The Gone Sister

by Thomas Fincham

  FORTY-NINE

  Once they arrived in Mayview, Callaway pulled in front of an apartment building built of brown stone. Elle got out, turned around, and said, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Callaway replied.

  She moved toward the entrance but then turned back. “Do you want to come upstairs for a cup of tea?” she said.

  Callaway considered her offer. He had an hour’s drive back to Milton, and he could use some caffeine in his system.

  “Sure, that’ll be nice,” he said.

  He parked the Impala in the visitors’ parking lot and found her waiting by the front door. She removed a string from around her neck that had a key fob attached.

  “I tend to lose things easily,” she said with a smile.

  “I’m sure,” he said.

  She scanned the fob and the door opened. She tapped her cane and moved to the elevator. She felt along the walls, found the button, and pressed Up.

  Callaway thought of offering to help Elle, but he did not want to offend her. This was her home, after all, and she knew it better than he did.

  The elevator doors opened, and they entered. The buttons had braille next to the numbers. She quickly found the floor she was looking for.

  They got off on the seventh floor. Elle tapped her cane along the edges of the hallway to guide her. She stopped at a door and moved her fingers over the apartment number.

  “This is my place,” she said, unlocking the door with her key. “Please come in.”

  The apartment was pitch-dark when he entered. She came in behind him and closed the door. She moved past him and said, “Have a seat.”

  Callaway could not tell where the chair was. All he saw was black. “Um… do you know where the light switch is?”

  “Oh dear,” she said. “I can function without lights, but I forgot you can’t. It’s on the right.”

  He pressed the switch, and the apartment lights came on. Elle’s home was small, but it looked spacious. There were minimal furnishings, and the walls were bare, with no photos or paintings.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have a TV,” Elle said. “Alfred, please turn on the radio!”

  Classical music filled the room.

  “How’d you do that?” he asked, startled.

  Elle smiled. “I have a smart device.”

  Callaway saw a black cylindrical device next to the sofa.

  “It operates on voice command,” Elle explained. “It tells me the news, plays music, plays audio books, and even orders pizza. When I bought it, the people at the store were kind enough to set it up for me.”

  “Cool,” he said, clearly amazed. “But who’s Alfred?”

  “It’s from my favorite comic book,” she replied. “I configured the device to answer to that name. It makes me feel rich and important. Why don’t you sit down while I make tea?”

  Callaway took a seat. Elle disappeared into the kitchen. He scanned the interior and realized everything was carefully placed so Elle was safe from bumping into things and could easily find anything she misplaced.

  She returned with a tray that held two steaming cups of tea and a plate of cookies. “I hope chocolate chip is okay with you,” she said.

  “My favorite,” Callaway said with a smile.

  She placed the tray before him, grabbed a cup, and gently sat on a chair across from him. He noticed she was not wearing her gloves. He also noticed a band on her ring finger.

  “You’re married?” he asked, feeling surprised.

  “Oh, this,” she said, holding up her ring. “It’s a friendship ring. Katie and I used to give each other bracelets with our names on them. But as we got older, we gave each other rings with our names engraved in them. We vowed that until we found that special someone, we would always wear these rings as a sign of devotion to each other.”

  Callaway took a big bite of his cookie, and a sip from his cup. The cookie was soft and chewy, just perfect with the hot tea. “I was thinking,” he said, “if you get yourself a guide dog, it’d be much easier for you to get around, you know.”

  “I used to have one. After he died, I didn’t have the heart to replace him.”

  “Oh, sorry to hear that.” Callaway stifled a grimace. He was trying to make small talk, but he was horrible at it.

  “Do you have family, Lee?” Elle asked.

  He thought about telling her that his personal life was perfect, but he had a feeling she would somehow catch him lying.

  “I used to be married,” he replied.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be. It was my fault.”

  “Children?”

  “A little girl.”

  Callaway suddenly realized he had been so busy helping Elle look for her sister that he had forgotten to make time to see a special person he had not seen in a while.

  FIFTY

  Bo Smith was cuffed to the hospital bed. He was confused and disoriented, but sedated. A blood sample had been taken, and Fisher was certain the toxicology report would show heroin in his system.

  The black backpack contained a bag of heroin. Smith had injected way more heroin than his body could handle. Even drug dealers get a little too greedy sometimes, Fisher thought.

  Holt had called 9-1-1 the moment Fisher found Smith still had a pulse, but his skin had turned cold to the touch. Emergency responders would need time to arrive on the scene and give him medical attention.

  He was not going to make it until the EMT showed up.

  With the opioid crisis raging through the city, each law enforcement officer was given training and equipment to treat an overdose. Fisher had rushed down to her car and retrieved a small medical kit from the trunk. Inside was an injection with the drug naloxone. Naloxone had the same receptors as heroin. Once administered, the drug could displace the heroin in a person’s brain, stopping an overdose. But naloxone’s effect was shorter than heroin, serving as a stopgap until medical attention could be given.

  Fisher had administered the drug, and Smith had held on.

  When the emergency responders arrived, they induced Smith to vomit in order to extract as much of the drug as possible. Then they placed him on IV fluids to stabilize him, monitoring his breathing all the while. Then they had taken Smith to the hospital.

  Fisher and Holt watched Smith from a window outside his room. Smith’s heart rate and breathing were normal, and the bluish tint on his lips had faded.

  Holt fidgeted next to her. He was eager to go inside and grill Smith about what he knew of Isaiah’s death. But Fisher held him back. Smith had come close to death, and if they pushed him too soon, he might not be as responsive as they would like.

  The doctors were not appreciative of the detectives’ presence either. Their main concern was their patient’s well-being, while Holt and Fisher’s main concern was the information he had.

  Fisher knew Smith could not be questioned under the influence of medication. At the moment, he was not a suspect in Isaiah’s death, but that could quickly change during their interview with him. If that happened, they had to be certain he was aware of the questions and his answers. A judge could throw out his statement if there was any indication Smith was not of sound mind. Fisher could not allow that to happen, not when Smith’s recollections were vital in finding out what happened to Isaiah.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Almost an hour later, Holt and Fisher were allowed into the room. Bo Smith’s eyes were watery, but while he had been confused upon first awakening, he was lucid by now.

  They flashed their badges when he said, “Hey, why did you put me in cuffs?” He moved his wrist, rattling the metal rail on the side of the bed.

  Fisher said, “Mr. Smith, you were found unconscious in your apartment from an overdose. We also found a small bag of heroin, which we believe you had injected.”

  “I’m not a junkie, okay?” he said, pointing his finger at her. “That was the first time I tried it. I swear.”

  They did not believe him, but they
also knew he was not being entirely untruthful. Unlike most addicts, there were no additional puncture marks on his arms or legs.

  Holt spoke. “We don’t care about the drugs. You made the 9-1-1 call regarding Isaiah Whitcomb’s body. Isn’t that right?”

  Fisher could see Holt was trying hard to be calm, but he looked like he was ready to explode.

  Smith blinked. “Yeah, I called 9-1-1. Why? Did I do something wrong?”

  Before Holt could grill Smith, Fisher quickly asked, “Please explain how you found Mr. Whitcomb.”

  “I was riding my bike when I spotted the car. It looked like someone had gone crazy on the car. There was glass everywhere, and I even saw blood. I mean, I’ve seen people get shot before, but this brother’s car was covered in blood, you know.”

  Holt clenched his jaw.

  “And what did you do?” Fisher asked.

  “I went to check who it was—I thought it could be someone I rolled with, you know—but when I looked, I knew it was Isaiah Whitcomb.”

  “How did you know him?” Fisher asked.

  He looked at her like she was dumb. “The brother was gonna make it to the pros. He was a stud, man. When I saw him like that, all bloody and dead, I had to call 9-1-1.”

  Fisher could see the veins throbbing in Holt’s neck.

  “After you called it in, why didn’t you stay at the scene?” Fisher asked.

  “I didn’t want the police to start asking me questions, you know what I’m saying? I’ve got a bit of a reputation,” Smith replied.

  “We know. You’re a drug dealer and user.”

  “I’m not a drug dealer or user,” he said, feeling offended. “I hustle sometimes to earn some extra cash, but I don’t do drugs.”

  “We found a bag of heroin in your apartment.”

  “I found it that morning.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  Smith looked away.

  “Bo,” Fisher said, “you better start being honest with us or else we won’t be able to help you.” She was using a tactic used by every officer during an interview or interrogation: make the interviewee feel like the authorities are on their side and get them to confess.

  “I found it in the car,” Smith said.

  Fisher blinked. “What car?”

  “The car Isaiah Whitcomb was in. Aren’t you listening?”

  “That’s a lie!” Holt yelled.

  Smith almost jumped off the bed. The cuffs held him in place. “I’m not lying. I found the bag in the glove box.”

  “Isaiah did not do drugs!” Holt growled.

  He moved toward Smith.

  Fortunately, an officer at the door heard the commotion. He was bigger than Holt. He came in and helped Fisher restrain her partner. Then they escorted him to the hall.

  Fisher returned to the room and said, “Bo, if you don’t come clean with me, I will make your life a living hell.”

  “Listen lady, I swear to you. I took the bag of heroin from the car. I also took his wallet.”

  “Whose wallet?”

  “Isaiah Whitcomb’s.”

  Fisher paused. They had searched Isaiah at the scene and found his wallet was missing. This had troubled her. Why would Isaiah leave the campus without his wallet? The only reasonable answer was that someone had taken it from him after he died.

  Bo Smith took the wallet.

  “What did you do with it?” Fisher asked.

  “There was some cash in it. I took it and then dumped the wallet.”

  “Where?”

  “In a garbage bin.”

  “Which garbage bin?”

  Smith searched his mind frantically. “In front of a tattoo parlor.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “I don’t know, but it was only a block from where I found Isaiah Whitcomb.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  Fisher found Holt pacing the hallway. The officer who had assisted her in removing Holt from the room was standing not too far from him.

  She walked up to Holt.

  “He’s lying to save his ass,” he said. “He knows who killed Isaiah. Or he did it himself.”

  “If he did, then why did he call it in?” Fisher asked.

  “I don’t know, maybe he regretted it once he realized what he had done.”

  “We listened to the call. Smith knew the victim was Isaiah, a basketball star. He even said so in the recording. And by the sound of it, he came across as a fan of his.”

  Holt only grunted.

  “Whoever shot Isaiah ambushed him,” Fisher continued. “When we were in Smith’s apartment, we searched it and found no weapons.”

  “Maybe he dumped the weapon,” Holt said.

  “And kept the heroin?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

  Holt opened his mouth but then shut it.

  “He is lying, though,” Fisher said.

  “About what?”

  “That he’s no junkie. Even though we found no drugs apart from the heroin, the apartment reeked of cannabis and crack.”

  “That’s why I don’t believe a single word he is saying,” Holt said. “Smith did not find heroin in the Chrysler.”

  Fisher crossed her arms over her chest. “Okay, let’s say you are right about that.”

  “I am,” Holt shot back.

  “If that’s the case, then what was Isaiah doing in a neighborhood like that so early in the morning?”

  Holt blinked. She could tell he was mulling this over.

  Holt cursed and began pacing again.

  She followed him. “Something doesn’t add up, I agree,” she said. “But right now, we don’t know much. So I am more inclined to give Smith the benefit of the doubt.”

  Holt faced her. “I know Isaiah. He grew up right before my eyes. If there was any indication he was into something illegal, I would have sensed it.”

  “Would you have?” Fisher asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You loved Isaiah—everyone who got to know him did—and it’s that love that blinds people from the truth. How many times have you read about someone who by all accounts was a good, decent, hardworking family man who ended up committing horrific crimes?”

  Holt thought for a moment. “What if the drugs belonged to Jay Bledson?” he suggested.

  Fisher had considered this. Isaiah was found dead in the assistant coach’s car, but there were gaping holes in Holt’s theory. “We can ask him, but I don’t think it will lead us anywhere,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “A few reasons. One: Bledson would not be stupid enough to let a student take his car with drugs stashed in it. Two: Isaiah had told Bledson he needed to borrow the car for personal reasons. We saw him on the security footage rushing out of the practice facility, so it is obvious he was going somewhere to meet someone. Three: When we interviewed him, Bledson did not give off any indication that he was concerned the police had found drugs in the Chrysler. It is only now, after we spoke to Smith, that we are aware of the heroin. My guess is that Bledson had no idea and still doesn’t know about the drugs in his vehicle.”

  Holt shook his head and continued pacing. She knew it was his way of working through the information he had just been handed.

  A uniformed officer walked up the hall. He spotted Fisher and approached her. In his hand was a clear plastic bag. Inside was a black leather wallet.

  When Smith had told her where he had dumped the wallet, Fisher had made a call for a patrol officer to go check it out.

  “Where did you find it?” she asked him.

  “Outside a tattoo parlor,” the officer replied. “Fortunately, the garbage truck was not scheduled to pass by until later today.”

  Fisher pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket. She removed the wallet and flipped it open.

  Isaiah’s driver’s license was in the inside flap.

  Fisher turned to Holt. His eyes were narrow and his expression was serious. She could tell what he was thinking.

  Bo Smith is telli
ng the truth.

  FIFTY-THREE

  After leaving Elle’s apartment, Callaway drove back to Milton. During the drive, he could not help but think about all the mistakes he had made in his life. There were too many, and by the end of his journey, he was utterly depressed. He had begun the day feeling sorry for Elle. Now he was feeling sorry for himself.

  Instead of heading home, he took a detour.

  He pulled into a house’s driveway and smiled. The home’s lights were on, which meant the occupants were home.

  He checked himself in the rearview mirror and frowned. He had forgotten about the bandage on his nose. He considered ripping it off, but the thought of pain made him reconsider.

  Guess I need to rely on my charm instead of my good looks, he thought.

  He got out and approached the front door. He practiced his smile. When he was ready, he knocked.

  A moment later, the door swung open. The smile on his face instantly disappeared when he saw who it was not.

  “Can I help you?” the woman said. She was short and plump with rosy cheeks, and she wore thick glasses.

  “Um… where’s Patti?” he asked.

  “And you are…?” the woman replied.

  “I’m Lee.”

  The woman crossed her arms. “Oh, so you’re Lee. Patti told me stories about you.”

  And they are all true, he wanted to say, but did not.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I live down the street.”

  “So what’re you doing in Patti’s house?”

  “I should ask you the same question.”

  Why is this woman giving me a hard time?

  “I’m here to see Nina. Can you go tell her that her father is here?”

  “Sorry, no can do.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have specific instructions from Patti. Nina is supposed to do her homework, watch a little bit of TV, and then go straight to bed.”

  Callaway was beginning to fume. “Maybe you did not hear me. I’m Nina’s father and Patti’s ex-husband. Please go and get my daughter so I can speak to her.”

  “Maybe you did not hear me,” she said, raising her voice and getting closer to him. He took a step back. She looked like she could eat him. “Nina is not supposed to have any visitors.”