by J. D. Barker
“My God, you are a dirty, filthy boy. Time changes many things, but that, I’m afraid, is not one of them.”
When I glanced back up and my eyes found Stella standing at the back of the long hallway, my breath caught in my throat. An audible gasp slipped from my lips before I could stop it, and had I not gained some semblance of control, my mouth would have surely fallen open, agape in utter awe.
She was beautiful.
Beyond beautiful.
She might have been the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.
Her hair was as I remembered: long and brown, flowing down in waves and curls over her shoulders and back, framing a face of porcelain smooth skin, flawless in every way. Her chestnut eyes glistened in the waning light, filled with wonder and curiosity. Her lips were full, and the deepest of reds. Her shoulders were bare in a black dress that fell halfway to her knees. She stood there with such casual elegance in matching black heels, such ease and comfort.
This was the girl I remembered, the girl I drew hundreds of times, but she had matured into a young woman in the years since I last saw her.
When I finally remembered to breathe, I smelled a hint of vanilla on the air, and I knew it came from her. I had never been so self-conscious of my own appearance in all my life.
She took a step closer to me, her long legs moving with the care and grace of someone so accustomed to heels they became second nature. I thought briefly of Gerdy from the diner, the one time I saw her in heels—her clumsy movements, the uncomfortable grimace on her face as she took each step, no different from any of the other girls I knew from school or work. They so desperately wanted to grow up.
Stella was different, though.
She was so different.
She had grown up—she was the girl, the young woman they all strived to be.
When Stella reached me, she looked me up and down, and I wanted to run. I wanted to push back out those doors and run as far away as I possibly could rather than let her see me in my current state—my cheap, stained clothes, the kitchen grease weighing down my hair. I couldn’t move, though. I was frozen, afraid my wobbly legs might drop out from under me if I called on them to do anything.
My cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
Stella reached up and ran a gloved hand through my hair—black leather gloves identical to the ones she wore during our previous encounters. Her head tilted slightly to the left, and she met my eyes. “I believe I called you ugly the first time we met, and while your cleanliness may be questionable, you have at least grown out of the ugly. Perhaps not to your potential, but there is a glimpse of the man to come, and far less of that little boy who perched himself uninvited upon my bench.”
“I…I came straight from work. I wanted to change and clean up, but I didn’t have enough time,” I stammered, my voice sounding higher to me than it normally did.
“A true gentlemen caller always finds the time to present himself as nothing shy of his utmost best. Prim and proper and dressed to the nines. You look as if you recently rolled in the gutter for fun. Your scent is an assault on all things civilized. And your posture is a perfect representation of defeat. Stand up straight, Pip. You’re better than that.”
“Jack.”
She grinned. “Pip to me, though. Always Pip to me.”
“We’re a little old to be living in a fairy tale, don’t you think?”
“Are we? I like to think not. I can’t imagine living in anything but a fairy tale. The real world can be an abhorrent place.”
“Stella? Why don’t you show young Jack around? You’ve seen the hovel where he lives.”
I hadn’t heard Ms. Oliver return. She stood at the end of the hallway, her hands clasped in front of her.
“This is a lovely home,” I said.
Stella smiled again. “It is, isn’t it?” She turned to the older woman. “Of course, Ms. Oliver. It would be my pleasure.”
She held out her hand to me, and I took it. The touch of her long, slender fingers sent a rush of warmth through me, even through her soft leather gloves.
Stella led me down the long hallway behind the foyer, past a large sitting room on the right and a library on the left. I expected Oliver to follow us, but she did not. She stepped back as we walked past her. My eyes met hers, and although she smiled politely, there was nothing but ice in her gaze, a deep hatred that I felt I had not earned and I didn’t understand. I gripped Stella’s hand tighter as we moved beyond the woman, and somehow she caught sight of this, too, her eyes darting to our hands before quickly returning to meet mine.
Latrese Oliver did not follow us, but the moment we passed her, two others stepped out of a side hall on the left and fell in line about ten feet behind us. A man and a woman, both in their mid to late twenties, both wearing long, white coats identical to the others. Each had short-cropped blond hair and looked as if they might be related, a brother and sister, perhaps. They didn’t say anything, just fell in step at our backs. When Stella paused at a large dark chestnut grandfather clock in the hallway, they went still, too. The distance between us was a constant.
“When I was a little girl, perhaps a year before you and I first met, I was told this clock controlled time for all of the world. Should it stop ticking, the world would stop ticking, too, simply cease to exist. I used to wake in the middle of the night and run down here to check on it. Sometimes I would bring a blanket and sleep right here on the floor. I always found the sound of it soothing, that steady tick tock.”
“Who told you that? Ms. Oliver?”
“Yes.”
“Is she your guardian or something?”
“Something, yes.”
“You never told me what happened to your parents.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I told you what happened to mine.”
She turned and continued down the hall, the soft material of her black dress caressing the back of her legs. “This way, Pip. You have much to see.”
I started after her. I knew I should, I knew I was supposed to, but I had had enough of this—this one-sided conversation with a girl I had known yet not known nearly longer than any other person in my life.
I willed my legs to stop moving.
I stood my ground.
The ticking of the large grandfather clock was eclipsed only by the sound of my heart, thudding in my chest.
Stella must have somehow sensed this, because she paused at the end of the hallway without turning around. “No longer the obedient puppy?”
“I never was.”
Stella let out a sigh. Not so much one of defeat but one of acceptance. She did not turn around. And when she spoke, some of the edge had left her voice. “It was a summer day, not unlike today. The sun had begun to set, and my mother placed me in my bed for the night. Although I was only two, I recall the evening perfectly. It might have been a week ago. Mother smelled of vanilla, a perfume I now wear in her memory.”
Stella went on, her shadow slowly creeping across the floor with the setting sun. “My mother had just turned the page when a loud sound came from downstairs, a bang of some sort, quickly followed by the sound of splintered wood. The sound of three armed men kicking in our front door and entering the house. Mother frowned and tried to hide her worry as she stood and placed the copy of Charlotte’s Web on the seat of her chair. She kissed me on the forehead and left my room.”
I took a step toward her. I heard the two people in white follow with a step of their own. “Was it a robbery?”
“The police report called it a ‘home invasion.’ I remember hearing my father shout, then another bang. This one was different, though, not like the breaking of the door. This was more of a pop, followed quickly by another. My father’s voice went silent, abruptly cut off. This was followed by a loud scream from my mother. I recall the urge to cry came over me but being too frightened to do so. Instead, I pulled the sheets of my bed up over my face. My father once told me sheets were magic and could protect me from all the creat
ures that lived in the dark, particularly the ones who made a home in my closet. Somehow, I felt those sheets could also protect me from whatever was happening downstairs. My mother screamed again. This was followed by running—not only my mother, but the men. Their shoes made this unfamiliar clacking noise on the hardwood floor of our house. As a child, I used to lie in bed and listen to the footfalls downstairs. I could easily pick out my father’s steps from my mother’s and separate both from those of a stranger. In this case, there were clearly three strangers, all of them chasing my mother.”
When Stella paused again, I said nothing. When she continued, I let her do so uninterrupted. “She made it to the stairs. The landing at the base of the stairs squeaked. I knew she was coming for me. I waited expectantly. Instead, there was a loud thump and my mother screamed again. One of the men said something to her, but I couldn’t make out the words. At that point, I crawled deep under my covers and curled myself into a tight little ball. Oddly, I remember sucking my thumb, a habit I broke more than a year earlier. There was a comfort in it, a familiarity. The sound helped me block out what came next.”
I wanted to go to her, cross the hallway and go to her and tell her that she didn’t have to tell me more, but I couldn’t move. My legs were frozen in place. When I tried to speak, my voice deserted me.
“One of the men raped her, possibly two of them. Right there on the steps. I like to think she fought them, but I don’t believe she did. I think she felt that by giving in, by giving them what they wanted, she could stop them there on those steps, keep them from finding me upstairs. Things got quiet as this went on, things got so unbelievably quiet. I think that’s why the gunshot seemed so loud when it finally came. The house fell into utter silence. Then the gunshot rang out and shook the very foundation. My mother was quiet after that.”
This time, I did take a step toward her on wobbly legs, but as I closed the distance to half, she said, “Don’t. Please stay there. Let me finish. I need…to finish.”
She drew in a deep breath, held it, then let it back out. “After the gunshot, I heard all three men as they climbed the steps to the second floor. They made a tremendous amount of noise—overturning the mattress, pulling out drawers, and dumping the contents. They left no surface untouched, unexamined. I have no idea what they took, if they took anything at all. Years later, when I would finally read the police report, the authorities were unable to find anything of value missing. Our television, stereo, my mother’s jewelry—some of it quite valuable—had all been left relatively close to wherever it had been discovered. Whatever they searched for eludes me even today, but at some point they must have found it in the master bedroom, for they abandoned their search there and made quick work of the guest room. I don’t believe they searched the bathroom at all.
“I heard them enter my room. I heard the first of the three men as he stood at my doorway’s threshold, the breath wheezing in and out of him as if he had some kind of cold. They encircled my bed. I don’t know which one snatched up my blanket and tossed it aside. I just remember my world going from total darkness to this blinding light. I remember being suddenly cold—the pocket of warm air around me gone in an instant. I kept my eyes pressed tight, unwilling to look. One of the men said, ‘I don’t know about this. I can’t hurt no kid.’ Then another said, ‘I ain’t turning down this paycheck. No way. How do we get her in the bag? They said we can’t touch her.’ Then the third replied, ‘They said we can’t touch her. Put your gloves on, you idiot. Grab her with the pajamas.’ When I felt someone grab my leg, I opened my eyes. I remember looking at all three of them. I remember taking my thumb from my mouth and seeing their faces looking down at me, these three strangers, these intruders, come to take me from my bed.” She paused for a second. “I reached out to them, wrapped my little fingers around theirs. I think I hoped they would carry me to my mother.”
Her voice broke, a crack on that last word. I thought she might cry. She didn’t. When she finally spoke again, it was only after the draw of another deep breath.
“Come, Jack. Let us walk in the garden,” Stella said.
Jack this time, not Pip.
I followed after her.
5
Detective Joy Fogel climbed the three concrete steps of the two-story brick house off Greenlee Road and knocked on the door. There was a doorbell, but two wires stuck out from under the plastic plate, and it looked like it probably hadn’t functioned since Reagan held the presidency. The small front yard hadn’t been mowed in weeks—dandelions and other assorted weeds thrived among the long blades of grass. As she waited, a large bumble bee hopped from one bloom to the next.
She was about to knock again, when the wooden door opened. A man in his mid to late seventies stood behind the glass of the storm door separating them. He wore a yellowed tank top over faded jeans. What remained of his gray hair was trimmed short, a military cut.
“Yeah?”
Fogel shifted the manila folder from her right hand to her left and smiled. “Are you Detective Stack?”
“Former Detective Terrance Stack, just Terry now. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Detective Joy Fogel. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if you can spare the time.”
His eyes dropped to the folder. “Faustino send you?”
Faustino hadn’t sent her. In fact, he had no idea she was even here. She didn’t want to lie, though. She suspected this guy would see right through a lie and this conversation would end up being very short. “He briefed me this morning. I’d like to talk to you about ’78.”
Stack glanced back over his shoulder, then returned his gaze to her. His eyes were tired, bloodshot. He smelled of stale beer.
“Can I come in?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Just a few minutes. I promise.”
“If Faustino briefed you, then you already know everything. There’s nothing I can add.”
“You investigated the crime scene. You were first to arrive after the uniforms secured the house. A written report can only convey so much. I need to know what you left out of the report,” Fogel said.
“Everything is in there. I didn’t leave anything out.”
Fogel said nothing. She repositioned the folder, her eyes on him.
Stack said nothing, either, his eyes on her. As a detective for over thirty years, she imagined he could outstare the best of them.
“I know it eats at you, an unsolved case like this. I can help, but you’ve got to talk to me.”
Stack sighed, unlocked the glass storm door, and pushed it open, holding the frame at the top. “Come on, before I change my mind.”
Fogel ducked under his arm into the house.
She found herself in a small living room. A nineteen-inch television sat on two milk crates in the corner, with a battered brown leather recliner positioned in front. A metal TV tray with three empty bottles and one half full bottle of Iron City stood beside the chair. On the television, the evening news droned on. Stack stepped past her and clicked it off. The air in the room smelled stagnant. She wanted to open a window. “Is your wife home?”
Stack snickered. “Are you in homicide?”
Fogel nodded.
“I gave up on wives after number three gave up on me. You know how it goes—never home, the job always on the mind. Tough sleeping with the images of bodies floating around in your head whenever you close your eyes. I got pretty good at blocking all that out when I came through the door, but not good enough. Some of them follow you inside whether you invite them or not. Wife number three ignored most of that—in the beginning, anyway. After a few years, even the best of them begin to feel like they’re second fiddle to the job. Once that feeling sets in, it’s only a matter of time before bags get packed.”
He picked up the half full bottle of Iron City and took a long swig, then held it out toward her. “You want one? I got more in the fridge.”
“Can’t. I’m on duty.”
He drained the rest of his own beer, set it back on the rickety metal table beside the three others, and retrieved another from the refrigerator in the small kitchen. He popped the cap off on the edge of the counter and took another drink, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and leaned against the back of the recliner, facing her, the beer cradled in his hand. “You don’t want this case in your head, kid.”
“It’s already in my head. Tell me about August 8, 1978. The first one.”
He took another drink, nearly half the bottle gone just like that. “I was supposed to be off. I clocked out at eight-thirty that night and was shooting the shit with a few of the other guys in the pen, when the call came in. That was a quarter after nine. A neighbor reported gunshots. 911 dispatched a unit, and they found the bodies. They taped off the house and put the call into homicide. Morgan should have gone out. He had another hour on his shift, but it was his kid’s birthday, birthday number twelve, and it seemed silly for him to miss something like that. I was six months out of my first divorce, so I had no place in particular I needed to be so I agreed to go out in his place. Worst fucking mistake of my life. Partners were optional back then, so I went solo.”
His voice dropped off. He raised the bottle to his lips, changed his mind. “The house was in Dormont, off Beverly. Number 98. Three stories with a stone facade, perfectly manicured lawn, even better manicured flowers in boxes at the window. Could have been in a magazine, Norman Rockwell from top to bottom. There were three patrol cars there when I arrived. Uniforms taped off the entire front yard, and all the neighbors came out to see the show. I ducked the tape, went inside. There were big splinters of wood around the frame. Looked like someone kicked the door in. I remember the chunks of wood on the floor were tagged with evidence number seven. One of the uniforms recognized me, nodded toward a room off to the left. Flashbulbs were going off on the stairs in the opposite direction. I went to the left, to a family room. That’s where we found the male vic. He took a bullet to the head, right here.” Stack tapped at the center of his forehead. “Perfectly clean shot, dead center. The back of his head was missing, spread out between the coffee table and the carpet. Looked like he had been sitting on the couch reading the Post-Gazette, got up when the unsubs burst through the door, and got about two steps before they plugged him. 9mm round, heavy jacket.” He tapped his forehead again.