“You sure you’ll be okay?” A knot formed in his gut and urged him to renege.
“Don’t worry so much. I’ll be fine. It’s only a couple of hours.” Jenny smiled and tiptoed to kiss him on the cheek.
“You need a coat. Wait, I’ll run and get one.” He knew he was stalling, and could tell by her grin, she knew it too.
“Dad.” She gave him that look, whimsical and chiding, the one she had taken on since she was little whenever he said something she considered silly. He held back a chuckle.
“Okay, fine. Please be careful and call me when you get there.”
Jenny huffed playfully. “Fine. I will.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, promise.” She hurried for the door.
He must have still worn a worried expression because Jenny glanced back and frowned. “Oh, Dad. God’s watching over me. Trust a little. I’ll be fine.”
Evan smiled at that. “You’re right. Go on. Have fun.”
“Love you,” she said, skipping out the door.
“I love you…”
As the memory faded, and the strangeness of a house he did not recognize filled his vision, Evan dropped onto his knees. He begged God to hear him, to comfort him. God remained silent.
* * *
Cold and sterile, the morgue hinted at the grave to come. Evan recalled nothing of the drive from home, everything since the deputies’ visit a blur. Only nonsensical images full of furious shouts and baleful glares, and a beautiful picture drawn in a child’s hand, filled his thoughts. He waited in the hallway, seated on a stone-hard bench. The white corridor spanning in each direction seemed to lead to an afterlife, growing brighter as it descended into unseen fathoms. Evan loathed the doubt crushing his heart. Where was Jenny now? Where was her soul? He’d failed her so badly.
“You can come in now,” said a tall, stern man in a lab coat. “If you’re ready.”
Evan nodded absently and stood on weak, wobbly legs. He followed the man into a room rowed in gleaming steel gurneys, the walls lined in square refrigerator drawers. Toward the middle of the room, a body lay on one table, a white sheet covering it. Feet protruded from one end, a toe tag gently pushed by the A/C’s current fluttering like a banner in a breeze. He urged his steps forward in a reeling shuffle. He did not want to see. A mistake. It wouldn’t be her, not his Jenny.
The attendant hovered near the gurney like a vulture wanting rid of this intrusion, ready for its feast. He gave Evan a look that seemed aimed at sympathy, but came off as annoyance. Evan nodded and the man pulled the sheet below the neck. Jenny appeared so peaceful. He wanted to touch her face, to whisper in her ear everything was okay now. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. Any residue of hope drained away. Gazing down on her, he recalled the babe suckling at the bottle in his hand, the little girl running into his arms when he arrived home from work, the angel who had lifted him up after Julie died.
“It’s her,” he said in a voice as dead as his daughter.
The attendant raised the cover over her face, stepped around the table, and placed a hand on Evan’s shoulder, guiding him toward the exit. Once in the hallway, the man asked him to wait. Evan wanted out of this place. Jenny’s cold lifeless body called to him through the walls with condemnation and supplication. His palms darted to his ears, trying to shut out the screams. Too many voices, and Jenny’s loudest of all.
“Are you alright, Mr. Marshall? Do you need to sit down?” The attendant returned and extended his hand, but Evan waved it away.
“No. No, I’m okay.”
Once he appeared satisfied Evan wouldn’t fall on his face, he presented an open metal box. Inside, Evan found a gold necklace with a small cross he had given Jenny on her thirteenth birthday, two rings he did not recognize, and a hand-sized copy of the New Testament. Evan’s breath caught in his throat and his knees nearly gave. He stumbled to the bench and sat down.
“The police said she had the Bible with her when they found her. The things you see here constitute all effects recovered from the body. I understand the house where they discovered her is a crime scene, but they should let you in. There might be other personal items.” The man turned to leave, but paused. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Evan cradled the Bible like a holy relic, rocking back and forth, mumbling to himself. Jenny kept it. He gave it to her…When? He did not remember now. A long time ago. Why was she holding it? Praying for God to save her? Praying for her daddy to come and rescue her? The one connection she had to him, she’d gripped close in her final moments. Something broke inside him. The pieces sank down to gather in the pit of his stomach, churning nausea as they shattered. Icy tendrils wormed into his heart, hollow, vile things, sucking out joy, hope, and love.
* * *
He drove through Westside, disgusted by the filth and decadence permeating the area. Strip clubs lined the street with adult bookstores as their lurid neighbors. Drug dealers and prostitutes sold their licentious vices from alleys, showing no fear of apprehension or reprisal, while vagrants huddled amongst them, clutching bottles of cheap liquor and muttering to unseen apparitions. The smell of the place brought bile into his mouth; abject poverty and wanton depravity twisted his gut. Part of him wanted nothing more than to turn the truck around and never witness what he knew waited. Still, another part, overpowering, needed to know…needed to see what he had done.
Evan pulled up to #3867, his hands trembling on the steering wheel. He sat there for a long time, squeezing the plastic and urging courage. Suspicious glares met him from neighbors meandering in their yards and on the sidewalks. He ignored the stares and made his way to the front entrance. The door lay in splinters inside the house, and yellow crime scene tape created an X across the frame. No police were present, so he ducked under the tape and entered.
He paled at the sight of dark red smearing the walls and staining the floor. His Jenny, his little girl, had lived here? He could not fathom the idea. How had she fallen so low? Those bastards took her. On her way to church, they had abducted his baby and coerced her to abandon chastity and virtue. Evil bled from the floor and walls like a tangible presence, leering, grinning. How could she resist, alone amongst the lions seeking to devour her innocence? But they too were dead now. He felt no joy or relief, no sense of vengeance quelled.
Evan staggered down the hallway, the smell of blood and a host of pungent odors making him sick, spinning his head. An inexorable force seemed to draw him onward. He merely glanced at two bedrooms and a foul bathroom—fetid water in the tub and toilet adding to the stench.
In the last room, Evan broke down, bawling and tearing at his hair. A soiled mattress lay on the floor, droplets of dried blood tarnishing the dingy white sheet. Wedged into the corner at the top of the bed, a ragged brown teddy bear glowered at him. How did she get it? She didn’t leave the house with it. Jenny must have returned to retrieve clothes when he was not home and took the stuffed animal with her. On his knees, he undulated in manic rhythm. The voices howled in his mind and echoed off the walls of his skull, the static background crackling like countless bristles sweeping across his thoughts.
“My God, why have you forsaken me?”
CHAPTER
3
Summoned to the principal’s office.
Marlowe tucked the report under his arm, rose from his desk, and headed down the hall. Lieutenant McCann had sounded in a foul mood, but that was his natural state, so the present matter might amount to no more than a standard debriefing. A high body count would demand an accounting to the brass. Jose and his crew gave them no choice, but the media painted all things police with a broad, unflattering brush. McCann would make them jump through the hoops and snarl all the while, covering his own ass. Marlowe couldn’t blame him. In the current climate, with crazy cops gunning down unarmed people left and right, and good cops walking around with targets on their backs, all the I’s needed dotting, all the T’s crossing.
Any meeting with
the lieutenant was iffy, not knowing where one stood. His accolades were indiscernible from his insults, and the man seemed to relish fear and loathing in his subordinates. If someone managed direct eye contact without displaying the skittishness of a nervous jackrabbit, the lieutenant reacted as though he had failed in some way. A compliment often required a higher power’s compulsion, and even then, Marlowe got the impression McCann’s head might explode afterwards. Rule of thumb was—if you still had a job, consider yourself adequate.
“Okay, let’s get our stories straight.” Spence rounded the corner, antsy.
“What are you talking about?” Marlowe gave him a whimsical glance.
Spence tugged at the lapels on his jacket and paced the hallway. “Come on. You know how these shootings go. Internal Affairs will try to twist us up.” With his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, casting furtive peeks toward the lieutenant’s door and back to the squad room, Spence appeared ready to bolt.
“We aren’t meeting with IA. IA isn’t even investigating. There were two dozen officers on scene, all with the same account. Take it easy, Spence. You’re watching way too many cop dramas.” Marlowe leafed through the report for no other reason than to busy his hands.
“Laugh all you want, but when Batista got grilled over Doakes shooting that dude on Dexter, he caved. Could happen.” Spence raked his palms along the sleeves of a pale yellow sports coat, leaving sweat stains.
Marlowe snickered and rapped on the lieutenant’s door.
“Enter,” a gruff voice growled from within.
Marlowe entered the office with Spence as his lurking shadow. McCann sat behind a boxy desk of unknown wood, probably pine knowing the department’s budget, a perpetual scowl on his face. His disheveled flame-red hair set off steel-grey eyes; a button nose twitched above his bushy mustache. A woman Marlowe didn’t recognize stood to one side, framed in the sunlight’s glow pouring in from a wall-length window. An auburn bob cut curled around her angular face and piercing blue eyes seemed to take everything in without looking directly at anything. Severe cheeks and tight pressed lips locked in an austere expression robbed her of what would have been an attractive appearance. With the woman dressed in a dark, navy suit, and wearing a stern visage, Marlowe feared Spence might have been right—maybe IA had decided to stick their noses into this.
“Sit,” said McCann without ceremony.
“Lieutenant, we did everything by the book. Jose and his crew opened fire. We…intended to bring him in. I-I felt certain he would demand his lawyer before I got the Miranda out of my mouth.” Spence’s anxiousness, apparently contagious, crept into Marlowe and made him stammer. The woman’s stoic stare merged with McCann’s glower and sent Marlowe’s pulse racing. This wasn’t his first sit-down with the lieutenant…or the third. What had him so jumpy?
“Can it, Gentry. We’ll deal with the shootings later. I have the reports, don’t sweat it.”
The assurance took a moment to sink in. McCann might have asked for their guns and badges in the same disgruntled tone. Marlowe scratched the back of his neck, perplexed. Spence’s pallor darkened to something close to his natural shade. They glanced from the woman, to McCann, and to each other, a shrug evident in raised brows.
After an awkward pause, Marlowe asked, “So, what’s this about?”
McCann gestured at his monitor, showing CNN. “You’ve heard the news, a serial rapist in Mobile?”
“Of course. Who hasn’t? The Bay Nightstalker, isn’t it?”
“How original.” Spence grinned, but shied under the lieutenant’s glare.
“It’s the third serial violent crime spree in the state in the last five years. Hell, we’ve had more in that time span than the past thirty years combined. Before the Churchill Murders it was…” McCann paused, a blank expression sliding over his face.
“Curtis Grantham, back in the ‘80s, tortured and murdered three women. In 1988, he murdered Rose Medley and Geraldine Burghaff and buried them in a wooded area down in Seale. He killed the third woman, Dawn Ball, when he broke into her home and stabbed her to death in front of her eighteen-month-old son.” Marlowe recited the grisly details as if repeating his Social Security Number.
“How the hell do you know this shit?’ Spence stared at him wide-eyed. “I know, I know. You read about it. Christ.” He shivered.
“Yeah, whatever; point is, three’s a bunch. Governor’s getting a lot of heat over the regularity of these nut jobs and plans to deal with it.” The lieutenant stared at them heatedly.
“Maybe they should be checkin’ the water for Radon or somethin’ here,” Spence mumbled.
McCann flicked a hand toward the woman. “This is Special Agent Lori Kline from the ABI.”
The Alabama Bureau of Investigation served the same purpose as the FBI on a state level. Marlowe wasn’t certain what they did exactly. In ten years on the force, he could not recall working with them once.
“Agent.” McCann nodded to Kline. “You want to take it from here?”
Agent Kline quietly cleared her throat and opened a folder on the lieutenant’s desk. “The governor, in conjunction with the attorney general, has created a special unit—Serial Violent Crimes Unit, SVCU. The unit will have authority statewide. All local, county, and state law enforcement will operate under SVCU direction. The full resources and cooperation of said agencies will be made available to the unit.” She never glanced down at the folder, reciting the information from memory, but delivered it in monotone as if she were reading a difficult passage from James Joyce. Marlowe caught the subtle tremor of delicate hands clasped at her waist.
“Why now? A little late, isn’t it?” asked Spence, fully over his anxiousness, and now suspicious.
“As your lieutenant said, the Churchill Murders were the first serial killings in almost three decades. With those, the victims remained confined to a single race, age group, and gender, so the public at large didn’t panic. But with the Seraphim Killer, the city, the whole state, huddled in fear until the murders stopped. Now we have the Bay Nightstalker recently apprehended in Mobile after raping four women. People are afraid, and their fear isn’t fading quickly enough for the governor.”
“Voters, you mean.” Spence grinned. “Election coming up, isn’t there?”
“Zip it, Murray.” McCann shot Spence a fiery scowl and twisted two fingers at his lips.
“But we don’t do sex crimes,” said Marlowe. “We’re Homicide.”
“SVCU will investigate all serial violent crimes, whether homicide, rape, assault…” said Kline, in a near chant.
“You’re kidding,” said Spence.
“The investigations aren’t much different,” said Marlowe.
Spence glanced at him as though he had lost an ally.
Agent Kline nodded. “Any violent crimes considered pattern or ritualistic will fall under the auspices of SVCU jurisdiction. Detective Gentry, you will command the unit with Detective Murray as your second. Dr. Koopman will serve as forensics supervisor. Additional personnel will be made available as needed. While in command of the unit, Detective Gentry will carry the rank of lieutenant, and Detective Murray, sergeant.”
“Guess that makes us equals.” Marlowe grinned at McCann.
“Only when the unit is operational,” said McCann.
Marlowe rubbed his chin. “But if we’re operational in the city…” A smile grew across his face. “I’ll be your boss.”
McCann reddened and slammed down his pen with an exasperated huff.
“So what’s your role? Liaison with the capitol?” Marlowe asked Agent Kline.
Kline smoothed her jacket. “Yes. And a member of the unit.”
Marlowe stood. “Wait a second. If we have to do this, which it doesn’t sound much like a choice, I want a team I know and trust. Give me Bateman or Fitzpatrick.”
“Sit down, Gentry. You’re already on thin ice with me,” said McCann.
Marlowe’s brows rose. “For what?”
“I’ll thin
k of something. Now sit your ass down.”
“We don’t need a babysitter.” Spence, obviously as displeased with the development as Marlowe, wiggled in his chair.
“If you’re going to be a part of my team, may I at least know your qualifications?” asked Marlowe, though his tone made clear it was not a question.
Kline’s body grew more rigid, which would have seemed impossible. “I graduated Summa Cum Laude from Vanderbilt and received a juris doctorate. I studied at Quantico in Behavioral Sciences with two years as a field agent. I’ve been with the ABI for a year.”
“Why the switch? FBI to ABI seems a pretty big downgrade.” Marlowe could tell his scrutiny made her uncomfortable. He got the sense her résumé hid much of the story.
“Enough,” snapped McCann. “She’s more than qualified. And doesn’t matter if she’s a goddamn rookie wet behind the ears. Kline’s on the team, deal with it.”
An uneasy silence drifted in behind the lieutenant’s directive. Everyone glanced from one to the other. A thousand questions raced through Marlowe’s mind, but none that couldn’t wait, and he had the distinct impression the lieutenant teetered an inch from nicotine DTs. He had seen it before, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.
“That it? Good. Get out.” McCann reached for the cigar in his desk drawer. “And close the fucking door.”
Marlowe and Spence received a terse nod from Kline as she strolled toward the elevator. He couldn’t place it, but something seemed off about her. Her cool demeanor hid insecurities and apprehension beyond being in an unfamiliar setting. Maybe his psychology degree was still screaming to get out. With Becca around, there was too much overanalyzing going on already.
The Dark Age_A Marlowe Gentry Thriller Page 3