The Blood Red Indian Summer

by David Handler

  “Really? Because it sounded like … did he just call you—?”

  “Pop, I begged you.”

  “No, no. I like it large, Boo-Boo. And for the record, Chet, I never thought he was a murderer. Wouldn’t have brought him Baby Spice if I did.”

  “Who’s Baby Spice?” demanded Chet, who had some volume control issues. Talked a bit on the loud side. Maybe it was the pants.

  “From the Spice Girls,” Ruth said to him. “That English singing group, remember? One of them’s married to David Beckham. The one with those huge, fake boobs.”

  Chet shook his head. “Who’s David Beckham?”

  “The soccer player.”

  “He has huge, fake boobs?”

  “No, she does.”

  “Who does?”

  “Des was referring to Clemmie. Her name used to be Baby Spice.” Now Mitch’s voice had a semi-adolescent edge to it. The poor man was growing younger by the minute. Before long his testicles would be retreating back up into his pelvis. “I’ll be right back,” he said to them, steering Des across the driveway toward her cruiser. “You saw all of those bruises?”

  “I saw them.”

  “When she came to, she said, ‘Please don’t make me go back there.’ She seemed really, really terrified.”

  “I’ll take down your formal witness statement later. Your folks, too. Will they be okay?”

  “Are you kidding? They spent their entire working lives in the New York City public school system. They’ve seen shootings, knifings—don’t worry about them.”

  Des looked out at the water. “I’m all turned around. Where’s the Grantham house from here?”

  “A mile or so that way.” He pointed up river. “The river current sends all sorts of debris our way. Tree limbs, plastic bottles—everything washes up here. She’s lucky she did. Otherwise she would have drifted out into the open Sound. Then again, maybe that’s what she wanted to do.”

  “You mean commit suicide?”

  “Why else would she go for a swim in the middle of the night—in her underwear?”

  “Could be some guy was getting rough with her. She jumped in the water to get away from him but the current was too strong and she couldn’t get back.”

  “That plays,” he conceded. “Especially if she was drunk or high. There was a party there last night.”

  Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose and said, “I don’t like this.”

  “I wouldn’t either if I were you.”

  She waved good-bye to Mitch’s parents, got in her Crown Vic and drove back across the causeway, stopping when she reached the Nature Preserve. She’d input Tyrone Grantham’s unlisted home number in her cell phone. Chantal answered the phone, sounding sleepy and grumpy.

  “Sorry to disturb you so early, Chantal. It’s Resident Trooper Mitry. Is Jamella awake yet?”

  “She been up since dawn with her morning sickness. Poor thing hasn’t gone a day without vomiting since she got pregnant. You need her?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I’ll go get her.”

  Des gazed out across the undulating green meadows of the Nature Preserve, cherishing this fleeting moment of serenity.

  “Hello?…” Jamella’s voice sounded guarded.

  “It’s Resident Trooper Mitry, Jamella. I’m calling about Kinitra.”

  “She’s asleep in bed. You want me to wake her? Chantal could have done that for you.”

  “Kinitra’s not in her room. I’m afraid she’s being taken by ambulance to Shoreline Clinic.”

  Jamella let out a gasp. “She’s what?”

  “A resident of Big Sister Island just found her washed up on the beach there. She nearly drowned, but she appears to be okay.”

  “Oh my lord!…”

  Des heard noises in the background. And a man’s voice demanding, “What’s going on?”

  “Tyrone, they’re taking my baby sister to the hospital! Trooper Mitry, are y-you still there?”

  “I’m here. But I’m afraid I have more bad news. She’s pretty bruised up. It’s possible that she may have been sexually assaulted.”

  “Are you telling me one of those punks at Clarence’s party raped her?”

  “Who raped her?” Tyrone hollered in the background.

  “Oh, my sweet girl,” Jamella sobbed. “Where’s this place you’re taking her to? No, wait. Baby, you talk to her. I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “This here’s Tyrone,” he said angrily. “Where do we go?”

  “Shoreline Clinic on Route 153 between Westbrook and Essex.”

  “Will you be there?”

  “I’m on my way right now. Tyrone, you need to find Kinitra’s wallet with her driver’s license and other forms of I.D. Bring it with you, okay?”

  “Is this an insurance thing? Because I got her covered no matter how much it costs.”

  “It’s not an insurance thing. It’s an age of consent thing. They need to verify that she’s eighteen.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “They’ll explain everything to you when you get there.”

  * * *

  Shoreline Clinic was a small, highly efficient emergency response facility affiliated with Middlesex Hospital up in Middletown. Des accessed the emergency room directly from the driveway through the ambulance doors and found herself in a bustling bullpen of nurse’s and doctor’s stations. The examining and treatment rooms formed a big U around the bullpen.

  The Jewett girls had come and gone by the time she got there. Kinitra was being examined by a doctor. The door to her room was closed. Des, who was several hours shy of sleep, fetched herself a cup of coffee from the nurses’ lounge. Sipping the coffee gratefully, she returned to the E.R. and peeked through the glass door to the admitting desk and waiting area. Tyrone and Jamella were seated out there with Rondell, all three of them looking tight-lipped and grim. There were only a few other people out there at this early hour. By nine o’clock the place would be mobbed.

  The door to Kinitra’s room opened now and the SANE, a chubby young redhead, came out clutching the results of the CT100 Sex Crimes Kit—Kinitra’s T-shirt and panties, the vaginal swabs, all trace and biological samples and photographic evidence. Every item was bagged and tagged separately. She led Des over to the nearest counter so that Des could sign for it, thereby maintaining the chain of custody.

  “Dr. Tashima will be out in a minute,” the young nurse informed her before she went bustling off.

  Des used that minute to lock the evidence bags in the trunk of her cruiser. When she returned Dr. Cindie Tashima was coming out of Kinitra’s room, closing the door softly behind her. Des had worked with Cindie on numerous occasions. She was a Harvard-trained Japanese-American whose parents had been born in an internment camp in Utah during the Second World War.

  Right now, she had a very unhappy look on her face. “The Jewett girls told me to expect you.”

  “How is she?”

  “Stable, comfortable and lucid. Also quite adamant that she wasn’t raped last night. I advised her to consent to a rape kit anyway just for her personal safety. She consented even though she swore it wouldn’t show anything. And it didn’t.”

  “Her being in the water like she was would wash away all of the evidence, wouldn’t it?”

  “That’s a ‘yes’ as to someone else’s pubic hair. And a ‘no’ as to semen. There should still be traces of it in her vagina even after two hours in the water. But we found nothing when we swabbed her.”

  “Say he wore a condom.”

  “We found no fresh internal or external vaginal abrasions. Kinitra wasn’t raped.” Cindie let her breath out slowly. “Not last night, anyhow.”

  Des frowned at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that I found extensive scarring. Someone has been sexually abusing this young woman for months. I’m talking about repeated, forcible vaginal and anal penetration.”

  “Damn, this just keeps getting better and better.
”

  “Oh, I’m just getting warmed up,” Cindie warned her. “Kinitra’s also pregnant. Eight weeks along, I’d say.”

  “Did she know about it?”

  “She knew. Took a home pregnancy test.”

  “Does her sister know?”

  “Would that be Jamella?”

  “Yes.”

  “The answer is no. She’s been keeping it from her. Afraid she’ll go nuts. Not exactly mature behavior but Kinitra is a teenager. And Jamella is the mother figure in her life, I gather.”

  “You gather right. Exactly what does Kinitra say has been going on?”

  “She told me that she’s been in a consensual relationship with a young man and that they happen to enjoy rough sex.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “No, I do not. But her sister provided us with valid I.D. that verifies Kinitra is eighteen and, therefore, an adult under the law. If she says she and her boyfriend like it rough then that’s how it is. What happens next is entirely up to her. She would not grant me consent to discuss her condition with members of her family. If I do I’ll be violating her privacy under the HIPPA laws. You and I can discuss it because this is a potential criminal investigation. Or I should say was. If she keeps insisting that no crime took place…”

  “Then no crime took place. And I’m out of here. Cindie, she had to know what your exam would turn up. Why did she agree to it?”

  “My opinion? It was a cry for help. But don’t ask me from whom or what because I truly don’t know.”

  “Well, how is she explaining the events of last night? How did she end up half-drowned on Big Sister Island?”

  “She’s refusing to say a word about it. The subject’s off limits. I did take blood samples for the presence of alcohol and drugs in her system. If nothing else, we’ll be able to determine if she was high. I should have those results back from the lab in a few minutes.”

  “Are we looking at a suicide attempt here?”

  “We could be. Or she may have been trying to terminate. An acute physical trauma such as a near drowning can trigger a miscarriage—although it didn’t in her case. The fetus is fine.”

  “How about the identity of this boyfriend of hers?”

  “Won’t say a word about him either. Otherwise, she’s a regular chatterbox.”

  “You can do a fetal DNA test at this stage, can’t you?”

  “Absolutely. We can determine paternity with no risk to the mother or the baby. But she has to agree to it. We can’t compel her. Not even if a crime took place. And she refuses to acknowledge that one has.”

  “Does she know that her family’s outside?”

  Cindie nodded. “Doesn’t want to see them.”

  “Not even her sister?”

  “Especially her sister.”

  Des opened the door to the small, windowless examining room and went in, Cindie trailing close behind her. Kinitra was sitting up in bed drinking from a Styrofoam cup of what appeared to be a hot tea. Her hair was wrapped in a towel. Her fresh-scrubbed face gleamed in the overhead lights. She looked thirteen.

  “Hi, Trooper Mitry.” Sounded thirteen, too. Her voice was all sing-songy and girlish. “Sorry to put you to so much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. It’s my job. But Dr. Cindie told me you don’t want to see your sister. How come?”

  Kinitra lowered her big brown eyes. “She’ll be mad at me.”

  “No, she won’t. Jamella loves you. She’s worried sick about you.”

  Kinitra thought it over, her lower lip stuck out. “Who else is out there?”

  “Tyrone and Rondell.”

  “Well, I don’t want to see them. But I guess it’s okay for Jamella to come in.”

  “Is it okay if Dr. Cindie talks to her about your medical condition?”

  Kinitra shrugged. “If she wants to.”

  Cindie riffled through the forms that were attached to her clipboard. “I need your autograph to that effect right here.”

  Kinitra took the pen from her and signed it.

  Des told her she’d be right back with Jamella. Then she and Cindie left the room, closing the door behind them.

  “Cindie, how long will you be keeping her here?”

  “After a near drowning we like to keep them under observation for six to eight hours, then have them come back the next day to be reexamined. There’s a risk they can develop a lung infection.”

  “I need you to do better than that.”

  “Better as in?…”

  “I want her out of that house for a day or two. It’s an iffy situation there. An extended family of in-laws and hangers-on. A party atmosphere. Can you admit her overnight to Middlesex for, say, a psych evaluation?”

  Before Cindie could respond, there was a disturbance outside the glass door at the admitting desk. Tyrone had gotten tired of waiting around. He was hollering, screaming and generally acting as if he wanted to hit someone. Little Rondell was trying to calm him down while Jamella pleaded with the woman at the desk.

  Cindie watched them, her brow furrowing. “That big one in the orange T-shirt is Tyrone Grantham, isn’t it? The pro football player who’s always beating the crap out of people?”

  “He’s married to Jamella. The pint-sized one’s his kid brother Rondell.”

  “Am I seeing things or is Jamella pregnant, too?”

  “Seven months.”

  Cindie promptly got busy at a computer. “I’m going to admit Kinitra to Middlesex for that psych evaluation.”

  “I owe you one, Cindie. And you’ll fill Jamella in?”

  “You bet. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

  Des opened the glass door and motioned to Jamella. “You want to see Dr. Tashima. She’s right over there.”

  “Oh, thank God!” Jamella came waddling into the E.R. in a loose-fitting yellow shift and gold sandals, clutching a Prada handbag.

  “Yo, what about us?” Tyrone demanded angrily.

  “Please remain out here for now.”

  “No way!” he roared, barging his way through the doorway.

  Des put her hand up against his massive chest and stopped him, lowering her voice. “Tyrone, Kinitra is very upset right now. She wants to be with her sister. Just let this process unfold, okay? I’ll call you when it’s time.”

  “To hell with that! I want to know what’s happening right now!”

  The folks in the waiting area were missing none of this. Tyrone Grantham was huge. He was black. And he was famous. Already, their cell phones were starting to come out. In three more seconds there would be video of this whole incident. Then the media would get into it—and Kinitra’s privacy would be lost.

  “Okay, fine,” Des sighed. “Come with me.”

  “That’s more like it. Come on, little man. We’re going in.”

  The Grantham brothers followed her into the E.R. Jamella was huddled with Cindie, shaking her head in disbelief.

  Des found a small, vacant examining room and ushered Tyrone and Rondell inside. “Wait right here, okay?”

  “What the hell’s this?” Tyrone demanded.

  “The V.I.P. lounge. If you create a scene out there I can guarantee you it will be the lead story on SportsCenter tonight. Is that what you want for Kinitra?”

  “No, we do not,” answered Rondell, who looked totally distraught.

  “Is Clarence waiting outside in your car?”

  “He’s still in the rack,” Tyrone replied. “Up all night with that Asia.”

  “How about Calvin?”

  “Naw, he never stirs before noon. There’s nobody out in the car.”

  “Did any media people follow you here?”

  Tyrone shook his shaved head. “Too early for them. We’re good.”

  “Thank you for your consideration, Trooper Mitry,” Rondell said. “We’ll be right here when you’re ready for us.”

  By now Jamella had gotten the full dose of bad news about her kid sister. The tears were streaming down her face. “S
he’s … how many weeks?”

  “Eight,” Cindie informed her.

  “I-I don’t believe this. She’s never even had a serious boyfriend. It must be a mistake.”

  “It’s no mistake.”

  A lab technician approached Cindie with a computer printout.

  Cindie studied it for a moment before she said, “No trace of alcohol or drugs in Kinitra’s blood. She was clean last night.”

  “Of course she was,” Jamella huffed. “My sister’s no party skank. She’s a serious artist.”

  Des put her hand on Jamella’s shoulder. “I’d like for the three of us to have a talk together. Do you think you can keep it together in there?”

  Jamella breathed in and out. “I’ll try. But who did this to her?”

  “That’s what I want to find out.”

  Des led her into Kinitra’s room, closing the door behind them.

  Jamella rushed toward her and gave her a hug, her eyes widening at the sight of those bruises around Kinitra’s throat. “Hey, baby,” she said gently.

  “Hey, I’m really, really sorry about all of this.”

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I let you down.”

  “How did you let me down? You didn’t let me down.”

  “Trooper Mitry wants to ask us some questions, okay?”

  “Questions?” Kinitra had a puzzled expression on her face. “What about?”

  Jamella settled into a chair, her fists clenched, eyes fixed on the floor.

  Des leaned against the closed door with her arms crossed. “About what happened to you.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Jamella gave her a hard stare. “You have to talk about it.”

  “No, I don’t. And don’t look at me that way.”

  “What way?”

  “Like you think I’m some kind of ho.”

  Jamella’s face tightened. “I don’t think that, baby.”

  “And stop calling me ‘baby.’ I’m all grown up.”

  “Okay, okay. Just … chill out for me, will you? I got Tyrone out there about ready to kill somebody. I’m sitting here, size huge, trying to wrap my mind around what in the hell has happened a-and I got you all of a sudden giving me an attitude like I never, ever … Just, p-please…” Jamella broke off with a sob. Des went over to the sink and got her a tissue. “Sorry, it’s my danged hormones. I cry all of the time.” She dabbed at her eyes, sniffling. “Just tell us what happened, okay?”