by Julie Cave
Now, it wasn't just that he didn't know who she was. He no longer knew where home was, hence the nighttime escapes out of windows and treks through neighbors' gardens; he forgot how to get dressed; he couldn't have fixed a meal for himself. His independence had all but vanished, and Ella knew that the man he once was would have hated that.
She saw he was looking at her, his confusion so great that it was pitiful. Ella felt a lump rise in her throat.
"You're not Charlotte, are you?" John said wretchedly.
"I'm your daughter, Dad," Ella said. "I'll take care of you."
He seemed to mull over her words, and then his eyes flashed. Had he recognized her, deep in the shadows of his mind?
"Am I home?" he asked.
"Yes, Dad. You're home and safe, I promise." Ella reached over and took his hand.
Thankfully, this seemed to satisfy him. When she took him up to his bedroom to get ready to go to sleep, he said to her thoughtfully, "If I did have a daughter, I'd want her to be just like you."
Ella held back her tears until she made it to her own bedroom. As she had done many times before, in helpless frustration, she inwardly shouted at the ceiling. This is so unfair! How could this happen to my father? As had always been before, she did not receive a reply.
****
He was back, stalking the decaying streets of northeast DC, but this time he had his eyes firmly fixed on his prey. This time, he wore an oversized, hooded sweatshirt and baggy, low-rise jeans. Other than his pale face, he blended into the neighborhood seamlessly. By now they were used to him. He had visited Lakeisha several times that week, taking her for a coffee and food, and paying her well for it. Her faceless boyfriend and the others in her small gang figured he was either a do-gooder hoping to get her off the street, or that he had a little thing for her. Either way, he suspected they all thought he was incapable of hurting a fly.
This time, when Lakeisha saw him, she came trotting over eagerly.
"Hi, Lakeisha, how are you?" he asked.
"Hi," she said. "Same drill tonight?"
Not quite.
"Yeah — let me guess, coffee, cheeseburger, and apple pie?" he asked, smiling at her. She hadn't changed her diet and he ordered the same thing for her every time he saw her.
"Onto a good thing, why change?" she shrugged.
At the cafe, he watched her obscurely, committing every feature and detail to memory. He wanted to remember everything. During their discussions, he'd learned that Lakeisha had to get high to tolerate her life on the street. She hated herself — scrounging for food and worse, and she hated how she lived, but she would do it to obtain more heroin. She was almost apathetic now, having had it drummed into her head from a young age that she would never amount to anything. She had seemed to accept that this would be her lot in life, and that it would never improve.
"How come you never told me your name?" she suddenly asked.
So you could never mention it to anybody.
"Didn't think you were that interested," he said. "Aren't I just another social worker to you?"
She considered. "Nope, you better than that. You don't expect nothing from me."
"Well, just call me John," he said. It wasn't even close to his real name.
She continued to eat and he continued to think about her history. Her boyfriend did indeed spend most of his life trying to obtain heroin for himself, and he was mean when he didn't get it. He then gave her heroin when she needed it, and precious little else. If she did something he didn't like, his favorite punishment was to get rough with her. When she showed some initiative or expressed a desire to get off the street, his favorite punishment was to withhold heroin. Her addiction to it was so great that she would beg and plead and agree to do anything as long as she received a hit. Fearful of having it withdrawn from her again, she would dutifully do as she was told.
He'd asked her if she was worried the heroin would kill her. She seemed resigned to that fate, too. She told him that if it wasn't the heroin, it would be her boyfriend, and if it wasn't him, it would be the street.
He thought it was pitiful, but it didn't lead to a welling of empathy or rage against the injustice of the world. It just made him more resolved to do what he needed to do.
Surreptiously, he checked that the card in his pocket was still there. It would be an important part of the staging.
"Well, gotta go," she said with a sigh, finishing her coffee. He stood, too.
"I'll walk you back. It's not safe," he said.
Lakeisha gave him a wry look that conveyed she was perfectly capable of looking after herself.
Not tonight.
The alleyway he picked was only a block away, and it was quiet and ill-frequented. The lighting there was particularly bad. He walked street side, so that she couldn't try to escape in that direction.
At the mouth of the alley, he grabbed her arm with sudden force. She swung around to look at him, bewildered hurt on her face. She hadn't expected violence from him.
"I have a gun," he said, very quietly. "It has a silencer. I will use it if I have to."
She quickly grasped the rules and they moved into the dark alley.
"You can take the money," she said desperately. "Whatever you want. Please don't hurt me."
It was funny, he thought, how someone completely accustomed to being hurt still had keen self-preservation instincts.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Truly, I am. But someone has to stop the cycle, you see."
She was momentarily confused, but was clearly concentrating on how to escape. She pulled out a small and deadly knife from the waistband of her skirt and lunged toward him. He dodged her, moved behind her, and seized her arm. Ruthlessly, he twisted it behind her until she cried out, dropping the knife to the ground. Still not giving up, she drove one boot heel into his shin and he let go of her, remarkably bright, glassy pain shooting through his leg. Making the most of her freedom, she ran toward the street. White-hot rage erupted through his veins, and he caught up with her — over-sized boots being completely impractical to run in. He had to end this, quickly.
Finally, he subdued her and dragged her back to the original spot he'd picked out. It had to be exactly right.
He was efficient. He was not a torturer. He didn't do it for his own sick pleasure. He did it for the good of society.
That was why he placed her body gently and respectfully sitting — well, slumping — against the wall of the tenement. He wrapped a cord around one of her upper arms. From a distance, she looked like one of many residents of the area, sleeping off a big hit of heroin.
He slipped the card from his pocket and read it again, enjoying its simplistic message. He slid the card down one of her boots and stood back, drinking in the atmosphere.
Then he left, as smoothly and quietly as he had come, his thoughts already turning to his next hunt.
Chapter 2
Dinah awoke, feeling clear-headed and rested. She glanced out the window as she passed and saw that it was a pristine day. Donning sweats and sneakers, she emerged from her apartment to go for a run. Part of her new regime was to exercise every day. The natural high she felt afterward from the endorphins were addictive, in a good way.
She ran four miles, the farthest she'd been able to achieve so far. Back at home, after a hot shower, she made coffee and oatmeal for breakfast.
While she ate and drank, she closed her eyes and tried to still her thoughts. In rehab, she'd been taught the skills of meditation. Even Dinah knew that one of her greatest enemies was her own mind, taunting her and challenging her to further self-destruct. Dinah was the first to admit she was hopeless at quieting her mind, but she spent several parts of each day trying to focus on stilling her thoughts and praying. Reading her Bible and praying had become one of the true treasures in her life, although she was the first to admit that there were days she struggled with motivation to do so. Learning to set aside time and headspace in order to pray and study was a completely new challenge for her. She had
to learn to be comfortable with herself in her own skin without feeling the need to medicate herself in some way. She had been learning to put her trust in the newest relationship in her life — with God.
The landline ringing shattered the illusion of peace and Dinah sprang up to answer it.
"Dinah Harris speaking."
"Ms. Harris, this is Detective Samson Cage," boomed a large voice. "I do believe we've met, briefly."
The name rang a bell, and after several seconds searching her memory, Dinah recalled the huge, black detective at the scene where Thomas Whitfield's body had been found during the Smithsonian case.
"Hi, Detective Cage," she replied. "Yes, I've just worked out where I remember you from. How can I help you?"
"Got myself a little situation," explained the detective. "I heard you were hiring out."
Dinah hesitated. Her new policy was one of total honesty, but she still wasn't sure when to bring it up. Was it too soon? Should she wait until she knew more about what he wanted from her? This was why she stayed away from relationships with people, she thought. They were far too hard.
"Yes, I am. Would you like to meet somewhere?" she suggested.
"There's a Starbucks a few blocks away from where you live," said Detective Cage. "In 30 minutes?"
Dinah agreed and hung up. She suddenly felt nervous, as though she were going for a job interview. She looked at herself in the mirror in her bedroom. She no longer wore the severe black pantsuits she'd favored at the Bureau and today wore camel-colored slacks and a white button-up business shirt. She pulled her black hair into a ponytail and inexpertly applied mascara and lip gloss. She noticed that her complexion was improving from a grey and sallow alcoholic to a look that was somehow more fresh and alive.
It was only a ten-minute walk to the Starbucks, and Dinah arrived before Detective Cage. She ordered a frappe and waited for the big man to arrive. People took notice when he did.
Detective Samson Cage was about six feet tall and was almost six feet wide, all muscle. His hair was cropped close to his head and he wore an authoritative expression that made people instinctively respect him. He filled out his somber suit impressively. He was not a person you messed with, Dinah thought.
She stood to greet him, and they shook hands. He ordered a short black coffee and got straight to the point.
"We had a murder last night," Cage said, trying to grasp the small cup in his large bear paw of a hand. "And it's not a normal one. Our killer left a message, and I can't make head or tail of it."
"Let's start at the beginning," suggested Dinah. "Who was the victim?"
"She was found by two uniforms on their beat, in an alleyway. She was propped against a building, a cord around her arm and a needle nearby. They very nearly walked away, thinking she'd just shot up and was sleeping. Luckily, one of the uniforms tried to find a pulse and realized that she was dead."
"No outward signs of violence?" Dinah asked.
Cage shook his head. "No, they thought she had overdosed. They called the paramedics and it was only when she was moved that her head fell forward and they could see her neck was broken."
"Who was she?"
"Name was Lakeisha Tennant, a street kid. Seventeen years old and a heavy heroin addict. She was covered in scar tissue from track marks." Cage shook his head. "Don't know why it still affects me, but every time I find one of these young girls on the street, it tears me up inside."
Dinah nodded sympathetically. She hadn't expected to hear empathy from the big man, who looked wearily cynical, like he'd seen it all.
"The uniforms found this tucked into one of her boots." Cage passed a card to her, sealed inside a plastic evidence bag.
Dinah looked closely at the card. It was a small generic sympathy card, with roses curling around the silver words on the front. Inside, the card was blank but there was something attached. Careful not to touch the card or its contents, she shook it a little and an old photograph fell out. It was sepia-toned, seemingly several decades old.
The photo seemed to be something like a school class photograph — three rows of children, two adults flanking the middle row. On closer inspection, the children were all boys with similar, bowl-shaped haircuts and all wore the same dark-colored uniform. The two adults were male and appeared to be in their twenties. Both the boys and the men stared at the camera unsmilingly.
Dinah flipped the photo over using only the edges, but there was nothing on the back of the photo. "So this was left by the killer?" she asked, staring again at the somber faces before her.
"I believe so," replied Cage. "It was shoved down her boot. I'll check with her next-of-kin, but it's my hunch that the killer left it behind to send some kind of message."
"And that's why you need me?" Dinah asked, her mind already clicking into gear.
"Right. Listen, this is only a gut instinct," Cage said, leaning forward, "but the way this young girl was killed seemed a little off to me. Lots of street kids are killed by drug deals gone bad, or by gang members with a difference of opinion — their murders are usually pretty similar. There's an element of rage, brought on by some perceived insult or contempt. There's a degree of violence: usually a weapon of some description is used. This seems entirely too clean and cool. It makes me worry that we have a potential repeat offender."
Dinah nodded. She didn't say anything but she agreed with Detective Cage. She looked up at him, waiting for her reply. She cleared her throat uneasily. "Detective, uh …I need to be honest with you," she began. "I don't know if you heard why I left the Bureau. I had some problems…."
"I know why you left," Cage filled the awkward silence. "It doesn't affect my opinion of you."
Dinah exhaled the breath she was holding. "I just need to tell you, okay? I was …I am an alcoholic. I've been through treatment and I'm clean. I thought you should know."
Cage nodded. "I know, Harris. As I said, it doesn't change my opinion of you."
Dinah felt strangely moved. She didn't trust herself to speak.
Cage's cell phone trilled and he answered. Dinah waited, looking at the faces of the boys in the photo, trying to work out how old they were. They looked to be between six and eight, certainly no older than ten. Was that sadness in their faces that she could see?
"That was the medical examiner," Cage said, snapping the phone shut. "Want to come to the autopsy?"
"You bet," said Dinah, jumping up from the table.
She was still thinking as they walked toward the unmarked vehicle about the photo of the sad-faced boys and how it ended up on the body of a sad-faced girl.
****
Dr. Gene Schlabach was the chief medical examiner for the city of Washington, DC, and had been for more than two decades. He was tall and pale, with a sandy-colored crewcut, prominent cheekbones, and a quiet, shy manner. He simply nodded at them by way of greeting and continued to dictate observations and notes from the autopsy into his Dictaphone.
Dinah and Cage slipped on the protective clothing that was now required by the morgue and waited for Dr. Schlabach to finish his notes.
The body of Lakeisha Tennant lay on a steel trolley in the middle of the room. Her youth was achingly obvious in the frailty of her frame. Dinah observed that there were no apparent signs of violence on the girl and could see why strangers might have passed her by without checking on her.
She watched Dr. Schlabach prepare his notes. He spoke reverently and gently of his dead charges, as if they could hear him.
"Lakeisha Tennant, aged 17," he began, after greeting Cage and Dinah. "No immediate or obvious cause of death until I caught the angle of her neck." He moved the head to the side, and Dinah observed how easily it fell to an unnatural angle.
"The neck has been cleanly broken," Dr. Schlabach said. "Not unlike a break caused by the hangman's noose. The bone broken is known as the axis, and when broken, severs the spinal cord. Blood pressure drops dramatically and the victim would have lost consciousness almost immediately. Complete death could hav
e taken another 30 minutes or so, although I suspect it was much sooner. I understand she was found in an alley?"
"Yes. She was propped up against a building, and made to look like she was sleeping off a fix," said Cage. "Would it require some force to break that bone?"
"It requires specialist knowledge," explained Dr. Schlabach. "It can be done by force of torsion, which is what I think happened here." He demonstrated the twisting motion required to break the axis bone. "The victim is a young girl with very little strength. It wouldn't be difficult for a bigger, stronger male to overpower her. He would only need to approach her from behind to have the upper hand. However, he would need to know the exact angle and force required to execute such a move, which is why I'm suggesting specialist knowledge."
"Were there any other signs of violence?" Cage asked.
Dr. Schlabach turned on the x-ray lights, against which several x-rays were illuminated. "Depends on what you mean by violence. I couldn't find any other reason for her death. There was no trauma sustained directly prior to her death apart from some bruising on her arms which look defensive. It's common in murder victims to find bruising on the arms or torso where the victim has been trying to fight or run away. Otherwise, she was certainly subjected to violence over a long period of time." He gestured at the x-rays. "Both arms have multiple fractures, all of which are old and healed. There is an old fracture to her clavicle, or collarbone. Her nose has been broken in the past. There was evidence of an old depressed eye socket injury."