Faceless (4 page)

Although we all try to hide our feelings sometimes, our body language betrays us, and we cannot conceal our emotions. Robert Lyons had trouble concealing his sadness. It was written all over his face.

I checked the time on my cell phone. The digital numbers were bigger and were much easier to read. I realized that by the time I got to the Camp’s home, the family would be probably getting up and starting their day. I wondered if they even knew that their daughter was not safely tucked into her bed.

Shaking the thought from my mind, I walked over to where Tommy Sullivan was waiting for me with a crime scene technician. I glanced down at the can of lighter fluid. If there hadn’t been a body lying a few yards away, it would seem perfectly natural, just the result of some careless litterbug disposing of his garbage in the woods… nothing out of the ordinary.

But this might not be just some ordinary can. This particular piece of trash could be the reason Jamie Camp’s parents would not be able to have an open casket as they said goodbye to their daughter. This seemingly harmless eight-ounce can of Zippo brand lighter fluid could be the accelerant used to cause this child’s mutilation

Then it occurred to me: “Who the hell uses lighter fluid anymore, anyway?” I didn’t know they still sold the stuff. I thought that those flip-top style fluid lighters were as extinct as the dinosaur and eight-track tapes.

I was willing to bet that the three girls who came to the woods with Jamie Camp and found themselves leaving without her wouldn’t have a clue what the can was, much less what it was used for.

Nevertheless, I could be wrong. At this point, taking a cue from Robert Lyons, I wasn’t going to make any assumptions.

Besides, it wasn’t even established that this can had held the accelerant that had caused Jamie’s facial burns. It could be just some discarded trash.

I looked up at Tommy. A large, round head adorned the teddy-bear physique. His eyes had a weird form to them, almost triangular. Paint him orange, and he could get lost in a pumpkin patch.

“Okay, bag it and label it, Tommy. Assign an officer to protect the crime scene, and as soon as the sun is up, let’s get a team out here and go over this area with a fine-tooth comb. Tommy, find out if anyone is presently residing in the Forester house, or if they have a caretaker. I’ll see you guys later.”

Stepping over weeds and sand spurs, which were grabbing onto the cuffs of my pants like a gaggle of Pac Mans, I made my way back to my car. I started to sit down, but I had a sudden vision enter my thoughts and I stopped abruptly. I decided to take a good look at the interior. It wouldn’t hurt to make sure that the big, brown, ugly cockroach I killed didn’t have a companion. Let’s face it, I wasn’t an entomologist, and I had no clue when roach-mating season was.

After a brief visual scan, I was somewhat satisfied that I was safe from any unwanted hitchhikers. With the key in the ignition, and feeling satisfied that I wouldn’t be subjected to any more creepy-crawlers, I started my engine and headed back toward town to meet Father Murphy at the Camp residence.

Chapter Three

Thursday Morning

Fortunately, I arrived about a minute before the good Father. I was concerned that someone in the Camp family would notice the well- known and well-worn blue Lincoln that served as St. Mary’s official vehicle sitting in front of their home. It’s never a good sign to have an unexpected visit from the clergy or law enforcement.

My white unmarked Dodge could blend in easily on the quiet, tree-lined street, especially since the sun was just barely making its appearance in the eastern sky.

Even though I dreaded parallel parking, I chose a spot in front of an empty lot at the end of the block, leaving Father Murphy the convenience of parking in the Camp’s driveway.

He chose instead to park directly across from me. I noticed a small, amber light being extinguished and a faint swirl of smoke as he made his way out of the car. He looked at me, embarrassed that I caught him smoking, but Father Murphy could charm the pants off an old maid, and he knew it.

“Remember, Jean,” he looked at me brushing ashes off his overcoat. “I know all your deep, dark secrets.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Father,” I assured him. We both knew he was tossing out idle threats, since I hadn’t been to confession since eighth grade, and we both knew it. However, the task ahead was daunting and a bit of humor was what we both needed right now.

For the next five minutes, I gave him only the pertinent details of the horrific condition in which we had found Jamie Camp. Even though everything I said to him would be confidential in nature, I didn’t feel the necessity to give him information that needed to remain available to only the investigators of the case. The case was a homicide, and the department could not afford to leak any information that one -day would make it more difficult to arrest and convict of the monster that did this.

Father Murphy
needed as much detail as possible in order to comfort the family after I left. If it had been my precious daughter lying in the morgue, I would want answers. No—I would demand answers.

“Ready?” I asked him as we started up the path that led to a charming two-story redbrick home. As I spoke, a light appeared in what looked to be an upstairs bathroom.

“As ready as one can be under the circumstances, Jean.” He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

It was a musical chime and the tune “Memories” came floating through the air. The sound was muffled through the door, yet I could still make out a woman’s voice rising in volume as she headed toward the front door. As she came closer, I could make out what she was saying. She was calling out to her husband. “Garrett, someone’s at the door. Garrett!”

I figured it was probably Garrett who turned on the upstairs bathroom light. I prayed silently that Garrett would join the woman before she opened the door.

Another light came on in the house and I saw a hand lifting one of the slats of the venetian blinds that hung over the front window. Mrs. Camp peered out, trying to see who was ringing her doorbell at 6:15 in the morning. She must have recognized either Father Murphy or me, because she didn’t bother to ask who was knocking at this ungodly hour. She immediately undid the deadbolt and opened the door.

Her first thought was that her elderly neighbor, Mrs. Thomas, who had been stricken with pancreatic cancer, had passed away and the priest was here to ask her help comforting the woman’s husband. It was almost as if she was expecting him. She smiled at me, but didn’t seem concerned with my appearance.

“Father Murphy, good morning.” She clutched her robe tightly, now embarrassed that she had come to the door still in a nightgown. She made an effort to fix her unruly hair by patting it down with her hand.

“Is it Mrs. Thomas?” she asked Father Murphy. Without waiting for an answer, she continued talking. “Poor man… I’ll get dressed and get right over there.”

“Who is it, Patty?” Garrett, slightly balding and at least a foot taller than his wife, walked down the stairs buttoning a recently dry-cleaned white shirt. Mrs. Camp, noticing the dry cleaning tag was still attached to her husband’s collar, walked over and gave it a tug, removing it. She stuck the tag it in her robe pocket.

Garrett
, slightly embarrassed by his wife’s action, nodded to Father Murphy and then looked at me. It was obvious by his expression that he recognized me, although he wasn’t quite sure from where.

“It’s Father Murphy, Garrett. Poor Mrs. Thomas passed on…”

“Patty, may we come in?” Father Murphy asked her, but keeping his eyes on her husband Garrett. It didn’t go unnoticed by her husband.

“Oh, yes… sorry, where are my manners? Please.” She opened the door wide.

“When did it happen?” Mrs. Camp asked him. “Can I get you something to drink? Garrett, can you make Father Murphy some coffee?” She turned to me, not questioning my appearance, as if it was perfectly natural.

“No, thank you, no. Mrs. Camp…” I started to tell the woman the bad news when was interrupted by Father Murphy. What normally my missing partner would do, the good Father did, and gave me a reprieve.

“Patty, can we sit somewhere?” he asked, looking around. A modern pit sofa of brown leather took up a good deal of the living room area.

I could tell that the woman was starting to realize that she had been mistaken, and our visit was not about the elderly woman next door.

Her face showed signs of being thoroughly confused now. She glanced over at me and then at her husband. Garrett gently put his hand on his wife’s back.

“What is it?” he asked, now looking directly at me.

“Please, Garrett—is there somewhere we can sit down?” Father Murphy repeated.

Garrett
’s other hand gestured for us to go in front of him and directed us to find a seat on the sofa.

Mrs.
Camp
sat down opposite us. Leaning forward, she took her husband’s hand. He remained standing.

“Father, what is it? What’s wrong?” Now the poor woman was starting to think that it was the priest who was in need of her support.

“Patty, I’m sorry.” He took her other hand in his. “I am afraid this is about Jamie.”

Her head jerked back in surprise. Her chin seemed to become more prominent “Jamie? What are you talking about, Father?”

“I am afraid Patty, that there has been an…”

He started to stutter. I could tell he was going to say “accident,” but thought better of it.

“A terrible tragedy,” he continued.

Patty
exhaled. She let out a small chuckle, now realizing it was all some sort of mix-up.

“Jamie’s fine, Father… she’s still sound asleep.” She turned to her husband. “Honey, go wake up Jamie.” She glanced at a wall clock. “It’s time she got up for school, anyway.”

Garrett
didn’t move. She repeated herself.

“Garrett, go wake up Jamie.” This time it sounded more like a demand.

“She’s not in her room; I thought she was down here.” He answered her, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course she is in her room… Jamie, come down here!” she hollered.

When she got no reply, I noticed her facial expression changed and she started to panic. She turned her attention back to me.

“What’s going on?” She stood up, calling her daughter’s name again. Getting no answer, she walked briskly to the stairway leading to her daughter’s bedroom. “Jamie, Jamie, come down here.” This time she was sounding a little more panicked. Still getting no answer, she ran up the stairs, her husband right behind her.

Frantic now, she called her daughter’s name a few more times. After standing on the landing, motionless and confused for a few moments, she finally made her way back down the stairs.

“Where is she?” She turned to me, her eyes shooting darts in my direction, demanding an answer. Her husband tried to lead her back to the couch. She violently brushed his hand away.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Camp, Jamie’s body was found a few hours ago in some woods outside of town. I am afraid she was murdered. I am so sorry.” I was fighting so hard for my throat not to close. I felt my vocal chords tightening, and my eyes were beginning to burn.

“There must be some mistake.” She shook her head, her hand clutching the small silver cross that hung from her neck.

She was still looking for one of us to tell her that it couldn’t be true.

Father Murphy
got up just in time. The poor woman suddenly turned white as a sheet and collapsed. He caught her just before she hit the floor.

I kicked myself for not having had the foresight to see that something like this would happen.

I should have realized that I would be delayed in getting back to the station. I called Marty and asked him to start interviewing the girls. I was a little worried about this being his first major interview in what might turn out to be an important homicide case, but I had no other choice. I had a lot of faith in the young detective, but he was not an experienced interviewer, and even one small mistake could have incredibly disastrous repercussions.

Although Mr. Camp, a CPA by trade, was as shocked and grief-stricken as his wife, he managed to take control of the situation in a way that only a mathematician can. Logically and in a precise manner, he managed to call paramedics for his wife. Begging our forgiveness, he spent the next half hour making phone calls.

He called in a friend and neighbor to come over to help tend to Jamie’s four-year old brother, who was still sleeping soundly in a bedroom upstairs, and his own brother to inform the rest of his family of the tragedy that had struck like a tornado in the middle of the night.

The house became a flurry of activity in no time, with Mr. Camp directing the now present EMTs and the concerned and inquisitive friends and neighbors like a stage manager in a Broadway play.

Once he was convinced that his wife was out of physical danger, he joined us in the kitchen, where Father Murphy and I had gone to allow the EMTs to care for Mrs. Camp.

“I’m sorry if I have ignored you, I can assure you that it wasn’t my intention, it’s just…” his voice broke.

“No apologies are necessary, Mr. Camp, you are doing what you need to do for your family. Is your wife going to be okay?” I knew the woman would never again be okay, but I hoped he realized I was talking about her immediate physical condition.

“Patty has a slight heart murmur, which is a concern of ours, but they gave her a pretty strong sedative. Right now she is sleeping, but I wonder if sedating her was a good idea. I don’t want her waking up thinking this was nothing more than some nightmare.”

Father Murphy
and I nodded in unison.

“I know this is a very difficult time Mr. Camp, but do you think you can answer a few questions for me?”