by J. D. Barker
The tech shook his head. “Nothing stands out. We’ll analyze her files and social network activity back at the station.”
Porter continued on into the master bedroom. The bed was neatly made. No posters were on the walls, only a few paintings. “This doesn’t feel right.”
Nash pulled a few of the drawers; each was lined with perfectly folded clothes. “Yeah. Seems more like a model home, almost staged. If a fifteen-year-old girl lives here, she’s the neatest teenager I’ve ever come across,” Nash said.
There was a single framed picture on her nightstand of a woman in her mid- to late twenties. Flowing brown hair, the greenest eyes Porter had ever seen. “Her mother?” he asked nobody in particular.
“I believe so,” Watson replied.
“Talbot said she died of cancer when Emory was only three,” Porter said, studying the photograph. “A brain tumor, of all things.”
“I can research that if you’d like,” Watson proposed eagerly.
Porter nodded and replaced the picture. “That would be helpful.”
“You could bounce a quarter on this bed,” said Nash. “I don’t think a kid made it.”
“I’m still not convinced a kid lives here.”
The master bathroom was amazing—all granite and porcelain tile. Two sinks. You could throw a party in the shower. Porter counted no fewer than six showerheads with additional jets built into the walls.
He walked over to the sink and touched the tip of her toothbrush. “Still damp,” he said.
“I’ll get someone to bag that,” Watson told him. “In case we need the DNA. Hand me that hairbrush too.”
There was a sitting room attached to the master. The walls were lined with shelves teeming with books, a few hundred or more. Porter spotted everything from Charles Dickens to J. K. Rowling. A Thad McAlister novel was lying open on a large, fluffy recliner at the center of the room. “Maybe she does live here after all,” Porter said, picking up the book. “This came out a few weeks ago.”
“And you know this how?” Nash asked.
“Heather picked it up. She’s a big fan of this guy.”
“Ah.”
“Look at this,” Watson said. He was holding up an English literature textbook. “I remember spotting a calculus book on the desk in the den. This particular brand, Worthington Studies, is popular with homeschoolers. Did Mr. Talbot say where she went to school?”
Porter and Nash glanced at each other. “We didn’t ask.”
Watson was flipping through the pages. “If she was enrolled somewhere, we can track down some of her friends.” His face grew red. “I’m sorry, sir. I mean, you can track down some of her friends. If you think that might be useful.”
Talbot had given Porter a business card with his cell phone number. He tapped his pocket, confirming it was still there. “I’ll check with her father when we’re done here.”
They left the master and continued down the hall. “How many bedrooms in this place?”
“Three,” Watson replied. “Take a look at this one.” He gestured to a room on their right.
Porter stepped inside. A basket of laundry sat atop a queen-size bed. A large Catholic cross hung over the headboard. The dresser was covered in framed photographs, two rows deep.
Nash picked one up. “Is that her? Emory?”
“Must be.”
They ranged in age from a toddler to a picture of a stunning young girl in a dark-blue dress next to a boy of about sixteen with long, wavy dark hair. A small caption in the corner read WHATNEY VALE HIGH HOMECOMING, 2014.
“Is she enrolled there?” Porter asked.
“I’ll find out.” Watson pointed at the young man standing next to her. “Think that’s her boyfriend?”
“Might be.”
“Can I see that?” Watson asked.
Porter handed him the frame.
Watson flipped it over and slid the tiny tabs aside, then removed the backing board. He carefully extracted the photo. “Em and Ty.” He showed them the back. The names were in small print on the bottom right.
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” Porter said.
“No, Whatney Vale is a high school.”
Nash chuckled. “I love this guy. Can we keep him?”
“The captain will kill me if I bring home another stray,” Porter said.
“I’m serious, Sam. We’re going to need the manpower. We’ve got two, possibly three days on the outside to find this girl. He’s got a good head on his shoulders,” Nash said. “If you don’t fill the task force bench, the captain will. Better you do it, or we’ll get stuck with someone like Murray.” He nodded toward a detective standing in the hallway, who was staring at the tip of his ballpoint pen. “I’m thinking we bring the kid in as a CSI liaison.”
Porter thought about this for a moment, then turned back to Watson. “Any interest in working this case?”
“I’m a private contractor with CSI. Can I work as law enforcement?”
“As long as you don’t shoot anyone,” Nash said.
“I don’t carry a weapon,” he replied. “I never felt the need to take the exam. I’m more of a bookworm.”
“Chicago Metro has an agreement with the crime lab. Officially, you’d be a consult on loan,” Porter explained. “Think you can clear it with your supervisor?”
Watson set the photo down on the dresser and pulled out his cell phone. “Give me a minute—I’ll call him.” He walked to the far corner of the room and punched in the number.
“Sharp kid,” Nash said.
“It will be good to have some fresh eyes on this,” Porter agreed. “God knows you’re not much help.”
“Fuck you too, buddy.” Nash stuffed the photo into an evidence bag. “I’ll take this back to the war room.”
Porter ran his hand through his hair and glanced around the room. “You know what I haven’t seen yet?”
“What?”
“A single photo of the father,” he replied. “There’s not a damn thing in this place to indicate they’re related. I bet if we check the records, we won’t find anything to link him back here. The apartment is probably owned by a company that’s owned by a company that’s owned by a shell out of an island so remote, Gilligan’s bones are probably buried on the beach.”
Nash shrugged. “That surprise you? He’s got a family, a life. He’s the kind of guy who has political office on the brain. Illegitimate children don’t bode well in a campaign unless they belong to your opponent—same with mistresses. Let’s face it: even though he said he cared for this woman, that’s all she was to him, or he would have left the wife and married her rather than hide her in this tower, away from prying eyes. Kid or no kid.”
Watson returned, pocketing his cell phone. “He said as long as I stay on top of my current caseload, he’s okay with it.”
“Will that be a problem?”
He shook his head. “I can handle it. Frankly, I think I’ll enjoy the change of pace. It’ll be nice to get out of the lab for a little while.”
“Okay, then. Welcome to the Four Monkey Killer task force. We’ll take care of the paperwork back at the station.”
“Not very ceremonious, Sam. You’ll need to work on that,” Nash said.
Watson pointed at the photo. “Do you want me to try and track down Ty?”
“Yeah,” Porter replied. “See what you can dig up.”
He dropped the photograph into an evidence bag.
Nash pulled open the top left dresser drawer. Women’s underwear. He stretched them out between his hands and whistled. “Those are some big ’uns.”
“I’m thinking some kind of nanny or housekeeper lives in this room,” Porter said. “Emory’s only fifteen. There is no way she lives here by herself.”
“Okay, but then where is she now? Why hasn’t she reported the girl missing?” Nash asked. “It’s been at least a day, possibly longer.”
“She didn’t report anything to the police. Maybe she called somebody else,” Porter sugg
ested.
“You mean Talbot?” Nash shook his head. “I don’t think so. He seemed genuinely surprised and upset when you told him.”
“If she’s illegal, she wouldn’t call the police,” Watson said. “Makes sense she would reach out to him.”
“Or someone who works for him.”
“Okay, assuming that’s the case, then why would Talbot pretend to be in the dark? Wouldn’t he want to find her?”
Porter shrugged. “His lawyer was pretty insistent about keeping all this quiet. Maybe that’s the Talbot stance. They’ve kept this girl a secret for fifteen years. Why stop now? He’s got resources, he’s probably got his own people out looking for her; no need for us.”
“Then why tell us about her at all? If his primary concern is hiding her from the world, wouldn’t he point us in another direction?”
Porter walked over to the laundry basket and felt a towel near the center. “Still warm.”
Nash nodded slowly. “So somebody phoned her, told her we were coming . . .”
“That would be my guess. She probably cleared out right after getting the call.”
“That doesn’t mean there’s some big conspiracy. She might just be an illegal like Dr. Watson over there suggested, and he didn’t want to see her get deported,” Nash said.
“I’m not a—”
Nash cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I bet she’s still close, then. We should post someone to keep an eye on the place.”
Nash’s phone rang, and he glanced at the display. “It’s Eisley.” He tapped the Answer button. “This is Nash.”
Porter took the opportunity to dial his wife. When he got voice mail, he disconnected without leaving a message.
Nash hung up and dropped his phone into his front pants pocket. “He wants us down at the morgue.”
“What did he find?”
“Said we needed to see for ourselves.”
14
Diary
“Would you like honey in your oatmeal, dear?”
Mother made wonderful oatmeal. Not the prepackaged kind, no sir. She purchased raw oats and cooked them to a magical deliciousness and served them with toast and juice at the little breakfast nook in our kitchen.
“Yes, Mother,” I replied. “More juice too, please?”
It was a little past eight in the morning on a sunny summer Thursday.
I heard a gentle knock at our screen door, and we both turned to find Mrs. Carter standing on the stoop.
Mother grinned. “Hey, you. Come on in.”
Mrs. Carter smiled back and pulled open the door. Thanks to the bright sun, I saw the outline of her legs through her dress as she stepped over the threshold. She gave my shoulder a squeeze and smiled before walking over to my mother and giving her a light peck on the cheek.
I have to say, after yesterday, it was fairly tame. However, I did catch a glance as it passed between them.
Mother stroked the other woman’s hair. “Your hair looks absolutely stunning today. I’d kill for hair like that. I’m having an Irish coffee. Would you care for one?”
“What is Irish coffee?”
“My, my, you are young in the ways of the world, aren’t you? Irish coffee is coffee with a splash of Jameson whiskey. I find it’s the perfect pick-me-up on a warm summer morning,” Mother told her.
“Whiskey in the morning? How devilish! Yes, please.”
Mother poured her a steaming cup of coffee, then took down a little green bottle with a yellow label from the cabinet I was not permitted to open. She removed the cap and topped off the mug before passing it to Mrs. Carter. I couldn’t help but notice that their hands lingered together a moment longer than one would think necessary.
Mrs. Carter took a sip and smiled. “This is to die for. It must do wonders during the winter.”
Mother looked at the woman and tilted her head. “Isn’t that the same dress you were wearing yesterday?”
Mrs. Carter blushed. “I’m afraid so. I desperately need to do laundry today.”
“I can’t let you go through the day in yesterday’s clothes. Follow me.” She stood and started for her bedroom, taking the bottle with her. “I have a few dresses I don’t wear anymore. I bet they would fit you perfectly.”
Mrs. Carter smiled at me and chased after Mother, her Irish coffee in hand. I watched them disappear down the hall, Mother’s door closing as they stepped inside.
For the briefest of moments, I considered staying there at the table and finishing my breakfast. After all, it is the most important meal of the day. As a growing boy, I understood the importance of nourishment. I didn’t do it, though. Instead, I tiptoed down the hallway and put my ear to her door.
Nothing but silence came from the other side.
I went outside and circled the house.
Mother’s window was on the east side, above a large rosebush shaded by an old cottonwood. Careful to ensure I could not be seen from the street, I positioned myself to the side of the tree and turned to the window. Unfortunately I was still rather short, my thin body that of a boy, and only the ceiling of the room was visible from that angle.
I quickly ran to the back of the house and returned with a five-gallon plastic bucket. Placing it upside down beside the tree, I climbed atop and again turned to the window.
Mrs. Carter’s back was to me, watching Mother as she dug through her closet with the ferocity of a dog creating a hole for its favorite bone. When Mother emerged, she held three dresses. Words were exchanged, but I was unable to make them out, as Mother’s window was closed. She wasn’t one to open her bedroom window, even at the peak of summer heat.
Mrs. Carter reached behind her head and untied the bow that held the back of her dress together. My breath caught in my throat as the thin material fell away. Aside from thin white cotton panties, she was naked. Mother handed her one of the dresses, and she slipped it over her head. Mother then stepped back and appraised the other woman. She produced the small green bottle with the yellow label and drank directly from it. She shivered, grinned, and handed the bottle to Mrs. Carter, who hesitated only for a moment before bringing the bottle to her own lips and taking a drink.
I knew what alcohol was, but I couldn’t recall ever seeing Mother drink, only Father. It was commonplace for him to pour a drink or two after a long day at work, but not Mother. This was new. This was different.
Our neighbor handed the bottle back to Mother, who drank again, then passed it back, the two of them laughing silently behind the glass.
Mother held up one of the other dresses, and Mrs. Carter nodded with enthusiasm. She removed her dress and walked over to Mother’s large mirror, holding the second dress against her chest.
My heart quickened.
Mother stepped up behind her and brushed her hair to the side, revealing the curve of her neck. I peered in as Mother kissed her ever so tenderly on that spot where neck meets shoulder. Mrs. Carter closed her eyes and leaned back slightly, pressing against her. She dropped the dress to the floor. In the mirror’s reflection, I watched as Mother’s hand inched up the other woman’s stomach and found her right breast.
Unlike Mrs. Carter’s, Mother’s eyes were open. I know this because I could see them. I could see them staring back at me in the mirror’s reflection as her hands drifted down the length of the other woman’s body and disappeared within her panties.
15
Porter
Day 1 • 10:31 a.m.
The Cook County Medical Examiner’s Office was on West Harrison Street in downtown Chicago. Porter and Nash made good time from Flair Tower and parked in one of the spaces out front reserved for law enforcement. Eisley had instructed them to meet him in the morgue.
Porter had never been a fan of the morgue. Formaldehyde and bleach seemed to be the air freshener of choice, but there was no disguising the fact that the morgue smelled like feet, stale cheese, and cheap perfume. Whenever he stepped through the doorway, he was reminded of the fetal pig Mr. Scarletto had forced him
to dissect in high school. He just wanted to get out as quickly as possible. The walls were painted a cheerful light blue, which did little to help one forget one was surrounded by dead people. The employees all seemed to wear the same nonchalant expression, one that made Porter wonder what he’d find if he took a gander inside their home refrigerators. Nash didn’t seem to mind, though. He had stopped halfway down the hallway and was peering into a vending machine.
“How could they run out of Snickers bars? Who’s in charge of this shit show?” he grumbled to nobody in particular. “Hey, Sam, can I borrow a quarter?”
Porter ignored him and pushed through the double swinging stainless steel doors opposite a green leather sofa that might have been new around the time JFK took office.
“Come on, man. I’m hungry!” Nash shouted from behind him.
Tom Eisley sat at a metal desk in the far corner of the room, typing feverishly at a computer. He glanced up and frowned. “Did you walk here?”
Porter considered telling him that they did, in fact, drive quite fast, lights and all, but thought better of it. “We were over at Flair Tower. We tracked down the victim’s apartment.”
Most people would have asked him what they found, but not Eisley; his interest in people started when their pulse stopped.
Nash came through the double doors, the remnants of a Kit Kat on his fingers.
“Feel better?” Porter asked him.
“Cut me some slack. I’m running on fumes.”
Eisley stood from the desk. “Put on gloves, both of you. Follow me.”
He led them past the desk and through another set of double doors at the back of the space into a large examination room. As they stepped inside, the temperature felt as if it dropped twenty degrees. Low enough for Porter to see his breath. Goose flesh crawled across his arms.
A large round surgical light with handles on either side swung over the exam table at the center of the room, a naked male body lying atop. The face had been covered with a white cloth. The chest had been splayed open with a large Y incision that started at his navel and branched at the pectoral muscles.