The Broken Mother

by Thomas Fincham

  Her stakeout had not been sanctioned by her supervisor, which made it illegal—an invasion of privacy. She could also not go before a judge and say she had sent a civilian, aka Callaway, to weed out a killer. The blowback would be severe and could derail her career.

  That’s not going to happen, she thought.

  She would have to keep this to herself.

  She just needed a lead. Something to work with.

  The longer it took them to find a suspect, the more she feared the case would turn into a cold one.

  There were also interdepartmental issues she had to be concerned about.

  If she and Holt did not solve this case, their supervisor could choose to hand it over to someone else. She felt they were the best detectives, but that did not mean their solve rate was a hundred percent. A fresh pair of eyes may be needed to break the case open.

  But Fisher was determined to be the one to bring this killer to justice. It was not about getting credit for an arrest. It was about being able to look herself in the mirror and say, I used my skills to make the world a better place.

  Fisher snapped photos of the men entering the building, making sure she got a clear view of each member.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Manning began the session by introducing himself. He then jumped into current issues that were affecting men.

  When he was done, he opened the floor for members to discuss problems they were experiencing in their lives.

  One man stood up. He was wearing a sweatshirt and baggy pants. He spoke about how his girlfriend wanted to abort their baby, and he could do nothing to stop her.

  Why are you complaining? Callaway thought. She’s the one carrying the baby.

  Callaway knew that the odds a mother would abandon her children was far less than a father abandoning his children, so he believed a woman should have more say about that than a father. He thanked his good fortune that Patti took care of Nina the way she did after he walked out on them.

  Another man stood up. He was going through a divorce. He was complaining that he had to pay child support even though she got the house and the kids.

  “She was the one who cheated on me,” he griped, “but the judge still sided with her.” The man wore an expensive suit and had a shiny gold watch on his wrist.

  Callaway wanted to say, She cheated on you because you spent all your time away from the family working while she stayed at home and took care of the kids.

  Over his long career as a private eye, Callaway had dealt with dozens upon dozens of bored housewives who got so tired of not getting any attention from their busy husbands that they began to seek attention elsewhere. Sometimes Callaway became that source of attention.

  Callaway would never advocate infidelity in a relationship. He was proud he never cheated on Patti while they were together. Once a person crossed that line, it was very hard to move back over the line and think everything would be back to normal. The other spouse may forgive, but they never forgot the betrayal. Callaway genuinely believed that had he cheated on her, Patti would not have given him a second chance now.

  He glanced over at the clock on the wall and realized the meeting was coming to an end. He knew he had to do something or else his undercover assignment would be a complete waste.

  Without thinking, he stuck his hand up. The entire group turned their attention to him.

  “Phil,” Manning said with a smile. “Do you have something to say?”

  Callaway suddenly broke into a cold sweat. He gingerly stood up. He felt a lump in his throat as he said, “I’ve been watching the news lately, and I wanted to know what you guys think about what happened at Emily’s Place.”

  “Thank you for bringing that up,” Manning said without a hint of annoyance. “Contrary to what the media may say, we do not condone violence of any kind. What happened at Emily’s Place was a tragedy in every sense of the word. It was a horrific and vile action perpetrated against innocent people. Our hearts and prayers are with the families of the deceased women.”

  Most of the men in attendance nodded their heads in approval, even those who were griping seconds ago—except for one man.

  He sat in the last row with a scowl on his face.

  SIXTY-NINE

  After the meeting ended, Callaway stood outside as people began to exit the community center.

  He could see Fisher’s SUV parked in the distance. He was certain she was watching him right now. She had obviously listened in on what was said in the meeting, but she had no idea what he had seen. He would fill her in on it later.

  He turned his attention to the front door. He waited until the scowling man came out. He was flanked by two other men. They stopped at the bottom of the steps. They spoke for a couple of minutes, and then they shook hands and left.

  As the man walked to his Escalade, Callaway came up from behind. “Hey man,” he said with a smile on his face. “Can I have a word with you?”

  The man was a foot or two taller than Callaway, and he also weighed a few pounds more than him. Judging by the snake tattoo that curled around his wrist to the back of his hand, Callaway knew he was someone he did not want to mess with. “What do you wanna talk about?” the man asked. He had a deep accent which sounded Eastern European.

  “My name is Phil, by the way,” Callaway said, holding out his hand.

  The man reluctantly shook hands, but he did not give his name.

  “In the meeting, when they were talking about those dead women, I could tell you did not agree with Tom Manning.”

  The man moved closer to him. “I don’t know you, so I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  “Hey, relax,” Callaway said, holding up his hands. “I’ve been burned by that place myself.”

  “What place?”

  “Emily’s Place.”

  “So, what’s that got to do with me?”

  “I just thought maybe you and I shared the same opinion about what happened over there.”

  The man eyed him. “You’re married, so why do you care what happened there?”

  Callaway held up his ring finger. “Second marriage, man. My first wife put me through the ringer, and you know who helped her? Those women at Emily’s Place. They put ideas in her head. If you ask me, those women got what they deserved.” Callaway felt like he was going to throw up as he ad-libbed his words.

  The man finally smiled. “They sure got what they deserved,” he said.

  “You had the same experience with them too?” Callaway asked.

  “I know some girls who got brainwashed by them.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. It’s nice to know someone who feels the same way I do. I’m tired of being politically correct, you know?”

  “I hear you.”

  “If I saw the guy who did that to those women, I’d shake his hand.” Actually, I’d tackle him and rough him up pretty good before the cops arrived, Callaway thought, fighting the revulsion he felt.

  The man grinned. “I would shake his hand too.”

  Callaway then looked at his watch. “I should get going. The old hag would start asking questions about where I was.”

  “Right,” the man said.

  Callaway held out his hand. “Phil Enstead.”

  “Vinny Ulrich,” the man said.

  Callaway smiled. “It was nice talking to you, Vinny.”

  “Sure, same to you,” Vinny said.

  He got in his Escalade and drove off.

  Callaway rushed over to Fisher’s SUV and got in the passenger seat. “You catch all that?”

  “I did. Loud and clear,” Fisher said, pulling out her earpiece.

  Callaway ripped the wire from his chest and threw it across the dashboard. “This better be useful to you,” he said.

  “Trust me, it is,” she replied gently. “You did a great job, Lee.”

  Callaway crossed his arms over his chest and looked at the window. He was not feeling proud of himself. Instead, he felt sick to his stomach.

  SEV
ENTY

  Holt was in the basement of a house. The owner of the house was behind the keyboard, navigating the security footage on his computer screen.

  After discovering the shoeprint at Emily’s Place, Holt decided to check out the area next to the property. Unfortunately, behind the fence there was only an empty lot. A sign had been placed there, announcing that a set of row houses would be built on the lot. The sign looked faded, and the paint on the lettering had begun to chip away. The property developer likely realized the market had taken a turn and had decided not to begin construction anytime soon.

  That explains why no one heard the gunshots inside Emily’s Place, Holt had concluded.

  Undeterred, he decided to take a walk down the street adjacent to Emily’s Place, where the empty lot was. The farther he went, the more he saw residential houses.

  Holt believed if the killer did indeed leave through the back of Emily’s Place, there was only one direction he could have gone: through the residential street.

  Holt wanted to confirm his theory. In order to do that, he began to examine the front of each house he walked by. He was looking for security cameras. They were usually placed strategically on the property, somewhere to record who was coming and leaving.

  He spotted one. The camera was right above the front door, just inside the porch.

  Holt decided to ring the bell. After flashing his badge and explaining why he needed to see the footage, the owner—a man—quickly led him down to the basement.

  “What happened at the center,” the owner said, “scared everyone in the neighborhood.” The man, whose name was Gene Caldwell, was older, maybe in his late fifties. He had worked for a car manufacturing plant for almost his entire adult life. When the company relocated down south, Caldwell was given a nice severance and a chance for early pension. Caldwell decided to take early retirement. He never married, did not have any kids, and so the pension was enough for him to live comfortably. Holt did not ask for this information. The man was lonely, and he was glad to have someone to converse with.

  “You really think the guy who shot those women went through my street?” Caldwell asked.

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Holt replied.

  Caldwell shivered visibly. “I never imagined anything like that would ever happen this close to where I live. You see that kind of stuff on the news, but you think you are somehow always going to be immune to it.”

  Holt was eager to see what was on the footage, but he knew he was Caldwell’s guest, so he had to be polite and wait. “Unfortunately, no one is immune to violence. It’s a sad part of life,” Holt said, doing his best to sound interested.

  “I hear you,” Caldwell said.

  The images on the screen flickered by at light speed as Caldwell’s fingers flew over his keyboard. Holt had a timeframe of when the killer had made his escape: when Angel had shown up at the center. If Holt was right, the killer would show up within that timeframe.

  If Holt was wrong, however, he would be back to square one.

  Something on the screen caught Holt’s eye.

  “Stop it right there, Mr. Caldwell.”

  Caldwell paused the footage.

  “Go back thirty seconds and play the footage at normal speed.”

  On the screen, they could see the front of the house. The sun was shining bright that early in the morning, making the image vivid. There were no cars on the road or pedestrians on the sidewalk.

  A man came into view. He was dressed in black. He had on a hoodie with a baseball cap underneath.

  Holt’s back arched. It’s the same man who disabled the alarm system at Emily’s Place, he thought.

  The man took long strides as if he was in a hurry to be somewhere.

  The man was staring straight ahead, which resulted in the camera capturing only the side angle—not enough to get a clear image of his face.

  Within seconds he was gone from view.

  Holt re-watched the footage several times, but to no avail.

  Even though he was unable to identify the killer, Holt now had something to work with.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  Fisher dropped Callaway off at his apartment. She said goodbye to him, but his silence told her that he was not pleased with what he had done.

  She watched as he walked into the building and disappeared through the front doors.

  Her chest suddenly felt heavy, as if someone had placed a giant rock on it. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath. She tried to convince herself that what he did was necessary. There was no other alternative.

  Callaway was a good person who had made bad decisions in his life. He wished no ill on anyone. She knew it cut him to the core to say those terrible things about the tragedy at Emily’s Place.

  She opened her eyes when a thought occurred to her. Maybe it was not the words he said that bothered him. Maybe it was the fact that she had chosen him to go into a meeting of an organization that had a dislike for women.

  Fisher was clearly wrong, though. The meeting had not turned out the way she had expected. She thought the men in the room would spew vitriol against all the women they believed had wronged them. Instead, the men were going through problems that only other men could understand.

  The meeting was more akin to a therapy session than anything else. Tom Manning, or any other member for that matter, never once gave them a specific answer to their problems. They merely offered their support.

  Isn’t that what everyone wanted? Someone to listen to their problems with a sympathetic ear?

  She sighed.

  She had chosen Callaway because she believed he would easily blend in with the crowd. He had neglected his duties as a husband and father, and he had been in relationships with a lot of his clients’ wives and girlfriends. Surely, he would know how to connect with the members of the Men’s Support Alliance.

  She realized that’s where she was wrong. Callaway was not someone who had a gripe with the opposite sex or was going through issues with someone from the opposite sex. Callaway was fully aware of his shortcomings, and he was working hard to overcome them.

  He had women in his life that he pined for: Nina and Patti. They meant the world to him. And he had other women he looked out for: Joely, and even Fisher.

  She had clearly misjudged him.

  She shook her head and started the engine.

  She would make it up to him.

  Right now, though, she had a potential suspect she needed to dig up information on.

  She drove straight to the Milton PD. She was glad Holt was not at his desk. She did not know how she would be able to explain where she got the information from.

  It did not take her long to find what she was looking for.

  Vinny Ulrich had a long rap sheet. He had priors for domestic violence, aggravated assault, and terroristic threats. He had even served time for his involvement in a prostitution ring.

  Fisher was now convinced more than ever that she had her man.

  But before she could tell Holt of her discovery, she had to make sure.

  She pulled up Ulrich’s license plate number.

  She decided to pay him a visit.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  Callaway took the elevator up to his apartment. He got off on his floor and walked down the carpeted hall. He entered his unit and turned the lights on.

  The apartment was empty, and he suddenly felt lonely. He knew the difference between being alone and feeling lonely. One could be at a party and still feel lonely, whereas one could be alone but still not feel lonely.

  Callaway had spent too much time by himself. It was a hazard of his profession. Private investigators did not have a set timetable. They did not work from nine to five. Their schedule revolved around the schedules of their clients and the tasks given to them. They spent a majority of their time on stakeouts. They could be in their cars for hours, just to capture one single photo of a cheating spouse with his or her lover. Callaway was used to the solitude.

 
Today, however, he felt differently.

  Being at the Men’s Support Alliance meeting, and hearing some of the men speak of how their lives were different after a divorce and how they missed their children, made him yearn to be with Patti and Nina even more.

  He did not want to end up like those men. He did not want to be alone anymore. He did not want to come home to an empty house or apartment.

  He covered his face with his hands. What’s wrong with you, Lee? he thought. You prided yourself on being a lone wolf.

  But that was before, when he was young and stupid. Now that he had years under his belt, he understood the errors of his thinking.

  Life was not about going from one excitement to another. Life was about having meaning and purpose.

  His purpose was to see his daughter grow up. And his life would be meaningful if he shared it with someone.

  He debated whether to go over to Patti’s house right now. He quickly shot down the idea. Patti would see through him. He was vulnerable at the moment. She would ask him what happened, and he would have to tell her the truth.

  He walked straight to the bathroom and splashed cold water over his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like he had suddenly aged five years.

  The meeting gave him a lot to think about. He was surrounded by men mostly his age, and they were going through problems he deeply understood.

  Feelings of isolation. Feelings of not having control over one’s life. Feelings of not being respected by those around them.

  The latter went right to the core.

  As a private investigator, he had to fight hard to show why his services were needed. The questions people asked him, they would never ask a police officer, a doctor, or a lawyer.

  Private eyes got a bad rap, and he believed it was because of the movies. They were shown as heavy drinkers who gambled all their money away and chased every girl in sight. He could not argue that it was all fiction. He had lived that lifestyle almost to the tee, and he knew why. The movies may have been the imagination of a writer, but they formed an identity of private eyes that he looked up to. He envisioned that life as glamorous and full of adventure.