by Perry Prete
Relieved, Nicole relaxed, "I thought my gift was gone."
"I thought you would be happy if you lost the ability," Simone was caught off guard by her comment.
"I'm enjoying it now." She beamed a broad smile. "Come on; I'm tired. Let's go home."
Simone drove, Nicole sat in the passenger seat, and Simone's boyfriend fell asleep between them. Cloud cover had hidden the stars; the air had become a little crisper, so Simone cranked up the heater in the cab of the truck.
"I totally, completely freaked when I didn't see that pic of me on Jeff 's phone move."
"Jeff. That was little Jeff, Steph's little Jeff?" Simone exclaimed.
"Yeah. I just thought maybe the reason I couldn't see the future of what happened, or happens or whatever, you get it, anyway, is because it hadn't happened yet. What do you think?"
Surprised, Simone wanted to know more about Jeff, "You mean little Jeffrey was hitting on you?"
"Get over it. Yes, it was Jeff, but he isn't little Jeffrey anymore. Anyway, what do you think?"
"Well, if Jeff was hitting on me, I'd call him back. And yes, whatever the reason, it isn't that big of a deal. Like you said, it's a party trick. No one cares."
*****
It was past midnight, Paul and Ken were working late, going over the contents of the envelope they had received almost four months earlier. The envelope had over two dozen fingerprints, most of them were smudged and unusable. Inside, the photograph was printed on plain photocopy paper you could purchase at discount stores or big box office stores and yielded absolutely no fingerprints or DNA.
If it weren't for the photos that arrived by FedEx, there would be no record of the dismemberment of the female corpse. The series of eight pictures depicted a female torso placed inside an old-fashioned hard-shelled suitcase, no head, no arms, no legs. No body had ever been found, none of the missing parts were recovered. The information had been entered into CODIS and CPIC without a hit. The suitcase would be nearly impossible to trace. It appeared to be decades old, and no one even used old vinyl or leather luggage anymore. It was determined that the suitcase was either in the family for decades, purchased at a garage sale or thrift store or just found in the dump. There were no identifying marks on the suitcase.
The torso was most definitely female, no birthmarks or tattoos. She appeared young, but the skin around the arms and legs showed the skin had been cut, surgically cut. Paul instinctively knew this body was connected to the arm found in the snow bank. Was it from the same body? Was the arm torn from the body then the skin cut, without the torso, it was impossible to know for certain. But he knew it was the same person who did whatever it was to the arm found in the snow.
The lab was able to determine they were digital pictures printed on an HP model color laser jet. The resolution was low, details were difficult to make out but what each photograph portrayed was disturbing.
Almost every electronics store sold that model of HP printer, and thousands of units had been sold in the past few years. Just because the return address on the FedEx envelope was sent from a convenience store drop box in town, didn't mean the person purchased the printer from town. The store where the drop box was located didn't have video surveillance.
The printer could've been ordered online, from another town, any of the online swap sites. It wasn't like the old days when there was a limited number of stores to purchase electronics. They had pursued every possible avenue but had come to a dead end each time.
Each picture was placed in a plastic protective sleeve, and like a jigsaw puzzle where you don't have any clue what the final image is supposed to be, he and Ken kept re-arranging them in various orders to create a timeline. Regardless of what order they were in; they couldn't agree on what order they were taken in.
Paul had asked the lab techs to blow up each photo into four quadrants then enhance each section until the resolution was maxed. They spent weeks studying each of the blow-ups, asking other detectives and uniformed officers to offer their opinion but no one could provide any fresh leads.
Each grainy picture was a close-up of one section of the victim's body: back, abdomen, shoulder.
The one photo that Paul kept pinned to his cubicle wall was the one he found most disturbing.
*****
Abigail lay alone in her bed. She had taken a Lorazepam a few hours earlier to help her sleep, but she was too hyped about the news she had received earlier in the day and even with the help of pharmaceuticals, she was unable to fall asleep. She rolled over, pulled the bedspread up high, balled it tightly under her chin and curled up into the fetal position. The red numerals on the clock read "1:22". Abigail closed her eyes, took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. She repeated this several times until she started to relax and let the pill take over.
Several hours later, Abigail awoke staring into the darkness. She had a horrible feeling that was so intense it woke her from a drug-induced sleep. She dared not budge; only her eyes moved as she scanned her bedroom. The only light that penetrated the room came from the hall, through the open bedroom door. It was impossible to discern anything in the darkness, but she felt something. A feeling that she wasn't alone.
The silence of the room scared her more than anything. There was an absence of noise, a void of sound, Abigail thought as she could hear her breathing. She looked into the darkness, straining to see or hear something in the room. Abigail stopped breathing, holding her breath for a few moments, strained her ears and listened. She was certain there was something else breathing in the room. It was a muffled sound like someone had a scarf around their mouth in the winter. Or, the thought scared her even more, someone wearing a mask. Abigail held her breath again and concentrated her hearing on each section of the bedroom. Every thirty seconds or so, she would slowly take a breath, then hold it again. She now knew for certain there was something in the room with her.
In the darkness, he saw the same blue aura that surrounded her earlier in the day. It was a color he had never seen before and confused him. She was like nothing he had seen; she was beautiful, he could barely take his eyes off her.
Abigail's mind went into warp drive. If she couldn't see whoever was in the room, could she be seen moving? Was the light coming from the hallway enough to give whoever was in the room the advantage?
Abigail moaned softly, rolled onto her side and slid her arm out from under the covers and placed her hand over her cell phone on the nightstand. She stayed in that position for several minutes then rolled back the other way, bring her cell phone with her, sliding her hand under the covers. Hundreds of times, Abigail had blindly unlocked her phone and texted friends. Now, her hands were shaking so badly; she doubted she could call 911.
Her hand fumbled about over the screen, and she pretended to sleep. Her breathing rate increased, and she fought to control her fear. Abigail held her breath again and could hear the breathing of whoever was in the room increase. She knew something was about to happen. She dialed 911 and hit send then tossed the phone towards her feet under the covers as she heard a yell from behind the bedroom door. Abigail screamed as the bed covers were pulled down and she felt the cold night air envelope her body.
Goosebumps swelled over her exposed skin as something wrapped around each one of her ankles.
"911, what is your emergency."
Abigail was pulled down to the bottom of the bed, despite her attempts to anchor herself to the cotton fitted sheet covering the mattress. She held tight to the bed sheet, her fingernails digging into her palms through the sheet, was preventing her from being pulled down any further. When the pulling motion stopped, she began to kick wildly, finally breaking free of whoever held her by the ankles. Abigail began to scream, kicking at whatever was at the end of the bed.
"911, what is your emergency?"
Neither Abigail nor the attacker heard the muffled voice of the call taker on the phone as they fought. Once again, the emergency call taker asked her question, this time with a tone that was more au
thoritative. As the call taker continued to attempt contact, she passed the screen to the dispatcher who would send police as she continued to try to make contact with Abigail.
Abigail let out a high-pitched scream, pulled her right leg back quickly and kicked at the hand that was holding her other leg. She kicked at her foot that was still securely held, one of her kicks found its mark to the attacker's stomach. There was a loud moan, as Abigail saw the attacker curl up in pain. Her other foot was now free. She flipped her legs under herself until she was on all fours on the bed, reached for the crumpled bedspread and tossed it over the attacker. Abigail pounced on him, swinging wildly at the form under the bedspread. Several blind strikes landed hard on something causing the attacker to double over in pain. From the bed, Abigail climbed on top of the covered form and began an onslaught of punches and kicks to whoever was under the sheet. An almost inaudible noise came from the sheet causing a burning pain to the right side of Abigail's stomach. She placed her hand over the area and felt something wet and warm. Another faint sound. The drywall in the ceiling exploded above her head. Another pop. Another burning sensation in her chest. Abigail attempted to take a deep breath but could not. She coughed and felt her throat fill with that same warm fluid she felt on her stomach. Strength left her body quickly. Abigail slid from on top of the form under the bedspread to the floor. She coughed again. The pain in the chest was unbearable. She tried to yell, but nothing happened. The form stood as the bedspread tumbled to the floor. It righted itself. All Abigail could make out was a dark figure standing before her. It moved, and the light from the hall glistened off the oily finish on the handgun now pointing at her. Another pop. A flash of white burst forth from the muzzle. Her right knee exploded sending a million pain signals to her head in a fraction of a second. Blood gurgled inside her throat, and she was unable to scream, the pain was evident in her eyes. Another pop. Another white flash. Her left knee shattered, and the pain grew exponentially. The screams welled up inside Abigail, instead of the scream, she spit blood from her mouth so that she could breathe. Abigail knew she was going to die; she wanted to die. She would die but the attacker knew what he wanted first.
*****
Nicole bolted upright in bed panting, staring into the darkness. Sweat dripped from Nicole's forehead and the tip of her nose. She could feel the perspiration covering her entire body and wondered why she felt so exhausted. Her bedsheets weren't damp; they were soaking wet. She placed a hand to her head to quell the throbbing going on at the back of her skull. She massaged her temples and thought that maybe she had too much to drink at the party earlier. Whatever the reason, her head was pounding, her eyes hurt, and she felt nauseous. Nicole used the tips of her index and middle fingers to rub her temples and soften the pressure inside her head. She closed her eyes, continued to rub her temple, but the pain failed to subside.
Nicole decided that only a couple of Advil would help. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, stood and collapsed screaming. Her knees felt as though they were on fire, causing her unbearable pain. Nicole began to cry and gently held onto her legs wondering why she suddenly had such excruciating pain in her knees and head. She braced herself up against the bed and attempted to rub her knees, but she could barely touch them without causing more pain. Even the light material of her nightgown loosely draped over her knees caused pain.
Nicole attempted to reach for the tissues on her night stand, but the movement sent pain coursing through her and caused her headache tension to escalate. She fell onto her side and began to weep openly. She couldn't understand what was causing the pain or why it started so suddenly. Her nose began to drip and as she was about to wipe it clean with the back of her hand when a sharp stabbing pain tore through her abdomen. Waves of nausea swept over her as bile forced it way up into her throat. Nicole tried to force the vomit out, but it lingered at the back of her throat until her stomach calmed. Her eyes rolled back as the pain in her stomach intensified with a burning sensation that caused her to vomit repeatedly.
Nicole wonders if her powers to see photos move had caused a brain tumor and somehow managed to disrupt her entire body. She closed her eyes, spit out whatever sour tasting sputum was left in her mouth and knew she was about to die. Her head began to spin causing more nausea, and the pain in the knees and stomach were too much for her to tolerate any longer. She was now welcoming death and wanted the pain to end quickly. The room swirled in her mind; her memories became cloudy and unfocused as she welcomed whatever was to come next to stop the agony.
April 22
It was the type of rain that hits the cars with drops so large; it sounded like hail instead of water. The rain was coming down almost horizontal, in torrential sheets, waves of water formed within the downpour and danced in the rainfall. It didn't take long for tiny rivers along the curbs to begin washing away the last remnants of winter. The water ran dark with salt and sand used on the roads to provide traction for the cars. The storm drains had already begun to overflow, and the water rose along the curbs and flood out onto the streets. Even though it was before eight in the morning, detective Paul Hammond had his headlights on for visibility, both to see and be seen. His windshield wipers clicked each time they hit the high position as they swept the water from the glass. If he didn't get the call to attend the strange death of a woman in her bedroom, he would probably still be asleep. For as long as Paul could remember, he always loved to sleep during thunderstorms. There was something about the sound of rain, wind and thunder that comforted him and made him drowsy and helped him sleep.
Paul pulled onto the street, between two cruisers and close to the walk leading up to the house. He didn't have an umbrella or a raincoat, just his nylon jacket. He was glad he didn't take the time to shower before driving to the scene. Paul opened the car door, rain blew into the cab of the vehicle, quickly soaking him and the interior of the car. As he exited the car, his personal phone began to vibrate in his pants pocket. He looked down, almost slipped on the wet concrete, deciding to answer the phone inside the house. He quickened his pace up the steps, passed several uniformed officers as they stood outside the house. The officers didn't hold up the yellow crime scene tape as they passed under for Paul, so he could walk beneath it. He mumbled his disdain for rookies as he fumbled for the phone in his pants and moved under the tape as he entered the house. Another younger officer with a clipboard was taking the names, rank and time of who entered and exited the house. Paul stopped in front of him, handed him his badge and ID as he retrieved the phone from his pocket.
The phone stopped vibrating before Paul pulled it from his pocket. He looked at the screen and spoke out loud without realizing it, "Fuck."
"Excuse me?" the young officer asked.
Paul turned towards him, "Sorry, I was expecting a call." He took off
his nylon jacket and shook it, sending droplets of water over the front foyer then started to make his way into the house. "I mean, I got a call. I've been expecting this call for some time now. Hey, how long is too long after you miss a call before you call someone back?"
Perplexed, the officer lowered his clipboard, "Depends. If it's your mother, it's never too late. One of the guys, who gives a shit. Your wife or girlfriend or someone you want to date, I'd say twenty-four hours. Max. So how long has it been?"
Paul thought for a moment, "About four months."
The officer laughed loudly, "Brother; it doesn't matter who it is at this point, you're fucked. What happened?"
"I missed the call and never called back." Paul almost seemed embarrassed to tell the man he had never met before. "And I missed it again, just now."
"Can I ask why you never called back?"
"Honestly, I have no fucking idea. Kinda hoped the missed call was a cue for her to call me back. A guy thing I guess. I've no clue when it comes to women. Or relationships for that matter." Paul shrugged as he shook the jacket again to rid it of excess water.
"You're not in a relationship with her?"
Paul shook his head side to side indicating they weren't in a relationship. The officer leaned in close and offered some advice in a whispered voice, "Call her. Now."
"Maybe right after I look into the dead girl they called me here for." Paul smiled at the officer, tapped him on the shoulder, "Thanks for the advice pal." He pointed down the hall, "That way?"
"Yup."
As Paul walked down the hall, he followed the army of crime scene techs in Tyvek coveralls to the last doorway on the right. He entered the room to find another detective hunched over the far side of the bed. Paul knew the familiar backside, "Hey Roz. Whatcha got?"
Roz stood and turned around, "Paul. You finally made it outta bed. I like the hours you keep." "Shut it."
Roz whirled her fingers in the air, "Walk around the end of the bed and take a look."
Paul did as he was instructed and stopped short when he walked around the bed, "Jesus fucken' Christ. What the hell happened here?"
Roz stood from her hunched position and towered over Paul. She stood behind Paul, placed her hand on his back and pointed to the woman lying on the floor, "There."
"I don't see anyth..." Something caught Paul's attention, and he lowered himself until he was on all fours and saw the telltale signs of why he was called in. Paul leaned in close to the dead woman's left shoulder and looked closely. "Toss me a glove," he asked Roz without looking up. He donned a glove on his right hand only without taking his eyes off the section of the shoulder. He touched the skin and gently ran his gloved index finger back and forth over a section of skin. "What the fuck is this?" Roz stepped in closer and peered over Paul's shoulder. Paul continued to run his index finger over tiny holes in the skin, similar to a series of tiny syringe marks along a section over the acromion process, the section where the clavicle or collarbone meets the scapula at the shoulder. It was like the skin had been perforated with some type of instrument to help the skin begin to tear. "Do you think this would help the skin to rip?" he asked.