Shoeless Child

by J. A. Schneider

  25

  “Under the hydrangeas,” Zienuc said.

  Mullin must have been on his way home, he told Alex as they entered the small park. It fit. Someone at Kettering said the last he’d talked to Mullin was two nights ago and he was headed for a near, well-known bar. “Killer must have stalked him, popped him, and flipped him over the fence.”

  The “fence,” in this case, was the wrought-iron surround of Madison Square Park, a pretty green space in a neighborhood favored by celebrities and hedge funders. Zienuc pointed to a building near but not on the park. “He lived there. Probably bugged him he couldn’t afford closer to his bosses and J.Lo.”

  He led Alex to the body, on its back under browning leaves. “Dead two days,” he said, his gloved hands pushing back branches.

  Al Nunez’s team was cutting away more branches and combing around close, amid groans and exclamations of disgust. Rats had gotten to Mullin. Wealthy neighborhood or not, this was still New York. Rats came from the sewers, especially at night, and by November’s gray chill fewer people came into the park. Somebody’s dog outside on the sidewalk had started barking and refused to stop. His owner, a lady whose elderly poodle was not given to such outbursts, had peered over the rail, through the shrubs, seen two ripped-fabric legs and called the police screaming.

  “Not much left of the face,” Alex grimaced, bending to the long, brown-haired body. Its mouth was open in a shriek of stiff horror, eye sockets empty, one cheek gnawed to the bone. “The face is easiest. No clothes to tear through.”

  But tear through the rats had. Expensive gray slacks had been ripped to ribbons. Ditto a designer suede jacket over a Brooks Brothers blazer. The chest and belly were a mess.

  “Pity about the jacket,” Zienuc said, leaning over Alex. “Hey, did you know there are tranquilizers for dogs?”

  Connor came up, holding a small evidence bag. “I feel sick, just found a gnawed finger.” He handed the bag to Nunez, and to Alex a bigger evidence bag containing the victim’s phone and wallet. “Killer took nothing. Shot from behind, left credit cards and a wad of cash. Why didn’t he take the guy’s money? Just wanted to clear out fast?”

  “Maybe he’s a neighborly rich killer,” Zienuc guessed. “Or a jealousy thing? Feared being seen and wanted to clear out fast?”

  Alex had told them Mullin was gay.

  His gloved hands finished flipping through the wallet. “Twenty-two hundred left from the three thousand he took from his ATM. That was probably a routine withdrawal.” He glanced up and something caught his eye. “What’s this?”

  A bloody scrap of paper was stuck to one of the blazer’s pockets. He reached for it, examined it and frowned. Then he explored the torn pocket, and withdrew more bloody scraps. They’d been wildly chewed.

  “Oh boy,” he said quietly, as if chilled, studying scrawls of red ink under darkened blood.

  The others crouched to him as he laid paper bits on the body’s chest, rearranging them like a puzzle. His hands worked, and then he stared.

  Red ink scrawls merged into the angry house emoji: primitive triangle roof over a square of furious brows and eyes, turned down mouth.

  “This makes two,” he said heavily, getting out his phone, showing them photos of what Kerri had found on Rachel’s wall.

  “Oh Christ, same guy.” Zienuc took Alex’s phone and held it close, grimly examining the emoji at Rachel’s in close-up, then in middle distance showing the cluttered floor and blood stains.

  Connor’s hands went up in frustration. “Dammit I saw it, behind Nunez going over Huff’s body. Just for a second - like, peripherally, I saw it. Didn’t look close, thought Charlie drew it.”

  So they knew. The link between Rachel Sparkes and Scott Mullin was there, on a rat-chewed paper about four inches square meant to taunt them. The killer wanted them to know it was him.

  Nunez was already making guesses about the gun. “Rolled him over and that’s a .38 slug, I’ll bet my new microscope on it. The killer shot him up close – lots of GSR. Think the bullet will match the ones from the two women? I know, dumb question.”

  Alex put the paper bits into an evidence bag and stood, frowning. “So what’s his motive this time? He’s jealous Rachel had a few dates?” He handed the bag to Nunez. “One thing’s clear – he didn’t know Mullin was gay.”

  Connor nodded. “Nobody knew Mullin. At Kettering they said he was like a shadow who’d come out for social occasions, put on the face, but keep to himself. His phone logs so far are business, takeout, dry cleaners, very little that was personal. He must’ve been one of those guys who cruise incognito, don’t even trade phone numbers.”

  “Who at Kettering spoke to him last?” Alex asked. “You mentioned a call.”

  “Some assistant checking closing prices in China or someplace. Hardly a pal, but Mullin went out of his way to say he was headed to Haven’s and that was at nine. It’s a status bar where banker types go, do business, bullshit, get insider information.”

  “My kind of people,” Zienuc muttered.

  Alex took a breath and looked out, past the crime scene tape, police activity and onlookers, through the nearly bare trees to the flaunting facades of some of Manhattan’s most expensive real estate. “The killer knows his way around,” he said thoughtfully. “Blends easily, probably attracted no attention waiting outside that bar. What’s its address?”

  “Haven’s on East 21st,” Zienuc said. “Think he went in?”

  “Doubtful. He wouldn’t want to show up on surveillance.”

  “Great. So if he wore gloves, stalked and scrammed, we’ve got nothing like at Rachel’s. He shot from the sidewalk. There’s going to be no evidence.”

  “Get CCTV from every doorway within six blocks. Also surveillance from Haven’s to check Mullin’s timeline.”

  “I’m losing faith in surveillance,” Zienuc groaned. “These guys know to keep their heads down, probably under a hoody.”

  Alex wasn’t so sure about that. “In this neighborhood a hoody would attract attention. I’m guessing he knew that. Get the surveillance, we may find something.”

  26

  It had started as a circle, irregular, child-like, and then he filled it. Red, only red. The crayon dug fiercely, gouged at the paper. Gouge, gouge… His little hands curled into intense balls. His shoulders hunched in concentration.

  Then he hit the crayon’s wrap-around paper, and suddenly Charlie’s gouging was just scratching, producing frustration.

  He started furiously trying to peel the paper away. No dice. Sometime during the night he had bitten his nails. Done an almost bloody job on one of them.

  “Can I help?” Kerri asked.

  Subtly, she had inched closer, her knees up and her back still to the wall. She reached out, her fingers just above the crayon in case he didn’t want to give it. He froze, but made no move to resist. She took the crayon, leaned her shoulder a bit closer to him, and started to peel it. He was getting down to its stub.

  “Gonna have to get you a new red one,” she said, peeling. “A whole box of ’em, would you like that?”

  Nothing. Maybe the slightest headshake, then he looked up to check where his mom was.

  On the other side of the room with Cassie helping, maybe ten feet from the kids’ therapist who was playing a lively kick ball. Charlie’s eyes next went to Tim the Bear, who had complained that his butt hurt, sitting on the floor, and had moved to sit on a blue plastic cube. He smiled encouragingly.

  All clear, read Charlie’s eyes, so he took the peeled crayon stub from Kerri and resumed pounding the paper.

  “Ah, better,” she said, watching him…only now, suddenly, the pizza was crying. Shedding red tears.

  Or blood.

  He had flipped past the hippo’s page and started a new blank one. What he’d made looked like a red egg, only now Charlie was making its red tears - or blood drops - bigger. Gouge…gouge…he stabbed at the paper.

  “That scares me,” Kerri said gently, pointing to
his drawing. “It looks like…well, it scares me.”

  Cops get scared?

  The fist clutching the crayon stopped. Charlie’s eyes went to Kerri’s Glock fastened to her ankle, and then to the holster on Bear’s hip, his gun’s grip clearly visible. His small features made the slightest frown of surprise, maybe thinking that he’d seen his mommy get scared…other adults, too…but cops with guns? They got scared too?

  For the first time, he really looked at Kerri; peered into her eyes. Then he looked back to Bear. These two cops were just…staying with him, and their friends had saved him last night, upset and yelling into their phones, running, carrying him to where he could point to where Mommy needed help…

  His breathing quickened visibly. His lower lip went out, his mouth turned down, and suddenly, as if some hot, wet balloon in him were bursting, his locked vocal cords opened and he began to cry.

  “Aww…” Kerri hugged him, her heart breaking. She pulled him tight to her and he kept crying, pushing his face to her. Bear came and knelt close. “It’s gonna be okay buddy, it’s gonna be okay.”

  Peripherally, Kerri saw Jake Benton watching from across the room. He’d come at some point, in his white coat over scrubs, and was staring in astonishment.

  “Did you catch…who did?” Charlie sobbed.

  Five whole words. The little voice thin and croaky from disuse.

  Bear’s brown eyes saddened. The child was looking straight into them, his wide, frantic eyes begging to know. Bear blinked helplessly to Kerri.

  Tenderly, she used her sleeve to wipe Charlie’s eyes, and said, “Not yet, sweetie. But we will.” Her own emotion bubbled up. “We are so going to catch him and…and…”

  “Fry his ass,” Bear whispered, dropping his chin, but Charlie seemed to have heard. His eyelids snapped down, his crying slowed, and in the seconds spanning his outburst Rachel was there, painfully reaching to him with Cassie hanging on to her. “Aw honey,” she murmured. “Aw honey.”

  He let Rachel urge him to his feet, and on her side where Cassie wasn’t, he started to walk with her, to move at last, even stop to half-heartedly punch a clown bop bag that bounced back up.

  He’d left his coloring book, his crayons. He seemed drained, in a trance.

  Kerri got up too, holding his things, aching from the cramped position she’d kept herself in.

  “You got through to him a little,” Bear said heavily. “Wouldn’t it be nice if he told you what he saw?”

  Jake Benton heard as he came up. He had held back with his hands in his pockets, as if not wanting to interfere in the delicate moment. He seemed also to be studying Charlie’s responses, taking sensitive, invisible notes.

  “What he saw is still locked in, too frightening to relive,” he said to both of them, then gave Kerri a smile. “But well done. You’re the first one he’s connected with.”

  Benton looked back to Charlie. “Now I get to give it a go. Think he’ll talk to me?”

  Kerri was about to answer when her phone chirped. “Oh.” She checked her screen. “Alex.”

  Benton nodded and said, “Wish me luck.”

  “Luck, luck,” she whispered.

  He grabbed a smiling dinosaur bop bag and a fierce-looking wrestler bop bag. With one in each hand, he headed for Charlie.

  27

  “Two days under bushes,” Alex said.

  He told Kerri about the emoji, identical to the one she’d found on Rachel’s wall, and her gorge rose.

  “Same guy,” she breathed. A tremor of shock ran through her. Dread, too. They had a double killer.

  “He used the same M.O. – shoot and run, must’ve worn gloves, left no evidence except a partial shoe print. Same size ten, common shoe. It’s definitely him. Wait, I’m sending you the picture.”

  Her heart froze as her phone showed the red-scrawled, angry house emoji: bloodied, rat-chewed paper bits pieced back together. In a swoon of horror, her mind replayed the same nasty scrawl on Rachel’s wall.

  “Looks like a jealousy thing,” Alex was saying. “Someone obsessing over Rachel. Maybe Burke, maybe someone she’s been trying to date casually. Ask her about every male friend.”

  “Long list. She’s in classes, works a job, sees shrink patients, walks the streets so it could be a stalker. James Burke – we know she rejected his advances.”

  “Right, top of the list. I’m headed back to the station to process this. Ask Rachel if she’s noticed anyone following, strangers being too friendly.” A hesitation. “Sorry. I know you know.”

  “Problem is, most women don’t realize they’re being stalked.”

  “Try. Buck and Jo have found a couple of frequent-caller guys in her phone logs. I’ll give you the names. Just get Rachel talking.”

  They disconnected and Kerri peered around, trying to catch her breath. She kept seeing the hateful house emoji. She shut her eyes, and it floated behind her lids. Now a second person was dead…

  Her eyes opened and she saw Bear feet away on his phone. Four o’clock already? He was telling his replacement where to find them. Across the room, Cassie was helping Rachel down exercise stairs, and yards away Jake Benton was bending to Charlie, trying to talk to him about the wrestler bop bag. “Wrestler’s face looks mean. Do you really want to play with it?”

  No answer, but the child’s face was intense. The dinosaur and clown bop bags were forgotten as he swatted Wrestler, harder than he had the first time; watched the inflatable fall and then pop up again.

  A young uniformed officer appeared, looking around. Kerri recognized him: Billy DeWitt. He spoke with Bear, and Kerri went to pat Bear’s arm, thanking him. He left, waving to Charlie. “See you tomorrow, buddy. Draw me a cheeseburger?”

  Just get Rachel talking.

  Kerri stormed at herself, How? Charlie would be glued to her…

  Feeling a knot in her chest, she crossed the room.

  Rachel had sunk back into her wheelchair, hand to her mouth looking anxious. She was watching Charlie take on the wrestler, punching away. The toy’s face was maybe too scary for a traumatized child. A black mask dipped down over the nose, angled up to eagle wings on the side. The mouth was wide-clenched; the eyes glaring from the mask’s eye holes black-lined and fearsome. The forty-inch-tall figure had bulging muscles, arms extended, clenched fists.

  “Shouldn’t that be scary to him?” Rachel asked Benton.

  “Apparently not,” he said low. “This is good. Nonverbal but look at the energy. He’s hitting the bad guy.”

  Mewling with rage, Charlie punched with the same ferocity he’d shown gouging his coloring book. The inflated figure went down. He flopped onto it, punched its face, got off, punched and forced it back down again. His intensity looked like he was exhausting himself.

  Kerri bent to Rachel. “I have to speak to you. Upstairs.”

  Fretful: “But Charlie’s still…”

  “He’s starting to work it out. He has his doctor and this fine officer with him.” She introduced Billy DeWitt, who grinned and said he wanted to join Charlie in his punch fest.

  “Great therapy,” Billy said. “I think everybody should have one.”

  Rachel was too anxious to smile; couldn’t leave her troubled child and leaned forward. “Charlie? We have to go now.”

  No answer. The pint-size fury continued - pow…pow! Another boy with a knee brace came over, wanting to play. Charlie picked up Wrestler and carried him away; away from his mother, too.

  “He’s always shared!” Rachel cried, looking after him.

  “He will again,” Jake Benton reassured her.

  “Charlie? I’m leaving.” One-armed, Rachel strained and pushed her chair’s wheels with Kerri and Cassie coming after her.

  “Now your anxiety is showing,” Kerri cautioned. “Tell him he can stay alone with Billy and Doctor Benton. A short separation might be good. Self-affirming.”

  Rachel gave in. Looking pained, she told Charlie, “Okay, a few minutes. You can come back up whenever you want.
Press the elevator buttons.”

  Charlie stopped, turned and took little-boy stock of the situation: the kind-faced, hovering doctor, the young, uniformed cop, gun at his hip, asking if he could play too.

  “We’ll bring him to you,” Benton said quietly. His eyes went to Charlie. “Sound good? You like that?”

  Convey a sense of control.

  Charlie looked torn for seconds. Then his lips pressed, and he wheeled back to Wrestler. Flung his body hard, mewled furiously and knocked the inflatable down again.

  Kerri put Charlie’s crayons and coloring book in Rachel’s lap, and pushed her out in her wheelchair. Cassie carried some hand weights Rachel could use, one-armed, in her room.

  “That’s it, give it to him good!” they heard Billy cheer behind them. “Slam the bad guy.”

  28

  Bouquets in the room. The side table held two vases, one of big roses, the other sweetheart roses, and the window sill held three vases of daisies, irises, and more roses. Five in all: one from Terry Mercer, the other four from men.

  All with cards, good.

  Cassie was gone. Rachel’s anxiety over Charlie was temporarily assuaged. Hurry.

  “How sweet,” Rachel kept saying, examining one card after another like a tiny deck. Kerri put Charlie’s coloring book and crayons on the side table, poured fresh water into Rachel’s glass, and asked her for the cards. She leaned closer, elbows on the bed, and splayed them out like a fan.

  “Any men here who might have felt jealousy?” She felt a knot in her chest. Charlie could be back any minute.

  “I can’t imagine…”

  But Rachel took one card back, for the big roses, and studied it. “Jed Stefan here is just a friend.” She spelled the name. “We’ve studied together in NYU’s library, gone to cafes and a couple of movies. The friendship has been growing.”

  “Friendship…” Kerri murmured, texting the name Jed Stefan to Alex, who texted back: Got it. He’s in R’s phone logs.