,' Callie says. 'I'll flash them a little leg, Alan will terrify them, end of problem.'

'Just worry about what to do once you're inside,' Alan says. 'You ever done any negotiation?'

'I've taken the class. But no, I've never dealt with a 'situation.' '

'Key is to listen. No lies unless you're sure you can get away with them. It's about rapport, so lies are a deal breaker. Watch for emotional triggers and give them a nice, wide berth.'

'Sure, simple.'

'Oh yeah, and don't die.'

'Very funny.'

Dawes reappears with a vest. 'I got this off a female detective.' He holds it up, looks at me, frowns. 'It's going to be big.'

'They all are unless I get them custom.'

He grins. 'No height requirement, I take it, Agent Barrett?'

I grab the vest from him with a scowl. 'That's Special Agent Barrett to you, Dawes.'

The grin fades. 'Well, be careful in there, Special Agent Barrett.'

'If I was going to be careful, I wouldn't go in there at all.'

'Even so.'

Even so, I think. What a great turn of phrase. Short and sweet, but fraught (another great word) with meaning.

You could die in there.

Even so.

8

I'M STANDING IN FRONT OF THE HOME'S OPEN FRONT DOOR. I'M sweating and scratchy in the ill-fitting body armor I've thrown over my shirt. I have my Glock out and ready. The day is moving toward dusk, shadows are starting to stretch, and my heart is pounding like a drummer on speed.

I glance back at the law-enforcement presence behind me. Barricades have been erected in front of the home, starting at the street. I count four patrol cars and the SWAT van. The uniforms are standing guard at the barricades, ready to speak one phrase, and one phrase only: 'Go away.' The SWAT team waits inside the perimeter, a deadly group of six, black helmets gleaming. The lights on the patrol cars are all on, and they're trained on the house. On me.

Law enforcement is a dirty job. It's about body fluids, decay, and people at their worst. It's about life and death decisions made with too little information. The most trained cop or agent is still never trained enough to deal with everything. When crisis comes (and it always comes), it's often solved the way we're solving it now: an agent with a two-week class in hostage negotiation, called away from her vacation, wearing a loose-fitting Kevlar vest, doubting her ability to do what she's about to do. In other words, we do our best with what we have.

I shut it all out and peer through the door.

A few drops of sweat pop out on my forehead. Salty pearls. It's a newer home for this area, a two-story with a stucco and wood exterior, topped by a clay-tile roof. Classic Southern California. It looks well cared for, possibly repainted in the last few years. Not huge, the owners weren't rich, but nice enough. A middle-class family home not trying to be anything else.

'Sarah?' I call in. 'It's Smoky Barrett, honey. You asked to see me, and I'm here.'

No answer.

'I'm going to come in to see you, Sarah. I just want to talk to you. To find out what's going on.' I pause. 'I know you have a gun, honey. I need you to know that I have one too, and that I'm going to have it out. Don't be scared when you see it. I'm not going to shoot you.'

I wait, and again, there's no answer.

I sigh and curse and try to think of a reason to keep from walking into this house. Nothing comes to mind. Some part of me doesn't want anything to come to mind. This is a not-so-secret truth of law enforcement: These moments are terrifying, but they are also when you feel most alive. I feel it now, adrenaline and endorphins, fear and euphoria. Wonderful and awful and addictive.

'I'm coming in now, Sarah. Don't shoot me or yourself, okay?' I'm going for light humor, I come off sounding nervous. Which I am. I squeeze the gun butt, take a deep breath, and walk through the front door.

The first thing I smell is murder.

A writer asked me once what murder smells like. He was looking for material for a book he was writing, some authenticity.

'It's the blood,' I'd said. 'Death stinks, but when you smell blood more than anything else, you're usually smelling murder.'

He'd asked me then to describe the smell of blood.

'It's like having a mouthful of pennies that you can't get rid of.'

I smell it now, that cloying copper tang. It excites me at some level. A killer was here. I hunt killers.

I keep walking. The entryway floor is red hardwood over concrete, quiet, polished, squeak-free. To my right is a spacious living room with medium-thick beige carpet, a fireplace, and vaulted ceilings. A two-section matching beige couch is arranged in an L-shape facing the fireplace. Large double-paned windows look out onto the lawn. Everything I can see is clean and nice but unimaginative. The owners were trying to impress by blending in, not by standing out. The living room continues on the right toward the back of the house, meeting the dining room seamlessly. The beige carpet follows. A honey-colored wooden dining table sits under a light hanging from a long black chain attached to the high ceiling. A single white French door beyond the table leads into the kitchen. Again, all very unsurprising. Pleasing, not passionate. Ahead of me is a stairway, zigging right to a landing, then zagging left to take you to its destination, the second floor. It's covered with the same beige carpet. The walls on the way up the stairs are filled with framed photographs. I see a man and a woman standing together, smiling and young. The same man and woman, a little older now, holding a baby. The baby, I assume, grown into a teenage boy, handsome. Dark hair on all of them. I scan the photos and note no pictures of a girl.

To the left of the stairs is what I assume to be a family room. I can see thick sliding glass doors leading from that room into the nowshadowy backyard. I smell blood, blood, and more blood. Even with every light in the house blazing the atmosphere is heavy and jagged. Harm happened here. Terror filled the air here. People died violently here, and the feel of it all is stifling. My heart rate continues to rat-a-tat-tat. The fear is still there, sharp and strong. The euphoria too.

'Sarah?' I call out.

No answer.

I move forward, toward the stairs. The smell of blood gets stronger. Now that I can see into the family room, I understand why. This room also has a couch, which faces a large-screen television. The carpet is soaked in crimson. Blood came out here by the pints, more than the pile or fabric could absorb. I can see puddles of it, dark, thick, and congealing. Whoever bled that much there, died there. No bodies, though.

Means they were moved, I think.

I look, but I don't see any blood trails, any evidence of bodies being dragged. All the blood is pooled, self- contained, except for the large, jagged patch nearest to me.

Maybe they were picked up.

That would mean someone strong. A human adult body, at deadweight, is a formidable thing to lift, much less carry. Any fireman or paramedic will tell you this. Without the leverage a helpful and conscious person provides, carrying a grown man's body can be like carrying a six-foot bag of bowling balls. Unless the blood came from a child, in which case the lift and carry would not have been as difficult. Wonderful thought.

'Sarah?' I call out. 'I'm coming up the stairs.' My voice sounds overloud to me, cautious.

I'm still sweating. Air-conditioning is off, I realize. Why? I'm noting a thousand things at once. Fear and euphoria, euphoria and fear. I grip my gun with both hands and start to move up the stairs. I reach the first landing, and turn left. The smell of blood is even stronger now. I smell new scents. Familiar odors. Urine and feces. Other,