Never Alone

by C. J. Carpenter

  St. Thomas More was quaint and surprisingly understated for a Catholic church. Double wooden doors opened to earth-toned tiles that continued from the foyer all the way up to the pulpit. Cement walls divided into archways distinguished each section of pews. Large lanterns suspended from the ceiling on black iron rods replaced the overstated chandeliers typical in Catholic churches. An enlarged color photo of Shannon was placed on an easel near the pulpit and was surrounded by multiple arrangements of white roses. Megan assumed it was Shannon’s favorite flower due to the sheer number of them. As expected, the church overflowed with family, friends, and coworkers. Untimely deaths brought people out in droves.

  Megan double-checked that she’d switched her cell phone to vibrate mode before the service began. She placed it back in her coat when she felt something in the side pocket. She’d forgotten the last time she’d worn that particular jacket was mere days ago, a lifetime away. She’d thought it was a business card. Embossed black letters at the top read, In Loving Memory of Patrick McGinn.

  Megan’s stomach tightened when she turned the card around and realized she was holding her father’s mass card in her palm. The memory of her father’s funeral would forever be etched in her mind as deeply as the pain of missing him would remain carved within her heart. She’d read from a book of Irish prayers at her father’s funeral. It had been one of his favorite blessings. She knew it word for word and repeated it softly to herself as she traced over his name with her finger.

  May the road rise up to meet you.

  May the wind always be at your back.

  May the sun shine warm upon your face,

  and rains fall soft upon your fields.

  And until we meet again,

  “May God hold you in the palm of his hand,” Megan whispered the last sentence to herself as she returned the card to her coat pocket. She swallowed and took a deep breath, hoping the service would soon get under way.

  The wooden doors opened and closed again moments before the priest approached the pulpit. The parishioner’s entrance went unnoticed by Megan and the other attendees in St. Thomas More Church.

  Nappa entered the pew Megan was seated in and sat beside her. She whispered the same question he was about to ask her. “Anyone here pique your interest?” She continued to glance around the room, eliminating all the females and elderly in view, focusing on the men in the church. There were quite a few young men attending the service, but no one that struck a chord with Megan.

  “Not really. I had no idea such a small church could accommodate so many people,” Nappa said.

  The priest began cleaning the chalice and silently repeating prayers before sprinkling the incense. Megan always hated the smell of incense; not for any religious reason, she just found the odor harsh. The service continued when Father Gallagher asked everyone to kneel for prayer. Megan knelt forward, bowing her head on top of her clasped hands. Shannon McAllister’s crime-scene photos darted through her mind. Bended knees. Fingers intertwined close to her face. A tsunami overcoming a village would have been less powerful than the connection she just made. “Jesus Christ!”

  Nappa placed one hand on his forehead, lowering his head even farther in prayer, a vain attempt to block out the gasps and stares Megan’s declaration for the Son of God received from nearby mourners.

  She nudged Nappa. “Nappa.” He didn’t look up. “Nappa!”

  “Shhh. We’re at a funeral.”

  She whispered loudly, “She wasn’t sleeping.”

  “What? Who wasn’t sleeping?”

  “McAllister, in the crime-scene photos. She was praying.” Megan made eye contact to how she and Nappa were positioned. “Her body was placed in prayer.”

  Nappa took in Megan’s discovery, and then whispered, “Jesus Christ.”

  She was relieved when her phone started vibrating. It was Rasmussen. She nudged Nappa’s arm, showing him the call coming in. They quietly walked out of the church to take it. “Hey, it’s me.” Rasmussen’s next sentence made Megan stop in her tracks, and Nappa followed suit. “Really, uh … huh.”

  Nappa waited patiently for Megan to finish. She’d never have been able to return the same courtesy if Nappa had gotten the call. A few “what’s” and a “tell me, what’d he say,” along with a tug on Nappa’s arm would have been more probable.

  “Excellent. Nappa and I were just at the service. We’re leaving now and should be back in about twenty minutes.” She slapped the phone closed and pointed a finger at Nappa. “One print came off the receipt from The Catholic Times.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I have a helluva sense of humor, but no, I’m not kidding. No matches have been made yet, but—”

  “If there are any,” Nappa interrupted.

  Usually Megan was the pessimist and Nappa the optimist, but she needed to feel like the case was moving forward, especially after attending a victim’s funeral. Still, she knew Nappa had a point. “I know, but at least it’s something.”

  “True.”

  “We don’t meet up with Matt Garrison until later this afternoon. Let’s get back to the office. I want to do some more research on Saint Bridget and the crosses.”

  Megan’s cell rang again, “McGinn.” She waited, “Wait, I’m sorry I don’t understand. Why did you have to go into my apartment?” She spun in Nappa’s direction, “Don’t touch anything! Nothing! Do you hear me!”

  Megan emulated the video game Frogger as she ran through the traffic on Park Avenue, barely avoiding being flattened by yellow taxis and New York City buses. “Fuck! Fuck!”

  “McGinn, wait!” Nappa raced after her. He was only able to grab every third word from Megan as she sprinted down 93rd Street.

  Oven? Burning?

  She made it to her building just as Nappa caught up with her. Megan had her gun drawn as she exited the elevator. Alberto, the building’s super, jaw dropped as he lifted his hands in the air in surrender. She mouthed for him to step back. Megan leaned her head in when Alberto whispered, “It’s empty.”

  His observation didn’t fill her with ease. She quickly turned into the kitchen, aiming her gun toward the blind corner between her refrigerator and the open stove. She traced back her steps and inspected the bathroom, bedroom, and closet. When she acknowledged to herself all was clear, Nappa cautiously approached the living room.

  “Empty.”

  They walked into Megan’s kitchen, where the obvious baker’s aroma stemmed from, their guns not as postured as before. She used her sleeve to open the oven door. An aluminum bread pan was centered in the middle rack, its contents partially burned.

  “Irish soda bread,” Megan said.

  twenty-eight

  Megan sat in the stairwell while colleagues, some familiar, some strangers, tracked through her apartment, excavating her personal space searching for prints, fibers—whatever would lead them to the person responsible for breaking into the lead detective’s Carnegie Hill apartment.

  Nappa stepped out of Megan’s apartment into the hallway. They looked at one another, silently acknowledging the same notion: this is a different experience than last time we were here together.

  “The doorman was on break. There’s one apartment moving out today, so movers were using the service entrance, allowing direct access to the basement. Anyone could have come and gone without—”

  “Being detected,” Megan interrupted. The look in her eyes wasn’t filled with fear, or anger, but stout resolve. She remembered the declaration she’d made standing in the rain staring at her own image on the television. I am no one’s bitch.

  “We need you to do a walk-through to see if anything was stolen.”

  “Who is we? I’m still a part of the we, aren’t I?”

  “Let’s do the walk-through.”

  “Nappa, what the hell?”

  “Let’s just do this and then dea
l with the next steps.”

  She walked through her own crime scene, each step elevating her determination to hunt instead of being hunted. “I don’t see anything out of place.”

  “Are you sure?” Nappa asked.

  “As far as I can tell.”

  “Your super’s changing the locks. Is he good—do you trust him?”

  Megan waived his concerns away. “He’s great. I’ve helped some of his family out of a few jams, a nephew with parole officer issues. He has my back.”

  “So do I,” Nappa replied.

  Megan glanced up at him. “Good, ’cause someone has their eye on it.” Megan never admitted it to anyone, but every so often she wished someone other than herself had her back. Her father did, as much as he could, but it wasn’t a foolproof plan. Rose had demanded most of his attention when she’d become ill. Megan knew he was there in spirit, now more so than ever. But ever since finding her mother in the tub that one afternoon when she was young, she slept with one eye open, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. A killer breaking into her apartment sure sounded like a thud. She knew she couldn’t stay in her own home that night, so it looked like she was going to have to acquiesce to her brother’s request out of default: stay at her parents’ house. It’s not as if she’d be getting much sleep tonight anyway.

  twenty-nine

  Megan sat in Tommy’s Pub, one block down from the home she grew up in. Her father and the owner, Mr. Wilson, shared many a pint over the years. Megan inherited her father’s respect from people on the job but also from the locals, Mr. Wilson being one of them, and she adored him.

  He didn’t utter a word when she first walked in. She sat at the end of the bar and he had the waitress bring over a shot and a beer, all the while he was viewing a sports channel. Irish culture is many things, but intrusive isn’t one of them—at least not until the third shot.

  Mr. Wilson was one of the kindest men of her father’s friends Megan could think of, other than Uncle Mike, of course.

  Salt of the earth, Pat McGinn would say, and it was true.

  “Sweet girl, how ya’ holding up?” Mr. Wilson clinked his glass with hers. “Beautiful funeral, and a lovely wake, he had.”

  Megan nodded. “The one party you can never show up for.” Her laugh was as inappropriate as most endearing comments were in regards to unprepared deaths.

  “I’ve been reading the papers.” He poured her another shot.

  “Yeah.” She threw it back, ignoring his inquiry. “Well, I’m off to start sorting through Mom and Dad’s house tonight.” She smiled, they tapped shot glasses, and kicked back another.

  “To you and yours, my luv.”

  As Megan was leaving, she noticed that Mr. Wilson had attached a laminated copy of Pat McGinn’s obituary to the back of the bar wall, and that was that.

  Done and dusted, as her father always said.

  She cried walking the one block to the house.

  Megan felt she was trespassing for some odd reason as she entered the house, maybe because it felt so empty, deserted, and, worst of all, lonely. She went into the kitchen for a glass of water and sat down at the kitchen table. She recounted the countless family dinners the table held for the McGinn family: everyone talking, no one listening, but continuous banter nonetheless. It made her smile, until the silence crept back in and the thoughts returned of a murderer intruding on her personal space. Her sanctuary.

  Son of a bitch.

  She set the glass in the sink and headed upstairs to her parents’ bedroom. She looked at her father’s closet. She wasn’t ready for his personal things, their memories. She decided to start with her mother’s closet, since Rose would have no use for those clothes any longer. Megan ran her hand across the row of dresses. The smell of her mother’s perfume was ever present. Megan pushed the rack to the back and was shocked to find the dress Rose wore the day she tried to kill herself hanging in the back, dried blood covering it.

  “Momma. Why? Why would you keep this?” For years Megan could never recall what happened after she opened the bathroom door that day. She sat down on the bed holding the dress in her lap, unlocking the memory she worked so hard to bury.

  She’d run to her mother on the bathroom floor screaming for her.

  Rose was going in and out of consciousness. “It’s all just too much. It’s all just too much.”

  Megan in her hysteria remembered her father was waiting on the phone. She ran over to the receiver screaming, “Daddy! Daddy! Momma’s cut herself! She’s cut herself!” She remembered how her voice was trembling, but nothing compared to the shaking of her hands. “Daddy, come home! Daddy, come home!”

  Megan recalled hearing, “Oh God,” then Pat telling her to get towels and wrap them around the wounds. Clear as crystal Megan now remembered: Tight, honey, really tight.

  “Okay, Daddy.” Megan had dropped the phone and ran into the bathroom, slipping on some of Rose’s blood. She got to her knees and did what her father instructed her to do; she tied the towels as tight as an almost-twelve-year-old could. Megan sat in the bathroom and started to hyperventilate, staring at her mother. Megan couldn’t remember how long it was, but the first one to arrive, she finally recalled, was Mr. Wilson. He grabbed her and put her on Pat and Rose’s bed. In a matter of minutes, flashing lights were outside of the house. Mrs. Wilson ran into the bedroom then, clutching Megan and rushing her down the stairs and out of the house. Megan saw her father running toward the front door.

  “Daddy! Daddy!”

  Mrs. Wilson held her tight. “Everything’s going to be okay, Megan. Your dad’s checking on your mom. It was just an accident.”

  It was just an accident.

  Megan now rolled the dress into a ball and curled up on the bed, tears streaming down the side of her face. “An accident with a razor on both wrists. Yeah, right.”

  As Mrs. Wilson hustled Megan out of the house, Megan remembered looking back at the bags of her birthday ornaments sitting on the dining room table, knowing they would never be used, not that year. And Megan never trusted another birthday to be celebrated ever again.

  That day marked the moment Rose distanced herself from Megan. Maybe out of guilt, maybe out of shame. No matter the reason, theirs would never be the model of a close mother-daughter relationship, like Shannon and her mother shared.

  Megan remembered when Rose came home from the hospital her first words were, “You better have been taking good care of your father, missy.”

  It had been arm’s length love from that day on.

  Megan’s cell rang in the silence, forcing her up. She wiped her face and cleared her throat. “Nappa, what’s up?”

  “I just wanted to check on you, see that you’re okay.”

  “Yeah, great.”

  “Are you sure? You sound different.”

  “No, just a little tired. So, what’s happening?”

  “The cross on the McAllister’s sympathy card? Two drops of blood were found. Very small drops, and rare, AB negative.”

  Megan transitioned from pained childhood mode to detective status. “You’re kidding. Did anything match up in the computers? The Red Cross keeps records of people who’ve donated blood, especially if they have a rare blood type. Have you checked with them?”

  “In the process of checking with hospitals and the Red Cross—and that’s only if the unsub has donated.”

  “Or had surgery somewhere.”

  “Well, I just thought I’d let you know. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Nappa, I’m fine. Seriously. It’s just been a long day. I assume nothing was found in my apartment?”

  Nappa paused. “Nothing.”

  “I didn’t expect there to be.”

  They hung up and within minutes Megan was fast asleep, hoping there wouldn’t be any nightmares like the one she’d lived through today, or like the horror
she’d endured years ago with her mother.

  thirty

  All four detectives reconvened at the precinct the next morning. Megan didn’t want to speak about the most obvious story: the killer had been in her home. She could feel lingering looks when she walked through the office. The whispers were silenced when she slammed the conference room door.

  “The lieutenant’s door is closed. Am I waiting for a meeting?” she asked Nappa.

  “Joanne said she’ll be free in a few minutes. She’ll find us.”

  “Whatever.” She rolled up her sleeves. “Okay, let’s keep going. Lauren Bell, the vic’s mentor, said McAllister had volunteered at something medical for a friend, flu shots, or something, right?”

  “The list that Mrs. McAllister gave us is only of the counselors—no medical people or other staff are on it,” Nappa said.

  Megan had had Shannon’s month-to-month calendar from her datebook enlarged and pinned to the bulletin board in the conference room. “BD. Medical. BD,” Megan repeated. “Blood drive.” She tapped the board before circling the date with the red marker. “The mentor mentioned a blood drive. I bet BD is for blood drive. It’s not a person—BD was what she was doing that day, not who she was seeing. Let’s check the people volunteering that day and donating, especially donating. If that rare blood type shows up, I want that person brought in.”

  “Where is the file we have on McAllister’s volunteer work?” Nappa asked.

  “You mean the list of agencies and organizations. I left that one on my desk. I’ll be right back.” Megan went out to her desk, shuffling papers around to look for the folder.

  “You fucking bitch!”

  When someone yells obscenities in a police precinct, what usually follows isn’t an FTD floral arrangement. A man’s foot made contact with Megan’s lower back before anyone, including Megan, could react.

  “Martin!” yelled Professor Bauer’s attorney.

  He swung her around by grabbing her jacket when his fist made contact with her jaw. Blood flowed like wild rapids through her mouth.