by Leslie Wolfe
Deciding that revisiting the crime scene was her best choice, she floored it all the way to Angel Creek, siren and flashers on despite the relatively clear traffic. Earlier that day, when she’d walked through the rooms of the house, she’d been rushed and distracted by finding Erin and Heather, by her need to take them to a place of safety, to protect them, a little unsettled by her unexpectedly strong feelings toward the two little girls. What was that all about? She’d never had any maternal instincts that she’d acknowledged, nor had she envisioned a life for herself where she’d have children, knowing she could never completely leave behind the horrors of her job before coming home to cradle her offspring.
Seeing the yellow police tape fluttering in the wind brought her mind back to the moment. She pulled over by the house and waved at the deputy charged with keeping an eye on the place, then she climbed the five porch steps after a short and vigorous sprint through the falling rain, ignoring the puddles she stepped in and the water hitting her face like frozen needles. There wasn’t a need for coveralls and booties anymore, once the evidence collection had been completed, but she thoroughly wiped her feet before entering and brushed raindrops off her navy blue jacket.
The house was silent and almost dark; what little light came in already filtered by heavy clouds and the pervasive grays that seemed to be the keynote of such days. Sunset was more than an hour away, but it seemed much darker; even the streetlights had begun their duty, shedding layers of sodium yellow that sent sparks of golden light against the wet asphalt, reflected in every raindrop. She turned the light on and stopped, closing the door and taking in the entire setting.
A modest but clean living room, with a sofa and a large TV, and little other furniture. A toy box took the far corner, filled with Erin’s toys by the looks of it, stuffed animals mixed together with Lego pieces and dolls. A bookcase on the wall, holding a few books, photo albums, and a vase, devoid of flowers. The off-white, fabric sofa was clean and looked new, cheered up by colorful pillows in a green-and-black floral pattern that matched the green accents Cheryl had creatively inserted in the décor: the color of the curtains, the shade of the vase, the green plaid pattern of the dining-room table runner.
Kay walked slowly toward the kitchen, where a dark burgundy stain told the story of what had happened. A forgotten crime scene marker bearing the number eleven in black font on yellow plastic still stood by the knife block on the counter. The metallic smell of oxidized blood was present, faint yet still there, mixed in with the smell of the stew that no one had bothered to remove from the stove and throw away.
A chill engulfed her body. She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her arms with her hands as she imagined how the crew sent by the sheriff’s office would come in there in a few days and start cleaning up everything, from the blood on the floor to the contents of the fridge, then sealing the house and preparing it for what was to come. A bunch of strangers going through Cheryl’s things, touching everything, violating her life, her home.
In a few days, that stew will be maggots, she thought, then emptied the pot in the kitchen sink and turned on the garbage disposal. It whirred loudly, but she welcomed the noise, any noise bringing life to the house touched by death. She rushed through rinsing the pot and left it upside down in the sink, feeling a little guilty for the time she’d wasted on such a menial task.
She went to the dining-room table, from where the chair that had been broken was now missing. She stood in its place, imagining herself as Cheryl, sitting across from her guest after she’d just poured wine for the both of them. How did they get from drinking wine together to the stabbing? What had happened?
Kay visualized the scene, Cheryl pouring the wine, the guest already seated at the table, waiting, chatting, smiling. Maybe smiling; she didn’t know that for sure. A man? A woman? Had to be a man. A woman wasn’t completely impossible but felt wrong for a number of reasons. The evening had started the right way, but then… what went so wrong? Where were the girls during this time? Did he know there were three daughters in the house? Why did he leave witnesses?
She walked the kitchen floor inch by inch, studying the surface where the scuff marks disappeared into the living-room carpet, where the smashed chair had fallen to the ground. Then she turned and went to the back door, studying it. The deputies who’d worked the scene said there were no signs of forced entry. The unsub had entered through there, through the side door, not the front; they had found a small puddle of water on the tiles, two feet from the door, now almost completely dry.
He had to have been someone familiar with the property, someone who’d visited before.
Opening the side door, Kay looked outside. The driveway ran parallel to the house up to the garage door, a few yards farther from the road than the side door. It made sense to knock on that door in the rain, being closer to the car he must’ve driven to get there. But still… he had to have been there before. No first-time caller would’ve used the side entrance, rain or not.
Then she noticed the three suitcases on the side of the hallway and frowned. Had the crime scene technicians examined them? A quick phone call later, she learned that no, no one had looked at them. Pulling on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, she unzipped the first one.
They were packed with clothing for all the family members. She counted the underwear in the large suitcase and found that Cheryl was planning to be away at least two weeks, with all the girls. Where were they going? And when were they supposed to leave? It must’ve been for a different purpose than just a weekend trip, but when’s the last time a single mom of three could afford to take a two-week vacation?
One thing was almost certain: Cheryl wasn’t supposed to travel with the unsub, nor was she supposed to leave the night before, or there wouldn’t’ve been any wine served. Who drinks wine before driving in such miserable, treacherous weather, at night no less?
Kay had to start asking questions of the people who knew Cheryl. Her family might know something about her travel plans, or maybe the neighbor. He seemed a little too close to Cheryl to not know.
What if her planned travel had something to do with her murder? Was she running away from someone? From whom?
It didn’t fit.
The little Kay knew about Cheryl Coleman didn’t tell the story of someone on the run.
She recalled what she’d learned about her earlier, at the precinct, while digging through her life as it was captured in the police and government databases. The woman’s life had been perfectly vanilla. If that notion ever existed, it applied to Cheryl Coleman.
She’d been married to Calvin Montgomery, a construction engineer who’d died at age twenty-nine when a section of scaffolding collapsed, taking him down with it. The accident had been thoroughly investigated, and the builder had been cleared of any wrongdoing. But Cheryl had been left with three little girls, the youngest, Erin, only a baby at that time. Yet she’d survived somehow, her dental hygienist job probably barely enough to pay the bills.
Why would someone like Cheryl Coleman decide to up and leave one day, and, as it happened, the day she got killed?
Light beams traveling on the driveway next door smeared the walls with bluish bands, catching Kay’s attention. The neighbor was home.
Time to ask him some questions.
Patting her pockets out of force of habit for her keys, although she was only going to walk across the lawn to see the Livingstons next door, she felt something that didn’t belong.
Heather’s phone.
While deep ridges seeded across her brow, she removed it and looked at it for a moment as if she’d never seen it before. The wallpaper was a photo of fluffy white kittens in a pink basket, what a girl her age would have. She tried to access it, swiping up, and it opened without being asked for a passcode.
Standing in the doorway and feeling for the light switch, Kay checked the text messages and call records. Then her blood turned to ice.
Heather had called nine-one-one the night before at 9:
39 p.m. and had been on the phone with them for almost six minutes.
11
At the Precinct
He’d drawn the short straw with that case.
Elliot didn’t care as much about his personal case closing numbers as he did about catching the villains responsible for the crimes and holding their feet to the fire, but this John Doe’s case was as easy as bagging flies.
He had nothing.
The body had been dumped there, by the side of the interstate, so he had no primary crime scene to investigate. Doc Whitmore said he’d been rotting by that ditch for about two days, under a barrage of heavy rain washing away all evidence. There was no ID on the body, no wallet, no phone, no jewelry, not even a set of keys. While there wasn’t a murder weapon he could trace, the size of the entry wound pointed to a nine-mil handgun, the most common weapon used in shootings all across the country.
Nope, there wasn’t a darn thing to write home about, but his momma hadn’t raised a quitter. And he’d be damned if he let whoever turned that John Doe into buzzard bait get away with it. Not on my watch, he thought, still chewing on a piece of straw he’d picked up by his car. It tasted of wet fields in the fall, of nights after thunderstorms wash off the dust on a freshly harvested grain field.
He started the engine, and the wipers kicked in, whirring rhythmically, almost hypnotically, unable to keep the windshield clear of water for more than a split second. He shifted into gear and peeled off, eager to get back to the precinct and pull some missing persons reports.
Everything started from the victim’s identity—the key point in determining motive and opportunity, two of the three cornerstones of criminal investigations. Without establishing those, he couldn’t build a case. But John Doe had been shot a couple of days ago; maybe someone had reported him missing.
Yet, there was no surprise that case clearance percentages were at historic lows, hovering below the sixty percent mark for California. An unknown man who could be anyone from anywhere, dumped at the side of the road, washed clean by days of rain, and found through nothing short of a miracle, where no one was supposed to find him. If it weren’t for a pregnant driver with a bad case of morning sickness, no one would’ve discovered him until, perhaps, never.
That took skill, the mind of a cold-blooded killer, to pull off.
He pulled over as close to the precinct entrance as he could manage and rushed inside, thankful to be out of the weather. He made a quick stop by the coffee machine to get a fix and looked for Kay, hoping he’d see her, at least in passing. She was nowhere in sight, but then again, almost no one was, the bullpen empty, only the faint smell of coffee and sweat and dust and grime left behind. Everyone was out there, searching for Julie.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” a man shouted, his words slurred, spit filled. “Woo-hoo,” he mock-cheered, banging his boot against the bars of his cell.
Great. Last night’s DUIs and disorderlies, Elliot thought, not bothering to respond. Instead, he walked quickly past, ignoring the man who, judging by the pervasive smell of urine that surrounded him like a cloud, might’ve had difficulties understanding how to use the stainless-steel toilet in his cell.
“Hey, I got rights, ya’ know,” the man hollered, rattling the bars with his hands. “Hey!”
“Yeah, the right to remain silent,” Elliot threw over his shoulder, not turning his head and not slowing down. Somewhere in that precinct, two little girls were sleeping, and if that wino had woken them up, Elliot would be right in his cell with a roll of duct tape to explain his rights to him.
He stopped in front of the nap room and peeked inside through the window. Deputy Farrell sat on the side of a bunk, reading, while the two girls slept.
But Kay wasn’t there.
Disappointed, he turned to leave when Farrell lifted her gaze, spotting him. She beckoned him inside.
“Come on in, Detective,” she said in a whisper. “Looking for Dr. Sharp?”
“N—no,” he replied, a little flustered, thinking that she must’ve read his mind. “Just checking up on the girls.”
“Aah,” Farrell replied, with a smile and a slow, conspirative nod. “Everyone is.”
“Did they say anything?”
“Nothing yet. Kay didn’t want to wake them up too soon, and she left. She’ll be back later. I believe she went to the crime scene again.”
Elliot looked at Erin, studying her features. She slept soundly, sucking her thumb, her curls scattered on the pillow around her face. Watching her sleep, something stirred in him, although he couldn’t pinpoint what it was.
“She’s, um…” he started to say, then finished his phrase with a gesture, raising his thumb in the air.
“I tried,” Farrell replied. “I pull it out of her mouth, she puts it right back in. Dr. Sharp said we shouldn’t worry for now. She called it soothing behavior. A few days won’t hurt her that much.”
“Okay,” he said, touching the brim of his hat and turning to leave. “Thanks.”
“She said something,” Farrell said quickly, her voice still a whisper. “Erin, she did speak. Just the word monster, nothing else.”
He stared at Erin’s angelic features for a long moment. Her eyelids fluttered as her eyes moved rapidly underneath; she was dreaming. Was she dreaming of the monster she’d seen?
Without a word, he left the room and went straight for the conference room. There was a flipchart on the stand in there and a bunch of markers. He grabbed them and took them back to the nap room, ignoring the jeering wino both times he walked past his cell.
“Give her these when she wakes up,” he said, laying everything down on an empty bunk. “Tell her to draw the monster.”
Deputy Farrell scratched her temple with the tips of her fingernails, careful not to loosen any of her hair from the perfect bun holding it together regulation-style. “She’s four, Detective,” she said, the disbelief in her voice sprinkled with amusement.
Uncomfortable, Elliot plunged his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “What age do they start, you know, drawing stuff?”
“They can scribble as early as two years old and hold a crayon, but from there to drawing the perp, I’d say we’re not going to see anything we can use.”
“But it won’t hurt, will it?” he asked, smiling.
Deputy Farrell seemed to melt under his smile like some women did. He wished he had the same effect on Kay; then he would be the one unable to stop smiling.
“It won’t, that’s for sure,” she replied, smiling back. “I’ll do it.”
He left the room, closing the door silently, then looked at the sleeping girls one more time. He remembered what he’d seen earlier on that had tugged the strings of his heart in an unexpected way.
He’d seen Kay.
Holding little Erin in her arms at the crime scene and speaking to her softly, as if only the two of them were in the world. He’d felt uneasy then as if spying on them and had rushed out of there before she could spot him. Before she could see his flushed cheeks, like a teenager’s, because, for the briefest of moments, he’d asked himself a question: what if?
He’d never thought of Kay as maternal; she wasn’t, not really. She was driven, smart as a hooty owl, and faster than small-town gossip. She seemed tough as nails sometimes, and better not to be the perp sitting across from her in an interview room, but there was a soft core to her, something unexpectedly warm and loving under that steeled armor she wore all the time.
Where did that leave him?
“Hey,” the wino hollered, his gruff voice echoing on the long hallway. “I want my phone call!”
Elliot rushed over and grabbed him by his vomit-stained shirt through the bars of his cell.
“How would you like to wear your shoe so deep down your throat you’ll call it lunch?” he asked, and the man’s blood drained from his face as he nodded vigorously. “Not another sound, you hear me? And you’ll get your phone call.”
For the duration of his search through local and
state databases for missing persons reports matching his John Doe, the wino remained completely silent, a heap on the floor against the back wall of his cell.
There was nothing. Not a single report matched the man found dead on the side of the interstate. Although more than a thousand open cases were still active in California, matching the gender and age range of his vic, none had been filed in the past forty-eight hours.
His only hope was Doc Whitmore and whatever he could uncover about the man during his examination. Knowing ahead of time the ME would roll his eyes at seeing Elliot show up uninvited on his doorstep, and dreading the brief run through the endless toad floater, he downed what little coffee remained in his cup and rushed out.
12
The Neighbors
Standing in the doorway and indifferent to the rain that crashed against the asphalt, sending ricochet fragments that soaked her pant legs, Kay was livid as she called the nine-one-one dispatch and asked to speak with the supervisor. After a moment of silence, the operator transferred her to a monotone-voiced man who identified himself with a call code.
“This is Detective Sharp with Mount Chester Sheriff’s Office, badge number 161552.”
“What can I do for you, Detective?”
She didn’t recognize the voice. She breathed, willing herself to control the rage she feared was about to seep through her choice of words and the tone of her voice. She visualized little Heather making that nine-one-one call from underneath her mother’s bed, shaking, her teeth clattering, the phone clutched in her trembling fingers, while the unsub was downstairs, killing her mother and kidnapping her sister.
Only to not have anyone bother to respond.
“There was a call made last night at nine thirty-nine p.m., from this number,” she said, then spent a few good seconds retrieving Heather’s phone number from the settings menu. She wasn’t familiar with the model. It was a cheaper phone that seemed to have been purchased from a 7-Eleven. “Here you go, 415-555-2259. I need that recording pulled and sent to me, and an official write-up as to why the call wasn’t responded to, why we weren’t notified. We have one DOA and one abduction of a minor at that address.”