Shoeless Child

by J. A. Schneider

  “Enough,” Mackey snapped, waving his warrant. “Gilbey’s the guy. Bring him in.”

  Alex was shaking his head. “Too much circumstantial. You’ve rushed arrests before.” Then he sent Kerri a look: Can’t be sure. This could be it.

  Color rose from Mackey’s too-tight collar to his face. He pointed to the monitor and said, slowly, “This is the killer and he’s going to do it again. Get him off the street.”

  Alex gave a great, skeptical shrug and grabbed his jacket. “Send uniform backup,” he told Mackey. “CSU too. If you’re going to do this have everyone there.”

  The lieutenant nodded and got out his phone.

  Frowning, Kerri grabbed her jacket and followed Alex.

  40

  Charlie was gone.

  Rachel’s eyes fluttered open, and it took a second to register. His cot was empty. Its length was a terrifying, empty stretch with its mattress half yanked off, drooping down. What? Panic knifed as she bolted up on her elbow, pulling at her other arm’s sling.

  “Charlie!” she cried feebly.

  A student nurse came rushing in as Rachel pointed. The girl peered across the bed to the empty cot. “Oh no.” Into the bathroom she went; came out with the news that Charlie wasn’t there, either.

  “But where?” the girl said. “There’s been a policeman here all night. If Charlie left he would have been seen.”

  “Look at that mattress.” Rachel gasped. “Could someone have taken him?”

  She was crying in pain, too. She’d dislodged her arm from her sling and her shoulder was exploding. The nurse started to help her, fumbling, as a tall figure in scrubs came in.

  “Hey…” Jake Benton said.

  Rachel had fallen back against her pillows, crying with her right hand clutching her bandaged shoulder.

  “I’ll take this,” Benton told the nurse, who looked forlorn, then left.

  “Somebody took him,” Rachel wept, her chest heaving.

  Benton held her by her good shoulder against the pillows, and squinted across the bed. “Ah, maybe not,” he said soothingly. “Is the pain easing?”

  “Y-yes…”

  “Good, stay like this for a sec.”

  He walked around the bed. Morning light from the window shone on the cot as he crouched, raised the drooping mattress, and peeked under. “Well look who I found,” he said softly. Then glanced up and smiled. “Charlie made himself a cave.”

  He raised the mattress so Rachel could see. “Must’ve been too heavy,” he said. “Got it halfway off.”

  Despite pain she raised up on her good elbow. Her frightened eyes blinked at her son, her little boy, curled under his blanket on the floor with his face in his pillow.

  “Slept through the excitement.” Jake got to his feet. “Must’ve had a busy night.”

  Rachel fell back again on her pillows, her face a picture of conflicting emotions. A mother’s relief, coupled with pain and the shock of realizing she had finally, completely lost it. In embarrassment she raised her free hand to her face. “I should have guessed,” she wept softly. “I’m ready to be committed.”

  “No, you’re strong. Charlie was hidden.”

  “That floor looks so hard.”

  “He’s okay. Let him sleep.”

  Jake rounded the bed again. Rachel lay, her eyes closed with tears streaming. He reached for tissues, and gently wiped her cheeks, her eyes. “Please take heart, this would be a hysterical time for anyone.” A pause. “How’s the pain now?”

  “Easing. No meds.”

  “Okay, let’s fix this.”

  His hands were warm as he untied the straps at her shoulder. She’d pulled her arm out of the canvas sling, which lay empty over her left breast. “I’m going to re-position your arm,” he said, giving her a moment to anticipate.

  She tensed, but kept her eyes open. Saw him open the sling like a two-sided triangle, then move both hands, gently, to her forearm. “As little motion as possible,” he breathed, lifting it – she winced-

  “Okay?”

  “Yes.” Her body tightened further, but she looked over to the window; strained for any sound of Charlie. It helped take her mind off what Benton was doing.

  He got her arm back on the open flap, then re-closed it. Then leaned, his face closer to hers, re-tying the tie near her neck.

  “All done,” he said…and she moved her eyes to him. He’d pulled back, but only a little. She’d felt his warm breath on her face.

  “Did that hurt?” He patted her forearm, watching her body relax.

  “A little. Don’t think I’ll be doing that again.”

  He laughed.

  The sound of his laughter made her look into his eyes. They were amber, and so warm. His mouth had a half smile to its corners, as if always ready for a joke. He started fiddling with the tie at her neck again.

  “I’m sorry Charlie will be missing his session with you.”

  “He overslept.” Jake Benton cracked a real grin. “I’ll re-schedule. I’ve got a scale model of Fort Ticonderoga waiting for him in the office, complete with miniature soldiers with muskets, canon, horses struggling, pulling the canon but it’s to protect the good guys from getting attacked by bad guys-”

  “Mommy?”

  It was the softest, wee whisper, but they both stopped breathing. Rachel’s eyes darted to the cot and Benton went back around to it. He crouched and lifted the drooped mattress again.

  “Hey.”

  Charlie looked sleepy. Through solemn little slits he peered at Benton, then squirmed uncomfortably as if realizing the floor was hard.

  “Hi Charlie.” Rachel got herself back up on her elbow. “I’m glad you had a nice sleep.”

  From under Benton’s arm holding the mattress, the child peered anxiously up at her.

  “And I like the fort you made,” Benton said. “Shall we call it Fort Charlie?”

  “Yeah.” The child squirmed again, hid his face in his cream-colored blanket.

  “Only problem is, your fort doesn’t look really comfortable. Do you think it needs maybe a mattress?”

  A child’s sigh. “Yeah.”

  “Would you like me to get it down for you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Benton said something into his phone, and a voice answered, “Right away!”

  Then he got to his feet, pulled the cot’s bulky mattress off and, crouching again, lay it alongside Charlie. “Roll on, buddy. I’ll slide you back and you’ll have a really comfy fort.”

  He helped the boy, half tangled in his blanket, onto the mattress. Benton patted his cheek and smiled at him; then pushed the mattress, child and all, back under the cot.

  Just as an orderly ran in with another cream-colored blanket.

  “Oh, this is fun,” Benton said, thanking the man. “Hey Charlie, two blankets. This one for…here we go.”

  On his feet, Benton arranged the new blanket over the top of the cot to droop down the sides, like an oblong tent. The side facing the bed was a longer drape but that was okay: the cot backed to the wall.

  “And lookee here.” On a chair Benton spotted crayons, Charlie’s coloring book, and the masked Wrestler drawing with the black-scratched face. He crouched again, studied the drawing for long moments, then showed Charlie all three. “New crayons. Cool, huh? Here, I’ll open the box for you.”

  “Kerri left them for you last night.” Rachel’s eyes glistened and her voice nearly cracked with emotion. “Do you remember Detective Kerri?”

  “Yeah. Peanut butter.”

  Three words!

  Benton arranged Charlie’s coloring things on the floor near his pillow. “Here’s everything near you.” He reached under, tucking Charlie’s blanket around him. “I like that drawing of the guy in the mask. Going to draw him more?”

  No answer. Charlie’s face was in his pillow.

  Exhaling, Jake Benton got back to his feet. He stood for long seconds, staring down at the cream-colored tent with the traumatized child in it.

&nb
sp; Behind him, Rachel’s voice.

  “I think you outdid Ticonderoga.”

  He turned to her, walked around the bed again, and bent to her.

  “Let’s hope,” he said softly. “What’s important is you. If he sees you feeling better, it will help.”

  “He still isn’t speaking,” she whispered plaintively.

  “Let him draw. It’s his way of speaking.” Jake glanced back to the cot for a second. “That masked guy drawing…”

  “He wants to go back to it. Ran out of crayons and cried. That’s why Kerri got him new ones.”

  “She’s really something.”

  “She brought me my phone, too.”

  Benton nodded and exhaled. Their eyes held each other.

  “I’ll be back later,” he said. “Hold the fort, okay?”

  She almost smiled. Benton patted her arm again and left.

  41

  Kerri fought with herself all the way down to Greenwich Street. She kept hearing Mackey describe Gilbey watching Rachel like she was cake, and she’d started to doubt herself. It was a bad feeling…but this still didn’t feel right.

  Alex pulled up across from Gilbey’s building, an almost identical slab next to Rachel’s. Two squad cars had already arrived and were parked halfway down the block. Ditto, Al Nunez and his CSU team in their van. Everyone was patched in to each other.

  “Wait,” Alex told them as they crossed the street.

  A grungy millennial was just coming out; he didn’t hold the door but Alex caught it before it closed and led the way in. “Security’s like Rachel’s building,” he muttered.

  “Downtown politesse,” Kerri muttered. “Complete strangers grab the door.”

  Gilbey’s apartment, like Gina and Frank Wheat’s, was in the rear of the drab foyer behind the stairwell. They rang. Seconds passed, with Kerri’s heart starting to thud. This could be it. She really could be wrong, and she’d never hear the end of it from Mackey.

  Sounds of a television came from inside. Correction, maybe a DVD. Some woman screaming over male groans and grunts.

  Alex rang and banged again. “Mitch Gilbey? Open up, I’ve got a message from your landlord.”

  Finally, a scrape, the sound of movement and the door opened. Gilbey looked startled. He was also flushed and still zipping his jeans. “More?” He attempted a nervous, toothy smile. “I told you all I knew,” he said, turning away fast to flick off his blaring TV. He’d been enjoying porno.

  This had been too easy. Gilbey had been relaxed, enjoying his hobby, and opened the door to them still practically pulling up his pants. Kerri scowled at Alex.

  “Watch that stuff a lot?” He moved in, indicating Gilbey’s stack of nasty DVDs.

  The small dark eyes hardened. “Just taking a break. Izair some kinda law against that?”

  “Nah, it’s classy.”

  “Hey, gimme a break. I’m a hard working guy.”

  Beside a sagging armchair, a tool chest sat on the floor, beer and empty burger wrappers littered an end table. Alex had told Kerri he was going to move fast.

  He showed the warrant. “Mitch Gilbey, you are under arrest for the murder of Lauren Huff and the attempted murder of Rachel Sparkes.” He started reciting the Miranda warning.

  Gilbey looked stunned. He swallowed, and Kerri could see the knot slide down his gangly throat. “That’s crazy.” He looked at Kerri, his dark pupils constricting rodent-like in their flat hostility.

  Then his body jerked and he swung at Alex, who sidestepped fast enough to grab his arm and twist him around hard, pin his arm halfway up his back. He howled in pain, fought more.

  Kerri cut his feet out from under him. He fell across the end table to the floor, beer and burger wrappers flying, TV gizmos skittering. Alex cuffed his hands behind him and hauled him to his feet.

  “This is bullshit! I want a lawyer,” Gilbey yelled, gaping from them to the uniforms and CSU people moving in.

  “Lawyering up already?” someone said. “Way to sound guilty.”

  Also dumb, Kerri thought.

  They pushed him out to the sidewalk. He kept struggling, hollering to startled passersby that he didn’t kill anybody, the cops didn’t know what they were doing. Alex saw no reason to be gentle.

  “Don’t you know it’s the stupidest thing to assault a cop?” Kerri asked as they shoved him into the car.

  “Shut up, bitch,” he screamed at her, his rat eyes burning with hatred.

  42

  “Arrest!” blared the media, because Twitter was faster than the speed of tom-toms, and way faster than getting a public defender to show up. So Gilbey sat and sulked in a holding cell as prattle, inside the station at least, died down to a wait. Gilbey had announced his arrest to the world. A tired voice finally called back from the Public Defender’s Office to say a lawyer would come over “between two and three.”

  It was almost one. Kerri and Alex looked down at the sidewalk jammed with shoving reporters, then pulled away.

  “Wrong guy,” Kerri insisted. “Would a killer have opened the door just like that? With his porno still blaring and his pants half up?”

  “Unlikely, but he’s nuts.”

  “Also stupid!” she hissed, keeping her voice low. “The killer thinks ahead. Brought his emoji all drawn and folded before he killed Mullin.”

  They had dissuaded Mackey from holding a news conference; for now, just issue a statement that they had a suspect in custody. So Mackey was sulking too. He’d gone from a few moments of beaming to bitching, back in his glass-walled office, hunched and arguing on his phone.

  “Still loves his probable cause,” Kerri muttered.

  Plenty of times they’d gotten in trouble with good ol’ Probable Cause, which just meant fifty-one percent probability. They had a ton of circumstantial, but if this hadn’t been so high profile would Mackey have rushed in like this? The case still had to be built. They had to interrogate Gilbey and couldn’t, because his public defender wasn’t here yet.

  Now what?

  “This is gonna backfire,” Kerri said.

  “Maybe not.” Alex had started to waver. On the way back he’d thought more about Gilbey’s five appearances on surveillance tapes. “Five,” he’d said. “All of them damned suggestive.”

  “But no physical evidence, no eye witnesses, nothing,” Kerri had countered.

  They were standing at the long table lined with sandwiches and half-empty pizza boxes. For big cases, they seldom got the chance to eat out.

  Kerri took another bite of her BLT and chewed, tasting nothing. She put it down and turned away. “I hate that we can’t question Gilbey.”

  Alex studied her profile. The ponytail was askew and her features were pursed as if she was hatching something. His eyes narrowed as she suddenly straightened and hurried back to her desk. Yeah, she was hatching something. He followed her; watched her grab a blank pad of paper and a pencil.

  “Wanna see something interesting?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

  “What are you up to?”

  “Trust me, trust me.”

  The holding cells were on the fifth floor. From his bench, Mitch Gilbey glared up as they approached.

  “They treating you well?” Kerri tried to sound pleasant. Her mind still saw him flushed and zipping his pants, rushing to turn off his lunch-time fun. He was a creep for sure, but did that make him the killer?

  “I don’t belong here,” Gilbey growled. His eyes flicked to Alex, hovering, but narrowed fast back to Kerri.

  “You may be right,” she said. “And cooperating with us might work in your favor.”

  “I’m waiting for my lawyer!” He’d been in trouble before, and knew his rights.

  “Agreed, but this is nothing.” She pushed the pencil and pad of paper through the bars. “Would you draw your emoji, please?”

  Gilbey looked at her, somewhere between blank and hostile. “My what?”

  “Your emoji. I used to teach psychology, just want to see if any prison workshop
s would be good for you.”

  The creep’s face screwed up. “What the hell’s an emoji?”

  “Just draw me a house, please.”

  “What kind of house?” Gilbey sneered at Alex as if this was some kind of joke.

  “Any kind,” Alex said reasonably. “Your lawyer won’t mind.”

  With a what-the-hell-I’m-bored look, Gilbey took the pad and pencil from Kerri and stood, scowling down at them in his hands. He scratched his head, then went back to his bench, crossed his legs with one ankle on a knee, and stared at the paper.

  He looked up scornfully.

  “I’ve always lived in the city. What do I know about drawing a friggin house?”

  “Use your imagination,” Kerri suggested, trading a quick glance with Alex: Interesting yet?

  Gilbey went back to frowning at the paper. Started lines. Drew more lines. Licked the pencil tip, scratched his cheek, and drew more. Then he turned the pencil around and erased, fussing. The pencil Kerri had given him had a good eraser. He fiddled with it, then planted the pencil’s lead on the paper and pushed it up, down; seemed finally satisfied and made some kind of last squiggle.

  Finished, he looked at his creation and seemed to like it. No big deal. The bitch cop was batshit crazy, so what?

  He got up and handed back the pad and pencil.

  His drawing was a box, an emotionless square with two rows of square windows and a flattened triangle roof. He had even gotten creative and added a chimney, with a curling wiggle of smoke coming out.

  Not the emoji. Not even close to the two identical images found on Rachel’s wall and in Scott Mullin’s pocket.

  Kerri met Alex’s surprised eyes. They both pulled in long breaths, and thanked Gilbey.

  “When the hell’s my lawyer getting here?” he complained.

  Soon, they said, turning to go.

  43

  “It’s not him,” she argued in low tones. They were back in the squad room and Kerri hunched, her chair pulled close to his desk.

  Alex sat frowning at the drawing, admitting this was something but still shaking his head. “A drawing isn’t a smoking gun. You’re still stuck with circumstantial.”