The Face of Death

wrists. It wasn't considered probative because we weren't looking for anything. But if you do have a reason to look . . .'

'Then you think about handcuffs and Sarah's story,' I say. 'You think about Mrs. Langstrom getting angry and yanking on those padded cuffs as hard as she could and bruising up her wrists.'

'That's right.'

'What was the other thing?'

'In the accepted scenario she shot the dog and she shot herself. No one reported hearing gunshots, and we're not talking about a twentytwo popgun. Which makes you start thinking about a silencer, even though no silencer was on the gun at the scene.'

'What made you start looking?' Callie asks. Cathy is quiet for a moment, thinking.

'It was Sarah. It took a while, but as time went on, and I got to know her, I began to wonder. She's an honest girl. And the story was so damn dark for a girl her age. People kept dying or getting hurt around her. Once you give in to the possibility, you start seeing clues everywhere.' She leans forward. 'His real brilliance has always been in his subtlety, his understanding of how we think, and in his choice of victim. He doesn't overdo his staging, so it looks natural. He leads us to a conclusion, but not with so many bread crumbs that we'd get suspicious. He knows we're trained to reverse-engineer in the direction of simplicity rather than complexity. And he chose a victim in Sarah with no relatives, so there's no one that's going to hang around and demand that we take a closer look, no one that's going to worry at it.'

'But there was, wasn't there?' I say in a quiet voice. 'There was you.'

Cathy does that looking-toward-the-window thing again. 'That's right.'

'Is that why he did this to you?'

Cathy swallows. 'Maybe that was part of it, but I don't think it was the big reason. Doing what he did to me was useful to him.' She seems to be breathing a little faster.

'Is there anything about what he did to you--about what happened to you--that would be helpful?' I ask, prodding. 'I know it's difficult.'

She turns to me. 'This guy is--or has been--a ghost. I think anything that puts a face on him is going to help, don't you?'

I don't reply; it's a rhetorical question.

Cathy sighs, a ragged sigh. Her hands tremble and the quickened breathing continues.

'Funny. I've been wanting to tell the real story for almost two years. Now that I can, I feel like I want to jump out of my skin.'

I take a gamble. I reach over and grab one of her hands. It's clammy with sweat and it shakes. She doesn't pull it away.

'I used to pass out,' I tell her. 'After it happened. For no reason at all.'

'Really?'

'Don't pass it around,' I say, smiling, 'but yes. Really.'

'Truth, honey-love,' Callie says, her voice soft. Cathy pulls her hand away from mine. I take this as a struggle for strength on her part.

'I'm sorry,' she says. 'I've been taking pills for anxiety since it happened, until about two weeks ago. I decided I wanted to wean myself off them. They turned me into a zombie, and it's time to get strong again. I still think I made the right decision, but'--she waggles her hand--'it makes things harder, sometimes.'

'Do you have coffee?' Callie chirps.

Cathy frowns. 'Sorry?'

'Coffee. Caffeine. Nectar of the gods. If we're going to sit and listen to something horrible, I think coffee is sensible and recommended.'

Cathy gives her a faint, grateful smile.

'That's a great idea.'

The normality of a cup of coffee seems to calm Cathy. She holds on to the cup as she speaks, stopping to take a sip when things get too rough.

'I'd been poking around in the case files for years, trying to find something that would convince a senior detective to take another look. You have to understand, while I was considered a decent cop, I was still just a uniform. It's a whole different social strata, the plainclothes and the unies. The guys in Homicide are driven by statistics. Solve rates, murder rates per capita, all that stuff. If you want them to add an unsolved to the pile-- particularly if it means taking it out of the solved column--you'd better have something compelling. I didn't.'

'The wrist-bruising wasn't enough?' I ask.

'No. And let's be honest, I don't know if it would be enough for me, if the situations were reversed. The bruising was noted, but per the ME's notes, it could have come from any number of things. Her husband grabbing her wrists too hard, for one. Remember, she's supposed to have strangled him.'

'That's true.'

'Yeah. Anyway, I'd been chasing this for a few years, on my own time, and getting nowhere.' She pauses, looking uncomfortable and ashamed. 'To be honest, I wasn't always pushing on it the way I should have. Sometimes, I doubted the whole scenario. I'd lie in bed at night, thinking, and I'd decide I didn't believe her, that she was just a messed-up kid who'd cooked up a story to explain the otherwise senseless deaths of her parents. I'd generally come back to my senses, but . . .' She shrugs. 'I could have done more. I always knew that, in the back of my mind. Life just kept moving forward. I can't really explain it.' She sighs. 'In the meantime, I did my job and got my promotions. And then, I went for detective.' She smiles at the memory. She's probably unaware that she's doing it. 'Passed the test with flying colors. It was cool. A big deal. Even my dad would have approved.'

I note the use of the past tense regarding her father, but I don't press her on it.

'I wanted Homicide, but I was assigned to Vice.' She shrugs. 'I was a woman, and not bad looking, but I was tough. They needed someone to play hooker. I was disappointed at first, but then I started to enjoy it. I was good at it. I had a knack.'

More of that unconscious smiling. Her face is animated.

'I kept in touch with Sarah. She was getting harder and colder every year. I think I was the only thing keeping her in touch with herself, in a way. I was the only person who'd known her the whole time that really cared.' She turns her sightless eyes to the kitchen window, contemplative. 'I think that's why he came after me when he did. Not because I'd become a detective. Not because I was poking around. Because he knew I cared. He knew he could count on me to pass on his message if I thought it might help Sarah.'

'What message?' Callie asks.

'I'll get to that. The other thing . . . I think it was time to take me away from her.' She turns her head to me. 'You understand?'

'I think so. You're talking about his overall plan for Sarah.'

'Yes. I was the last one left who knew who Sarah was, inside. The last person she could be sure of. I don't know why he let it go on as long as he did. Maybe to give her hope.'

'So he could snatch it away,' I say.

She nods. 'Yep.'

'Tell us about that day.' Callie's voice is soothing, a gentle push. Cathy's hand grips the coffee cup in a reflexive motion, a brief spasm of emotion.

'It was just like any other day. That's the thing, I think, that throws me the most. Nothing special had happened on the job, or personally. The date wasn't significant, and the weather was as usual as it comes. The only difference between that day and another is that he decided it was the day.' She sips from her cup. 'I'd finished up a late shift. It was past midnight when I got home. Dark. Quiet. I was tired. I let myself in and went straight for the shower. I always did that. It was symbolic for me--do a dirty job, come home and shower it off, you know.'

'Sure,' I reply.

'I got undressed, I took my shower. I put on a bathrobe and grabbed a book I was reading--something trivial and silly but entertaining--and then I poured myself a cup of coffee and took a seat right here.' She pats the arm of