The Face of Death

  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 without 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.

  “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 now-shadowy 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 dead-weight, 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, wetter things. Guts, they have an aroma all their own.

  I can hear something now. A faint sound. I cock my head and strain my ears.

  Sarah is singing.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My stomach does a single loop-de-loop as the adrenaline overwhelms the endorphins and fills me with the clangy-jitters.

  Because this is not a happy sound. It’s a horror sound. It’s the kind of song you’d expect to hear coming out of the earth in a graveyard, at night, or maybe from the shadowy corner of a cell in a mental institution. It’s a single word and a single note, sung in a monotone.

  “Laaaa. Laaaa. Laaaa. Laaaa.”

  Over and over, that single word, that single note, in a voice just above a whisper.

  I start to worry in a way I hadn’t before, because this is the sound of insanity.

  I move up the last flight of stairs in quick strides, passing all those smiling faces in the photographs. Their teeth seem to glitter in the light.

  Look at that, I think when I reach the top, more beige carpet.

  I’m standing in a short hallway. A bathroom is at the end of the hall. Its lights are on, its door flung wide. I can see (surprise!) a beige tile floor, more evidence of the uninspired tastefulness I’ve come to expect from this home.

  The hallway turns to the right at the bathroom, and I surmise that a bedroom door is just beyond that turn.

  More beige, I’ll bet.

  My heartbeat hammers, and God am I sweating.

  To my immediate right is a set of white double doors. The entrance, I’m sure, to someplace terrible. The smells have all become stronger. Sarah’s horrible singing tickles my skin.

  I reach out a hand to open the right door. It pauses just above the brass handle and trembles.

  Girl with a gun on the other side of that. Girl with a gun, covered in blood, in a house that smells like death, singing like a crazy person.

  Go on, I think. The worst thing she can do is shoot me.

  No, moron. The worst thing she can do
is look right at me and then blow her brains out or smile and blow her brains out or—

  Enough, I command.

  Silence inside. My soul goes quiet.

  My hand stops trembling.

  A new voice comes, one familiar to soldiers and cops and victims. It doesn’t offer comfort. It offers certainty. It speaks the hardest words and it never, ever lies. The patron saint of impossible choices.

  Save her if you can. But kill her if you must.

  My hand drops and I open the door.

  9

  THE ROOM IS DECORATED IN DEATH.

  It’s an extra-large master bedroom. The king-sized bed has a large wooden hutch and a mirror behind it, and still takes up less than a third of the floor space. There is a plasma TV mounted on the wall. A ceiling fan hangs, turned off, its silence anointing all the other stillness in this room. The beige carpet is present, almost comforting under the circumstances.

  Because blood is everywhere. Splashed on the ceiling, smeared on the off-yellow walls, beaded on the ceiling fan. The smell is overpowering; my mouth fills with still more pennies and I swallow my own saliva.

  I count three bodies. A man, a woman, and what looks like a teenage boy. I recognize them all from the photographs on the stairway walls. They are all naked, all lying on their backs in the bed.

  The bed itself has been stripped bare. The blankets and sheets lie on the floor, wadded and blood-soaked.

  The man and woman are on either side, with the boy in the middle. The two adults have been disemboweled, in the worst sense of the word. Someone cut them from throat to crotch and then reached into them and pulled. They have been turned inside out. The throats of all three have been slit like hogs, sopping grins from ear to ear.

  “Laaaa. Laaaa. Laaaa. Laaaa.”