Once he’s out of the car, I begin razzing him, “Wow! You’re on time for once.” He is rarely on time when it comes to work at the office, but at a crime scene he’s Johnny on the spot.
“Eh, couldn’t sleep and wanted coffee,” Bobby mumbles as he takes the cup from me.
“You, too¸ huh? Work will get us going,” I say, only half joking.
Walking into the station is one of the most disheartening things. A once gorgeous foundation with its unique structures and ornate detailing has become nothing but a rundown pile of lawsuits waiting to happen. Taking the stairs is by far the safest thing to do since the elevator is a death trap and I refuse to use it. When I reach my cluttered desk and try looking for my messages, I realize how badly I need to clean up this disaster. I have case files and crap all over the desk. There is really only one stack I need—my five cold cases that I look at religiously. These files are ones my father couldn’t solve before he was forced to retire after a bullet almost took his life. Not wanting to think about the mess, I find my messages and start to read them.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, these are all from Jeanie about that damn dog.” What does she think I can do for her? I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about her and that stupid dog.
“Huh?” Bobby says, confused.
“I spoke to Jeanie last night before I called you. She was freaking out, saying her groomer stole her annoying ass dog Jojo or some fucked up name like that. I told her I wasn’t animal control and hung up on her. She obviously hasn’t taken the hint.” Shrugging, I throw the messages in the trash can. I have more important things to do than help a cheater, so instead I engross myself in these mundane reports which are pointless and take forever. I’m not that fast at typing so it takes time to get these done. Since Bobby and I are planning on heading down to the morgue around noon, it gives me time to make a game plan to catch a killer.
“Angelo! Baby, where are you?” a shrill voice calls me out of my paperwork haze. I duck down and pray she doesn’t see me, but of course, one of my wonderful coworkers rats me out and she clicks toward me.
Son of a bitch, “What do you want Jeanie?” I say through gritted teeth.
Popping her gum, she answers in that annoyingly high pitched squeak, “I want to press charges against that groomer.”
“Press charges for what?” I’m not even trying to hide my annoyance.
“For kidnapping. Gigi still hasn’t come home. Here, this is a booklet with her information on it.” She hands me the pamphlet and I roll my eyes at her and respond as calmly as possible.
“Will you quit calling me baby? We broke up. There’s nothing I can do about your groomer. I’m sure the dog will show up, sooner or later.” As I hand the paper back to her, the picture of the groomer catches my attention. I have seen those beautiful, cobalt blue eyes before and that long, jet black hair.
Get the fuck outta here, “Bobby let’s go.” Grabbing my keys, I start to walk out of the squad room.
Jeanie catches up to me, “Are you going to arrest her, baby?”
I roll my eyes at her endearment, “No, I’m not. Will you please just go home? I’ll call you, okay? I have to go, something important has come up.” I don’t give her time to answer as I take the steps two at a time.
“Hold up there, Tonto.” Hearing Bobby behind me, I slow down to let him catch up. “What’s up? Where are we going?”
I hand him the brochure and ask, “Look familiar?”
“Fucking shit! This is our Jane Doe from Otis last night.” With this new information, he realizes why I’m in such a hurry.
“We’re going to see Nate and see if he found anything out yet, like who she is.” We jump in the car and head over to the morgue, praying the ten minute drive is just that, but on Detroit streets, you never know.
***
I always hate coming to the morgue. It’s so final and smells funny—like a mixture of stale disinfectant, bleach, and iron. It’s almost as cold inside as it is outside, with it being a giant freezer and all. Icy, metal tables, toe tags, and white sheets line the walls. The influx of unclaimed bodies has the employees scrambling to catch up. Finding Nate in this mess might become an undertaking that I don’t care to partake in, so instead, I break the silence, “NATE! Where you at?”
“Back here,” a muffled voice answers. Walking toward the sound of his voice, we find him elbow deep in a body.
“Damn, Nate, that’s gross. Stop while we’re here, please?” Bobby whispers, looking a little green around the gills.
“Oh! Sure, sorry, you know how I get when I’m working.” Pulling his arms out of the body and removing his gloves, Nate walks over to his desk that’s piled high with folders and empty coffee cups. “What’s up? I thought you were coming at noon, it’s only ten.”
I show him the advertisement, “I think we found our Jane Doe.”
Looking at the picture on the back, he walks over to a drawer on the wall and pulls it open. He lifts the drape to show her face as he compares the two. “From what I can tell, it could be her; I’ll have to check her prints. At least we now have a place to start.”
“Have you started her yet?” I ask to get a better timeline in my head. If he can confirm her identity sooner rather than later, Bobby and I can notify next of kin and search her home so we catch this asshole.
“Not yet. I had to get Mr. Mater ready for the funeral home to pick him up this afternoon. But she’s next. I already drew her blood and sent her prints down to the lab. Go down there and see if she’s in the system. It will speed up the process, since I know you’re itching to get to her place.” Nate pushes her back in and closes the door.
“All right, boss, but get your ass in gear, we don’t have all day,” I call out as we walk out the door and up the stairs to the floor the lab is on. When you hear crime lab you picture a state of the art, high tech CSI: New York type lab, but that is not what you get here. In the Detroit lab, you get busted up microscopes and old as dirt forensic equipment. Why it’s still even here when almost everything goes to the state lab in Lansing is beyond me, but who am I to argue? Stopping at the front desk, I ring the bell and wait for someone to come out and speak to me.
“Can I help you?” The newbie from last night comes out and I’m able to see how attractive she is.
“Yes, please. Dr. Brennan sent us here to give you some information about the Jane Doe from last night; we think we have an I.D.,” I tell her, handing her the brochure.
Staring at the picture, she raises an eyebrow, “I see the resemblance.”
“Can you please look in the system to see if she is in there?” Putting on the charm like the ladies’ man he is, Bobby looks at her with eyes to kill. She doesn’t even glance his way; she is staring right at me.
“Of course, let me run this. It should be ready in about an hour. Go have lunch.” She smiles at me before turning to walk in the back.
“Damn, she’s hot,” Bobby says.
I smack him in the back of the head, “I’ll let Tabby know you said that. Come on, let’s go eat.” Deciding on coneys and chili cheese fries, we head out, returning a little over an hour later.
Again, I ring the bell. “Hello!”
“You’re back, let me get the printout,” she says as she takes off her gloves. When she returns she starts to read, “Hope Cooper, twenty-eight years old, Black hair, Blue eyes, five feet five inches tall. She was arrested at seventeen for minor in possession of tobacco.”
“Who was the asshole that arrested her for that?” Bobby snorts. We never arrest teens for having cigarettes under age; we destroy them and give them a warning. That usually scares them enough to stop smoking.
She hands me the paper to look for the arresting officer, “Well shit, it was dickhead himself, Officer Ball.” Officer Ball is the youth officer; he’s the only cop that will arrest a minor for possession. I should’ve known that. “It looks like she was heading down a bad path; he must have arrested her to knock some sense into her. She was kick
ed out of the mall, too.” I turn back to the tech, “So the Jane Doe from last night is, in fact, this Hope Cooper?” I need her to verbally confirm it so I stare at her, waiting for her to continue.
She looks down at the ground, flustered, “Yes, sir, the fingerprints match what was in the system. Her most recent address is on page two.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry . . . what is your name?” I’m embarrassed that I haven’t even asked what her name is yet.
“Mia, Mia Bailey,” she stammers.
“Nice to meet you, Mia. Thank you for the information. You’ve been most helpful.” I smile at her as I leave.
“What’s the plan?” Bobby asks once we get in the car.
“We need to go to her house, but we will inform her next of kin, first.” I’m dreading this part, but I know it has to be done.
***
We walk out of Hope Cooper’s parents’ house a few hours later with her apartment keys and a heavy heart. I have a sense of dread that I can’t shake. Maybe it’s knowing I’m about to invade someone’s privacy that never sits well with me, no matter if they’re alive or dead.
CHAPTER 4
HOPE
I wake up feeling like death warmed over and roll over only to be blinded by the sun. What the hell happened to me last night? The last thing I remember is being tied up in an abandoned house, afraid for my life. It may have been a nightmare, but I just can't shake the feeling it was real. Glancing at the alarm clock, it’s almost four pm. I scramble out of bed, “Shit, how did I sleep that long?” I head into the bathroom but a noise by the front door makes me stop to listen. Two men in suits open my door with a set of keys.
“Who the hell are you and why are you in my apartment?” I call out, fear creeping up my spine.
“Bobby, start in the kitchen and I’ll start in the bedroom,” the taller of the two says, setting the keys down, totally ignoring me.
I’m frozen in place, a hand on my throat, waiting for one of them to acknowledge me. When this doesn’t happen, the anxiety shows up and I feel like I can’t breathe. Who are these men? Why are they here? Forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths and calm down, I slowly walk toward the living room.
I try to yell but it comes out more like a whisper, “If you don’t leave in the next five seconds, I’ll call the police.” Thinking one of them heard me when he turned to look at me, relief floods through my body. He never makes eye contact with me and shakes his head before turning back around. When he starts putting my things in bags marked “evidence”, panic replaces anxiety. Why the hell won’t either of them answer me? I know they see me standing here.
“It looks like Mateo. When is the crime scene team coming in to start working?” the other guy asks. Why is he asking about Matt? Wait, when did the other guy come back into the room? I was so lost in my thoughts I didn’t even see him come back into the room.
“Crime scene team? What is he talking about? Why won’t either of you answer me?” Anger is starting to replace the panic as they continue to ignore me. I mean, here are two strange men in my home, looking around and acting like I don’t exist. “That’s it, I’m calling the police.” I head over to the phone and find the keys they used to get in staring up at me on the table. Recognizing the dog tag shaped keychain with the saying, ‘live 4 today Hope 4 tomorrow’ punched into it and the breast cancer symbol with ‘Hope’ on it, I question them again, “These are the keys from my parents’ house. Why do you have them?” Nothing. With my blood starting to boil, I scream at the top of lungs, “ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF, OLD MAN?! Why won’t you even look at me?” Not even a flinch. They really can’t hear me, can they? Realization starts to set in, but I keep fighting; I can’t give up just yet.
“I’m going to the bedroom, Bobby. CSI should be here any time now,” the tall one calls out. Placing a bagged photo in a box by the door, he turns toward me. With him facing me, I’m able to see his suit jacket is open and there is a badge on his belt. Why are the cops in my house?
“Why are you here?” I say more to myself as defeat joins my pity party. He walks toward me, and as I look into his eyes, he doesn’t see me; he’s looking through me. I stand my ground, refusing to give up on that tiny bit of hope that both officers are deaf and I truly am still alive. Suddenly, this horrendous pain shoots through my entire body. A pain so agonizingly slow, it’s bone crushing and takes my breath away. But just as fast as pain came, it left, and so did he.
I turn around to find him already halfway down the hall. Stomping up to him, I grab his arm, but end up falling flat on my face. “What the hell was that?” I get up and try again but get the same results. I start to really freak out and my breathing quickens as I watch him walk into my bedroom. Why can’t I grab him? Why can’t they hear me? I turn around and head to the kitchen to try and talk to the other guy.
“Hey, your partner in there is ignoring me. Can you tell me what you’re doing in my house?” Bobby, his partner called him, doesn’t even bother to lift his head. He’s looking at my mail. “Hey, you can’t look through my mail.” Trying to swipe the mail from him, my right hand goes through the papers causing the pain to shoot into my hand. I open and close my hand, trying to force the pain away. Shaking it out, I get up in his face, “BOBBY! CAN YOU HEAR ME? CAN YOU SEE ME?” Again, nothing. I’m dead? How am I dead? Why am I dead? I can’t be dead. Grief hits me like a ton of bricks as I realize I will never live again.
The light flickers in and out and an odd overwhelming chill consumes me. I crumble to the ground as the room goes black and I soon find myself in my childhood bedroom. A white canopy bed sits as the centerpiece of the room with matching dresser and desk. How did I get here? I walk out of the room and I'm hit with so much sorrow coming from downstairs, I can’t move. That—sorrow—it touches me so deep in my soul that tears well in my eyes, threatening to spill. Not being able to handle this feeling, I slump onto the stairs. Looking through the rail at my parents, reality sinks in . . . I’m gone.
Tears run down my cheeks as I try to come to grips with this fact. NO! I’M NOT DEAD! Determined to try one more time, I stand up and yell, “HEY GUYS, I’M HERE!” as I wave my arms in the air and run down to the landing. I still get nothing, not a single person looks at me.
Going over to my mom, I drop to my knees in front of her, “Mom, please look at me, please.” I’m sobbing uncontrollably, but continue to plead, “I’m right here, your angel girl, please, Mommy, see me.” When she doesn’t look up from her lap, I know it’s true—there’s no denying it anymore, I’m no longer alive. I repeat “Please” over and over as I stand and begin to back up and slide down the wall. My dog, Tina, is sitting by my dad just staring at the front door waiting for me to walk in. “Oh, Tina, I’ll miss you.” I love her so much, she was my child. Turning toward me, Tina walks over to my spot on the floor and starts to whimper. “You sense me, don’t you, baby girl? I’m sorry I left you, but I know you will be well taken care of.” I reach out to pet her but she growls and runs away with her tail between her legs.
Heartache wells up into my throat as I watch everyone important to me suffering. So this is what happens when you die. You get to watch your loved ones grieve your death and not be able to help them. “Please don’t cry, Daddy, I’m right here. I love you so much.” I stand up and walk over to him, reaching out to touch him but can’t; his pain and grief have stopped me cold.
Rubbing his hands over his face, as if wiping his tears, my dad suddenly cries, “How can my baby girl be gone? God, why did you take her?” My dad’s sudden outburst makes everyone jump and I don’t want to be here anymore. I need to be as far away as possible right now; their sorrow is too much for me to bear. Closing my eyes I think about my cozy little home. It wasn’t much—a one bedroom, one bath apartment—but it was mine, even painted it myself; the living room walls were a blood orange with red furniture, all from the thrift store. Pictures of friends and family line the walls in a multitude of ways. I start to feel that same chill and numbness r
un over me again as the room fades. The last thing I hear is my mom scream, “It’s not fair! Oh God, I need Faith.”
I’m back in my apartment full of people. They are all wearing uniforms that say DPD on the front and CSI on the back. Nothing is being missed; they are bagging everything I own—all my important papers, computer, flowers . . . Where did I get those flowers from, anyway, and why do I feel like I know who gave them to me? I watch them work—bag and tag, bag and tag—over and over until my whole apartment is bagged and tagged. If I have a secret, they will find out. I wonder if they found my journal under the floor in my room.
“Yeah, Angelo, we’re going. Once we get everything back to Lansing and inventoried, we’ll start on it,” The CSI tech calls over his shoulder on his way out the door. Being lost in my thoughts yet again, I didn’t realize they were packing up to leave.
“See ya,” Angelo, says as they shut the door, leaving him alone. Actually taking the time to look at him, he looks tired and drained. This officer looks familiar to me somehow, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. He kneels on one knee and makes the sign of the cross before he begins to pray. Saddened and honored at his gesture, I feel a pull toward him. I watch as he finishes his prayer and stands up. Wanting to be seen and hear me so badly, I go toe to toe with him and scream in his face, but all he does is wipe his brow from the invisible sweat and walk out the door.
Falling to my knees, I cry—I cry like a baby to the point I can’t breathe and I’m hyperventilating. My life was just beginning. I had a great career, but I also wanted a husband, two and a half kids, and a white picket fence. I wanted every little girl’s dream and now I’ll never get it. Thinking back to last night, I can’t remember anything other than a nasty house and painful wrists. My wrists have become a deep purple with red marks circling them. Those weren’t there before. Why are they showing up now? Touching them, I feel nothing. Checking my ankles, I see the same marks there, too. I was tied up but managed to get out of them once. My freedom didn’t last long, though. I just sit in my living room for what could have been hours, and with all that thinking I’ve come up with nothing. Where is heaven? How do I get there? Am I alone here? Having too many questions and no answers, I wipe my face and walk out the door. There has to be someone out there, right?
Angels & Sinners: The Motor City Edition Page 21