Sins of the Past

by Dee Henderson

  Sharon pointed to the package of Oreos to be sent her way. “That’s a good point,” she admitted around an Oreo. “So . . . back to the car. Who drove it here Monday night? Martha? Or someone trying to redirect our search?” She tapped the edge of a second cookie against the table. “I want a photo of her car going or coming. Even better, I want a photo of Martha’s car with someone else driving it. Tomorrow we should widen the scope of the traffic cam search to include any ATM and business within fifteen blocks of the Village. There’s video out there with Martha’s car. Let’s find it.”

  “I’ve got a thought,” Officer Bernardo offered.

  Sharon slid him the package of cookies. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Start with the premise Martha ran into trouble here at the Village Monday night. She stepped out of the apartment with her keys in her hand, took her coat, so she was going to the parking lot or across to another building. Trouble happens. It likely involved another resident, given no one is reporting a stranger hanging around. We can’t find Mrs. Graham on the property. So she was taken off the property, most likely by car. We need to look at people who returned to the Village after 10:00 p.m. Monday evening, residents the security guard checked in through the closed gate. They would be back into their normal routine as soon as they could do so. But could they have left the property with Martha and returned before the security gate closes at 10:00 p.m.?”

  “That’s an interesting idea,” Bryon said. “We need the security gate logs.”

  “I’ll get them,” Bernardo said, pushing back from the table.

  “Extend it,” Sharon instructed. “Who was away from the property Monday night—residents or staff? Someone whose absence was out of the ordinary? This has never felt like something planned, but rather a random event. Someone has a block of missing time in their routine.”

  “We can re-interview with that question,” Bryon suggested. “‘Did you see your neighbor go out?’ Maybe get some back-and-forth gossiping going on.”

  “I’m for whatever works,” Sharon said.

  John’s phone rang. He tugged it out of his pocket and saw a number he didn’t recognize with a prefix for this area. His gaze shot to Sharon’s. Those around him stopped talking and the rest of the room began to quiet. Sharon picked up a phone, asked a question, and she nodded to him that the trace-and-record was active. He answered the call. “This is John Graham.”

  “Come get me, John.”

  “Mom! Where are you?” Several notepads and pens slid across the table as he frantically looked for something to write with.

  A long pause. “The main library, by the museum gift shop entrance.”

  John relayed it to the room. Before he had finished the words, a street map of the area was up on the wide-screen monitor and zooming in on the location. Martinez put a finger on the screen—lots of one-way traffic, direct flow out to major avenues heading away from downtown. “Stay on the line, Mom. Stay with me. I’m coming.”

  “It’s a public pay phone, limited time.” Another pause. “I’ll be here at the bench out of the wind.” She sounded . . . He closed his eyes.

  “I’m on my way,” he repeated, moving toward the door, wishing he could reach through the phone connection and wrap that reassurance around her.

  “Bryon, we’ll go in on Cypress, you in the lead car,” Sharon directed, swiftly putting it together. “No lights, no sirens. Carter—close off State, Cook, and Beach two blocks out, drop a net at six blocks. I want license plates for everything that moves. Martinez, position EMS at Elm and Oak, contact Riverside Hospital, secure our arrival. Nelson, block in what press vehicles are here, buy us a few minutes before they catch on.” She and John were out the door as she gave the last order.

  Someone tossed his own coat around his shoulders as John headed out through the lobby.

  “Still have her, John?” Sharon asked, holding the door for him.

  He shook his head. He could hear only traffic noise, not his mom. The pay phone wasn’t back on the hook, but she was no longer holding it.

  “It’s three minutes from here.”

  He knew without having to ask that they’d try to make it two.

  The illuminated sign on the corner turned a slow circle, announcing Riverside Public Library and Museum. Trees and huge, empty flowerpots made ghostly shadows along the brick-paved sidewalk. The upper floors of the library were dark, while security lights from the main floor spilled out through oversized windows. John could see an entrance hall, interior glass doors, caught a brief glimpse of a bench inside and someone sitting on it.

  “John, you have to let me do my job,” Sharon said, her tone firm. “You have to stay back. I will pass her to you just as soon as I can.”

  “Go, Sharon. I get it.”

  Jefferies swung the squad car to a stop in front of the building behind Bryon. She was out of the car, following Bryon, who had a few steps’ lead on her, his attention directed everywhere but toward the entrance glass doors and bench inside.

  The UNSUB might well still be in the area, John knew. He should have thought to grab the vest. If this was a setup designed to catch him in the open, a rifle shot could come out of the darkness without warning. He searched for any sign of movement in the block around them.

  Sharon disappeared through the doors as Bryon stepped into shadows at the side of the door, still scanning the area for any movement.

  Sharon recognized her on sight. “Mrs. Graham. Martha. I’m Lieutenant Sharon Noble.” The woman looked like a faded version of her picture. Elderly now, not simply older. Sharon felt relief and sympathy meld together. “It’s very good to see you,” she said gently, slowing her steps.

  Their surroundings were more secure than she had expected. This hall between the entrances to the library and museum was fifteen feet of polished tile and anti-skid carpet runners designed to catch melting snow from footwear. The bench was metal without a cushion. They were alone at the moment where often the homeless would seek shelter from the weather. In fact, the library board had voted to leave the outer doors unlocked during November through March for that very reason.

  Martha was wearing her winter coat, buttoned, her scarf in place. Sharon discovered Martha’s hands were icy cold, even under the gloves she carefully removed. She found a steady pulse. “Can you tell me where you’ve been? Who did this to you, Martha?”

  The briefest shake of her head, the woman was starting to cry now, silently.

  The coat’s sleeves covered her arms, the rest of it most of her legs. Sharon eased open a couple of buttons. Martha was wearing the red dress from Monday afternoon. It looked neat, as though pressed. No signs of blood. No bruises on her face, her hands, nothing immediately obvious on her lower legs. Sharon gently ran a hand along her ribs, watching for any sign of pain, but there was no wince on Martha’s face. The shoes were not scuffed. Her hair was neat, almost artfully so. If there had been makeup, Sharon would have instinctively stiffened even more than she had to what she was finding. This wasn’t fitting together. Shock had a grip on Martha, the cold was obvious, and the aging this woman had undergone in two days was striking. Sharon wished for a clean ending that might spare John a nightmare, but she wasn’t going to be able to give him that. Not given the car, the purse, and what she was now observing.

  “I’d like to see my son,” Martha said quietly.

  “John’s going to join us now, and we’ll get you to the hospital,” Sharon replied with a reassuring smile. “When we’re done there, tonight or in a few days, we will get you to where you’ll feel safe so you can rest, not have to worry about friends dropping by until you’re ready for that.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sharon tightened her hand over the woman’s and reached for her radio.

  John heard the calm in Sharon’s voice. “John. Then EMS. Try to stay in the shadows as you move.”

  He nodded to Jefferies that he’d heard the direction and headed to the library entrance at a fast jog. Bryon had the door open fo
r him before he reached it.

  Sharon. The bench. Martha.

  “Mom.”

  His world righted itself when her eyes met his. He took the bench beside her, wrapped his arms around her, tucked her head in against his shoulder, and rocked with her.

  “I’m okay, John.” He heard the faint words, the strength coming back into her voice as she repeated, “I’m okay.”

  Sharon stepped away, and John let the emotions and adrenaline find release in tears. He heard a small sob against his chest, and his mom’s hand found his and held on. “Cry it out, Mom. You’ve got a big shoulder to weep on now.” His mind overflowed with questions, but he knew she didn’t need them at this moment.

  He looked over her head to Sharon. Who? he mouthed silently.

  Sharon shook her head.

  The paramedics—both of them women—were careful with Martha, no hurried movements as they worked: easing the coat off, moving her onto the gurney, covering her with her own coat, layering on blankets. They were working through a list, checking her breathing and her pupils and her pulse, looking for broken bones and pain, making light conversation to keep her engaged.

  John sat on the bench beside the gurney, his hand holding his mother’s. He was aware of the police officers coming and going, reporting in to Bryon or Sharon, sharing information regarding security video, cars in the area, reports from patrols.

  When the paramedics said they were ready to go, John stood as the gurney was raised, walked to the ambulance, his mom’s hand safely tucked in his. More officers had pulled into the street to block further traffic.

  “Go with her to the hospital,” Sharon said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  He nodded and climbed into the ambulance beside his mother. This case wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but he had his mother back. He brushed her hair away from her face with gentle fingers, wondering how many of the lines in her face had been hiding there for years or were new in the last few months—even in the last two days. His mother had grown old on him while he was in Cheyenne. Her smile wasn’t there tonight to hide the changes that time had wrought. He lifted her cold hand and kissed the back of it, saw a small smile cross her face. Okay. That fleeting small smile was good. His mother was still in there, under the explosion of all that had happened.

  He couldn’t get warmth into her hand, even when he held it with both of his. The thin skin and fragile bones couldn’t seem to draw from his heat and strength. His world had changed in ways he didn’t know how to clarify, but the core of it was solid again. Thank you, God. The heartfelt prayer relaxed the tension inside him coiled tight since that first call to Cheyenne.

  Hospitals sounded like life and death, the equipment beeping, the instructions between doctors and nurses, stifled tears and serious conversation of family members, the groans and whispers of patients. John hated the sounds of a hospital.

  “How is she?”

  John turned his head. The wall he was leaning against was holding up his body so he didn’t try to get a true look at Sharon, instead just put a moving person into his periphery and realized it was her. “The doctor is in with her. My adrenaline began to crash a few minutes ago,” he mentioned, knowing she would understand what every cop encountered. He’d hit a wall where his body was done taking on more stress.

  “You need this more than I do.” Sharon handed him a coffee, the kind that costs real money and came in layers of foam and flavors.

  He hesitated, but reality was he did need it more than she did—she was still moving. He tasted nutmeg and cinnamon and drank because it was hot, felt the caffeine hit and the warmth spread through his body. “Mom’s doctor, a woman, has a nice bedside manner and she’s taking things slow. She kicked me out so she and the nurse could get Mom comfortable. I’m guessing you know the doctor.”

  Sharon nodded.

  John had seen Sharon’s handiwork in what had been arranged before they arrived. They hadn’t remained in the emergency room, had instead been whisked through the hospital and up an elevator to this private room on the third floor. “Mom isn’t ever this quiet. Besides a whisper that she was glad I was here and that she was cold, she hasn’t said anything. What’s the scene look like?”

  “It’s going to take some time. It’s a public place, so I’m hopeful,” Sharon replied. “Cameras at the library show your mother approaching the pay phone, making one call, moving to sit on the bench. She’s alone. She’s doesn’t appear to be looking over her shoulder, checking someone watching her. She looks to have walked straight from the street, as though dropped off there. We’re pulling cam footage in a five-block radius. Her call gives us the two minutes when the car we’re looking for was on that street.”

  “Good.” He leaned his head against the wall again. “She hasn’t said man or woman—one, two . . . or more. She hasn’t given me anything.”

  “She knows you’ll go hurt whoever did this to her.”

  He half smiled. “Under the fatigue, that sentiment is running strong.”

  Sharon’s hand gripped his, reassuring. “She’ll talk when she’s ready.”

  “Yeah. I called Annabelle and Heather. They’re spreading the word she’s been located and is now at the hospital. Apparently there’s a phone tree for those who wanted to be awakened with news. Fortunately it’s good news.”

  “I understand,” Sharon replied. “Life matters to the elderly perhaps the most of all.”

  The doctor stepped out of his mother’s room. John tried to read her face as she came to join them. She nodded a greeting to Sharon.

  “Mr. Graham, I’m pleasantly surprised. Your mother is in overall stable health. I’m going to give you the details now, but don’t worry if you don’t take it all in tonight—we’ll be talking several times in the next few days. There are no major signs of physical or sexual trauma. Some light bruising on her arms, strained muscles in her shoulders, some mild trouble breathing. She’s dehydrated, exhausted, a little disoriented—not unlike a surgical patient in the recovery room four hours after anesthesia. She’s not fully reacting to sounds and lights. Acute stress would be my core diagnosis. Those symptoms are going to clear.

  “Her blood pressure is high, her pulse elevated. Both are going to settle as her world gets quiet and safe again. She’s a little hungry and that’s a very good sign. I’m having a meal sent up—soup, some thin-sliced turkey and fresh rolls, cottage cheese. You should sit with her while she eats, talk to her about her friends, about Christmas. She needs to see you relaxing. She’ll begin to mirror you and do the same.”

  “I can do that,” John agreed.

  “It would be good if you could stay with her tonight when she drifts in and out of sleep,” the doctor continued. “You can expect she’ll be doing some serious dreaming the next few nights, and if her anxiety gets high I’ll give her something. But I’d rather not introduce more meds unless necessary. I’ve drawn blood for a full work-up, and I want to do another complete exam tomorrow when she’s more responsive. But all in all, I think you’ve both been spared what this could have been.”

  “I’ll be with her tonight,” John assured the doctor. “She’s not had trouble breathing in the past—no history of asthma or respiratory problems, never a smoker.”

  “What I’m seeing reminds me of stress-induced asthma. We most often see it in young adults. I’m not overly concerned. I expect it to resolve itself overnight. Any other questions I can answer for you?”

  “She’s been inside,” Sharon confirmed.

  The doctor nodded. “I’m certain of that. Exposure to cold for an extended period of time for a woman her age would show up quickly: hypothermia, circulation problems in her hands, her feet, mild frostbite. Even as little as half an hour, I would have seen signs of it. She’s feeling cold right now, but her core body temperature hasn’t dropped.”

  “Has she said anything at all regarding the last two days?” John asked.

  “No, she’s not even answering innocuous questions like ‘Have you eaten
today?’ I would have thought she’s afraid to talk about what happened, but normally a victim who is actively scared has an anxiousness that’s quite palpable. Your mom isn’t giving me that impression. She’s made a decision not to say anything. That may be a first reaction to being found. She feels a need to turn away from what happened, push it aside for a few hours or a day in order to get her bearings. If so, it’s a normal defense mechanism and nothing to worry about. If she continues to deflect even the easiest of questions a few days from now, I’ll likely give you a different answer.”

  “Will she be staying in the hospital a few days?” John asked.

  “If she improves significantly overnight, as I expect, she can be treated as an outpatient for any lingering concerns. But given the circumstances, it’s appropriate for her to spend the next week here if she feels comfortable with the care. I’m going to leave that decision up to you, John, after your conversations with her. Some patients need familiar surroundings before they can accept a situation is over. Others want an environment that feels more secure than home if that’s where the problem began. I’d like her to be comfortable with talking to doctors about what happened. But inpatient or outpatient, we can work with what you both prefer.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  She nodded and walked over to speak with the nurses by his mother’s doorway.

  John turned to Sharon. “I’ll sit with Mom through her meal and until she’s asleep, then maybe touch base with you. I know it’s getting late and you’ve got to get some sleep too. I can call you at home if that’s okay.”

  “Let’s play it by ear for another few hours. She may suddenly tell you a great deal while you’re holding her hand and she’s heading toward sleep. Martha strikes me as a strong woman, well able to deal with whatever has happened. She just needs to decide what she wants to say. Right now is probably the first moments she’s been alone to gather her own thoughts since this began.”