by Wayne Purdy
I’d heard of this show. It was the newest young adult drama, a paranormal whodunit, but it held little interest for me. The star of the program was a teenager named Calico Watson. She’d become an overnight sensation. She was just another entitled teeny bopper with too much money and too little humility. I recalled a news story about her shopping at a shoe store and having a meltdown because they didn’t carry the size in the style and colour that she had wanted.
“Is it any good?”
“Shush. At a commercial.”
I went to my duffel and pulled out the file folder and returned to my bed. Propping up my pillow, I sat up, reviewing the documents. Gracie was killed on June 7th, 2008. She had been covered in a piebald patchwork of bruises, indicating that she had been assaulted before she died. Probably many times, based on the varying colors of the bruises, ranging from a deep purple to a pale yellow. Irwin Bobb assaulted her. Frank Bello kicked the snot out of her too. They weren’t the only two.
She had fresh contusions around her neck, just like Sandra Mack, and I was sure that the killer had done that. He had known her and was able to get up close to her. I wondered how long it took for Sandra to die. I flipped through the files Zaki had given me. It didn’t include the autopsy. It probably hadn’t been completed yet. These things usually take time, but it had already been two weeks.
My phone was charging on the little night table between the beds. I picked it up and headed for the door. “I’m going to make a call,” I told Hazel. I didn’t want to disturb her, so I opened the door and went outside. The air was crisp. It had gotten chilly since we had had dinner and I wished that I’d brought a sweater. I punched in the number and Zaki answered after a few rings.
“Hello,” he said.
“Zaki. It’s Heck.”
“I’ve got call display. There was a silence and I thought for a moment that I woke him up. “What time is it?”
“It’s just after nine. Is it a bad time?”
“No. it’s fine. I must have dozed off. It’s been a crazy day. What can I do for you, Heck?”
“I’m in Kingston. I’m going to see Bello tomorrow. Thanks, by the way, for getting me on the list.” I called Zaki a few days earlier, telling him that I planned to interview Bello. He said he’d clear it with the prison. He didn’t even protest when I asked him to add Hazel’s name. “I’ve been going over my notes. You got the cause of death for Sandra Mack yet? The autopsy report?”
He sighed loudly and I heard him riffling through paper. “Got it here somewhere. I thought I sent it to you.”
Like I said, Zaki is a good detective, but he likes short cuts and he’s not always thorough. “I haven’t got it.”
“I’ll email it.”
“Sure, but could you give me the CliffsNotes?”
I heard more paper shuffle. “The cause of death was strangulation, specifically carotid compression.”
“What’s that?” I had a general idea, but a more detailed description couldn’t hurt. I did have a decade’s worth of rust to shake off.
“I’m paraphrasing here. Cooper goes into a lot of medical mumble-jumble, but here it is; there are two carotid arteries in the neck, one on each side of the windpipe. These arteries carry almost all the blood from the heart to the brain. Both arteries were squeezed with a lot of force, pinching off the blood supply.”
“Okay,” I said. “How long would it have taken for Sandra to die?”
“Anywhere from two to four minutes.”
I thought about this information and frowned. It didn’t work with my theory. If Sandra was alive for two minutes, she would have fought off her attacker. There’s no way she lets herself be strangled in a field and doesn’t fight for her life. It didn’t add up.
Zaki picked up on my thoughts. “There was a lot of force on her neck. Whoever did this is strong. She probably lost consciousness within twenty seconds. If she was standing up, and we think she was, she could have passed out in as little as four seconds. There weren’t any signs of struggle, no defensive wounds. There wasn’t even anyone else’s skin under her fingernails.”
This was what I was looking for. The killer overpowered Sandra rendering her unconscious in 20 seconds and killing her in 4 minutes, and that was the high end. It could have all gone down in two minutes and four seconds. It also explained why no one heard any cries for help. She only had seconds. She was probably unconscious before she knew she was in trouble.
“Gracie went the same way?” The army didn’t have an autopsy report. They concluded that she was strangled, based on her injuries and the initial report that I filed. They didn’t have a coroner available.
“Probably,” Zaki said. “The injuries were similar.”
“Thanks, Zaki,” I said. I was about to end the call when Zaki asked a question.
“Are you with that woman, Hazel Abe?”
“Yes, I am, and before you say anything, she’s been helpful. A fresh set of eyes. She won’t compromise the investigation.”
“I trust you, Heck. It’s her I’m not sure about. How long have you known her?”
“A couple years. Why?”
“What do you know about her? About her past?”
I was beginning to feel uneasy about his questions. “She’s told me a few things. Why? What’s this about?” I was being purposely vague. Hazel’s suicide attempt wasn’t my story to tell.
“Just watch your back. That’s all I’m going to say,” Zaki said, before hanging up.
I went back into the room. Ghost Girl was over, and Hazel was in the bathroom. I heard the water running and the door was opened a crack and I saw her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing only her bra and underwear and applying a green face mask. Somehow, it made her more beautiful because it humanised her. I saw more of her flesh at Pandora’s, but this forbidden glimpse was more intimate. I turned away, but it took all my will power. I thought about going in there, confessing my feelings to her, taking her in my arms, kissing her, smearing that mask all over both our faces, but I couldn’t.
Eddie would always be hanging around, like the sword of Damocles, always threatening to take away my happiness. I needed to know he was out of the picture for good, and I had a feeling that he never would be. Cass was wrong. I wasn’t afraid of commitment. I wanted it. It was abandonment that scared me. Plus, there was his warning.
She killed someone.
Zaki knew something too, but he wouldn’t say. All this conspired against me. The closer I got to her, the more terrified I was. I couldn’t expose myself to that sort of heartache.
I climbed into bed and put on SportsCenter. The Jays were playing but were down by two runs. I watched the last inning. They weren’t able to rally back. Twenty minutes later, Hazel emerged from the bathroom. Clearly, we had very different night-time rituals. I followed her with my good eye, taking in her smooth fluid movements as easily as my lungs took in breath. She caught me looking and a tight smile appeared on her face. She looked ready to chastise me, but then stopped.
“Heck,” she whispered. Her two beautiful, amber eyes landed on the ruined crater on my face. I expected her to draw away, repulsed, instead, she climbed onto my bed and sat cross-legged in front of me. “May I?”
I nodded my head breathlessly. She lightly touched her index finger to the tip of the scar beginning just below my hairline and traced down so delicately that her fingers could have been gossamer. They came to a rest at the cavity that once held my eye. Her fingers circled around it once, twice, three times, before picking up the scar that ran down to my jawline like a river flowing from a lake. My breath escaped in a wordless gasp.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore,” I whispered back. Her fingers had released so much endorphin into my body that I couldn’t feel pain anymore.
“I like it.” She leaned forward and kissed the hollow. The moisture from her full lips felt hot, and seared into me, burning me with their touch.
Then, she climbed into her bed, and turned
on the lamp. “The light doesn’t bother you?”
I told her it was fine. She had a paperback novel by Gillian Flynn and began to read it. I turned off the television, but sleep was a long time coming. Never in my life had I experienced anything so gentle and loving. Or felt so vulnerable.
◆◆◆
The next morning, I woke up early. Hazel was in her bed, snoring softly. I changed into gym shorts and an old tee before putting on my sweat socks and running shoes. Normally, I’d do my exercises, but I didn’t want to wake Hazel, so I went for a run. I needed some exercise otherwise I’d feel off for the rest of the day. I never listened to music when I ran. It was a good chance for me to organise my thoughts.
When I got back an hour later, Hazel was showered and dressed. She wore a pair of form fitting black slacks with a white oxford shirt. Her raven hair was pulled into a loose bun and she wore a pair of glasses. I didn’t even know she wore glasses. She looked like a professional white-collar woman. I came in panting and sweaty. My clothes were drenched and clung to me like a second skin. She eyed me up and down. “You’re back.”
“I went for a run,” I told her, panting.
“You should have told me. I would have gone with you.”
“Sorry. I didn’t want to wake you. You looked peaceful.”
I went to the little kitchenette and took one of the drinking glasses the motel provided, and ran the sink, using my hands to gauge when the water would be cool enough to drink. It never seemed to reach the desired temperature. Finally, I gave up and drank it lukewarm. It was still surprisingly refreshing.
“What’s the plan today?” Hazel asked.
“I’m going to hop in the shower. Then its off to the prison to interview Bello.”
“I don’t think I’m going to go.” She was biting her lower lip and avoided making eye contact with me.
I stopped midway across the room, my hand resting on the doorknob. I tried not to show it, but I was peeved that she was bailing. “Why? It was your idea to tag along.”
“I’m sorry, Heck. You have to admit, so far, I haven’t done any good. I barely even spoke to either of the Bobbs.”
That was true, but I still felt that she was giving up on the process too soon. It wasn’t easy interrogating suspects. “You’re learning just by watching. It takes a long time to master.”
She waved her hands at me. “I know. I know, but I don’t think I can be in the same room as him. Bello. Knowing what he did. It makes me nervous.” She shifted uncomfortably.
“It’s safe. He can’t hurt you there. I’ll be right there. Not to mention the armed guards.”
“In my rational mind, I know that, but being so close to a violent rapist…”
She was trembling. “Hazel, it’s alright. You don’t have to go if it upsets you so much.” I’d never seen her react so viscerally before, and I’d seen her deal with some real creeps at Pandora’s.
She took a deep, calming breath. “I’m sorry. I just don’t think I can do it. I have another idea. I think I can accomplish more if we split up. We both think that there is a serial killer on the loose, one that seems to be targeting transsexual girls. I think it might be helpful if we understood transsexuals better, you know.”
She had a point. I knew very little about the psychology of transsexualism. What little I did know came from my truncated investigation into Gracie’s murder and Google. I discovered that transsexuals are highly fetishized, and my research led me to some dodgy websites. I just hope someone clears my search history when I die.
“What have you got in mind?”
“There’s a Gender Studies program at the university here. I looked it up. The professor, Dr. Julia Herron, is a leader in the field. I thought I’d talk to her and maybe glean some insight.”
How she was able to look it up? Her cell phone was incapable of internet browsing and her probation prohibited any use of computers. Hazel read my mind. “I used the computer in the lobby. They’ve one set up that guests can use. I wasn’t on it long,” she added hastily, knowing full-well that it didn’t matter how long she used the computer only that she had. Hazel was a grown woman. If she considered it worth the risk, then who was I to judge? Still, she could have asked me, and I would have done the research for her.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. I thought I’d run it by you first. I do have her room number at the university. I’ll see if I can steal a few minutes of her time.”
I broke off the conversation and continued into the bathroom. After a quick shower I changed into a fresh pair of slacks and a dress shirt. I picked up my wallet, phone, and car keys. Hazel had her oversized bag packed and ready to go. I grabbed it and my smaller duffel and carried them out to the car, throwing them into the back seat of Macy.
“I’m going to drive over to the prison now. Do you need a lift?”
“No. It’s a beautiful day and I have time to kill. I thought I’d take a walk.”
“I’ll call you when I’m done. We can meet for a late lunch and then get back on the road. If everything goes well, we should be able to stop in at Hernan Estes’s house before dinner.” I went into the office and checked out of the motel, passing by the illicit computer as I did so.
◆◆◆
An hour later, I was checking through security at Millhaven Institute. Millhaven is a federal, maximum security prison situated on the picturesque shores of Lake Ontario. The perimeter is surrounded by a 30-foot-high fence topped with razor wire. Each corner had a guard tower with armed guards keeping vigil. Inside, a second, smaller fence marked the exercise yard. Any inmate that crossed the four-foot-high fence had better expect to be met with lethal force. The guards were equipped with high-powered rifles and were trained to use them without hesitation.
I was subjected to a body search and passed through an ion scanner to check for drugs, weapons, or other contraband materials. There were also CCTV cameras everywhere. You couldn’t sneeze without someone somewhere making a note of it. In order to visit with an inmate, you were required to apply to the Corrections Department. An inmate can refuse to see someone if they choose. I asked Zaki if he could nudge my request along.
I was led to the visitation room. It was a large room that looked like an outdated cafeteria. There were many round metal tables with stools attached by a bar. The tabletops were all bright red. Someone was trying too hard to make the place cheery. Talk about a losing battle.
The room was filled with wives and girlfriends, mothers and fathers, children, and lawyers all talking to men wearing prison issued orange clothing. There were a lot of tears, hushed whispers, and angry conversations. There was also laughter. It struck me that anyone could find any happiness in such a joyless place. Some of these men were in here for the rest of their lives. It made the time go easier if they could find something, anything, to look forward to.
A corrections officer directed me to a table sandwiched between a man with a poorly done neck tattoo cooing at a newborn baby and an elderly inmate consulting with his attorney. I took a seat and waited. The officer told me that there were cameras in the visitation room as well as listening devices at every table. Our conversation would be well documented. It was nearly fifteen minutes before Frank Bello was brought in. He wore the same prison outfit that the other inmates wore. He scanned the room and I saw recognition in his eyes when he spotted me. He walked over with the cocky bravura of a confident man and took the stool directly across from me. I didn’t offer him my hand and he didn’t offer me his.
“Shit. I never figured on seeing you again,” he said, in lieu of a greeting.
“Bello. I like your outfit. It suits you, gives you a certain je ne sais quo.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why are you saying it if you don’t know what it means?”
We sat in silence assessing one another. He had a brawler’s face; a nose that had been broken so many times that it was smeared onto
his face, cauliflower ears, remnants of long forgotten fights. He tapped his ham-sized hands onto the table’s surface, and I was suddenly grateful that I never had the opportunity to arrest this man. Frank Bello was designed for fighting, and he relished it. “You set this meeting up. What the fuck do you want?”
Frank Bello was a brass-tacks kind of guy, which suited me fine. I had no interest in small talk either. “I want to talk about that night. That night that Gracie Telford was murdered.”
“Go fuck yourself,” he said, leaning forward as though he were confiding a secret. A smug smile was drawn across his face. This was a pissing contest. He was testing me. I could play that game too.
I leaned forward and got right into his kitchen. “Do it yourself, coward,” I growled.
He laughed. “I always liked you. You got some balls. Gracie Telford? I don’t know nothing about it,” he said, the corner of his lip curling up as he spoke.
“That’s not true. You beat the shit out of her earlier that night.”
He glared at me with flinty eyes and his nostrils flared. A cold smile slowly spread across his face like a crack on a pallid sheet of ice. “Whatever you say,” Bello said in a gravelly voice.
“I know you didn’t kill her. I never thought you did,” I continued. “I just want to find out who did.”
“Why do you care? That faggot got exactly what he deserved.”
I leaned in closer. “What she deserves is justice and I’m going to make sure she gets it.”
“Why do you keep calling that fag ‘her’? She was just a sissy in a dress.”
I didn’t have time for his threatened masculinity. “I want answers. You can help me.”
“I’m not helping you with shit. Not without something from you.”
I sighed. This wasn’t going the way I wanted. There was very little I could give him. I couldn’t do anything about his sentence. He’d have to serve that with or without cooperating with me. “What do you want?”