by Elle Gray
“Unreal,” Brody says softly, running a hand over his face. “What kind of monster takes…”
His voice trails off, not needing to finish his statement. We both sit quietly for several long moments, both of us ostensibly looking at the reports on the screens in front of us. As I read through the words, I can’t help but think about an amazing young girl with a bright future ahead of her. A life that was snuffed out by a monster who crept out of the night and took her.
Yeah, I’m admittedly not doing a great job of compartmentalizing everything and treating this like any other case right now.
“I don’t care what it takes or how many laws we have to break,” Brody hisses. “I want to nail this guy. I want to nail him to the wall.”
I nod. “You and me both,” I say. “And we’re going to get him.”
“Take a listen,” Brody says.
An audio file player pops up onto the screen, and I watch as Brody’s cursor moves over and hits the play button. There’s a soft crackling of static that hisses through the speakers before it resolves itself as the recording starts.
“Seattle 9-1-1 dispatch, what’s your emergency?”
“Please, help me. There’s a man chasing me. I think he’s trying to kill me. Help me, please.”
“Ma’am, can you provide your name and location? I am alerting the police now. Can you find a safe location?”
“Yes, please help me. My name is Stella Hughes. I’m at the Gas Works Park… please send the police.”
“Ms. Hughes? Are you still on the line?”
“Yes. Oh God, please help me.”
“I’ve already dispatched the police. They’re only a few minutes out. I’m going to stay on the line with you until they arrive. Are you able to get to a safe location?”
“Please hurry.”
We listen to every agonizing moment of the recording. My heart grows heavier with every word Stella utters. The fear drips from her voice, thick and raw. The operator tries her best to calm her down, but I already know it was no use. These are Stella’s last words. Nobody deserves that.
The final scream as she’s being dragged away punches a hole straight through the center of me. At the same time, I feel myself growing harder. Darker.
I look across the table and see the emotions churning inside of me reflected on Brody’s tight, pinched face. He looks up, and I watch as a single tear slips from the corner of his eye and races down his cheek. He wipes it away angrily.
Silence descends over the table again as we both continue filtering through all of the reports in the file. The mundane and tedious task of sifting through everything filed in the digital murder book gives us both a beat to calm ourselves down and throttle back the emotions that are running high.
It takes more than an hour, but I finally get through the murder book. I’ve read every last detail of it. I just haven’t gone back to study the photos again yet. I’ll get to it, but right now, I feel a bit too raw. I look up at Brody and see that he’s looking like how I’m feeling.
“I need to get out of here for a bit,” I say, getting to my feet. “Need some air.”
“Good idea.”
We both silently walk out of the Fishbowl. Brody asks if I want to go to lunch, but I decline. I think right now, I just need to be alone for a bit.
Twelve
Gas Works Park; Downtown Seattle
I stand in the copse of trees where Stella’s body was found. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of pines and the earthy musk of the small, wooded area. After I left the office, I drove around for a bit, with no real destination in mind. I didn’t make the conscious decision to come here. It’s just where I ended up.
I sit down on a tree stump and survey the area around me. According to the photos, this is where Stella was killed. Everything has since been cleaned up, and all biological hazards have been eliminated. All that’s left is a patch of dirt partially covered in the scattered pine needles of the trees all around, rather than the thick rug of them I can see everywhere else.
I’m sure it won’t be long before the thick carpet of pine needles is replaced, and all traces that a body was found here will be gone. I’m also certain this isn’t the first time a body has been found in the surrounding wooded area, if not this particular copse itself.
Gas Works Park sits on a peninsula that juts out into Lake Union. From my vantage point, I can see the late afternoon sun glittering upon the water like diamonds. On the other side of the lake is the downtown skyline and the ever-present shape of the Space Needle. Even further in the distance, the Cascades loom like misty gray monoliths.
As I sit there, nestled in the scattered gloom of the trees, a shadow crosses over the land, and I look up to see clouds the color of granite starting to roll in. They’re thick but patchy, and in the distance, a dark and ominous looking wall of clouds is starting to roll this way. I don’t doubt we’ll be in for some rain at some point tonight.
Kids and their parents, university students, and some homeless fill the park all around me. I hear music and laughter as everybody carries on with their lives; most of them not even knowing a young woman’s life was taken not fifty yards from where some of them are sitting. They laugh and frolic in their ignorance, making plans for the rest of the day, perhaps even their futures. A luxury that Stella Hughes had stripped away from her.
I get to my feet and leave the copse, walking across the park, and make my way to the fence that’s supposed to keep people out of the old Gas Works plant. As I stare at the rusting, decaying frame of the plant, I take note of the generations’ worth of graffiti, and the greenery that’s climbing its way up the tanks, slowly but inexorably reclaiming the land.
On the lake beyond it, a large commercial ship crawls toward the Fremont Cut, and eventually out to Puget Sound as it moves out toward the Pacific and all points beyond. Smaller craft— electric boats, sailboats, and more powerful motorboats— dot the surface of the water as well.
People just out for a pleasure cruise. Life going on as normal. For all except Stella, that is. I find a bench that overlooks the lake and take a seat, my eyes still trained on the traffic flowing on the water. The sound of the people filling the park behind me fades as my mind turns inward. It’s not long before my brain is clogged with as many thoughts as there are boats on the lake.
I’m not much for sentimentality. I can usually keep my emotions in check pretty well. The only exception to that, obviously, is the death of my wife. I admit I’ve lost all perspective when it comes to Veronica. But that’s because I am one hundred percent certain, beyond all reasonable doubt, the investigators got it wrong. It was not an accident. Veronica was murdered.
I’ve never been able to prove it, of course. Not yet. I’m confident I will, but there’s still more work to do. I have a feeling my investigation into Veronica’s murder is playing a role in how hard I’m driving to find Stella’s killer, as well as the churning mess inside my head and heart I can’t seem to keep locked away.
Yes, I knew Stella fairly well, though I’d never say we were close. There was a large age gap between us, and we usually only met socially when our families did. I did help her out with school-related things from time to time. I can’t say I knew her incredibly well, but I was very fond of her. And I’m taking her death very personally.
The fact that I have not been able to uncover Veronica’s killer— or killers— has left me feeling somewhat less than competent. Somewhat impotent, perhaps. So I’m sure pouring all of my energy into finding Stella’s murderer is my way of asserting the control I don’t have in my wife’s case. The realization almost makes me chuckle to myself. Almost. Self-awareness has always been one of my traits.
Veronica’s case is full of holes and variables that are beyond my control right now. I know I’ll need things to line up and fall the right way to ever find a resolution. I know I will, it’s just going to take perseverance. But with Stella, I have a trail. I have clues and leads. I just need to put the pieces to
gether in the right way for it all to come together. But unlike with my attempts to solve Veronica’s murder, with Stella’s case, I at least have a starting point.
But to close this case and get Stella and Marcus the justice they deserve, I need to focus. I need to get my head in the game and shut out the emotion of it all. I need to be driven. Determined. Calculating. I can’t afford to let sentimentality or feeling get in the way. It all needs to be locked away.
Letting out a long breath, I get to my feet and start taking control of myself. As I look out over the water, focusing on my breathing, I feel everything inside of me start to lock down. It’s not long before I feel like I’m in total control of myself again. Feel my rational, logical mind asserting its dominance over my emotions.
My personal pep-talk and this time alone has put me in the right frame of mind. I’m satisfied that I’m where I need to be in my head— or soon will be— and am confident there won’t be any slip-ups. I give myself a firm nod and turn to go.
“Time to go to work.”
Thirteen
Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle
My arms folded over my chest, I stalk the conference room like a caged animal, circling the long table with a thousand different thoughts racing through my mind. I feel better after my trip to the Gas Works Plant yesterday and my mental kick in the ass. I needed it more than I realized.
Brody is seated at the end of the table, his eyes following me around the room. The first crime scene photo is up on the wall-mounted computer screen. On my next circuit around the table, I stop in front of it, studying the picture closely.
“Can you enlarge the body? Cut out everything around it. I just want to see the body,” I say without turning around.
I hear the clack of Brody’s fingers flying over the keys, and a moment later, the only thing on the screen is the body. It’s an overhead shot, so I step closer and study the wounds. As I look at the largest wound— the incision through the chest, and the cracked ribs— my mind keeps coming back to the word “precise.” That’s how it was described in the autopsy. Precise.
And as I look at the wound, I can see what the Medical Examiner meant. The cut through the chest cavity is clean. Even the cracked ribcage looks like it was done carefully, rather than simply torn open like it was done by some wild savage.
But to me, that’s at odds with most of the other wounds. The stab wounds to her abdomen, neck, arms, and legs, all look like they were done in a frenzy. It’s as if the rage took hold of the killer, and he just flipped out and started to stab her wildly. Like he’d lost control of himself.
“It’s like we’re dealing with two different people,” I muse.
“How do you mean?”
I turn around to face him, feeling some of my thoughts starting to fall into place. “On the one hand, we’ve got the one who is precise. Surgical. He removed her heart with the skill of a surgeon,” I explain. “That takes patience. Discipline. Training.”
“Not necessarily,” Brody points out. “You can pretty much learn to do anything on the Internet these days.”
I glance his way to see if he’s joking. He’s not. “Believe it or not, there are some limits to what you can learn online,” I tell him, my brow furrowed. “I’m thinking whoever did this has had some training. Either they studied to be a doctor, or they’re already practicing.”
“Well, that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy about our healthcare system,” he cracks.
It’s the first time Brody has even attempted a joke since we learned about Stella’s murder. I’m hoping that means he’s coming to the same place I am, and that he’ll be able to shut down his emotions and focus on the case.
“But then, we have the opposite end of the spectrum,” I continue, pointing to the various stab wounds on the body. “This is out of control. Rage. This is just senseless brutality.”
“It’s like we’re dealing with Jekyll and Hyde.”
I nod. “Yeah, seems like it.”
“Do you think we’re dealing with two people?”
I take a few steps closer to the screen to take a closer look at the wound patterns. Certainly, a compelling case could be made that this was the work of two different people: one precise and controlled, the other in a blind rage. But my instincts tell me this is one person. Not two. I can’t explain it just yet, but the more I look at the body, the more certain of it I become.
“I don’t think so,” I respond, shaking my head. “I’m pretty sure this was just one person.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Gut instinct at the moment,” I offer.
“So one guy with two very different personalities,” he says.
“Just different facets of one man’s personality,” I correct him. “I think he’s a very tightly controlled person. But he’s got this wild, savage side underneath that veneer of normalcy.”
“So just like Jekyll and Hyde.”
I nod slowly. “Something like that.”
“So we’re thinking he’s had medical training,” Brody notes.
“Likely, yeah. I don’t think an amateur would be able to remove a heart so cleanly,” I say. “But I won’t discount the idea that he learned from the Internet entirely. I think it’s too early to rule anything out, no matter how unlikely.”
Brody’s face darkens at the mention of what was done to Stella, but he manages to rein his emotions in. I know it’s difficult for him, but he knows how important this is, and I can see that he’s trying.
“How do you do it?” he asks.
“Do what?”
“Remain so… unaffected by all of this,” he sighs, waving a hand at the screen.
“Who says I am?”
“You look at those pictures— of Stella— and you look like it doesn’t bother you.”
I glance at the picture of Stella’s body on the screen. I wonder the same things myself sometimes. It’s why I had such a hard time with the Perry case. He tried to convince me that I was just like him. Someone who could snap into a cold, unfeeling state of being. And yeah, sometimes I feel that my callousness can go too far. That when I go into case-solving mode, I cut off that part of me that makes me human.
But deep down, I know that’s not the case. When I look at these photos, I can feel the emotions boiling thick and raw just beneath the surface. It’s as if I am hearing voices from the other end of a long corridor, their echoed whispers filling my ears. I know there will be time to grieve for Stella later. But for now, I have to keep my focus on bringing her killer to justice. I clear my throat and turn back to Brody.
“Is that what you think?” I ask. “That it doesn’t bother me?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, man. You’re always just so… cold. In control. Nothing seems to get to you. It never has in all the years I’ve known you,” he says. “You even kept it together after…”
His voice trails off. He doesn’t need to finish the statement; he’s talking about Veronica, of course. But he’s wrong. I went off the rails after she was killed. At least, as far off the rails as I allow myself to get anyway. In truth, the way I coped with Veronica’s death was by growing cold. By shutting down all feelings inside of me. It’s something I’m well-practiced at, given my upbringing, but something I never had to do while Veronica was alive. In fact, I was exactly the opposite.
But with her gone, I turned inward. And since then, I’ve kept myself tightly controlled and buttoned up. Seeing Stella laid out like she was, savagely butchered, broke the latch on my box of self-control. All of the feelings I’d kept stuffed down came roaring back to the surface again, and for a minute, I lost myself. I let all of the emotional baggage I carry spill open and it took me a minute to get my feet back under me again.
Veronica always told me I’d have to confront it all someday. She said I’d have to stop stuffing it all down and actually talk to somebody about it. Otherwise, it would eat me up from the inside. She’s probably right, but today is not that day.
&nb
sp; “It’s not that these things don’t affect me,” I tell him, my voice soft. “I just know how to compartmentalize better than most.”
A wry smile touches his lips. “You’re going to have to teach me that trick sometime.”
I give him a rueful smile. “I’ll do that.”
Silence descends over the room again as Brody leans back in his chair, and I sit down in front of my computer, scrolling through the murder book again. I don’t need to. It’s all committed to memory already. But sometimes, doing something mundane helps me think. It’s almost like white noise in the back of my mind, allowing my mind to work on a subconscious level. It’s meditative in a way.
At the beginning of any investigation, you’re usually presented with a mountain of information. The starting point is separating the wheat from the chaff. Not everything in the murder book is going to be useful, so it’s my job to sort out the things that are helpful from the things that are not. And once I’ve done that, I build out my investigation from there.
I’ve done all of that. Now it’s time to catch the bastard who did this.
Fourteen
Jon & Margaret Fujita Sculpture Park; Downtown Seattle
Sometimes, when I need to get out of the office but don’t want to go home, to a bar, or just generally be around people, I’ll come here to the sculpture park. Veronica used to love this place, so that’s part of why I enjoy it here. She loved the sculptures. And I have to admit, there are quite a few of them that are terrific, though she preferred the modern and abstract, where I enjoy the more realistic sculptures.
But mostly, I like it here because it’s quiet. Peaceful. There aren’t many people here at any given time and those who are tend to leave you alone. Which is exactly the sort of atmosphere I want right now.
The night is dark and overcast, but rain is not likely tonight. A light breeze sweeps through, carrying a chill that makes me turn the collar up on my overcoat. I find my way through the park, passing an array of different statues, some lifelike, others abstract, and recall passing through here with Veronica many times. The memory brings a smile to my lips and a lance of pain through my heart. I wonder if the pain is ever really going to go away completely. Whoever said time heals all wounds needs to be beaten with something heavy.