Chapter Twenty

 

Radhauser stopped at the Tucson mall and picked up the tuxedo Matt Garrison had rented. To his relief, the garments hadn’t been cleaned. Though wrinkled and obviously worn, there were no visible stains on the black trousers or jacket. When he pulled out the shirt, it was spotlessly clean and smelled like it had been recently bleached. Someone had washed it.

Though he was pretty certain they’d find nothing of value, he dropped the tuxedo and shirt at the forensic lab and headed to Catalina for another look at Crystal’s house.

The blinds were closed. He flipped on the lights and looked around the living room. Everything appeared to be just the way he’d left it. He hurried into the kitchen to check the sliding glass door. It was unlocked. That would explain how the neighbor he’d seen on the news had gotten inside. Radhauser had talked to the old man. He thought he’d seen a moving light that might be a prowler inside the house.

Killers sometimes returned to the scene of their crime. Whatever had happened that night, Radhauser remained positive he’d left the sliding door locked. There wasn’t anything he could do about it now.

He didn’t know what he specifically looked for; anything he might have missed the night Crystal was found. He studied the candles on the coffee table, wondered why she’d burned them the night she died. He took the CD out of her player—love songs from the sixties. Maybe she’d been entertaining a man—or just nostalgic, half drunk, and looking back on happier times. Radhauser could certainly identify with that behavior.

Looking through a dead person’s home and possessions always made him feel a little guilty, like a peeping tom, and so he tried to make up for his invasion by being respectful and diligent in leaving things the way he’d found them.

From a bookshelf in the living room, he picked up a pair of bronzed baby shoes that must have belonged to Travis. For an instant, Radhauser was back in the hospital with Laura, the night Lucas was born. The nurse, a big woman in surgical scrubs, had a voice like warm, thick molasses. He remembered the delivery room, Laura bearing down for one last push, and the way Lucas’s head had appeared, his fine hair matted with blood and milk-colored mucus. Radhauser could recall every detail, the purple umbilical cord he’d cut, the first high-pitched angry wail—the way Lucas had stared, open-eyed and unblinking, into his father’s face. The moment his entire world changed and he metamorphosed into a father.

Radhauser swallowed, set the shoes back on the shelf. He had to stop letting everything remind him of his family. He had to focus on the job. The captain wouldn’t keep him around if he failed again.

He slowly examined every room, pulled out each drawer in the living room and kitchen. Re-checked the pantry shelves and the cabinets, then moved on to Travis’s bedroom, where he searched his closet, bookcase and dresser drawers.

He stood in the bathroom doorway for a few minutes, glanced at the bloody water and the spatters on the tile surrounding the tub, then stepped carefully inside and opened the small medicine cabinet slowly, hoping what was left of the mirror would remain intact. He searched for the scissors Crystal had used to cut her hair. The cabinet held the usual cough medicines, Vicks VapoRub, aspirin, Excedrin, a prescription for an antibiotic Crystal must have been taking for an infection. A tube of toothpaste, bottle of mouthwash—nothing to indicate Crystal had any serious medical problems that may have led her to take her own life. And no scissors.

She’d cut some of her hair while in the tub, but there were no scissors in the water either. It seemed unlikely she could do that much damage to her hair with a razor blade. Radhauser closed the door and continued down the hallway to Crystal’s bedroom.

He flipped on the light and went through the same procedure, checking each dresser and nightstand drawer. He found a gold cross pendant that matched the earrings Crystal wore. He picked it up, stared at it for a moment, wondering why she’d put it in the drawer instead of her jewelry box on her dresser. He looked under the bed and was about to leave when he changed his mind. He pulled the chair beneath the window into her closet and parted her skirts and dresses. Her clothing released a smell that reminded Radhauser of the wildflowers he’d picked for Laura on their mountain top honeymoon in Whistler.

Everyone told him the first year was the hardest, that it got easier after all the anniversaries had passed, but so far, two days into his second year without his family, he saw no traces of the grief easing up.

He stood on the chair and ran his hand along the top shelf of Crystal’s closet. Tucked into the far back corner, he felt a small rectangular box and pulled it out. The shoebox held two stacks of unopened letters, each secured with a wide blue rubber band. They were addressed to Travis Reynolds and postmarked from the Arizona State Prison in Florence—from an inmate named Mitchell T. Reynolds. Either this was Travis’s grandfather or Crystal had lied to her son and his father was still alive.

Radhauser took the box into the kitchen, sat at the table and leafed through the letters, checking the postmarks. The first one was sent in August of 1974. Travis would have just turned three years old. The last one sent in February of this year. Radhauser lifted out both stacks. On the bottom of the shoebox, he discovered a folded piece of paper with Travis’s name neatly printed on top. Radhauser opened it.

Dear Travis,

I know how kids like to snoop, so don’t think I’m mad at you for finding these letters. But if you’re reading this note, it means you know I lied to you about your father. I was seventeen and Mitch was only a year older—much too young to be married with a baby. There never seemed to be enough money, and after you were born he started running with a bad group of boys. He got into drugs and alcohol. Mitch was a mean drunk and I was often afraid for you and me. To tell you the truth, I was relieved when the cops arrested him. I figured you’d have enough to cope with having me for a mother.

School kids can be cruel and I wanted to spare you the shame of having a father in prison. So I moved us away from Phoenix and down here to Tucson. You’re a smart boy, Travis. I wanted you to feel good about yourself and where you came from, so I made up the story about your father being shot down in Vietnam. I could have thrown his letters away—but I saved them, planning to give them to you on your eighteenth birthday. I thought about opening them, but they were addressed to you, so I didn’t. Sometimes men turn themselves around in jail, get their GEDs and even take college classes. I hope with all my heart Mitch is one of them. He’s paying for what he did and, who knows, maybe someday he can be a real father to you. Believe it or not, I hope so. It’s hard being a single mom. I didn’t always do it right. But I always wanted to.

Love, Crystal

There was something vulnerable and deeply honest about her letter. Crystal would remain alive to her son as long as he learned new things about her and what she’d wanted for him. He read it again. Crystal had done what she’d believed was the right thing for Travis.

Radhauser carefully refolded the page and returned it to the bottom of the shoebox. He placed the two stacks on top, then tucked the box under his arm, turned off the lights, locked up the house and got back into his Bronco. It went against police procedures to take the letters, but he needed to do it. They weren’t evidence related to the case. And even if they were, he needed to honor Crystal’s wish that Travis receive them on his eighteenth birthday. And he needed to track down Mitch Reynolds.