by James Hunt
“We grew apart over the past few years,” Mrs. Knoxen answered, her voice still thick with phlegm. “Our family has a history of manic depression. Our father killed himself when she was nine.” A single tear rolled down her cheek. “I told her to get help, but I couldn’t force her into an institution unless I could prove she was a danger to herself.” More tears fell. “I should have tried harder. I should have reached out. I should have—”
“Your sister was sick,” Cooper said, reaching across the table and holding the woman’s hand. “And she was taken advantage of by someone who preyed on that sickness.”
Mrs. Knoxen nodded. “The doctor said she wouldn’t have felt anything. When she shot herself. She died instantly.” She wiped her nose. “I tried getting her help,” she repeated, muttering to herself.
“We found some letters she wrote in her house along with a picture of herself and a man she kept on her bedside table, but his face had been scratched out, and there was never a name mentioned in her writing.”
“Letters?” Mrs. Knoxen asked.
Cooper folded her hands, hiding the mangled knuckles of her right one with her left palm. “The man who killed that woman, Irene Marsh, made her write things down. I’m not sure what he makes them write down, but he seems to always have his victims use red crayon.” She paused, letting the woman process everything. “In your sister’s basement we found letters written on the walls, all of them matching the same red crayon consistent with our killer.”
“W-what did her letters say?” Mrs. Knoxen leaned forward, her voice soft.
“They were love letters. She saw a life, and a future with this man. She was obsessed.” Cooper’s mind drifted to the writing on the wall in her apartment, and her eye caught the shimmer of the cuts on her right knuckles under the florescent lighting.
Mrs. Knoxen held up her hands, both of which fisted handfuls of used tissues. “Look, I really didn’t know anything about what she was doing. I just want to grab her things and do what I need to do for the funeral. The sooner I can put this behind me, the better.”
“Of course.” Cooper and Hart left together, and the two lingered in the interrogation room’s anteroom. Left alone, Mrs. Knoxen started crying again, burying her face in the used tissues, her shoulders trembling. Cooper watched her for a moment, a feeling of guilt taking over. “It’d been almost a year since I spoke with my sister.”
Hart shook his head. “It’s not your fault Beth was taken.”
“Yeah,” Cooper replied, exhaling. “Right.”
The bulk of Kate’s personal belongings rested atop a pile of boxes in the corner of their office. They’d already combed through and tagged what they needed for evidence; what remained was little more than a wallet and a few pieces of jewelry. Cooper looked at the whiteboard that stretched across the side office wall from the front all the way to the back. She had seen more than her fair share of gruesome deaths, blood, and gore. But when she looked at those pictures, the letters, the writing, she felt her spine shake. If she didn’t act quickly, it could be Beth on that wall next.
Cooper returned Kate Wurstshed’s belongings to Mrs. Knoxen and walked her out the back to avoid the news crews. “Your sister’s house is still being searched for evidence. But if you need to retrieve anything just give me a call.” She extended her card. “I’ll escort you over.”
“Thank you, Detective.” Mrs. Knoxen clutched her sister’s belongings close to her chest. “I hope you find who did this.”
“I will.” Cooper watched Knoxen get into the back of the taxi, and she lingered outside for a moment, listening to the heartbeat of the city around her. She closed her eyes and felt it beat in time with her own. She’d worked every back alley, broken-down house, and shady street corner in the city. Baltimore was a part of her, and she of it. She clinched her fists tighter. I will find you.
When Cooper stepped back inside Hart intercepted her before she had a chance to make it back to the office, and he was smiling. “Tell me you have something good.”
Hart held up a piece of paper. “We ran the background checks on the perps from the drug bust. Most of them are low-level affiliates, no big ties, but one of them, a Julian Weathers, had a connection to someone we know, and guess who it is?”
Cooper snatched the paper out of his hands. The edges crinkled as she gripped it tighter after reading the name. “Zane Marks.”
“He shared a cell with Weathers during their time in county.”
“Pull Weathers’s cell phone calls. Let’s reach out to the Maryland probation office and have them arrange a chat for us and Mr. Marks.”
Chapter 3
Cooper tapped her foot impatiently at the front desk, waiting for the receptionist to return with Marks’s parole officer. When she spied the two of them walking down the hallway she immediately understood what had taken so long. Probation Officer McKaffee was nearly as wide as the hallway itself. And when he stepped around the desk he required the use of the wall to catch his breath.
“Can I help you two?” McKaffee asked.
“I’m Detective Cooper, and this is my partner, Detective Hart. We’re the arresting officers that brought Zane Marks in after he broke parole last week.”
McKaffee offered a wheeze and a moan as he shifted from one foot to the other. “So you’re the ones Captain Farnes was talking about.” He offered a light chuckle, which cost him another breath. “Look, Marks was cleared of any charges related to the death of Irene Marsh. He had an alibi, he had witnesses, he wasn’t anywhere near the scene of the crime.” He furrowed his brow suspiciously. “And I was told by Captain Farnes that he’d passed the case on to another detective.”
“Officer McKaffee, while Marks may have been cleared of those charges, we have evidence that he still may be involved in some capacity.” Cooper stepped closer, and the large man pressed his body flush against the wall. “I need to speak to him. Now.”
“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” McKaffee asked, looking offended.
“We went to his work,” Hart said. “He wasn’t there.”
“I want you to call him into your office.”
“He’s already checked in this week, so it might be hard to track him down.”
“Track him down?” Cooper asked, raising her eyebrows. “These convicts are on parole. You tell them to show up, or they go to jail.”
“That doesn’t help with the rehabilitation,” McKaffee spit back. “These guys all have a bad rap when they get out. You know how hard it is for them to acclimate back into society? You catch more flies with honey than you do vinegar, Detective.”
“And more than seventy percent of convicted rapists are repeat offenders once they’re back in society.” Cooper leaned over his desk, knocking a few empty cans of soda over in the process. “Get him the fuck here. Officer.”
McKaffee panted and wheezed but agreed to the request. Once they returned to his office he reached for the phone and dialed Marks, who answered immediately. Cooper took a seat in the corner and remained silent until Marks showed up, the look on his face shifting from inconvenienced to frightened the moment he saw Cooper.
The ex-convict’s first instinct was to run, and he stepped back, but Hart blocked the door, sealing all four of them inside the cramped office, grown warm by McKaffee’s heavy breathing. Marks put his hands in the air and looked to his probation officer. “C’mon, Rick. I thought we were done with all of this.”
Cooper shoved Marks against the wall, ignoring his defenseless stance. “You just keep turning up everywhere I look, Marks. Funny how that keeps happening.”
“Look, I told you I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to that woman. I was camping. With my girlfriend, who you already spoke with and who dumped my ass after all of this, by the way.” He slithered out from behind the wall and scurried over to McKaffee. “This is harassment.”
“Julian Weathers.” Hart handed Cooper the drug dealer’s file, and she tossed it on McKaffee’s desk. “We arres
ted him earlier this morning for running a meth lab. He had a few friends with him, and we noticed that the two of you were cozy during your time together at county.” Cooper inched forward slowly. “I bet it was cold during all those nights, alone. I mean, you had to get warm somehow, right?”
“Christ, it wasn’t like that.” Marks flailed his arms at his sides, looking between Cooper, Hart, and McKaffee. “Look, we were in that cell for most of the day. After two years, you get to know someone.”
“And the first phone call you make when you get out of prison just so happens to be to a man who was convicted of selling drugs, and who has now graduated to manufacturing,” Cooper said. “Not making enough money working part time at the laundromat, Zane?”
“Now, hold on a second.” McKaffee looked as if he was going to stand but only leaned back in his chair, which squeaked from the sudden shift in weight. “Mr. Marks takes a drug test every week. If you need to see his samples I’d be happy to provide them to you, but enough is enough, Detective.” He pointed to the door. “If you don’t have any hard evidence, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave, or I’ll be calling your captain.”
Cooper tried to take a step forward, but she felt Hart’s hand on her shoulder, and she held back the desire to leap over the desk but leaned forward enough to make the two uncomfortable. “You better walk the line, because if I even so much as see you jaywalk, you’re back in county. You understand me?”
“It’s time to leave, Detective,” McKaffee replied, though the tremble in his voice defeated the attempt at defiance.
Once Cooper and Hart were outside and at their car in the parking lot, Cooper smacked her fist into the hood. “That fucker is dirty.” She lowered her head, squeezing her fists together, slowing her breathing, and trying to lower her heart rate.
“Maybe he isn’t. Maybe it is coincidence,” Hart said.
“It’s not a coincidence.” Cooper climbed in the driver’s seat, while Hart rode shotgun. “Whoever killed Irene Marsh and convinced Kate Wurstshed to assist in a homicide and then kill herself marked the address for the purchase of those security locks at the storage unit on purpose.” She started the car then smacked her palm into the steering wheel in frustration. “I don’t know how or why, but it’s connected somehow.” She exhaled, leaning back into the seat and shaking her head. “You saw the photos, Hart. You saw the letters. This guy is smart.”
“I know,” Hart said.
Dispatch blared over the squad car’s radio. “Unit thirty-three, come in.”
Hart reached for the radio. “Go ahead, Dispatch.”
“We have a woman here asking to speak with Detective Cooper. An Annabel Mitchum.”
Hart looked to Cooper, who merely shrugged. “What does she want?”
“She says she has a letter for Detective Cooper.”
Before Hart could respond Cooper floored the accelerator and flipped the sirens. She weaved through traffic lanes, blew past red lights, and screeched to a stop at the first parking spot she saw outside the precinct.
The closer Cooper moved toward the waiting area at the check-in desk, the faster she felt her heart race. She didn’t know who the woman was, but she had an idea of who the message was from. The officer at check-in pointed to an elderly woman in the corner, but just before Cooper spoke to Mrs. Mitchum, she stopped at the sight of her picture on Channel Four News. The volume had been turned up, and she listened to the news anchor give the report.
“Detective Adila Cooper of the Central Baltimore police precinct has been assigned the toughest task any officer could be given, and that’s finding the killer who took her sister. It’s been nearly seventy-two hours since Detective Cooper was given the case, and it all started with the death of Irene Marsh, a Baltimore native who was found dead in an abandoned storage facility off of Highway 86. But while the killer was never caught, a woman, thirty-seven-year-old Kate Wurstshed, who was believed to have helped the killer, committed suicide in the same abandoned storage facility at the end of a high-speed chase. Now, this isn’t the first time Detective Cooper has been in the news. Almost three years ago her partner, Danny Corpelli, was convicted on racketeering and corruption charges. After sentencing, Mr. Corpelli was found dead in his cell where he hung himself. Detective Cooper’s testimony not only implicated her former partner, but also Baltimore Police Captain Jonathan Farnes as well as his brother, the former governor of Maryland, Quentin Farnes. Those accusations were never proven in court, and both Farnes brothers walked away free men.”
The television turned blank after Cooper reached for the power button, and it caught Mrs. Mitchum’s attention. “I remember you from that case a few years ago.” The old woman held a large purse in her lap, the skin of her hands that kept hold of the handle pruning from age. “What you did wasn’t popular, but it was the right thing.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Mitchum.”
The old woman smiled. “Please, call me Annabel.” She extended the weathered hand, her fingers curved and brittle from arthritis.
“Annabel, I was told you had something for me?”
The woman nodded and shuffled through the contents of her purse, the massive bag swallowing her arms. “I was heading out for my morning coffee and I found this on my doorstep.” She removed an envelope from the purse, and the paper shook from the light tremor in her hand. “It didn’t have a return address, and at first I thought it was a mistake, but a note was attached to the outside of the letter. It said I needed to bring it to you, that it was important.”
Cooper took the envelope carefully and held it up to the light to check its contents. “Did you see anyone drop it off?”
“No, I didn’t.”
The seal on the envelope hadn’t been broken and Cooper ran her finger underneath, breaking the adhesive. She pulled the letter out and before she even opened it Cooper saw the familiar shimmer of red through the folded paper. “Hart!”
Nearly instantaneously, Hart appeared from the bullpen behind the front desk. She extended him the letter, and once he read it he arched his eyebrows. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
Cooper returned the letter to the old woman, kneeling to meet her at eye level. “Can you take a look at this for me?”
“Of course.” Annabel shuffled through her purse and found her glasses, and then gently took the paper from Cooper’s hand. The old woman remained silent for a moment as she read. Then, when she was done, she lowered the letter and removed her glasses, her eyes red and glassy.
Cooper placed her hand over the woman’s thin arm. “Annabel, do you know what this letter means?”
The old woman reached for a tissue and dabbed the corners of her eyes. “Yes. I know what this is.” She looked up at Cooper, her eyes still glistening. “It’s about me.”
Cooper joined her in the adjacent chair, keeping one hand on the woman’s arm. “Annabel, I’m going to need your help with something. My partner and I are going to take you back to our office and ask you a few questions. Would you be willing to do that for us?”
Annabel nodded, though the continued tears suggested she’d fall apart before they arrived. But to the old woman’s credit, she managed to travel the length of the building and into Cooper’s chair without an outburst. “I’m sorry, it’s just, I haven’t even seen his name for so long.” She shook her head. “He went missing nearly thirty years ago. The police never found him.” Her voice grew thick with grief. “They didn’t have the resources of cameras and things like that back then. They told me he just left. But I never believed it.” She shook her head more candidly. “Never.”
The letter lay open on the table between them, and though it was addressed to Cooper, the intimacies were of Annabel’s life.
Dear Addy,
Once upon a time there was a woman who lived alone in her downtown apartment. She worked as a seamstress for a clothing store, and every day she would wake up, go to work for the next ten hours, then come home, alone. She repeated this same, mundane tortu
re every day for years. She was drowning in her own self-pity, and she thought this would be the rest of her life. Forever.
Then, one day, a young man entered the woman’s shop. He’d ripped his dress pants and needed them hemmed in less than an hour for a meeting. She set to work immediately, but unlike the other customers she served, the young man followed the woman into the back, talking with her as she sewed. Never in her life had she laughed so hard at work, giggling over the hum of the sewing machine. When she was finished her new suitor offered to take her out for dinner when she got off work. Blushing, the woman accepted.
On her way home that night to get ready, for the first time since she was a child, she felt the rush of excitement. And that evening was one that extended into the morning, and the next day, and the day after that, then through a wedding, and another year. It was the happiest time of her life.
But one day, the woman’s husband left for work and he never came back. He left no note, offered no reason for his departure. And so the woman was cast back into a routine of mediocrity, clutching onto the moments of happiness until those memories turned to dust and ash in her hands.
Life is precious, and you never know when that fragile cord will sever.
Love,
Beth
P.S. Today. 4:00 p.m.
Cooper set the paper aside and sat on the edge of her desk, leaning close to Annabel. “The man in the story, he was your husband?”
“Yes,” Annabel answered, a smile gracing her lips at the name. “That story is how we met.” She giggled like a girl, shaking her head. “He could always make me laugh. And it didn’t matter what we were doing, everything was always an adventure.” A few more tears cascaded down her cheeks. “We loved each other so much.”