All Things Hidden

by Judy Candis

  “My 9mm is trained at your back. Do not move a muscle or you’re joining TeeTee selling only heavenly hash.” Jael hoped God would forgive her this little white lie. “I don’t want you, I want Big Jake. And if you’re smart, you’ll tell me where he is so I might just be able to save his sorry life.”

  No one would have ever accused Booley of spontaneous acts of bravado. Even as his body language tensed, he never turned around as he quickly blurted in a frightened whisper, “He’s at his mother’s house.”

  “Where?”

  “On Monroe Street.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “I don’t know, just that the house is the only yellow one at the corner of Monroe and 15th.”

  Jael jabbed the finger sticking through her suit dress pocket harder against the center of Booley’s back. “You see that Bronco across the street?”

  Booley turned his head slowly. “Uh-huh.”

  “Walk casually toward it. Don’t shout, don’t run, don’t even breathe more than you have to.”

  Cautiously moving away from the pressure at his back, Booley headed for the car; then, before Jael could fall in step behind him, he bolted. Head lowered, Booley dashed across the street in a zigzag pattern to elude any bullet that might ignite from the finger he thought to be a gun, then squeezed between two tall hedges and ran around the back of a bright orange house and out of sight.

  “Dang!” Jael threw her arms out in frustration. She should have known better. Now he was sure to call Big Jake before she got there, wherever “there” was. At least thirty pairs of eyes focused on her as she turned back toward Brenda’s house. Might as well go inside and see what developed while I was away, she thought.

  As she moved toward the crowd, some stepped back to let her pass, but others seemed hostile; Jael had to push her way through. She was about to place her foot on the bottom step when someone brushed against her, forcing something into her open palm. Instinctively, Jael closed her fingers around the item while drawing away in a defensive stance to see who had touched her. The look on her face must have conveyed her own mounting hostility, and the rest of the spectators backed away, but not before Jael realized that what she held was a crumpled piece of paper. She hurried up the steps and moved to the corner of the porch, where she scanned the crowd with an angry glare. Several eyes were looking back at her, but now with a little less self-assurance. Teeth gritted, Jael looked down at the note in her hand.

  Her blood froze as she read:

  THERE WILL BE MORE IF HE’S NOT STOPPED.

  Chapter

  10

  The sun was scorching by the time Jael arrived at the crime scene. The Bronco’s air-conditioning was blowing full blast, but it wasn’t enough to quell the heat of trepidation plaguing her. The weather forecast had mentioned the possibility of late-afternoon thunderstorms—the cooling rains would be appreciated. It might even wash away some of the confusion, she hoped.

  The crumbled note lay open in a clear plastic bag on the seat beside her. Jael glanced at it again. There was no question what the message meant to convey: TeeTee wasn’t going to be the last if this maniac was not found. Pulling her eyes away from the threatening note, Jael glanced through the window at an EMI van, a media truck and another growing crowd of spectators.

  This time, the murderer had struck on an active drug corner, near a mom-and-pop grocery and liquor store, soon after dawn, when few were around to witness the crime. As she pulled forward, most of the activity now seemed to be centered in front of the liquor store. Parking her Bronco behind the second of two blue and whites, Jael noticed the techs were still busy gathering whatever evidence they could find. Since it was an outdoor crime scene, it would be harder to contain; much of the area was already polluted by curious observers before the 911 call came in. She didn’t envy her fellow officers as she watched them trying to ignore the inquisitive onlookers and sidestepping the media. For the press, this was the ultimate story.

  Jael remembered that TeeTee was a hardhead and refused to adhere to commonsense advice—but he didn’t deserve to die in the street. She knew that by now the body was bagged and headed for the morgue. She had no love for drug dealers, but no one had the right to be judge and jury.

  Detachment was one of the tools many officers used to stay out of the psychiatrist’s office. For her, detachment was unacceptable. Each case was as personal as if it were her own family member. God alone kept her strong and able to deal with each murder as a personal vendetta—a vendetta forever at her heels, since that day nineteen years ago.

  From her seat in the Bronco, she looked for either Sills or Brenda. Among the throng of moving bodies, she saw the back of Sills’s reddish-blond head. Leaning over the shoulder of one of the crime technicians, he was nodding in agreement as the tech pointed at something near the ground. Jael finally pulled herself out of her SUV, using her hand remote to lock it behind her.

  “’Scuse me, please, let me by,” Jael said as she pushed her way through the crowd toward Sills. Hearing her voice, he stood erect and turned in her direction. In two quick strides he was at the roped-off section, lifting the crisscross yellow crime tape for her to slip under.

  “I was going to call you,” he said in a dejected tone. “You didn’t have to come down to this madness. They’re still trying to locate one of the stray bullets and check for any more personal items that may have flown out of his hand when he was hit.”

  “What have they found so far?”

  “Money in his pants pocket, a beeper and about ten ounces of rock cocaine in his vest jacket.”

  For a moment, Jael stood stunned. For her, there could be no further doubt that these were serial killings. What was the killer, or killers, trying to say?

  After several hours in the sun, the pungent smell of blood was overwhelming when Jael and Sills stepped toward the chalked-off area. Deep crimson stains spread in haphazard circles, penetrating the cement walk around it. A trail led backward about eight feet, then zigzagged to the front of the liquor store, as if TeeTee had attempted to run for shelter.

  Jael thought of the man she once knew and whispered a silent prayer, adding a single question mark at the end. Not sure how to petition her request, she counted on God’s supreme knowledge to fill in the right words.

  Over her shoulder, Sills volunteered a bit of technical information. “He was struck down sometime this morning, when the area was pretty quiet.”

  “Yeah, a quiet Sunday morning. A time when life is usually gentle and serene. When a person shouldn’t have . . .” Her words choked up before she could complete the statement. The noise around her melted into a heavy hum of sounds, its melancholy undertone threatening to pull Jael into a void of despair. She was suddenly reminded of the fear that had overwhelmed her a few days ago at the first crime scene. Now it seemed to make sense. It had been a forewarning. She shook off the ominous mood seeping into her veins like ice water. “Where were the wounds?”

  “Three direct hits to the upper chest. The predator was precise, missing only one shot.”

  Jael shook her head. “What’s going on here, Sills? What’s happening in our town?”

  “Beats me. But the bold viciousness of this killer scares the shit out of me.”

  Normally, Sills watched his language whenever he was around her. The slip was a clear indication these murders had gotten under his skin. Sills wiped his hand across the back of his neck, Jael ran her fingers along the side of her chin, both dealing with their own troubled thoughts.

  Jael was the first to speak. “You seen any relatives? I’m looking for his older sister, Brenda.”

  “Yeah, they’re round the front, outside the grocery store. His sister is really shook up. The wind blew up the covering just as she walked up. She got a stomachful of all the blood and gore, and man, was there a lot of blood for such a skinny guy. It’s . . . It’s . . .”

  “Aw, man.” Jael reached out and placed her hand on Sills’s shoulder. He seemed to need the touch of
consolation as much as she. For a supposedly tough guy, these senseless assaults hung around him like a cloak of hopelessness. The more Jael professed the love of Christ to Sills, the less he could stomach the killings. It took a lot out of her sometimes too. Even with the heavy heat of the day, a shiver ran through her. “If the Captain doesn’t call an emergency meeting—which I’d be surprised if he didn’t—I want every available man in the main conference room first thing in the morning to organize a task force.”

  “You got it.” Sills seemed thankful for the quick transition back to business. “There may be one bright spot in all this; I think we may finally have a witness.” Tilting his head in the direction of the empty building across the street, he added, “He’s waiting over there in case we need anything else. A Mr. William Walters.”

  Jael glanced across the street and saw a middle-aged man wearing a rumpled dark suit, leaning against the trunk of a late-model Oldsmobile, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. She moved toward the opposite yellow tape, lifted it and headed in his direction. The man stood upright, yanking his hands from his pockets as he watched her approach.

  Removing the badge clipped to the waistband of her skirt just beneath her jacket, Jael flashed it at the man. “I’m Detective Reynolds. I understand you witnessed the shooting.”

  “I don’t know if you could call it ‘witnessing.’ It all happened so fast, I didn’t see much.” Up close, Jael guessed the man to be in his late forties. His weathered, bark-colored skin and strong build told of a life spent outdoors doing strenuous manual labor.

  “Where were you when the shooting took place?”

  “About fifty yards away on this side of the street. I was checking for any remaining trash that might have been overlooked last night. We have a little church around the corner and do some street ministry on Saturdays. Just before Sunday service I usually check around to make sure everything’s cleaned up good, and no loiterers hanging around, you know.”

  “Did you get a make on the car?”

  “Like I told your fellow officers, it was an old Ford sedan, white with rust around the bottom. My back was turned when I heard the shots and when I looked up I saw this car speed away. I never thought to check the license plate. I just ran across the street, and there was this young guy holding his chest. I didn’t see who shot from the car. I was more concerned about getting the paramedics here. I used my cell phone to call 911.”

  “Did you see if there was more than one person in the vehicle?”

  “Naw, the only reason I mentioned the car in the first place was because it was the only automobile cruising by at the time. And the way it took off after the shots, was . . . well . . . sort of obvious. Another drive-by shooting.”

  Jael didn’t bother to correct him. He’d learn soon enough that this was more than a street gang seeking revenge. Jael looked back at the scene across the street, breaking down the entire area in her mind. Photos would be on her desk later, but for now she wanted to get a feel for it herself.

  “Hey, Detective,” the man said, breaking into her thoughts. “I’m sorry I didn’t have more to tell you.”

  Jael shook her head in understanding. “No problem. Take my card and call me if anything else comes to mind.” She handed Mr. Walters her card, then walked to the end of the block before crossing to the other side of the street, where she hoped she’d find Brenda.

  There were now two things they had that they didn’t have before: the note someone had slipped into her hand at Brenda’s house, and a witness. She was afraid it wasn’t enough.

  She noticed Brenda immediately. Her friend had an arm draped over the shoulder of an older man, as if holding him up. As she got closer, Jael recognized the man as Brenda’s uncle, whom she’d met once outside the church. Several other people stood around them. Moving closer, Jael got a good glimpse of Brenda’s face. The woman seemed like an unflinching rock of strength. Jael suspected that if her friend displayed even one ounce of the emotions surging inside her, the floodgates of pain would explode.

  As she approached, Jael prayed that her voice would come across softly, suggesting her sympathy but hiding her desperation. She prayed for the right words, words that might convey that the police had a handle on the situation—though, of course, they didn’t.

  Gently as possible, she whispered her friend’s name. Brenda instantly looked up. Thin lines of dried mascara cascaded down her cheeks. So she had let go.

  Seeing Jael, Brenda dropped her arms from around her uncle and moved toward her friend, her face suddenly a mask of misery. She fell into Jael’s outstretched arms.

  “I knew you’d be here. The police are asking a thousand questions, but I just can’t seem to talk right now.”

  “I know,” Jael said, embracing her friend.

  “I still need to get home and contact the Prayer Warriors and Pastor Smalley, and of course, do what I can for my grandmother. I know you’ll do all you can. I’ll call you later. We’ll get together with the Warriors and pray, okay?”

  “Sure, we’ll do that as soon as you’re up to it. In the meantime, I’ll be wearing out the Lord with my own prayers, lots of questions and petitions for guidance.”

  At least that got a weak smile. “He’ll never let us down, Jael. We will understand all when God is ready to reveal the why’s.”

  Though steadfast in her faith, Jael was still amazed by Brenda’s countenance. The woman was a walking testimony that “God will see you through.”

  Her thoughts reverted to the many times Brenda had been there for her, praying, encouraging and simply saying all the right things when Jael believed she would never conquer her demons. Jael was positive that without Brenda there, walking her through each struggle, each nightmare, things might have turned out a lot different.

  She kissed Brenda on the cheek. “I plan to give the Lord all the help He needs. I’ll be home waiting for your call.” To herself she added, The battle lines are drawn, Satan. It’s on!

  Chapter

  11

  Whether she wanted it to or not, the impact of what it felt like to lose someone dear came rushing into her mind with the force of a Mac truck. While certain things remained vividly etched in her brain, others were mere snatches of sensation, wrapped in swirling blocks of fog—such as the choking rattle of the window box air-conditioner unit that night, as it went off and on; the infuriating buzz of a mosquito at her ear; the weight of the suffocating darkness in the hall outside her bedroom.

  The time had been approximately 11:45 that fateful evening, nineteen years ago. She’d just given up the fight to hang late watching TV with her big brother, Eddie, and was about to drift into blessed sleep when she heard the noises. Those awful, life-altering noises.

  After the sounds, her memory of that night metamorphosed into distinct frames, frozen in time like photographs. It always began the same, seeing herself creeping down a hall shrouded in thick, unrelenting darkness; the muffled sound of struggle, just before the explosion of light in the room ahead; the rush of panic to come to her brother’s aid, only to trip and fall at the mouth of the front room entrance. The impact of the fall, transforming everything into slivers of slow-motion action.

  That’s how her mind played it out, anyway; quick flashes of bright images, high octaves of sound and then the brightness, followed by quick jerky unforgettable fragments.

  Frame 1: Looking up to see him, the unwelcome stranger, standing in the doorway, the porch light reflecting off his cruel ugliness. The greasy black skullcap, the deep-set, hatred-filled eyes under thick bushy brows, the wide nostrils flaring like those of a horse, the evil grimace across crooked yellow-stained teeth. The cheap dirty white ski outfit with red stripes down the side. The tattered, out-of-season winter gloves, over huge hands clutching their twenty-inch front room color TV.

  Frame 2: The porch light illuminating the entire front room as the shadow of the stranger flees into the night. Her, pushing up from the floor, only to feel the cause of the fall. Looking down to se
e . . . Eddie, dear Eddie, covered in blood, oh, so much blood.

  Frame 3: Eddie, reaching out to her, his other hand clutching the object embedded in his chest—a simple kitchen knife.

  Frame 4: Her reaching out, clasping the object, cutting a deep gash in her hand in the process, her blood blending with Eddie’s. The gurgling sounds he makes in his throat.

  Frame 5: Eddie motioning for her to get the phone and call 911. His strangled words reaching her from the depths of a tunnel. The paralysis that consumes her. Eddie rising slowly, struggling to push her to the phone. Telling her what police codes to give the 911 operator. His chest heaving in rhythm with her own.

  She remembers Eddie’s moans of pain reaching her frozen brain and she sees herself reach for the phone cord and pull the phone off the end table to the floor. Her eyes revert to her brother’s pain-riddled face as she nods and tries to hear everything he’s attempting to tell her. Wiping away the wetness in her eyes with a hand saturated in crimson, making it hard to see the numbers. Dropping the phone when Eddie slumps back to the floor. Eddie whispering to her to remember every detail, how to give the information to the police, what not to touch. Even then, he is meticulous about the crime scene, even though it is his own.

  At that point, a haze of darkness punches a big hole in her memory.

  Frame 6: The house alive with people, sounds, cries, the pungent smell of lingering blood, whispering blood, whispering to her. She clearly remembers the feel of the cloth her momma presses to her face and hair. The cloth coming away each time with more of Eddie’s blood. The bandage wrapped around the wound in her palm.

  Frame 7: Eddie, lying only a few feet away from her, in a long cherry wood box, draped with flowers of varying colors. He lies before her, a shell of the brother she loved. The one who never allowed her to miss the presence of a father, because his role was significant enough. The one who taught her everything he knew on those nights when Momma worked late. The one who let her sleep in his bed, when she had bad dreams or was scared of the dark.