by James Hunt
Cooper looked at the piles of backlogged files on her desk. Unfortunately, there was more work than detectives in the city. What it came down to was a prioritization of resources, so she focused on the ones that had strong leads, the ones she knew she could solve. But even if she cloned herself twice, spent every waking hour working cases, and had a one hundred percent arrest record, it still wouldn’t be enough. She knew there were murderers walking free in the city, and it drove her to the edge of sanity. If life was balance, then her city had been in darkness much longer than it had light.
Chapter 6
The clock flashed 8:00 p.m., and Cooper rubbed her bloodshot eyes, watering from dryness, and reached for the coffee mug. Hart entered, his tie loosened and his hair messier than when the day began. “The lab has everything. We’ll know in the morning if Steeves’s and Marks’s DNA are a match for our Jane Doe.” He tossed a file on the desk, and a few papers slid out. “I finally heard back from Barnesby’s secretary. There were six people that had access to the property. Mr. Barnesby, the ex-Mrs. Barnesby, the realtor, the secretary, the groundskeeper, and the painter who finished up his work last week. All of them with airtight alibis.” He pounded his finger into the stack then collapsed into his chair, rubbing his eyes. “People do not enjoy it when you stick your nose into their business.”
Cooper tossed a picture of the security keypad from the crime scene on the desk. Hart picked it up, blinking his eyes rapidly. “That was recently purchased online from a home security firm.” Cooper took another sip of coffee then set the mug down. “I requested a warrant for the account at the bank where the payment originated. We should know more tomorrow.” She watched Hart nod halfheartedly, his eyes closing. “Why don’t you head home? There isn’t much we can do now until we hear back from the lab. It’s been a long day.”
“Yeah.” Hart pushed himself out of the chair and ran his fingers through his hair, yawning. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stopped at the door and looked back at her with a half-smile. “Don’t stay too late, Detective.”
Cooper pinned the picture of the digital keypad back among the web of evidence on the space of wall that she cleared for Kate Wurstshed’s case and the Jane Doe. Pictures of both Steeves and Marks were at the top of her list, but even with the alibis of Barnesby and his people she kept them up. She drifted her eyes from the picture of the lock to Marks, then tapped his forehead. “All this just seems way too sophisticated for someone like you.”
Two more hours passed, and the paperwork was finally finished. The past twenty-four hours pulled Cooper deeper into her chair and grabbed hold of the tired bags under her eyes. She shut down her computer and locked the office. Her knees and hips popped on her walk down the hallway, her body stiff from chasing Marks.
Outside, the night air had a chill, and by the time she returned to her apartment she could barely keep her eyes open. She trudged up the steps, passing a woman who lived on the top floor, her attires suggesting she was heading on a date.
When Cooper arrived to her apartment on the third floor,she reached for her keys but stopped just short of her door, which was cracked open. She approached slowly, her hand instinctively reaching for her pistol. She ran her fingers up and down the door frame, checking for any breaks in the lock, but it felt smooth.
Footsteps echoed behind Cooper, and she turned to see one of her neighbors near the top of the stairs, their arms full of grocery bags. Cooper motioned for the old woman to stop then brought her finger to her lips, signaling for quiet. Cooper removed the pistol from its holster and raised it to eye level. She pushed open the door, silently, and stepped inside.
The light in the living room was on, and she swiftly glided down the front hallway. The fatigue that had plagued her just moments before disappeared, replaced with the rush of adrenaline. When she neared the end of the front hall she paused at the corner just before the entrance to the living room. She took a breath, sweat beading on her forehead, and then jumped from cover. “Baltimore PD!”
Beth threw her hands in the air and screamed. “Jesus, Addy, what the hell?” Beth stared at the pistol, the color drained from her face.
Cooper lowered the weapon, her shoulders sagging. Her stiff muscles turned to jelly, and she clutched the wall for support, her voice hoarse and wispy. “What are you doing here?”
Beth fumbled her words, the shock of the moment still fresh in her mind. “I went back to my hotel and just sat there, mad at you, but I didn’t want to leave the way I did after us not speaking for so long. So I came back here, and your landlord let me inside.” A single sob escaped her lips, but she managed to hold back the tears, forcing herself to remain composed, though her eyes grew glassy with water. “I miss you, Addy.”
Cooper walked across the room and joined her sister on the couch and wrapped her in a hug. “I miss you too.” The two clutched each other, and Cooper squeezed tight. She pulled back, and Beth smiled. “I’m sorry for what happened earlier. You caught me at the middle of a very long day.” She collapsed into the sofa cushions, and Beth reached for her hand, holding it gently.
“Addy, I was serious about what I said before.” Beth kept her head down, her voice dropping an octave. “About our father. I wanted to know who he was. The kind of life he lived. Why he left us. I had so many questions for him, but…”
Cooper leaned forward, taking her sister’s hands in her own. “But what?”
Beth shook her head. “He’s dead.” She pulled her hands back and ran them through her hair. “At first I was glad.” She sniffled. “I thought, ‘Well, maybe he didn’t reach out because he died when we were really little. Maybe he wanted to but couldn’t.’” She shook her head. “But that wasn’t the case. You had just started college and I was in my senior year of high school when it happened.” She shook her head. “He had plenty of time and more than enough chances to reach out to us. He just chose not to. You were right. I knew you were. I just didn’t want to hear it.”
“Hey, it’s all right. You’re not the only one that thought about it.” Cooper wrapped her arm around her younger sister. “It drove me crazy growing up, so much so that I think it caused me to grow callous about him. I was bitter about him leaving Mom. About him leaving us.”
“Did you know Mom reached out to him a few times?” Beth reached for her purse and pulled out a few yellowed pieces of paper. “She wrote him five times. I found it in some of her stuff. They were all returned to sender, but they were dated when we must have been only three or four. These were kind of what sparked my interest.”
Cooper handled the papers gently. They were brittle and some of the ink had faded and smudged, and she noticed stains that dotted the paper, blurring some of the lines. “I can’t believe she tried to reach out to him. She’d always yell at us anytime we tried to talk about him.” She rose from the couch and paced the living room floor absentmindedly, reading through the pages.
“She wanted him to come back. She wanted him to be a part of our lives. But I guess someone can only stay ignored for so long before they get angry.”
“I can’t believe she never told us about these.” Cooper finally looked up. “Where did you find them?”
“She kept them in the attic at the house. It looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. Honestly, I was surprised she kept them.”
Cooper looked back down at the faded notes. She examined the smudges, the hurried scribblings. Her mother had written these when she was desperate, when the prospect of raising two toddlers by herself in a run-down apartment and living off of minimum wage became too burdensome. They’re not letters of love—they’re cries for help.
“My plane leaves in the morning.” Beth had risen to her feet. “And it’s getting late, so I should probably head back. I don’t like being on the roads at this hour for too long.”
“You could stay here.” Cooper glanced around at the feeble apartment, bare of all furniture save for the musty couch, bookshelf, and lamp. She shrugged, knowing that the furnishi
ngs left much to be desired. “I’ll take the couch. You could have the bed.”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“All right.” Cooper extended the letters back to her sister, but Beth held up her hand.
“You keep them. I’ve read them so many times I practically have them memorized.” She reached back into her purse and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “Look, I know it’s a sore spot for you, and it wasn’t like this was easy for me or anything, but if you’re ever curious, or if you ever want to know what I found out, then let me know.” She reached for Cooper’s hand and forced the crumpled paper into her palm. “I know you have resources at the department. If you want to look him up, that’s his name.” She hugged her one more time. “I love you, Addy. You should call me sometime.”
Cooper squeezed back harder, nearly dropping the letters and the crumpled paper. “I love you too. And I will.” She walked her sister to the door and down the stairs, where she had her rental car parked on the street. “Call me when you land, all right?”
“I will.” Beth tossed her bag in the backseat and gave her sister one last hug. “And you should clean your apartment. It’s like my kids were living there. I think I saw something move while I was waiting for you.” She smiled and leaned against the driver’s side with the door open. “Take care of yourself, Addy.”
“Tell the kids I say hi.”
Beth lowered herself behind the wheel and when she drove off Cooper found herself walking the same direction. She followed until the glow of the taillights disappeared and then lingered in the street a while longer.
Cooper looked down to the crumpled paper and letters still clutched in her hands. She trudged back up the steps to her apartment. How could she have reached out to him like that? How could she have kept us in the dark for so long? Cooper crumpled the letters, a flush of anger reddening her cheeks. The neighbor she passed on her first trip inside stopped her in the hallway. “It’s fine, Mrs. Crooner. It was just my sister.”
“Oh, thank God.” She offered an accentuated sigh and placed her liver-spotted hand on Cooper’s shoulder. “I didn’t know what to think. The neighborhood is just not what it used to be.”
“Have a good night, Mrs. Crooner.” Cooper ducked back into her apartment before the old woman chewed her ear off. She tossed the letters on the kitchen counter and grabbed the half-full bottle of whiskey, leaving the glass, but still kept the crumpled paper with her father’s name. She unscrewed the lid and took a swig of the liquor, letting the bitter taste flood her mouth, sending a shiver down her spine as she swallowed.
Now alone, she examined the squalor that was her apartment. The dirty floors, the barren walls, the old furniture that looked more at home on the curb than a living room. She walked over to the bookcase, taking another swig of whiskey, reached between a pair of thick folders, and pulled a binder from between them. Dust circled her face, and she coughed from the congested air.
With drink in hand, Cooper leaned back on the sofa then rested the bottle of whiskey and the binder on the cushion next to her and closed her eyes. After barely eating anything all day, and the lack of sleep the night before, she already felt the warm rush the liquor provided. “Just let it go, Coop.” She shook her head back and forth slowly then reached for the liquor bottle once more. “There isn’t anything down that road. Nothing.”
The next swallow of liquor burned slightly less than the first, and she opened her fist, exposing the paper in her palm. She pushed it around with her thumb then set the bottle down and flattened the paper on her leg. Her sister’s handwriting was messy, and the hundreds of tiny folds had crinkled the letters, distorting the words, but Cooper already knew the name written on the paper before she opened it. Henry Miller.
The name sloshed back and forth in Cooper’s mind like the whiskey she twirled in the bottle. She closed her eyes and repeated the name over and over to herself, skipping like a lyric on a broken record. When she opened her eyes she looked to the binder and felt the whiskey’s taunt, and her pulse quickened.
Cooper took another swig and set the bottle down then reached for the binder, the dust on the back side smearing across her lap. When she flipped open the first page a picture of a man in his late thirties stared back at her. Caucasian, six feet, two hundred pounds, brown hair and green eyes. Last known address was listed along with work and medical history. At the very bottom was a date twenty years ago, listing the man as deceased. And next to the date was the name Henry Miller.
Cooper reached for the bottle, pressing it to her lips, this time chugging a few gulps before stopping. When she looked back down at the picture she grimaced. The hate she’d kept at bay since college boiled back up to the surface. She flung the binder from her lap, and it skipped across the floor. She jumped from the couch and paced the room, her breathing accelerated, and her knuckles flashed white around the whiskey bottle’s neck.
The picture glared back at her, and she kicked it away, knocking the binder over, which rid herself of Miller’s face. She took another swig of whiskey and felt the booze douse the flames of anger. She sat back down on the couch, her face buried in her palm, and rocked back and forth.
It didn’t matter how many times she tried talking about it or the number of hours she spent in therapy, she couldn’t break through the wall that kept her from the emotional growth she knew she lacked because of that man’s decision. She never told Beth she knew who their father was because she didn’t want to talk about it. He left. He died. He didn’t care. And the world spun round and round along with the room as she drained the rest of the whiskey.
Chapter 7
Sweat and heat were all Cooper felt on the floor of her living room. Her head pounded, and she moaned as she rolled from her stomach to her back. Her mouth was dry and tasted like something had died inside; her lips were like sandpaper. She kicked her leg and knocked the empty whiskey bottle, where it rolled across the floor.
Through the cracks of the blinds, the morning sun framed a square of light, and Cooper squinted from the brightness. She pushed herself to her hands and knees and crawled back onto the couch, where she collapsed onto the cushions, her energy expelled. Every muscle in her body screamed the same harmony of irritation, even though the most strenuous activity she’d done was breathe. A growing pressure tightened her head like a vice.
After a few minutes gathering her strength on the couch, she stumbled to the kitchen and filled a glass full of water from the faucet then chugged. Water dribbled down the sides of her mouth, wetting the front of her shirt as it rolled down her throat. She opened the fridge but then quickly slammed it shut at the stench of whatever had expired inside. Her pocket buzzed, and she answered, not recognizing the number. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me.”
Cooper hunched over on the counter and pressed her forehead onto the cool countertops. “Who is this?”
“It’s Hart. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
Cooper lifted her head. “What time is it?” She glanced over to the clock on the microwave, and it flashed zeros, still erased from the power outage the day before.
“It’s almost eleven. Listen, I heard back from the lab.”
“Shit!” Cooper sprinted to the bathroom and nearly dropped the phone as she splashed water on her face. She glared at her reflection in the mirror and the bags under her eyes told the story of the long night and empty liquor bottle. She sniffed the collar of her two-day old shirt and flared her nostrils at the stench. The clothes were wrinkled dirtied from her night on the floor, and her hair had surrendered any semblance of order.
“Cooper, are you there?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” She furrowed her brow, the wrinkle lines on her forehead creasing against one another as she tried to squeeze the fog and dizziness from her mind. “What’d the lab say?”
“Well, for starters, we finally got a hit on our Jane Doe. Her name is Irene Marsh. Late twenties, worked as a waitress for a diner in downtown, and no, it’s not t
he same diner Wurstshed ran to. Her boyfriend had reported her missing a week ago, around the same time that Kate Wurstshed’s coworker reported her missing. The rape kit on Marsh came back negative, with no salvageable DNA on the body. But Kate Wurstshed’s tests came back positive, and the techs managed to retrieve a strain of DNA from the rape kit.”
“Was it Marks?”
“No. Whatever he was running from wasn’t because he raped Kate Wurstshed.”
“Is he still at the precinct?”
“Yeah, but we’ll only be able to keep him for another hour before he’s released. The captain wants to cut him loose since the tests came back negative. His parole officer is here waiting to see him. Once he gets turned over to them it’s their problem. But that’s not the strangest thing that’s happened today. I called Wurstshed’s employer this morning and it turns out that she was let go six months ago. Nobody I spoke with at the job has had any contact with her since she was fired.”
“But Hall said someone from her employer filed the missing persons.”
“Yeah, I know. I ran the name through the DMV, but it was a phony. No matches. All the information they provided was bogus. Whoever it was didn’t work with Kate. You want me to go and swing by her place to have a chat?”
“No.” Cooper shut her eyes, forcing back the wave of pressure that threatened to cut the thin thread of coherent thought she was managing to string together. “You go and check on our warrant for the bank account that purchased the security system at the storage facility. I’ll go and speak with Kate. Keep me updated on what you find.”
“Will do. Oh, and before I forget, one of the lab techs said you requested a rundown of some residue you found in the empty storage unit. That came back as well, and it turns out they were shavings from a crayon.”