the flashlight at the items that he evidently had arranged on the floor
around himself before pulling the trigger. A California driver’s license
with photo identification. A paperback Bible. An ordinary white business
envelope on which nothing was written or typed.
Four snapshots in a neatly ordered row. A small ruby-red glass of the
type that usually contains votive candles, though no candle was in this
one.
Learning to live with nausea, trying to will myself to recall the scent
of roses, I crouched for a closer look at the driver’s-license photo.
In spite of the decomposition, the cadaver’s face had sufficient points
of similarity to the face on the license to convince me that they were
the same.
“Leland Anthony Delacroix, ” I said.
“Don’t know him.”
“Thirty-five years old.”
“Not anymore.”
“Address in Monterey.”
“Why’d he come here to die? ” Bobby wondered.
In hope of finding an answer, I turned the light on the four snapshots.
The first showed a pretty blonde of about thirty, wearing white shorts
and a bright yellow blouse, standing on a marina dock against a backdrop
of blue sky, blue water, and sailboats. Her gamine smile was appealing.
The second evidently had been taken on a different day, in a different
place. This same woman, now in a polka-dot blouse, and Leland Delacroix
were sitting side by side at a redwood picnic table. His arm was around
her shoulders, and she was smiling at him as he faced the camera.
Delacroix appeared to be happy, and the blonde looked like a woman in
love.
“His wife, ” Bobby said.
“Maybe.” Ir I Precisely because the subjects were so visibly happy in
these shots, the effect of the photos was inexpressibly sad.
“They’re standing in front of one of these bungalows, ” Bobby noted,
indicating the background of the fourth snapshot.
“Not one of them. This one.”
“How can you tell? ”
“Gut feeling.”
“So they lived here once? ”
“And he came back to die.”
“Why? ”
“Maybe … this was the last place he was ever happy.” Bobby said,
“Which also means this was where it all started going wrong.”
“Not just for them. For all of us.”
“Where do you think the wife and kids are? ”
“Dead.”
“Gut feeling again? ”
“Yeah.”
“Me too.” Something glittered inside the small red votive-candle glass.
I prodded it with the flashlight, tipping it over. A woman’s wedding and
engagement rings spilled out onto the linoleum.
These items were all Delacroix had left of his beloved wife, other than
a few photographs. Perhaps I was reaching too far for meaning, but I
thought he had chosen the votive-candle holder to contain the rings
“She’s wearing a wedding ring in the picture.” because this was a way of
saying that the woman and the marriage were The third snapshot featured
two children, a boy of about six and an sacred to him.
elfin girl who could have been no older than four. In swimsuits, they
looked again at the photograph that had been taken in front of the stood
beside an inflatable wading pool, mugging for the camera.
bungalow The elfin girl’s wide smile, with one missing tooth, was a
heart breaker.
“Jesus, ” I said softly.
“Let’s split, bro.” I didn’t want to touch these objects the deceased
had arranged around himself, but the contents of the envelope might be
important.
As far as I could see, it wasn’t contaminated with blood or other
tissue.
When I picked it up, I could discern by touch that it didn’t hold any
paper docu “Wanted to die surrounded by memories of his family, ” Bobby
suggested.
The fourth snapshot seemed to support that interpretation. The blonde,
the children, and Delacroix stood on a green lawn, the kids in front of
their parents, posed for a portrait. The occasion must have been
special. Even more radiant here than in the other photos, the woman wore
a summery dress and high heels. The little girl flashed a gaptoothed
smile, clearly delighted by her outfit of white shoes, white socks, and
a frilly pink dress flaring over petticoats. So freshly scrubbed and
combed that you could almost smell the soap, the boy wore a blue suit,