Page 67 of Dirty Daria
“Trying to kill me?”
“If I was, you’d be dead. Go splash some water on your face and put some deodorant on. You smell like shit.”
He stands slowly and waves me off as he stumbles into the bathroom. He slams the door after him and I hear the water running first, then what is most likely him taking a piss, followed by the toilet flushing and the door opening again.
“Wash your hands, dickhead,” I command.
He does and looks slightly more alive and coherent when he returns to the room. “What is so fucking important that we have to go right now?”
I’m not sure what to tell him. How to tell him. How he’ll take it. So, I just come right out with it.
“Tremblay’s been killed.”
His eyes bug. “Killed?”
“Laurel found him a little while ago.”
“How? What happened?”
“Nine mill between the eyes. And they cut out his tongue.”
“Jesus.” Reed runs his palm over his face. He looks tired again. “Fuck. Okay. Give me ten to shower and we’ll go.”
* * *
I wasn’t sure what to expect when Reed saw the body, but it wasn’t this quiet acceptance and calm demeanor. Given his outbursts of late, I assumed there would be a breakdown of sorts, some yelling, hole punching in walls, maybe angry tears. But definitely not this.
It’s like he’s switched himself off completely and is simply here to collect and process information. Not that there’s much for us to do. We aren’t forensic scientists or the medical examiner. We don’t typically investigate murders in the FBI, this just happens to be related to an ongoing case. All we can really do is look around and ask questions.
From what we’ve been told, the killer gained entrance to the house through the back door. The alarm system was not set. Tremblay was in the shower and had music playing, so he would not have heard anyone. The killer shot him first, cut out his tongue second, and left him in the shower with the water running.
Since he’d been in the shower when Laurel left the house to go to the market, she was concerned to still hear the water running when she returned. His bodyguards were in the front yard taking a smoke break, didn’t hear or see a thing. Not surprising given they were the third set he’d used since the wedding. He changed them out as quickly as some people change socks. The good thing is I suppose it keeps them on their toes, the bad thing being it doesn’t give them much time to adapt to his schedule or the layout of his home.
These guys looked to be more like mall security than the guys he’d brought to Maldives. Laurel is in hysterics, blaming herself for not setting the alarm. But the guys were right outside, she didn’t want to give them the code to disarm it when they went back in, and she figured they were there so there was no reason for the alarm.
I finish with my questions for the detective in charge and find Reed standing in the same place he was five minutes ago. Outside the large shower staring at David’s body. The water washed down any forensic evidence that may have been left behind in the shower. Investigators found no footprints or fingerprints anywhere else leading from the back door to the master bedroom.
The killer wore gloves, more than likely shoe covers, and didn’t touch anything aside from the shower door when he or she opened it to shoot. The forensic guys surmised the water was then turned off, David’s tongue cut out, and then the water turned back on before the killer left the same way they came in.
I’d like to think that all killers are smart enough to wear gloves and shoe covers, but they aren’t. The fact that Daria and her girls use them, along with hair nets or hats, is surprising. Even though it should be common sense. And the only thing that is saving Daria in my mind from being the suspect, is that she was at the bar.
Now I just need to make sure she can account for the whereabouts of each of her girls as well.
I tap Reed on the arm and jerk my head toward the door. He follows me to the master bedroom and then downstairs and out to the front yard.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Would you be?”
“It’s not your fault, man.”
“Did I say it was?”
“No. But I know that shell-shocked look your wearing, and it screams responsibility and guilt.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“So, you don’t feel responsible for David’s death?”
