twins.”
“Were,” I said. “Aaron died in the trunk of his car on the way to wherever his killer or killers dumped the body.”
Prince tapped his chin. “Did you see the car?”
I still see it in my dreams . “Yes,” I said. I had a flashback to the warehouse parking lot where two years earlier Aaron’s scorched BMW 330 stood outlined by yellow crime-scene tape.
It was a spectacular Seattle morning. The city glistened in the sunshine and the greenery engendered by weeks of nutritive rain. The air was still slightly crisp from a northerly breeze that carried with it the scent of the spring blossoms. Nature’s perfection was wasted on me as I rode halfheartedly through my downtown circuit. I was already worried about my brother. Though our face-to-face contact had been sporadic since Aaron had moved to Vancouver (a mere 150 miles north of Seattle) the year before, normally I could always track him down by phone. Ten days had passed without my brother returning any of my messages.
People often asked us whether we thought that as identical twins we shared some kind of telepathic connection, like the characters in The Corsican Brothers. We used to laugh at the idea. But that morning of Helen’s call, I’d woken up sensing that something was very wrong. I tried phoning Aaron twice. I had just hung up the second time when Helen called. After stiff pleasantries, she said, “Ben, we’ve found a car in an industrial park in Fife. It’s a black BMW.” She paused. “Registered under your brother’s name.”
“Where’s Aaron?” I asked, my heart in my throat.
“Don’t know. But his car has been vandalized.”
“Vandalized how?”
“Someone looks to have tried to torch it, but the car didn’t burn.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t think there’s any point in you coming out here now. We can do this over the phone.”
“Where, Helen?” I insisted, the feeling of doom welling up in me.
She gave me the address. I resisted the urge to ask her why a Homicide cop was calling about my brother’s abandoned vehicle. I suppose I didn’t want to hear the obvious. I threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and tore out to my car.
I drove the twenty miles in fifteen minutes. Tires screeching, I skidded into the warehouse parking lot. Four or five Seattle P.D. vehicles were scattered around the otherwise empty lot. When I saw the CSI van, I tasted bile. There was no more doubt.
I pulled up beside Aaron’s BMW, parked in the corner and cordoned off by yellow tape. The black paint on the roof had bubbled and peeled off in spots. Smoke stains blackened the windows. The trunk was popped wide open.
I hopped out of my car. Standing by the CSI van and speaking on her cell phone, Helen tried to flag me down, but I raced past her. Dodging the CSI tech, I jumped the crime-scene tape and stopped directly in front of the trunk of the car.
Congealed and partially cooked, there was no mistaking the puddles that saturated the bottom of the trunk. Blood. It coated the surface so thoroughly that I could barely spot any sections of the gray lining that hadn’t turned hemorrhagic brown.
It could have been anyone’s blood. Or even the blood of a slaughtered dog or farm animal. But staring into the trunk of that smoked-out BMW, I knew it was Aaron’s; which, after all, was my blood, too.
Prince scratched his chin and stared out the window for a several moments after I finished the story. “They never found his body?” He directed his question at Puget Sound.
“No.”
“So he might still be alive?”
I shook my head and sighed. I’d faced the same assertion many times before. “There was too much blood in the trunk. He had to have bled out.”
Prince looked over to me, eyeing me doubtfully. “That’s your expert opinion beyond a doubt?” he asked as if jousting with a prosecution witness.
“I’m not a pathologist but—”
“Exactly.” Prince cut me off with a snap of his fingers. “And even if
“Were,” I said. “Aaron died in the trunk of his car on the way to wherever his killer or killers dumped the body.”
Prince tapped his chin. “Did you see the car?”
I still see it in my dreams . “Yes,” I said. I had a flashback to the warehouse parking lot where two years earlier Aaron’s scorched BMW 330 stood outlined by yellow crime-scene tape.
It was a spectacular Seattle morning. The city glistened in the sunshine and the greenery engendered by weeks of nutritive rain. The air was still slightly crisp from a northerly breeze that carried with it the scent of the spring blossoms. Nature’s perfection was wasted on me as I rode halfheartedly through my downtown circuit. I was already worried about my brother. Though our face-to-face contact had been sporadic since Aaron had moved to Vancouver (a mere 150 miles north of Seattle) the year before, normally I could always track him down by phone. Ten days had passed without my brother returning any of my messages.
People often asked us whether we thought that as identical twins we shared some kind of telepathic connection, like the characters in The Corsican Brothers. We used to laugh at the idea. But that morning of Helen’s call, I’d woken up sensing that something was very wrong. I tried phoning Aaron twice. I had just hung up the second time when Helen called. After stiff pleasantries, she said, “Ben, we’ve found a car in an industrial park in Fife. It’s a black BMW.” She paused. “Registered under your brother’s name.”
“Where’s Aaron?” I asked, my heart in my throat.
“Don’t know. But his car has been vandalized.”
“Vandalized how?”
“Someone looks to have tried to torch it, but the car didn’t burn.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t think there’s any point in you coming out here now. We can do this over the phone.”
“Where, Helen?” I insisted, the feeling of doom welling up in me.
She gave me the address. I resisted the urge to ask her why a Homicide cop was calling about my brother’s abandoned vehicle. I suppose I didn’t want to hear the obvious. I threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and tore out to my car.
I drove the twenty miles in fifteen minutes. Tires screeching, I skidded into the warehouse parking lot. Four or five Seattle P.D. vehicles were scattered around the otherwise empty lot. When I saw the CSI van, I tasted bile. There was no more doubt.
I pulled up beside Aaron’s BMW, parked in the corner and cordoned off by yellow tape. The black paint on the roof had bubbled and peeled off in spots. Smoke stains blackened the windows. The trunk was popped wide open.
I hopped out of my car. Standing by the CSI van and speaking on her cell phone, Helen tried to flag me down, but I raced past her. Dodging the CSI tech, I jumped the crime-scene tape and stopped directly in front of the trunk of the car.
Congealed and partially cooked, there was no mistaking the puddles that saturated the bottom of the trunk. Blood. It coated the surface so thoroughly that I could barely spot any sections of the gray lining that hadn’t turned hemorrhagic brown.
It could have been anyone’s blood. Or even the blood of a slaughtered dog or farm animal. But staring into the trunk of that smoked-out BMW, I knew it was Aaron’s; which, after all, was my blood, too.
Prince scratched his chin and stared out the window for a several moments after I finished the story. “They never found his body?” He directed his question at Puget Sound.
“No.”
“So he might still be alive?”
I shook my head and sighed. I’d faced the same assertion many times before. “There was too much blood in the trunk. He had to have bled out.”
Prince looked over to me, eyeing me doubtfully. “That’s your expert opinion beyond a doubt?” he asked as if jousting with a prosecution witness.
“I’m not a pathologist but—”
“Exactly.” Prince cut me off with a snap of his fingers. “And even if
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