The Body Counter

by Anne Frasier

  “Grab a couple of hours’ sleep while you’re there,” he said. “You’re going to need it.”

  Maybe Uriah had been right when he said she was just fooling herself, because later, while hot water ran over her, she began to shake violently. She locked her knees, forcing herself to remain upright. Finally, she shut off the shower, got dressed, strapped on her gun, and headed downstairs. Uriah had said to get some sleep, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to do that here.

  Pausing next to her motorcycle, wishing she’d paid more attention in math classes growing up, she pulled out her phone and did a Google search. The next number in the Fibonacci sequence was eight.

  Elliot had heard Jude come home, followed by the sound of the shower and the knock of the water moving through the pipes. And then he heard the slam of her apartment door. He listened, expecting her footsteps to fade, indicating she’d gone up to the roof, where she sometimes slept. He’d seen her there more than once, but he’d kept his distance because he’d also seen the handgun beside her.

  She didn’t go to the roof. Instead, her steps moved past his door. She was heading to the parking garage.

  Wide awake now, he threw on jeans and a flannel shirt and ran from his apartment, slipping into his car moments before she exited the garage on her motorcycle. He turned the key in the ignition, put his car in gear, and followed. He knew how to keep a good distance between them. He’d done this before.

  CHAPTER 18

  The world was asleep and the night was muffled, but her awareness of the key in the lock was familiar, and Jude felt a surge of anticipation—a response carried over from her imprisonment. She’d spent days and years imagining that faint sound, waiting for the shudder of her captor’s footsteps overhead, waiting to hear his voice and feel his touch. Because whatever happened once her cell door opened was better than endless hours of darkness spent with nothing but her own thoughts.

  But now she was the one doing the unlocking.

  She closed the door behind her, pausing to rub her fingers across the metal of the key, warm from the pocket of her jeans. She hadn’t gotten the locks changed yet, and she wondered if this had been his key. Finally she tucked it away and turned on her flashlight app, illuminating the basement stairs and blood spatter in front of her. With no hesitation this time, she moved down the steps, every footfall taking her closer to her goal, and every step bringing increasing reassurance.

  Once she was inside the cell, the door open an infinitesimal crack, she turned off the light and sank to the cold concrete, resting her shoulder blades against the insulated wall, eyes closed, and let out a sigh. She’d told Uriah every crime had an impact on them. It was true. She would never be free of this one.

  Her mind moved backward, to the days of her imprisonment and the self she’d discovered there. She might have dropped off to sleep, or she might have convinced herself that this was her life again. But at some point, she became aware of footsteps above her head. They confused her. Were they happening now? Or had her memories returned with such clarity that even her ears deceived her? Was it the squatters? Whatever the true source, she fell back into the old reaction of waiting for him the way she’d always waited for him, hoping he’d talk to her this time, hoping he’d stay awhile.

  She heard someone moving down the stairs, coming closer. And she imagined his boots, and imagined his face. Some shred of self-preservation was tripped and she pulled her weapon, held her breath, and waited.

  He was right outside the cell door.

  As she listened, the footsteps moved away, back up the stairs, to fade completely. She opened the door in time to hear a car roaring down the street. Was it him? No, he was dead. She’d killed him. Like she’d killed her father and brother.

  Her fingers went limp and the gun clattered to the floor. She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. He’d been here, and now he was gone, leaving her alone in the dark again.

  She knew she should go upstairs and lock the door. Instead, she curled up on her side and slept. Deeply, better than she’d slept in months. At some point, she awoke with a start and listened in the blackness. Nothing but the sound of her own breathing. Unsure of how much time had passed, she checked her phone. Morning. And not that early.

  This was bad. Her compulsion and fascination with the house was sick. She knew it. She should tear it down, but how could she possibly do that when it was so much a part of her? When it might prove to be a source of strength?

  She got to her feet, slipped her gun back into the holster, and stepped from the cell. The basement windows had been cemented over long ago, before she’d been taken prisoner. Upstairs, she was puzzled by how dark it was, then realized the windows had been boarded up. Surprisingly, Joe the Handyman had come.

  She moved through the house, her boot heels echoing on the hardwood floor. She found herself thinking about what she might do to fix the place up. Stop! Paint the kitchen table and chairs, maybe a cream color. A fresh coat of paint on the walls, maybe something in a pale yellow. Stop! Wash the windows and hang some cheerful curtains. Stop!

  This was so wrong. Before she lost her resolve, she looked up demolition companies and contacted one of them to tear down the house.

  “It takes time to prepare all the paperwork,” the woman who answered the phone told her. “Permits have to be issued, gas and electric lines have to be disconnected.”

  Knowing it would take time was a relief. “That’s okay,” Jude said. “Take as long as you like.” Wondering if she’d back out.

  In the bedroom, the mattress gave off the scent of body odor and cigarette smoke. It was a smell she remembered. There was a long, low dresser against the wall. The crime-scene team had combed the house, but she opened drawers anyway, pulling them out completely, looking under and behind, running her hand along crevices. She didn’t know what, if anything, she was looking for. Just the detective in her, maybe.

  With the last drawer, something snagged. When she tugged the drawer free, she heard a piece of paper drop to the floor. She set the drawer aside and pulled the dresser away from the wall. Trapped in the dust was a curved photo, facedown.

  A Polaroid.

  She’d forgotten about the photos. How had she forgotten about the photos? And if she’d forgotten about them, what else had she forgotten? What else had she bent and turned into something else?

  She picked up the print, shook off the cobwebs and dust, turned it over—and sucked in a breath.

  Hours ago, she’d told Uriah she hadn’t deliberately tried to forget anything. Not completely true. She’d pushed the hard-core events away, and with distance she’d come to almost romanticize her time in the house. She could see that now. In this house she’d been more spiritual, calmer, more accepting, in many ways a freer person. She’d transcended the physical world, the world of cold and pain, and survived in the world of her mind. Maybe that was what she really missed. Maybe she missed the deep connection to herself she’d found in the house. The security of herself. The photo served as a shocking reminder of the harsh reality of her existence here.

  He’d taken many photos. More at first, and then fewer as she physically fell apart. In this one, like most of them, she was nude, arms tied above her head, a gag in her mouth, eyes wide. He used to hang her from the ceiling above a floor drain and hose her down with freezing water. Later, he got lax, or maybe he knew she was broken, and he’d have her stand with no restraint, just the warning of his Taser.

  She stared at the photo. She didn’t feel any embarrassment or humiliation. It was like staring at someone else. A stranger. An abused stranger. What she felt was compassion and outrage. Finally, she was thankful she’d killed him.

  Numbly, she cast her gaze around the room, noting the hundreds of pinholes, spaced evenly. And she realized he’d tacked her photos to the wall. He’d probably spent time in bed looking at the pictures while masturbating.

  Where were the rest of them? Had they been there when the crime-scene team came? If so, why ha
dn’t she been aware of them? Did Uriah know? Maybe not. Maybe they’d been removed before that, either by her captor or by someone else. By Grant Vang, who was now in prison for setting her up? She hadn’t looked at the evidence they’d collected—she’d had no real reason to. But now . . . She tucked the photo inside her jacket. Like the picture of the house, it seemed to have a pulse.

  Outside, she breathed in cool morning air, trying to get her head in the game, the game of multiple murders.

  “I thought that motorcycle looked familiar.” The words came from the homeless woman Jude had talked to before. Today she wore a snagged knit cap, torn tennis shoes, dirty jeans, baggy coat. Her shopping cart overflowed with treasures she’d scavenged. “You supposed to be in there?” She squinted at Jude.

  “It’s okay. I bought it.”

  “Oh.” The woman was understandably surprised. “Why?”

  “I’m not entirely sure.”

  “Well, better you than someone else. Still wish I could have helped you.”

  “Your name is Ruthie, right? Ruthie Logan? Maybe you can help in another way. You might have heard of the murders near Lake of the Isles.” A lot of homeless people knew one another. But they’d also be reluctant to talk. “If you could keep your eyes open, let me know if you see or hear anything suspicious.”

  “I’m not sure.” She was uneasy about the idea.

  “We’re talking murder. I just want you to stay alert. That’s all.” She zipped her jacket. “Do you still have my card?”

  “Does it look like I ever get rid of anything?”

  Jude smiled, then got serious again. “Don’t put yourself in danger, but contact me if you see something that worries you.”

  The woman shuffled off, and Jude got on her bike. With both feet still on the ground, she dug out her phone and called Uriah to check on the day’s agenda.

  “I’m heading to the morgue before going downtown,” he told her.

  “I’ll meet you there in an hour.” She stuck the key in the ignition. “I’ve got something I need to do first.”

  Her personal story wasn’t a priority, but she needed to see if someone had found the other photos of her when they’d processed the house. More than that, she needed to know if Uriah had kept them from her. If so, she might have to revise her current level of trust.

  CHAPTER 19

  The street directly in front of the police department swarmed with press. Jude avoided them by parking in the garage. She swiped her security card at a little-used door, then took the elevator to the basement and the evidence room, where an armed guard named Harold manned the counter.

  He smiled when he saw her. They talked for a minute, then Jude got to the reason for her visit. “I need to see something from my own case. The Fontaine evidence.”

  “No problem.” He clicked computer keys while staring at a screen she couldn’t see from where she stood. If he was wondering why she’d want her old files, he didn’t let on. Using a mouse, he scrolled, and squinted behind his glasses. “Got several entries here.”

  “It would have been submitted after my escape,” Jude told him, “with the evidence gathered at the house where I was held captive. I’ll need to look at anything that might contain smaller items. Paper, possibly photos.”

  “That narrows it down to two.”

  “Great.”

  He disappeared into the evidence stacks. She listened as he rummaged around. He finally returned with two cardboard boxes with cut-out handles that he slid across the counter, along with a pen. “Had trouble finding one of these. It was filed incorrectly. That never happens.”

  The first box had been signed out by several people over the years, most of the signatures going back to her disappearance. The second one, the one that had required a search, had only one signature and was sealed up tight. That signature belonged to her partner, Uriah Ashby.

  She signed the chain-of-evidence forms. Then, in a private room with tubes of blinding fluorescent lights overhead, she placed the containers on the lunchroom-style table. Without sitting down, she opened the box that had been signed out several times.

  Nothing surprising. Small items, bagged and collected at the scene. The kinds of things found in a desk. She resealed the box, signed it, then broke the seal on the second container and lifted the lid. Photos. A hundred, maybe more, and they matched the one she’d tucked into her pocket at the house.

  She dropped heavily into the nearest chair. Afraid of losing her nerve, she pulled the box closer. Without giving herself time to think, she sifted rapidly through the photos, grabbing several, shuffling through them, putting the viewed ones aside, grabbing another handful, distantly aware that her breath was coming short and fast, and that sweat had broken out on her body.

  In every photo, she was nude. Filthy, hair matted, welts and cuts on her chest, legs, back, hips. The images weren’t dated, but it was easy to track the passage of time by her physical decline and hair that had gone from brown to white. And not just the physical, because it wasn’t her body that commanded most of her attention. Her face, the reflection of her essence, was the most shocking and disturbing thing of all. Over time, her expression had gone from angry and disgusted and resolute to blank, sometimes even submissive. She’d seen that look in the faces of girls who’d been kidnapped and tortured. The eventual emptiness in the eyes, the slackness of the jaw—indications of giving up and shutting down.

  Some people had remarked on how she’d changed. Even if they didn’t say it, she’d seen it in their unease. She’d clung to the idea that she was better now, stronger now, that the foolish person she’d been in those early photos was gone, replaced with someone better.

  But seeing the blankness, she wasn’t sure . . .

  Not everybody wants to be an unemotional robot, Caroline McIntosh had said.

  She went through the images again. It was like looking at someone else, someone who’d been victimized. Someone who needed help. But the person who’d done this was dead. And there was no one to save.

  A rap on the door caused her to jump. Harold poked his head inside. “Everything okay in here?” He was too far away to be able to see the content of the photos.

  She glanced at the clock on the wall and realized she’d been there almost an hour. “Fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  He smiled and closed the door. She gathered up the Polaroids, dumped them back in the box. Sealed the container, signed and dated it, then returned everything to the front counter for restocking. “Thanks, Harold.”

  She left.

  She didn’t care that Uriah had seen the photos. They’d met right after her escape. The next day in the hospital she’d told him everything, so nothing should have shocked him. The idea of him seeing her so broken and humiliated wasn’t what bothered her. Why had he kept the photos a secret? Who else had seen them? What else was he not telling her?

  Her phone rang. She checked the screen, expecting to see Uriah’s name since she was late to the morgue. Unknown Number.

  In the hallway, as she waited for the elevator, she answered.

  The voice at the other end belonged to a female. Young, hesitant. “Is this Detective Fontaine?”

  “Yes.”

  “I called you the other night.”

  Jude struggled to pull her mind away from the photos.

  “The telethon? You gave me your number.”

  “Clementine.”

  As they talked, Jude straddled her bike and put the key in the ignition. “Do you need help?” She struggled for words that wouldn’t come across as aggressive or threatening. “Are you in danger? From yourself? Others?” Too direct.

  “Not right now.”

  “What can I do? I’d like to help you.” Uriah was expecting her at the morgue. But those people were dead. This girl was alive. “I can meet you somewhere. Right now.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She sounded nervous, as if she regretted the call. Jude was trying to come up with another plan of action when
Clementine hung up.

  Jude hit “Return Call.” She let it ring a long time and was about to give up when a distracted-sounding man answered.

  “I’m trying to contact someone named Clementine,” Jude said.

  “I don’t know anybody by that name. This is a pay phone. It wouldn’t stop ringing, so I picked up.”

  Could be true, because Jude heard traffic. “Do you see a young girl nearby?”

  “I just got off the bus. Some people got on, but I didn’t pay any attention. I was looking at the damn phone.”

  “What’s your location?”

  “You sound a little too old for prank calls.”

  She didn’t want to reveal her identity in case the man was Clementine’s abuser. “Not a prank.”

  “I gotta go.”

  “Wait! Where’s the phone located?”

  “Can’t talk anymore. Don’t want to be a part of your game.” He hung up.

  There was nothing Jude could do except hope Clementine called back. She tucked her phone away, pulled on her helmet, and headed for the morgue and Uriah.

  CHAPTER 20

  Uriah respected the past and the stories older buildings could tell. Because of that, he found the Hennepin County Morgue more fascinating than he probably should have. The squat concrete structure sat in the shadows of the downtown Minnesota Vikings’ stadium. Almost everyone, from the mayor to morgue interns, agreed the facility had outgrown itself. Uriah was glad something was finally going to be done to remedy the situation, but he wasn’t thrilled about the new site suggestions, all in third-ring suburbs. Yes, it would provide for future space to expand, but the drive, especially during rush hour, could be a severe time suck for busy detectives. And it would mean this building might be torn down. He didn’t like that thought at all.