Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [70]
“Any help you could give me would be appreciated.”
“Like I said, I have my doubts. Unless your guy was the survivalist type, I’d say he’s pretty much in a deep freeze by now.”
“Garth’s a nurse so he has some emergency medical skills.”
“Maybe it’d help him with the cold, but not with a mountain lion. On top of that, our bears just aren’t hibernating like they used to. Hungry critters could easily look at your prey as a mighty fine warm-blooded entrée. But there’s always that slim chance that we’ll find him.”
Decker said, “I’ll just keep the faith.”
“You can do that for both of us, Loo. I could use a little God in my life.”
The suicide scene had been ghastly. Since then Gregory Hesse’s bed had been removed and the walls, once covered with posters and personal effects, were bare after being scrubbed down, disinfected to remove any remaining biological matter spread by the shotgun blast, and then painted apartment white. The original carpet had been replaced by something brown and flat. The space felt vacant and haunted.
“I don’t go in here much.” Wendy Hesse’s eyes grew wet. She was wringing her hands, her complexion very pale. She wore a green blouse and black double-knit pants. “Not much left.” A statement applicable to her life.
Oliver looked around. Original to the room were a couple of nightstands, a desk and a dresser with nothing on top, and a bookshelf. The room had a sliding door closet. He remembered that he had wanted to go through the closet, but there had been so many people from the coroner’s office, it had been impractical.
Wendy said, “I wish I hadn’t gone through his drawers.” A pause. “I think I’ll wait in the living room. Would either of you like some water?”
“I’m fine for now, but thank you,” Marge said.
Oliver smiled. “I’m all right.”
The two detectives put on rubber gloves and went to work. First, they combed the bookshelf, which contained more CDs and DVDs than paper pages. There was a dock for an MP3 player with an iPod in the charge. They pulled out every single book and flipped through the pages hoping something significant would flutter out. They opened every single jewel box. They checked his iPod. Nothing looked even vaguely sinister.
They moved on to his drawers, slowly emptying out the contents and putting them back once they had gone through the items. Everything was organized and neatly folded: first drawer, socks and underwear; second, pajamas and gym clothes; third, shirts and T-shirts; and fourth, shorts and more gym clothes. The desk drawers held nothing. Neither did any of the nightstands.
The closet contained polo shirts and several white dress shirts, pants, jeans, jackets, coats. Shoes on the floor were carefully aligned. The open shelving held sweaters and sweatshirts. They sorted through the clothes in the closet. They didn’t find the camcorder. They didn’t find anything.
The top shelf appeared empty. Marge took the chair from the desk. “Make sure I don’t break my neck.”
“I can do that.” Oliver held the legs as Marge climbed atop the seat and peered across the space. “Find anything?”
“No.” She stepped off the chair and regarded the shoes. They were all around the same size except for a pair of smaller patent leather loafers—something left over from a bar mitzvah or a confirmation. She bent down, felt inside the formal footwear, and fished out a plastic bag. About an ounce of pot, which she put back in the shoe.
She stood up. “He wasn’t as innocent as Mom thought, but it certainly doesn’t explain why he did what he did. I don’t see the point in bringing this to Mom’s attention.”
“I agree with you there,” Oliver said. “No camcorder.”
“No camcorder, no camera.” Marge thought a moment. “If Mom found naked printed pictures, I betcha he hid his camera.”
“You know we think of camcorders as big hulking things. They’re really mini these days. Easy