Page 40 of Long Way Down

“Yeah. Just about broke my neck on the steps. Elaine was in the hall outside of Lynn’s door, hands on her face.” He slapped his own to his cheeks in a McCauley Calkin pose. “Screaming – just, screaming. Lynn was in her room, on the floor. She was – covered in blood. She looked.” He gulped audibly, and sniffed. “She looked dead. Her face was all red and swollen, and her head was bleeding, and her arms, and…

“At first,” he continued, voice unsteady, “I thought she’d hurt herself. That she’d tried to…” He dragged a clumsy finger across his own wrist.

“Hm,” Contreras hummed in sympathy. “You went to her?”

“Elaine was still just screaming. She kept saying, ‘She’s dead, she’s dead.’ So I went in to check for a pulse. She wasn’t dead. God.” A shaky breath. “I – I got a pulse. And that’s when I saw the bruises on her throat. The handprint. Oh, Jesus–” He closed his eyes tight, thumb and forefinger pressing into the inner corners.

“And you called 9-1-1,” Contreras said, still in that low, soothing, apologetic voice. He produced a handkerchief, but Wheatly – eyes open again – shook his head and waved it off. “I know this is difficult. We’ll have more questions to ask, but those can wait for a bit, once you get to the hospital. But, Mr. Wheatly, did you or your wife notice anything out of place? On the stairs or in Lynn’s room? Something missing or something new that shouldn’t have been there?”

Wheatly looked dazed, as if he’d been punched. He shook his head. “No, I – no. There was just blood. Her blood.” His throat clicked as he swallowed. “We’ll have to get the carpet replaced in there,” he said, voice flat now.

It was too much for him. It didn’t matter how old she was: the man’s little girl had been attacked and he could think of nothing besides getting to her side. That irrational, parental fear that one’s presence could keep a child alive, could heal and make whole again.

Melissa caught the uniform’s eye, and managed to read his name from a few feet away. “Officer Sparks, can you make sure Mr. Wheatly makes it to the hospital okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Contreras slipped a card into the man’s hand. “We’ll be in touch. Reach out before that if you think of anything that might help us apprehend her attacker.”

Wheatly nodded, woodenly, and the uniform steered him back toward the front door.

When they were gone, Contreras lifted his brows. “Art school?”

“Yeah,” Melissa said, grimly, tucking her pad away. “I caught that.”

His head titled a fraction, and she could feel his judgement, gentle though it was. Her mind flashed on Tobias, on his concern at the coffeeshop, on the fantasy version that had popped into her head a few hours ago, while Pongo was inside her, and she made a face.

“I’m here, I’m here,” Deming called, puffing a little from exertion as he jogged into the room, clutching his heavy, hardshell case, followed by underlings whose IDs bounced on the lanyards around their necks. “Was that the father?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the door. “He looks awful.”

“Finding out your kid got assaulted in her own bedroom’ll do that to you,” Melissa said.

“Responding officers told Dispatch that she was partially undressed, and that fresh bruises and blood on her legs made them think sex trauma,” Contreras told Deming. “We’ve not been up to the room yet or spoken with the vic, so we don’t know anything yet. When you get up there, see if you notice anything that lines up with Lana Preston’s rape.”

“Whoa. You thinking serial?”

Contreras shrugged. “Never rule anything out. Apparently, Lynn Wheatly was studying art at NYU, same as Lana.”

“L-names, too,” Deming said, tongue poking out his cheek in thought a moment.

Melissa hadn’t considered that – though she doubted that was the connection they were after.

“Alright. Let us get started. I’ll send someone down for you in a while.”

“Thanks, Jeff.”

Which left them twisting in the wind for a half-hour, at least.

Tired and sore though she was, Melissa didn’t relish the idea of cooling her heels for any length of time, and they wouldn’t be able to speak to Lynn until after she’d been examined and cleaned up.

She said, “Wanna go see if any of those neighbors are still outside gawking, and if they saw anything?”

He agreed with a pointed finger aimed her way. “I like the way you think.”

~*~

By the time they got back outside, some of the houses across the street had shut out their lights. The neighbors on either side of the Wheatlys were still on their porches, though. Melissa and Contreras split up to talk to them, and reconvened in the front yard, after.

Mrs. Sandoval had fallen asleep in front of the TV sometime after ten, she said, and been awakened by the sirens next door. No, she didn’t remember seeing anyone suspicious on the sidewalk. She did remember Lynn Wheatly’s light going on just after dark, when she’d taken her dog – a chihuahua she held now tucked under one arm – out around that time and noted Lynn’s window, and movement behind the curtains. “If I’d known anything was wrong, I would have called the police right away!” She seemed thoroughly rattled, and admitted as much, saying she’d been jumpy ever since her husband passed.

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