“I don’t know,” he said. “He’s been calling for you.”
“I bet he has,” she said, flinging the door open.
Grant’s head was encased in a metal halo. “Why did you leave me alone?”
“I was talking to Jimmy Townsend in the parking lot,” Carol said, still panting in anger. “You lied to me. Rachel didn’t make up what happened at the beach party because you refused her advances. You tried to rape her. And you didn’t just rough her up a little the night I covered for you. I saw the bruises on her body. You beat the crap out of her.”
“She’s lying,” Grant said. “The woman shot me.”
“Oh, yeah,” Carol shouted, grabbing onto the metal railing and shaking the bed. “We don’t even know if that’s true, now, do we? Jimmy told me you bugged Rachel’s house. He said you drugged her beer on the beach. What else have you done? I’m probably going to lose my job because of you.”
Grant’s face locked in a mask of fury. He seized her arm, digging his fingernails into her flesh. “Look at me, bitch,” he said, the words hissing out between his teeth. “I may be trapped in this bed, but I refuse to let you talk to me in that tone of voice. I’m in pain, damn it. Whatever they’re giving me isn’t working. Go find the nurse and tell them they’ll have to give me something stronger.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Carol said, prying his hand off her arm and bending it backward until he cried out. “You don’t want them to have to reattach the halo, do you? If you don’t stop making trouble, they’ll withdraw your pain medication altogether. I’ll tell them the drugs are making you violent. Maybe they’ll transfer you to the mental ward.”
“I don’t need this shit,” Grant barked. “Get out of my room.”
“Fine,” she said, turning to walk away.
All of a sudden his hostility drained away. “No,” he said, the fierceness disappearing from his voice. “Don’t leave me, Carol. I don’t want to be alone in this place. The nurses don’t come when you call them. The food is disgusting. My head feels like someone hit me with a sledgehammer.”
Carol had a smug smile on her face when she turned around. “You want me to stay?” she said. She could own him now. After putting up with his rages and tolerating his beatings for so long, she felt a measure of satisfaction. Even though he had yet to realize it, he had just fallen into the hands of the enemy. “What’s it going to be. Grant?” she said. “If I stay, it will be on my terms.”
“You’re all I have, Carol.” His eyes held a mixture of fear and pain.
“Okay,” she said. “Now that we understand each other, I’ll find the nurse and see what she can do about increasing your medication.”
c h a p t e r
THIRTY-THREE
Carrie called Rachel from the pay phone outside the courtroom Friday morning. “I just got out of the evidentiary hearing,” she told her. “The judge refused to give you ten percent privileges, so I’m going to have to fly to San Francisco to get the money to post your bail. Most of the money I have is tied up in investments, Rachel. I don’t have fifty thousand in cash. I’ll have to arrange a loan, and the bank won’t let me do it over the phone.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“I’ll try to make it back tonight,” she said. “If everything goes as planned, I should be able to get you out of jail by tomorrow morning.”
“What about the kids?”
“Lucy’s going to look after them.”
“Tracy told me you were thinking of moving in with us,” Rachel said. “That would be great, Carrie. But I’m sorry to be causing so many problems for you.”
“Gotta go,” Carrie said. “If I don’t get to the airport, I’ll miss my flight.”
* * *
Bennie Underwood reported for work Friday night at ten o’clock. She had been a police dispatcher for over fifteen years. As soon as she turned fifty the following year, she planned to submit her retirement papers. She was a tiny woman with crinkly eyes and an easy smile, her frizzy hair the color of syrup. Since Bennie and her husband were childless, the men and women on the force had become like her kids. She had known most of the current crew from the day they had first put on a uniform. When Bennie’s lyrical voice came out over the police radio, the officers in the field knew they were in competent hands.
Now that they dispatched via computer and 911 calls came directly into the switchboard, Bennie seldom talked to complainants over the phone as she had in the old days. After the 911 operators typed in the details of the call, the computer would automatically classify it as to priority and the appropriate unit numbers would pop up on Bennie’s computer screen. The only calls that came directly into her headset were Class One calls—emergencies of a life-or-death nature.
The radio room was set up in four individual work stations, the long black console lined with rows of buttons and blinking lights. The four dispatchers were chatting at 11:05 when Bennie suddenly stiffened, a finger pressed against her earplug. Almost simultaneously, the details of the call flashed on their computer screens, and the other dispatchers turned and stared at Bennie. Tears were streaming down her face. “Please help me,” she exclaimed. “I don’t know what to call it.”
Ted Harriman was driving down Front Street when he heard the emergency tone signal, followed by Bennie’s familiar voice. The experienced dispatcher was perpetually calm, even in the face of chaos. What he heard tonight made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Only one thing caused Bennie to lose her cool. Harriman knew what she was going to say before she even finished the transmission. He had already flipped on his lights, and his finger rested on the toggle switch of his siren.
“Officer down,” Bennie repeated, her voice cracking. 3980 Orrville Road. Ambulance and fire have already been dispatched.”
Harriman didn’t wait for her to assign units. They would all be responding, with or without permission. “4A is en route,” he yelled into the microphone mounted into the visor. “My ETA is five minutes. I’m six blocks away.”
Every unit on the street began to check in, giving their locations and estimated response time. They were talking on top of each other, and Bennie hit the tone signal again to gain control of the radio. “4A, 6A, 7A, respond code three. All other units remain on your beats. I repeat, no other units respond other than those who have been dispatched. If you do, you’ll be subject to disciplinary action.”
“4A, station two,” Harriman barked. “Is there a suspect?”
“No suspects, 4A,” Bennie responded.
Harriman had no idea what kind of situation he was walking into, but like everyone else on the street, he knew who resided at 3980 Orrville Road.
Jimmy Townsend.
Lindsey Townsend had gone into premature labor at 9:40 Friday evening after her husband informed her he no longer had a job, and was about to be brought up on criminal charges. She was six months pregnant.
Jimmy had carried her to his car in the driveway, afraid to wait for an ambulance. When his wife began gritting her teeth and bearing down, he knew they would never make it to the hospital in time. He delivered a three-pound baby girl in the back seat of the car.
Ted Harriman squealed to a stop and leaped out of his car, racing over to the Jeep. The paramedics had already arrived and were working over Lindsey in the back seat. Bystanders were lined up on the sidewalk, watching the tragedy unfold. Some of them had to be neighbors, Harriman thought, seeing one of the women sobbing.
“Inside the house,” one of the paramedics shouted. “He took the baby. The woman with the blond hair lives next door. She saw Townsend run into the house with the infant in his arms. She was out here during the delivery. She thinks the infant might have been stillborn.”
Harriman checked with the station over his portable radio. He didn’t understand why Bennie had dispatched it as an officer down. “Who called this in?”
“One of Townsend’s children,” Bennie said, not wanting to tell him what the child had said over an open frequenc
y. “Check the bathroom off the master bedroom.”
Townsend’s wife tried to sit up. “He took the baby,” she wailed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “My baby, my baby. What’s wrong with my baby? She didn’t cry. She—”
Harriman raced inside the house. The bathroom door was locked. “Let me in, Jimmy,” he yelled. “Open the damn door. Don’t be a fool, man. Let us take the baby to a hospital.”
Met with silence, Harriman slammed his shoulder into the wood frame. Once was not enough. He continued ramming the door until the lock finally sprang.
The scene inside the bathroom was the most gruesome and disturbing sight he had ever seen. At first he assumed Townsend had swallowed his gun, but there was no blood. The officer’s body was crammed between the commode and the sink. The tiny infant was resting in his lap, wrapped in a dish towel. The floor of the bathroom was covered with debris. Food containers. Cereal boxes. Bread wrappers. Soda cans. Townsend’s head was slumped forward onto his chest, the front of his shirt covered in vomit.
Stepping over the litter on the floor, Harriman bent down and checked the infant’s pulse. Nothing. He had known the baby was dead from the moment he had seen it in Townsend’s lap. The infant’s skin was blue. It appeared to have died from lack of oxygen.
Lifting Townsend’s head, he realized he must have choked on a piece of food. Either that, or he had drowned in his own vomit. How could he eat with a dead baby in his arms? Why would anyone want food at a time like this? Harriman shivered in revulsion.
He turned around, wanting to get out of the room before he became ill. Three adorable little girls were huddled together in the doorway, staring at their deceased father and the tiny bundle of flesh that would have been their baby sister.
He would never forget the horror of that moment.
Quickly closing the door behind him, Harriman dropped to his knees. “You didn’t see that,” he said, picking up the smallest girl in his arms. Pushing the other children in front of him, he herded them down the hall to the front of the house.
Once she realized she was not going to make bail until Saturday, Rachel asked to be transferred from protective custody to the main jail population. If she had to spend another night in jail, she didn’t want to do it in solitary confinement. In a quad, she could eat her meals with the other inmates and watch television. Now that she was caught up on her rest, Rachel was becoming restless and claustrophobic.
Seated in a metal chair next to the three other women, Rachel was laughing at an old Amos and Andy movie.
“I love comedies,” a woman with flowing black hair said. “My favorite is Lucy, though. This movie is older than my mother.”
The movie was interrupted for a news bulletin. “One of the officers caught up in the corruption scandal inside the Oak Grove Police Department died approximately an hour ago after his wife gave birth to a premature infant in the back seat of the couple’s Jeep Cherokee,” the female news anchor said. “The baby was stillborn. Department sources…”
Rachel bolted upright. “Turn up the volume.”
“There’s no volume control,” the woman with the black hair said. “Say, you look like that cop I saw on TV, now that I think about it. What’s your name?”
Rachel rushed over to the television so she could hear better. She knew it could only be Townsend. When the news flash was over, she simply stood there for a long time. Even though Jimmy had made mistakes, he had been her friend.
What had she done?
She felt as if she had pulled a string and unraveled the universe. Something inside her snapped. She stood in the middle of the room and screamed and screamed. Her shrill cries echoed down the corridors, the cells, through the speakers mounted in the ceilings, like a siren’s call of despair. Other women answered her with their own tortured wails. Finally the guards came and carried her out of the quad.
c h a p t e r
THIRTY-FOUR
When a female correctional officer unlocked the door to her cell in protective custody Saturday morning, Rachel was sleeping. After the commotion she had caused the night before, the guards had taken her to the infirmary, where they had given her a shot of Valium, then deposited her back in her original cell. “Your attorney is here to see you.”
Rachel sat up on the bed. Her mouth tasted like cotton. She didn’t realize where she was until she saw the bars. A breakfast tray was on the floor by the door. “What time is it?”
The jailer, a middle-aged woman with short curly hair, glanced at her watch. “A few minutes past ten.”
The dream was still fresh in Rachel’s mind. Frances had been holding the china doll in the pink satin dress. Even now, she could hear her mother’s voice, smell her cologne, something with lilacs. Both Rachel and her mother were happy—smiling, hugging. “Isn’t she beautiful? Look at her dress, baby. This is a doll for a real princess.”
Rachel remembered the clothes she had been wearing: a white cotton dress with a ruffled skirt, white tights, and black patent leather pumps. She squeezed her eyes shut, but all that came to mind were yellow marshmallow bunnies. Had it been Easter? The mind was a strange thing, she decided, pushing herself to her feet. She had dreamed about the china doll repeatedly, but she had never experienced a dream like this one. What was her mother doing with the doll? In her previous dreams, it had always been in the hands of Nathan Richardson.
She recalled her conversation with Mike Atwater the first night she had visited his house. Was there a greater significance to the doll? Possibly along the lines Atwater had suggested?
The jailer looked impatient. Rachel forced the dream out of her mind. Even though it seemed like a memory, she knew it was only the imaginings of a distraught mind.
Walking over to the sink, she tried to run the plastic comb through her hair, but it was too tangled and the comb broke. She asked the jailer if she had time to brush her teeth.
“Go ahead,” the woman said, “you’ve already kept me waiting.” Bending down and picking up Rachel’s breakfast tray, she saw the food had not been touched. “Guess you’re used to sleeping late, huh?”
“All the time,” Rachel said. Once she was finished brushing her teeth, the jailer led her through a maze of corridors.
Carrie was seated at the small round table inside the interview room. She stood and rushed over to embrace her sister. “Are you okay?”
“Jimmy Townsend is dead,” Rachel said flatly.
“I know,” she said. “Listen, the jail is processing the paperwork for your release. You should be out of here within thirty minutes.”
“Jimmy wouldn’t be dead if it wasn’t for me,” Rachel told her, taking a seat at the table. “He was a good father, Carrie. Nothing in the world meant more to him than his kids.”
“The man broke into your house, Rachel,” Carrie said. “He knew you didn’t shoot Grant Cummings, but he was more than willing to let you go to prison. How can you possibly grieve for this person? Besides, you didn’t cause his death. He died from an eating disorder.”
“I should have helped him,” Rachel said, wrapping her arms around her chest. “I knew Jimmy had a problem with food, but I never knew it could be so serious. I thought it was only women who developed eating disorders.”
Carrie waited until her sister calmed down, then took both her hands. “Let me explain how we’re going to proceed.”
“You can’t use Tracy,” Rachel said, a determined look in her eyes. “I’ve already told her she must not lie. I won’t allow it.”
“I’m not going to fight you, Rachel,” Carrie said patiently. “Believe me, I adore this kid. I don’t want Tracy to perjure herself any more than you do. I’ve decided to approach this from another direction.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been giving a lot of thought to your situation,” she continued. “I suddenly realized we were doing ourselves an injustice by not cooperating with the police.”
Rachel’s eyes flashed. “The police? What are you saying?”
“Relax,” Carrie said. “I think we may be able to gain some ground. Internal Affairs has launched a major investigation into the allegations you’ve made. Without your help, they won’t be able to put all the pieces together. I spoke to Captain Madison this morning and arranged for you to meet with an officer from Internal Affairs. We’re going to put everything on the table, Rachel. If things go as well as I think they will, we may be able to get the charges dismissed.”
Rachel braced her head in her hands. “Why would they believe me?”
“The witness who claims he saw you in the locker room with the gun was Fred Ramone. He may very well be the man who shot Grant.” Rachel’s head shot up, and Carrie nodded. “The crime lab lifted his fingerprints from the interior walls of the locker adjacent to the one assigned to Grant. When people use a locker, Rachel, their prints might be on the handle or the door, but ask yourself why they would place their hands on the interior walls.” She stopped speaking and shrugged. “It wasn’t even his locker. He was hiding in there, that’s why. Nothing else makes sense.”
The jailer unlocked the door to the interview room. “Her release papers just came through,” the guard told Carrie, “but I can’t let her leave with you. Prisoners have to be released through Central Booking.”
“I’ll meet you in the parking lot,” Carrie said. “We’ll drive straight to the police department.”
Fred Ramone lived in an apartment in Oak Grove. Located in the older section of town, the complex was constructed of stucco and contained ten units, all of them badly in need of repair. The interior of the apartment was cluttered and filthy. Newspapers, food wrappers, and soda cans were strewn here and there.
Ratso was curled up on the bed. Every few moments, his shoulders would shake and he would start sobbing again. Jimmy Townsend had been his friend, one of the few men in the department who had genuinely accepted him.
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