“What do you want us to do after we photograph everything?” Nicolas asks.
An idea comes into my head, and I rush across the room toward Jake’s office. LaRoche follows close behind me.
“What do you think you're doing? This is a crime scene. You already tromped through it enough. You can't just go wherever you want to,” he grumbles as I push my way into the office. “What are you doing?”
“When I was on the phone with Jake, he told me he had one more person to give a ride home. The last time I was in here with him, he told me he takes meticulous notes of the people he brings home. He doesn't want to be held responsible for anything happening to them. So, he writes them all down,” I search the top of his desk and find the notebook, “in this. I'm sure most, if any, of the people he brings home know about his notes. Probably a good thing. Some might not be so quick to accept his help if they knew it was going to be recorded.”
I stop and stare down at the page of notations from tonight. LaRoche steps up beside me and looks down at the book.
“It's torn,” he notes. “Half the page is gone.”
“I guess you didn't want anyone seeing your name on his list,” I snap, slamming the book closed and tossing it down onto the desk.
“You need to stop talking in riddles,” he frowns.
“I'm not talking in riddles. I'm saying it straight out. You did this. You hurt Jake, and you took him somewhere, just like you did the others. Tell me, was this always your plan? Do you have some sort of checklist, and his name came up or was it spontaneous because of what he knows about you?” I ask.
My heart pounds so hard in my chest it might crack my ribs. Sweat beads on the back of my neck and stings in my palms. Being this close in the same space as LaRoche makes me sick, but I doubt he'll try anything with the other officers right outside. I just need him to say something, anything.
“Do you seriously fucking believe I have something to do with all this?” he demands.
“I saw the two of you arguing in the alley earlier! I know he told you.”
“Told me what?” he asks.
“That I know what's going on.”
“I'm not going to stand here and listen to this insanity. In case you missed it, there's been another probable murder.”
He starts out of the office, but I can't let him go. Not yet.
“When will the hero complex kick in?” I rant. “When are you going to decide you've killed enough, and it's time to start solving all the mysteries so you can be the most impressive chief this town has ever seen? You'll get all the glory, all the recognition. All throughout the country, people are going to know your name. That's pretty appealing. When does that happen? Is Jake the last one?”
LaRoche slams the office door shut again and steps up so close to me I can feel his breath on my face.
“I didn't do this,” he growls. “I don't have anything to do with whatever happened to Jake.”
“Just like you didn't have anything to do with any of the others? With Cristela?” My mind churns, and I square off against him. “What about the baby? Is that what made you do it, or was it just a casualty of the circumstances?”
“How did you know about the baby?” he shouts.
A smile curls my lips. Got him.
“You just told me.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The door opens, and Nicolas looks in at us.
“Chief? I think you need to see this,” he says.
LaRoche doesn't take his eyes from me.
“On my way. Have Daniel bring Ms. Monroe back to her cabin and get her statement.”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not. I'm not going anywhere.”
“Have him get all the details of everything she saw when she got here tonight and set up surveillance at her cabin. She needs her rest, and I want to make sure there is no movement in or out.”
He's trapping me. He's locking me down.
“No,” I insist. “I'll give my statement here. I don't need anyone to come back to the cabin with me.”
“That's not your choice.”
LaRoche walks out of the office, and seconds later, the other officer appears at the door. He gestures for me to step out in front of him, and my stomach sinks as I do it. In the time LaRoche and I were in the office, the forensic team from the other town had arrived, and now they are moving around the bar like bugs crawling around the scene. People in masks take pictures and swab blood spatters. A woman in a suit near the door mutters into a recorder in her hand. I feel like I'm looking through a window into a moment of my life. I've been on that side. I've watched forensic teams scramble through a new crime scene and gather evidence.
Now, I'm on the other side. Every bit of blood they gather is a piece of Jake. Every picture they take is capturing a space he moved through in some of his last moments. It's invasive and impersonal at the same time. I want to step through the looking glass and be on the other side. I can protect him from there. Maybe I could see more and know what happened if I just turned everything around and was standing beside that woman rather than walking out of the bar led by the officer assigned to control me.
I'm not thinking any more clearly when I get back to the cabin. Daniel insists on going inside before me and sweeping the cabin. It's useless. I know it is, and I can't help but feel he does, too. The one responsible for this isn't hunkering in a corner in the bedroom or hiding in one of the closets, waiting for me to be alone. Not that Daniel really knows that. Not the way I do.
When he finally lets me inside, I head straight for the kitchen to make a pot of tea. My body shakes from the inside, like my bones aren't strong enough to hold me up. Minutes later, I'm sitting in the living room as the young officer stares at me, taking careful notes of everything I say.
I describe getting to Teddy's and discovering the bloody scene. He has me go over the story three times. He's checking for consistency, making sure I give the same details and show the same emotion each time. He's not at all subtle about it. While some more mature and tenured officers might ask the same general question several times, slightly changing the wording or manipulating the connotation to see if I give a different answer, Daniel just asks me to say it all again.
As soon as I'm done, he stands up.
“I'll be outside if you need anything,” he announces.
“You really don't have to do that,” I say. “I'll be fine.”
Daniel shakes his head. “Chief LaRoche assigned me to you. He wants me to watch over you and the cabin tonight, and that's what I'm going to do. Tonight has been very difficult for you, and you should get some rest.”
He sounds like he's reading out of a brochure, but I can't really blame him. There's little to prepare someone for a situation like this.
“I don't think I'm going to be able to,” I tell him.
“Try. If you need anything or are worried at any point, I'm right outside. Lock the door behind me.”
He leaves, and I follow his instructions. As my hand pulls away from the lock, I see the streaks of Jake's blood. I tremble as I walk into the bathroom, shoving my hand beneath the faucet to wash it away. The water reconstitutes the dried stains, creating bright red swirls as it spins down the drain. My mind feels the same way. I can't stop thinking about LaRoche's revelation. Cristela Jordan was pregnant when she died. Or at least, he thought she was.
But that wasn't in the autopsy. Pulling out the papers, I look over them again. The notes from the medical examiner admit the body was so badly mangled he couldn't glean total information from them. The lower half of her body was largely intact when they found her, but her torso was crushed and nearly sliced through, destroying her organs. There was no way they would be able to determine a pregnancy unless she was already far enough along for the fetus to be visible.