The Broken Mother

by Thomas Fincham

  “I like them already,” Callaway said with a laugh.

  Fisher gave him a dirty look. “Not funny. We believe…” She stopped and then corrected herself. “I believe someone from the organization may know what happened at Emily’s Place.”

  “Why don’t you arrest them?”

  “They have several hundred members, and we don’t know who it could be.”

  Callaway stared at the pamphlet. “And where do I come into this?”

  “I need you to go to one of their meetings.”

  “Why don’t you go?”

  She gave him a look. “Really? Didn’t you just hear me say it’s a men’s-only group?”

  “Get Holt to go,” Callaway said.

  “I haven’t asked him, but I know he won’t do it. Plus, the head of the organization knows who we are.”

  “Why don’t you get McConnell to go?” Callaway suggested. “He’s a man.”

  “Lance has never worked undercover, and he’s too by-the-book. They’ll know he’s a cop the moment he walks in. I need someone who can blend in. Someone who talks like them and has problems like them.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “Women problems.”

  “I used to have women problems, but not anymore.”

  Fisher sighed. “Just do it for me, will you? I don’t want this case to haunt me for the rest of my life. The perpetrator who brutally murdered three innocent women needs to pay for this crime, and I want to be the one to bring the perp to justice.”

  After a brief pause, Callaway said, “All right, I’ll do it. But you’re paying for my lunch now.”

  Fisher smiled. “No problem. You can even order dessert if you like.”

  SIXTY-THREE

  Holt was at his desk. Fisher told him she had some matters to attend to. He did not push her for details. She was, after all, supposed to be on leave. He had pulled her back. If she needed a break, she could have one.

  He wished he could do the same, but he knew that was not possible. His supervisor wanted this case solved as soon as possible. His supervisor had to answer to his superiors. His superiors were being questioned by the local politicians. The politicians had to answer to their constituents. The pressure came from the very top, and it went down to Holt’s shoulders.

  The department was also inundated with phone calls from the media and the public. The media wanted updates on the case, something to fill their airways and newspaper columns. The public wanted to know whether the police were doing their jobs. There was already a consensus building up that the case might never be solved. It did not help that misinformation was being spread by anonymous individuals who had a disdain for authority. If they could have their way, vigilante justice would be the way to go. Give power to the people, they believed, and let them decide who was guilty or not.

  Holt knew that was no way for a civilized society to function properly. Without laws, there would be chaos. There would be no differentiating between right and wrong.

  Holt also understood that the very laws he and Fisher were adhering to were also restricting them from what they could and could not do.

  They could not round up all potential suspects and interrogate them until one broke. That happened in other countries, but not in the United States of America.

  There was due process and the presumption of innocence until proven guilty. Holt would have to follow procedures if he hoped to get a conviction one day.

  As he stared at the photos from the crime scene, he wondered why the killer did not storm into the center in the middle of the day and shoot all the occupants inside. Why did he kill them one by one?

  The answer was that the killer wanted these women gone. Holt just could not figure out why.

  Holt was not ready to call it a hate crime. This was not a crime of passion. This was calculated. After shooting Emily Riley, the killer waited for Paige Giles and Melody Ferguson to arrive at the scene. He then shot them one after the other. He could have shot Nikki Jones as well, but her absence from work saved her from an almost certain death. But the killer did not know this. He was likely waiting for her.

  Holt’s brow furrowed as he dove into deep thought.

  Angel, the homeless woman who had called 9-1-1, had entered the center through the front doors because they were not locked. She then met Officer McConnell a few minutes later. He had gone inside and surveyed the gruesome scene.

  Was the killer still inside when Angel had come knocking? Holt thought.

  He had to find out.

  Holt grabbed his coat and rushed out of the Milton PD.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  “Ouch,” Callaway said as Fisher stuck scotch tape to his chest.

  They were inside Fisher’s SUV, which was parked outside a community center.

  “Is this necessary?” he asked.

  She attached a microphone to the tape. “I want to hear everything that is being discussed.”

  “Are you sure this isn’t about you and not the murders at Emily’s Place?”

  Her face hardened. “What do you mean?”

  “It seems like you have a bone to pick with this organization.”

  “We found evidence at the crime scene that may link the perpetrator to the Men’s Support Alliance. I want to make sure we cover all leads.”

  He shrugged. “If you say so.”

  She stared at him. “You don’t believe me.”

  “I just feel like you are making this personal.”

  She frowned. “What makes you say that?”

  “All through the drive over, you griped about why such an organization would exist in the first place.”

  “I was just trying to debunk the myths this organization was trying to spread.”

  “What if they aren’t just myths?”

  “You really believe men have it worse than women?” Fisher shot back.

  “I never said that. But there are men who have it worse than other men.”

  “So, why go after women?”

  “Maybe they are not going after just women. Maybe they are trying to help men in general.”

  Fisher was silent.

  Callaway said, “I was fortunate enough to grow up in a loving environment. The way I turned out had nothing to do with my parents. I made bad decisions that I’m now trying to make amends for. There are men who come from broken homes and destructive situations. They are lost and confused. But society wants them to get a job, raise a family, and be all that men are supposed to be: strong and reliable. What if these men are just as fragile as women? What if they are damaged? Would it not be helpful for them to have someone in their corner? Someone to believe in them? To fight for them?”

  Fisher stared at him. She then said, “I never knew you held such a strong view on the subject.”

  “I don’t,” he said. “While you were driving, I was reading the back of this.” He held the plastic baggie with the Men’s Support Alliance pamphlet inside.

  “Anyway,” Fisher said, “I want you to go in there and find out what their meetings are about. Do they discuss the events at Emily’s Place? See if anyone holds a grudge against women or the center.”

  “All right,” he said, tucking his shirt in. “But why do I feel like an informant?”

  She smiled. “You kind of are.”

  “And what do I get for helping you?” he asked with a grin.

  “The next time you get arrested, your cooperation in this investigation will help shave a couple of years off your sentence.”

  Callaway’s grin vanished as a shiver ran up his spine. “Let’s not talk about getting arrested. One time was enough.”

  He was about to get out of the SUV when she said, “Are you forgetting something?”

  “What?”

  “The thing I asked you to bring.”

  From his pocket he pulled out a wedding ring. “I’m not sure why I’ve kept it with me all these years.”

  “I want you to wear it.”

  “Why?”

  �
��You’ll look less suspicious if they think you’re married.”

  He sighed and shoved the ring on his finger. “It’s a little tight, but it still fits.”

  “Good luck,” she said.

  He was about to get out when he stopped again. “What if they recognize me in there?”

  Fisher gave him a skeptical look. “How will they do that?”

  Callaway grinned. “I am a world-famous private eye, you know.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Get over yourself, Lee Callaway. The last time I checked, your office was above a soup and noodle shop.”

  “Touché,” he said. “But I do have a reputation that I must protect.”

  “Yes, I know. As a womanizing, gambling drunk.”

  “What’s with the barbs, lady?” he complained.

  She exhaled. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be such a jerk. I’m just under a lot of stress. I want to find out who did that to those women.”

  “I do too,” he said. “And I’m stressed as well. Who knows what I’m walking into.”

  She pointed to a tiny piece of equipment lodged in her ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll be listening to your every move.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” he said, and he left.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  The community center used to be a tire factory. Once the tire company moved down south, the city purchased the building for a fraction of the cost and then converted it to serve the community.

  Callaway took a deep breath as he made his way up the three steps to the front door. The back of his neck was already sweating, and his armpits were soaking wet.

  Why are you nervous? he thought. You haven’t done anything wrong. Everything will be fine. You will be fine.

  But he was feeling anything but fine.

  He knew the reason. He was infiltrating a members-only organization, and he was not a member.

  What if they call me out?

  He had come up with a story in case that happened. His name was Phil Enstead, and he had heard about the organization from the news. The Men’s Support Alliance had gotten enough media coverage after the events at Emily’s Place, so it would be reasonable for someone like Callaway to be curious about them.

  If they still did not let him into the meeting, he would leave without a fuss. Fisher was listening in on him, so she could not blame him for not trying.

  There was a piece of paper stuck to the glass door. It was an announcement for a food drive the center was organizing a few days later.

  Callaway went inside. He saw a sign for the Men’s Support Alliance. There was an arrow underneath the organization’s name. He followed the arrow and found himself in the center’s gymnasium.

  On the far end of the space, several dozen chairs were placed in rows. In front of them was a long table. A man with curly hair, glasses, and a striped sweater was reading something from a piece of paper.

  That must be Tom Manning, Callaway thought.

  Fisher had filled Callaway in on the organization and its founder. Callaway hoped he did not have to deal with Manning.

  He looked around. He was early. There were far too many empty chairs, and the chairs that were occupied were at the front.

  He decided to grab the nearest chair in the back.

  Not even five minutes had passed before Manning stood up and came over to him.

  “Tom Manning,” he said with his hand extended.

  Callaway shook it. “Um… Phil.”

  “Haven’t seen you here before, Phil.”

  “This is my first time.”

  Manning was smiling. “Welcome to the Men’s Support Alliance. Here is the agenda for tonight.” He handed him a piece of paper. “We don’t really follow it exactly, it’s just so that we don’t go past our time. The community center is booked for two hours, and we have to leave before that.” He then produced another piece of paper. “If at the end you decide to join our organization, we request that you fill this out. We don’t ask anything confidential, only your name, address, and so on. Also, there is an annual fee. It’s there to cover the cost of the materials, the office space, and the community center rent. People always ask if my salary comes out of the fee. It doesn’t. We just don’t have enough members to cover that. My time is voluntary.”

  Callaway took the forms. “Thank you. I’ll consider it.”

  Manning said, “I see that you are married.”

  Callaway rubbed his wedding ring. “I am.”

  “Does your wife know you are here?”

  Callaway shook his head.

  “You should tell her. We are not some cult. We are here to discuss issues men are facing each day.”

  “All right,” Callaway said.

  Manning then moved on to another person who was also new to the meeting.

  More men streamed into the gymnasium. Callaway eyed them suspiciously.

  To his surprise, they all looked normal, like regular joes. None of them exuded a dangerous vibe.

  What were you expecting, anyway? he thought. A mob of angry woman haters with torches and pitchforks in their hands?

  Callaway suddenly found himself relaxing.

  SIXTY-SIX

  When Holt got near Emily’s Place, he expected a large gathering outside, but his expectations paled in comparison to what he saw now.

  There were almost a dozen news vans with reporters and cameramen staking out prime spots in front of the property. There were also various groups holding signs and chanting slogans, as well as people who were coming to pay their respects to the deceased. They would say a prayer, maybe take a photo, and then quietly leave. A makeshift memorial was set up next to a lamppost. Flowers, wreaths, cards, and religious ornaments were placed before it.

  Holt felt his chest tighten. He rarely felt pressure of any kind. He was able to distance himself from the cases he worked on. This was different, however. Someone had targeted these women, perhaps even targeted what the center had stood for. Holt was not ready to label it a hate crime just yet, but he was ready to punish the perpetrator responsible.

  He had called prior to arriving at the center. And as such, the officer at the scene quickly waved him through the yellow police tape.

  Reporters hurled questions in his direction as he passed them. He was grateful he did not have to face a camera. He had no answers to give—a fact that troubled him greatly.

  There was something else that troubled him even more.

  He went inside the center, and he spotted a chalk outline where Melody Ferguson’s body had been. Next to it were tags and markers placed on any items removed from the scene as evidence.

  Holt carefully tip-toed over the chalk marks and went farther inside. He spotted the next chalk mark down another hall, which belonged to Paige Giles. Next to it were more markers and tags. They were for the bullets left from the Smith & Wesson 9mm.

  Holt was not interested in any of that. He wanted to confirm something inside Emily Riley’s office.

  There was no chalk outline for her body. She had been found slumped in her office chair. That chair was tagged and sent to the lab for further analysis.

  Holt turned and faced the door that was on the opposite end of the office, across from Emily Riley’s desk.

  Holt walked over to it and turned the handle. It was locked. There was also a bolt lock just above the door handle. It too was secured.

  Holt had already checked it the first time he had come to the scene. That was why he always thought the killer had left through the front doors.

  But what if he did not? What if he was still inside waiting for Nikki Jones to arrive? Then Angel came knocking on the door.

  How did the killer make his escape? he thought. There are no other doors leading out except the one in the front and the one in the back.

  Holt’s eyes suddenly widened. What if it wasn’t a door but a window?

  Emily Riley’s office had two large windows that faced the back of the property. He pulled on latex gloves and began to examine them. He no
ticed that one of the windows was not locked. He pushed on the window with his finger, and it opened without much resistance.

  He stuck his head out and was confronted with a wooden fence that surrounded the entire property. The fence was at least eight feet high.

  Holt looked down.

  He noticed something.

  He was too big to go through the window, so he went out the back door.

  Underneath the window was a flower bed. Holt squinted and could see half the sole of a shoeprint.

  Holt’s instincts were correct.

  The killer had not left from the front.

  He had left from the back.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Fisher had seen Callaway walk up to the community center and disappear through the front doors.

  She hated to use her friendship to make him do this. He was clearly uncomfortable with it. And rightly so. She had wired him up so that he could be a spy for her.

  But she saw no other option. Her instincts were telling her that someone from the Men’s Support Alliance knew something about what happened at Emily’s Place. Earl Munchin was a member. His weapon had gone missing at a rally held by the organization—the same type of weapon used in the murders. The pieces were fitting into place, but Holt was too thick-headed to see it. Maybe he was refusing to acknowledge the fact that a man with pure hatred against women had committed a triple homicide.

  She shook her head. Holt was a friend and a good detective. In all her years working with him, she never got the sense that he had a sexist bone in his body. He must have his reasons for not calling the case a hate crime. But until he could provide evidence to the contrary, she would stick to her instincts.

  She saw several cars pull into the parking lot. Men got out and made their way to the front doors.

  She pulled out a digital camera and began to snap photos of each person entering the building. She would delete the photos later, but right now she wanted to document everything in case she needed them to build a case.

  That would be another hurdle she would have to overcome.