Theyre up there already, but theyre not doing anything. I heard what they said. They didnt think I could hear them talking, but Im not deaf. They dont believe me. Theyre saying she did this. To herself.
When the elevator doors opened, two uniformed officers were waiting-one short and fat, the other tall and lanky, very Laurel and Hardy. They looked alarmed, and then resigned, when they spotted the badges clipped to the waistbands of the latest arrivals in the hallway.
Crap. The skinny one spoke first, trying to explain their presence upstairs while a civilian roamed freely through a crime scene. We were heading down. Waiting for the elevator. Guess she beat us to it.
Rogan clicked his tongue as the two officers stepped onto the elevator. Ellie could tell he wanted to clunk their heads together. Get the hell outside and help protect your scene, he said. Hatcher and Rogan. Arrived at eleven-twenty-seven. Write it down. He jabbed his index finger against the fat cops breast pocket for emphasis.
The elevator began its creaky descent. Thats what I was trying to tell you, their hostess said. Theyre not taking this seriously. Please listen to me. My daughter did not kill herself.
Chapter Three
The top floor of the townhouse served as a separate residence, complete with its own dining room, living room, kitchen, and long hallway leading to the back of the building. The decor was white-on-white-on-white. Gleaming white high-gloss floors. White sheepskin rugs. White Lucite furniture. White throw pillows on the white furniture. Swank digs for servants quarters.
Julias room is back here.
From the rear of the apartment, Ellie heard footsteps. Voices. The clicks and squawks of radios.
And you are?
Oh, Im sorry, Detectives. My name is Katherine Whitmire. Julias mother.
And no one has told you that you cant be here?
This is my home, Detective. My daughter. I said I wouldnt leave until homicide detectives arrived. I heard what they were saying about Julia, but Im telling you: My daughter was murdered.
The callout had come to them as a suspected suicide. When they had pressed for an explanation as to why the case required two homicide detectives, none was forthcoming. Ellie had a feeling she was looking at the numero-uno reason.
Were here now, Mrs. Whitmire. And I know youre hurting. But you cant be in this house right now, especially if youre right about someone doing harm to your daughter. Ellie caught sight of a uniformed officer on the spiral staircase and waved him up. This gentlemans going to take you outside. You can wait in one of the cars if youd like, or he can take you to the precinct if youd be more comfortable there. We just need to take a quick look around, and then well need to talk with you in more detail.
She could tell the woman wanted to argue but then seemed to think better of it and nodded. Ill let you go back and see for yourselves. I cant look at her again. I cant. I just-cant. She led the way down the stairs, the uniform following her awkwardly.
The noises Ellie had heard were coming from behind a closed door at the end of the hallway. She opened it.
Why is this door closed with a civilian running around the crime scene?
Because its not a crime scene, and that crazy bitch slammed the door before she ordered us not to touch her daughters body.
The two EMTs were young, one with a crew cut, the other with too much gel worked through his spiked hair. They stood passively by the bedroom windows, placing themselves as far as possible from the white marble floor of the en suite interior bathroom they both eyed unconsciously. It was the spiky-haired one who was doing the talking. From his colleagues shrug, Ellie could tell that he was also the one whod gotten into some kind of confrontation with Katherine Whitmire.
So some rich lady in a designer jacket gets a little irate about her daughter being dead, and the two of you decide to just stand in here, scratching each others balls? What the fuck is going on here?
You got the same callout we got. Sixteen-year-old girl, slit wrists in the bathtub. We came up. Probably only beat your two guys by a minute or so. And it was obvious what we were looking at. He lowered his voice. Its a clear suicide, all right? The blades in the tub on the right side of her body. A couple hesitation marks on the left wrist, then a clean cut through the radial artery. The girl even left a note, right there on the bed.
Ellie saw a lined sheet of yellow notepaper propped neatly against the throw pillows on the low platform bed.
So tell me again why youre calling this girls grieving mother a crazy bitch?
Because I guess she heard us talking and wigged out on us. I was about to go downstairs for the gurney. We were all in the bathroom, making that initial assessment, you know-the hesitation cuts, the clear slice, the note-and the next thing I know, shes screaming at me to take my hands off her daughters body. Yelling at us not to touch anything at all if we werent going to investigate what happened. Youve seen this place. These people obviously have some grease. So, yeah, we decided to stand in here and-whatd you say? scratch our balls? until someone higher on the pay grade showed up. When we heard that doorbell, your guys went running out to cover their asses, but here we are, still scratching. Ill stand here and scratch all day until the ME makes the call. Im not taking on some rich, crazy bitch. How about you, Andy? You need any help over there, or are you all squared away?
Another shrug from the quiet one.
Rogan was already making his way to the bathroom. It was spacious enough for the two of them, plus the two EMTs and a few linebackers, but she was the only one who followed. She heard Spike call out behind her. If you need me to explain how I know the girls bulimic, let me know. We arent as magically astute as you cops, but eating disorders go with depression. Suicide notes go with suicides. Theres nothing for us to do here.
She hitched a thumb over her shoulder. Go save lives, guys. Well wait for the ME.
Rogan looked back at her from the bathroom, hands on hips. Real sensitive for a guy who spends his days helping people.
Some people would say that about you, Rogan.
You didnt want to take him up on that bulimia thing? To me, she looks as skinny as every other white girl these days.
When people imagine a woman soaking in a tub, they picture those cheesy commercials with a bath full of frothy bubbles, the womans hair tucked into a loose bun as she runs a loofah across her pampered skin, pausing to take a sip of wine in the candlelight.
There was nothing pampered about Julia Whitmires death scene. There was wine, but it was an empty bottle toppled on the floor next to the toilet. She was nude, but there were no bubbles or loofahs or candles. Just clear pink water, a few smears of dark red on the edge of the white ceramic tub, blood that had streamed from her left wrist. The straight razor had fallen into the tub on the right side of her body.
Ellie leaned forward and saw two superficial lacerations next to the source of the leaking blood. Slitting a wrist takes fortitude. Some people try for years before they can bring themselves to go through with it. This girl only took two practice strokes.
Rogan was seeing the same scene, drawing the same conclusions. Looks like she held the razor in her right hand and pulled her left wrist across it. Right arm falls into the water with the razor. Left arm doesnt quite make it back to the side. Julias left hand was draped across her pubic area, as if trying to protect her privacy in death.
Ellie didnt need an EMT to explain the signs of this girls eating disorder. Her skins loose. Thats one of the things the EMT was probably seeing.
Shes dead. Skin gets loose.
She peered between the girls parted lips. No, its more than that. See how her face is bloated even though shes gaunt around the eyes? And her teeth are gray. This girl was definitely making herself sick. She walked out of the bathroom and over to the bed, bending down to read the hand-scrawled note, filled with scratch marks and second attempts, propped against the pillows.
She took in every scribbled word, but a few lines summed it up.
I know I should love my life, but sometimes I hate it Im constantly being told how lucky I am, but the truth is, my so-called privileged life hurts It hurts to believe that I can never amount to the person Im supposed to be. It hurts to feel so alone every second of the day, even when Im surrounded by other people.
Poor little rich girl.
The final sentence said it all:
And that is why I have decided to kill myself.
She left Rogan to read on his own as she did a quick walk-through of the upper-floor residence. Medicine cabinet filled with high-end hair and skin supplies, but no prescription drugs other than a birth-control packet made out to Julia Whitmire. Hairclips and magazines in the nightstand. Top dresser drawer filled with expensive La Perla lingerie, more suitable for a soft-core porn shoot than a high school girls bedroom. No food in the refrigerator except two bags of baby carrots and a bottle of nonfat ranch dressing. Cabinets filled with liquor. Wine rack stocked with bottles.
Rogan trailed into the kitchen behind her. So what do you think? he asked.
Looks like making herself throw up wasnt quite enough self-inflicted damage for her anymore.
What were you saying about sensitivity?
Hate to say those tools were on to something, but this looks pretty clear-cut to me.
The note even had tearstains on it, he said.
And yet I noticed you didnt touch the letter. Neither did I.
Dont need to. Got that LASIK shit. These eyes shine like diamonds and focus like laser beams.
She rolled her own, un-LASIKed, eyes. You know what Im getting at. Those idiots had a point about people whove got-what did he call it-grease? I dont know who that woman outside is, but shes clearly rich enough to have a setup like this, and shes apparently powerful enough to set her own terms about where shell stand and what type of detective will be sent to her home.
They were interrupted by a towering bald man in medical scrubs. Rogan squinted at Ellie, a sign that he recognized the new arrivals cue ball but had forgotten his name.
Ginger, she called out with a smile. Cue ball had called her Blondie during a tense moment when theyd first met. Instead of making an obvious bald comment in response, shed called him Ginger. Since then, he always returned her calls in record time.
Its Blondie and her stoic partner.