by Vanessa Skye
Elizabeth positioned herself near the power supply for Emma’s life support system. “Emma, I loved you so much . . . we loved you so much.” She looked over at her devastated parents. “We will never forget you, and we will love you for the rest of our lives.” Wrapping her shaking hand around the cord, she prepared to pull it out.
The media outlets crammed closer for the best possible shot of death.
Berg felt sick at the opportunistic scene.
“Wait!” Emma’s doctor said, jostling through the jammed door into the overcrowded room. “Wait!”
Elizabeth, shocked, yanked her hand away from the cord and the entire room, media and family alike, turned to the doctor and waited expectantly for a last-minute miracle.
“I need to speak to Emma’s family—privately,” the doctor said pointedly to the throng.
The media remained motionless, unwilling to remove themselves and miss even a second of the real-life drama that was unfolding before them.
The doctor looked pissed. “I’m not continuing until all the media is out of the room!” she insisted.
Jay snapped into action. “Okay, you heard her, guys. Get out,” he said, ushering the salivating reporters to the door.
Irritated muttering followed in their wake. There were so many of them—every major news station in Chicago looked to be represented. It took a few minutes for them all to file out.
“Come on, let’s go,” Berg muttered to Jay and Arena.
“Actually, you can stay, if it’s all right with the family,” Dr. Reilly said. “What I have to say may be pertinent to the investigation.”
Emma’s parents nodded their assent.
“What is it, doctor?” Emma’s father said, pushing past his wife and their other daughter, who actually stumbled and nearly fell. “Do her test results show an improvement in brain activity? Is she coming back to us?”
“Daddy, you know that’s imposs—”
“Shut up, Elizabeth!” Alex yelled. “Go and stand over there with your mother.”
Elizabeth scowled, but did as she was told.
“Now, doctor, tell me, is my precious Emma improving?”
Berg suddenly realized that she had yet to hear Emma’s mother, Marilyn Young, speak. Between her husband and remaining daughter, the poor woman might as well have been mute.
Dr. Reilly shut the door on the eavesdropping media firmly. “No, I’m sorry, she’s not,” she said, putting them out of their misery quickly. “But the tests did show something unexpected in her blood work.”
“What?’ Elizabeth asked, impatient. “I thought we did all that.”
Alex silenced her with a single glare.
“The blood work to date was to check oxygen levels and other things so we could monitor her progress. This time, we did a full blood panel and found elevated HCG levels—the hormone that is present in pregnancy.”
The doctor opened the door again and waved in a nurse, who was pushing an ultrasound machine.
The nurse pulled up Emma’s gown and pulled down the blanket until it was all modestly arranged, and squeezed some gel onto her lower abdomen.
The doctor took the wand from the nurse and started moving it around on Emma’s skin, over the gel. “We may not be able to see anything this way—it depends on how pregnant she is. If we can’t, we’ll have to do an internal ultrasound, in which case, everyone but family will need to step outside.”
Berg, Jay, and Arena all nodded.
The doctor turned up the sound on the machine and pointed with her free hand to the screen. “There is the sac and the baby. Good strong heartbeat,” she said, nodding.
Emma’s parents, initially devastated at the doctor’s prognosis for Emma, were now glued to the ultrasound screen. Hope bloomed on both their faces.
Berg thought they looked almost as delighted as any regular expectant grandparents would be.
“Emma’s going to have . . . a baby?” Alex asked softly, almost knocking over a clearly shocked Elizabeth for the second time in his haste to get to the doctor.
“That’s hard to say. Pregnancies in coma patients are not unheard of, but they are complicated and unlikely to go full term. But, from what I can see, this fetus looks perfect for a pregnancy of around sixteen weeks. We’ll have to do some more tests, of course.”
“Is this . . . baby . . . even viable?” Elizabeth asked, before quickly adding, “I don’t want to get my parents’ hopes up for something that may not even be possible.”
“Like I said, we’ll do some more tests to find out how things are progressing, and in the meantime, you should talk about what you want to do. Discuss if you even want to see the pregnancy out,” Dr. Reilly said, glancing at the detectives.
“Why wouldn’t we want to keep the baby?” Mr. Young interjected, incredulous. “Of course we want Emma’s child! Our precious daughter still lives in this baby!”
Berg stepped forward, willing to explain. “I think what the doctor is trying to say is . . . you need to consider just whose the baby might be. Pregnancy is the most vulnerable time in a woman’s life and the most likely time to suffer from a violent crime. And despite what the media would have you believe,” she said, nodding her head toward the horde outside, “the violence done to pregnant women is not done by strangers. In ninety-nine percent of cases, the father of the child does it. The baby’s father is most likely Emma’s attacker, too. He hoped to kill both her and the baby.”
Realm of Blood, my ass. Buchanan planned and attempted the murder of his girlfriend and their baby then set up an incompetency defense, the asshole.
Emma’s parents looked at each other in horror, then down at Emma.
“Well, what do you know,” Jay whispered to Arena. “I guess this isn’t a random crime after all.”
Chapter Fifteen
But the demon and me were the best of friends from the start.
–Kings of Leon, “Revelry”
The next morning Berg and Arena pulled up to the Cook County Department of Corrections buildings—or Cook County Jail to those familiar with it—parked the unmarked sedan and wandered inside the main gate to start the long and laborious sign-in process.
Because they were detectives they were spared a ride on the secure pass machine, which X-rays newly bonded inmates and visitors to prevent contraband from finding its way inside the prison.
“Did Emma’s parents give you any indication about whether they’ll let you take the baby’s DNA?” Arena asked as they were buzzed through various sets of heavy, metal doors and headed toward Division Nine.
“Elizabeth said this morning that if tests show the baby’s all right, they’ll allow the doctor to do an amnio and get some DNA. But if the pregnancy is at all in jeopardy, we’ll have to wait until it’s born.”
“I guess that’s not unexpected. Last night was the first time I’ve seen either of them with a look that even resembles happiness on their faces.”
“Tell me about it. I hope everything’s okay—they need some good news.”
“So what’s your plan with Buchanan today?” Arena asked, as they walked down the long, stark linoleum corridor that led to the protective custody section where Buchanan had been since his arraignment.
Buchanan had been deemed at risk from other inmates and kept out of the general population, which was spread across the prison’s other divisions, including the original 1920s jail building that had housed most of Chicago’s notorious criminals, such as Al Capone.
“I’m going to enjoy telling him that we know about the baby, and his bullshit insane gamer defense isn’t going to work. A confession would be great and save us all some time.”
“Berg, he’s in jail and is unlikely to get off. What more do you need? You’re obsessing over an explanation, which is—”
“My obsessing has solved many different crimes, and led us to Feeny, by the way!” But Berg gnawed on her lower lip. Buchanan’s attorney was pushing ASA Maroney to agree to a deal placing the murderer in a psychiatric f
acility without putting him on trial at all. “It shits me, that’s all. He covered his face from Metra surveillance, and he tried to hide the evidence. He knew what he was doing was wrong. Maroney better not cave.”
“She’s a pit bull. She won’t. I bet she’s awesome in the sack. I’ll have to ask O’Loughlin about that sometime . . .”
Before Berg could tell her partner to go fuck himself, they were shoved to the side by a group of medics running down the hall carrying an assortment of equipment. The guard escorting the pair swore under his breath, broke protocol, and ran after the prison’s medical crew, leaving the detectives alone in the suddenly eerily silent facility.
As they neared the commotion, they followed the sounds of the medics working over a patient to the scene, which was up a set of metal stairs on the second floor of the unit.
“Fuck,” Berg muttered as they watched Buchanan’s chest being compressed over and over by a blue-clad medic.
“Clear!”
Everyone’s hands flew into the air except one of the medics as he applied the chest paddles.
Buchanan jerked with the electric charge, but the heart rate monitor continued to flatline. His face was pale, his purple tongue protruding from his engorged lips. Purple lividity showed in the fingers of his hands. A dark stain marred the front of his orange jumpsuit—he had wet himself.
Stepping inside the cell, she waved aside the paramedics and bent down and peeled open Buchanan’s eyes.
No petechial hemorrhages.
Berg sighed as she studied the body. There were no ligature marks around the neck, but that could be explained if he used—
Yep, there they are.
Buchanan’s sheets had been torn into strips, tied together, and looped around the metal bars in the small observation window at head level.
Buchanan had hung himself.
“Why was this guy left alone? Did no one think he might be a suicide risk?” she asked to no one in particular. She raised her voice to be heard over the medics and repeated the question.
The short, fat guard spoke up. “He showed no signs of depression. He showed no signs of even knowing where he was or why he was here.”
“Who’s been in here?” Berg yelled.
“No one. We’ve authorized no visitors except his lawyer and his people, and they meet in the private interview rooms.”
“You sure?”
“Hey, we have over nine thousand detainees here today. We do the best we can,” he said.
“How long since someone checked on him?”
“He was alive thirty minutes ago—my last round.”
Berg swore again, looking down at the body. The medics were still frantically persisting, and Berg resisted the urge to tell them not to bother.
Their suspect was clearly dead, along with any chance of justice for Emma.
Berg ran up the stairs to the detective level, it was late, but she felt confident Jay would still be in his office. She wasn’t really sure what Jay could add to the case, or why she had specifically made the effort to come back to the station to see him, but she kept telling herself she was merely keeping him apprised.
After the Buchanan debacle, she and Arena had stayed at the prison interviewing guards to ascertain Buchanan’s last movements. By all reports, he had not seemed depressed or changed his daily routine at all. He had chosen to stay in his cell most of the time by himself, only going out for exercise or food when it was mandatory. His last visitor had been a lawyer from his public defender’s firm—they were going to call the offices and interview the woman first thing in the morning. Eventually, his body had been taken to the morgue by the coroner.
While Berg would wait for confirmation from the autopsy results, she had seen enough deaths by hanging in her time to feel certain of the outcome, and as soon as the Youngs allowed the baby’s DNA to be tested and Buchanan came back as the father, she figured she would get the explanation she needed for closure.
It wasn’t until she stopped that it registered how wide the grin resting on her face really was. From the moment she’d spotted Jay at his desk, hunched over a pile of papers and holding the handset to his ear, she hadn’t been able to hide it.
God, I miss him!
She stayed out of sight and gave him some space to finish the phone call he was on.
“Hey. So that commitment I thought I had, turns out I don’t have it anymore. If your offer for dinner is still good . . .”
Funny, you really can hear a smile in a person’s voice.
“Yes, I know the place. Great, see you there at nine, Carla,” he said and hung up.
Berg turned and walked back down the stairs, found her car, and headed up to the wealthy suburb of Skokie.
“Alicia!” The tall, handsome federal court judge swung open his white door. “To what do I owe this rare pleasure?” he asked, ushering her into his home.
“Good evening, Your Honor,” Berg replied quietly, stepping over the stoop and onto the thick, rich carpet of the hall.
“So what’ll it be tonight? A warrant, subpoena, or . . . something else?”
“Something else.”
“I see. Well, it will be my pleasure to attend to that, too. Do you want to have a drink, or shall we get straight to business?” he asked, waving her down the hallway.
In his forties, with salt and pepper hair, deep brown eyes, and a year-round tan, Judge John Oliver and Berg had shared a sick relationship of sorts for many years, after hooking up at one of Chicago’s underground sex clubs.
The judge had actually been banned from the clubs several months before Jay and Cindy discovered Berg there, because of his refusal to recognize safe words.
Safe words were a word or phrase that participants agreed upon prior to play. If a participant felt play was too rough or getting out of hand, using the safe word brought about an instant stop to activity.
Or it should.
Unfortunately, Berg knew from personal experience that safe words weren’t always respected, and rape, of both men and women, was commonplace in the clubs and private parties. His Honor had turned the occasional step over the line into wanton disregard on more than one occasion. Of course, the few rape charges that could have been laid never saw the light of day.
His Honor was sadistic and brutal—and exactly what she needed.
“Straight to it,” she said and passed through the richly furnished house, pausing near the heavy, oak door that she knew from previous experience led down to the purpose-built basement. It was there that His Honor attended to his considerably less altruistic activities with a dedicated single-mindedness.
“This is a delightful surprise. I haven’t seen you at my door for quite some time. I thought you were frequenting the clubs?”
“I’m avoiding them.”
“May I ask why?”
“No,” she said firmly.
“I see. You know, if you are avoiding the clubs, maybe we could discuss a more permanent arrangement between the two of us? I’m sure we could work out a way to make it . . . mutually beneficial?”
“Not a chance,” Berg replied.
She loathed him—but that was exactly why she needed him. There were no confusing feelings of love, or even like, here. She could get what she needed and walk away, albeit slowly and painfully.
“I see. So not even any pretenses of being pleasant tonight? I must say, you’re being a little rude.”
“I’m sure you can find a way to make me pay for any offense.” No teasing, no coyness, her voice was flat, dead.
“Indeed. And what’s your safe word for this evening?” he said sarcastically.
“No safe word.”
“Hmm,” the judge said almost as though he was going to argue, but Berg knew he wouldn’t—the huge erection straining against his chinos attested to that. Inflicting real pain was what turned him on.
“Just don’t leave any marks I can’t cover up.”
“That’s fine, and likewise, I’m sure. May I ask, what are y
ou hoping to accomplish this evening?”
“Just make it so I don’t feel anything anymore.”
“Done. And Alicia?” he said, grabbing her arm hard and pulling her close. He lifted up her chin and forced her gaze to meet his. “You do understand that if I’m going to service you like the whore you are, I will, of course, require some quid pro quo?”
She managed a slight nod in his rough grasp.
He shoved her chin away like it disgusted him. “Good. Our relationship must involve some kind of reciprocity.”
“I know what to do.” She knew his proclivities all too well.
“You do at that, Alicia.” Without warning, the judge slapped Berg with a stinging backhand. Before she had a chance to recover, he grabbed the nape of her neck and shoved her down the stairs.
She tripped but grabbed the banister to stop herself from falling headlong down the flight of concrete stairs and breaking her neck. Her heart rate accelerated, the fear releasing both adrenaline and endorphins.
Soon . . . nothing but comfortably numb.
The judge followed her down the stairs, undoing his heavy leather belt. “I do so love our little sessions, and this is just what I needed after a very bad day on the bench. Now get downstairs, take off your clothes, and lie face down over my bench. This is definitely going to hurt you more than it hurts me.”
As Jay clinked wine glasses with Carla twenty miles to the south, the heavy leather connected with Berg’s skin.