Beneath Devil's Bridge(36)
I did not kill her . . . her killer is still out there.
Clayton Jay Pelley lies on his back in his prison bunk, his hands hooked behind his head as he listens again to Trinity’s voice through the buds in his ears. He’s listened to the podcast episodes over and over and over. He can’t get enough of listening. Of hearing her voice. He thinks of all the things he might have done right in his life, and of all the things he has done wrong. But there’s one thought, one feeling, that surfaces above them all. He’s regained some autonomy. He’s wrested back a degree of control over things, over people. Even from inside this miserable institution of rules and bars and gates and barbed wire. Once more he feels a sense of power. He smiles. It’s been a long, long time since he’s had this feeling.
This is now in his control.
RACHEL
THEN
Tuesday, November 25, 1997.
“Nanaimo bars!” proclaims Detective Dirk Rigg with a flourish as he saunters into the Twin Falls PD conference room carrying a plate of dessert bars. Tucker enters behind Dirk, ferrying a tray of takeout coffees.
Dirk sets the plate down on the table and removes the cling wrap covering the iconic custard-and-chocolate-ganache bars. I get a whiff of the stale cigarette smoke that always clings to his clothing. When it’s combined with the strong smell of the coffee, the airless room suddenly feels nauseating.
Or perhaps I’m just unwell after the long day yesterday that started with the autopsy and ended with my fight with Maddy.
“Merle is trying to quit smoking again,” says Dirk, helping himself to a Nanaimo bar. “So naturally we now have way too many baked goods in the house, and extra pounds adding up on the scale.” He gestures for everyone to take one, and he bites into his bar, talking around his custardy mouthful as he takes a seat at the conference table. “I figured you guys could do with some breakfast, since we have so much.”
Luke reaches for a bar.
“Merle is Dirk’s wife,” I explain to Luke. “She’s worked at the post office forever. She’s also always trying to quit smoking, but the fact Dirk smokes makes it hard, right, Dirk?”
He grins. “She’s trying hypnosis to quit the habit this time.” He pops the rest of the custardy goop into his mouth and reaches for his coffee.
It’s very early morning, and outside it’s still dark and snowing softly, dusting everything white that was black and gray and dying. I’m worried about my kid. I need to be here and want to be here. I also want things to be normal and happy at home. When I knocked on Maddy’s bedroom door before I left this morning, she told me to go away. I made her breakfast and left it on the kitchen counter. I check my watch. She’s probably not even up yet. Jake promised to make dinner for her tonight if I’m late again. My thoughts go again to the locket her gran gave her as a gift a few years ago.
The locket that is missing.
Chief Ray Doyle strides into the room, his girth preceding him. He carries an armful of files. “Morning, everyone.” He plops the files down at the head of the table and takes a seat. Behind Ray’s chair is a whiteboard that Luke wheeled in. He’s using it as a crime board. It reminds me of every detective show on TV. We’ve never used one, but Luke seems attached to the form. Perhaps it’s a homicide thing.
Tucker sits opposite me. He’s silently nursing his coffee. His complexion looks gray under the unflattering fluorescent lights in the room. One of the lights flickers ever so faintly. I believe I can hear it emitting an electronic buzz. This part is not at all like TV. This kind of scene would be depicted in moody, shaded lighting. But policing in this tiny detachment is all harsh lights, stains on the ceiling, an ever-present scent of dampness, and faded blue squares of carpet beneath our boots.
“Nanaimo bar, Chief?” Dirk pushes the plate toward Ray.
Ray helps himself, bites into his bar, and opens the top file folder in front of him. “Okay, what’ve we got, guys? Rachel?” he says around his mouthful.
“The autopsy report is still to come, but the cause of death is drowning.” I get up and go to the whiteboard.
I point to one of the autopsy photos. “These circular marks on her shoulders here are consistent with someone having straddled the victim to hold her down underwater.” I explain the rest of the postmortem findings, the stones in her lungs. “Dr. Backmann says that if Leena had not been drowned, the blunt force trauma and the resultant swelling of her brain would have resulted in her death anyway.”
“Anything found at the scene that could have been used as a weapon?” asks Ray.
“We found no weapon, but the victim’s body is imprinted with two patterns of a shoe, or boot. Size eleven. Someone stomped on her and kicked her.” I point to another photo on the board. “And there was bark found in her skin here—on her face and head. The forensic ident guys also found blood on the trunk of a cedar tree growing on the north bank of the river, near where Leena’s Nike shoe and bloodied sock were located. The cedar bark on the tree looks to be a match to the bark pieces found in Leena’s skin. We anticipate lab results will prove the match. And we anticipate the blood evidence on the cedar will be a match to Leena’s blood.”
“You’re saying she went head—face—first into a tree trunk?” Dirk asks.
“She could have been forced headfirst into the tree,” Luke says. “Multiple times.”