Seeing Red

by Heidi Brod

  He is all too familiar with the process, an army of scientific experts and special agents working in a state-of-the-art facility in rural Virginia; they would provide a thorough forensic exam. They wouldn’t miss a thing. He has a heavy heart from the news of Jessa, but the adrenaline has taken over his body. He knows he’s in trouble.

  Belle says, “This video was taken early evening, but the time of death was much later, around midnight. A neighbor found the key to the elevator still in the lock and entered the apartment to find Jessa dead. There were visible signs of strangulation. She put up a fight. Harper, we need to understand this video, and we need to know where you went after it was taken.”

  “Where did it come from?” Harper asks, as if in a trance.

  “An anonymous remailer. Most likely Tor. We can’t trace it back.”

  “Tor?” Detective Ganer says.

  “Part of the dark web. It can host websites through its hidden services, sites like the Silk Road, the Internet’s foremost open drug bazaar. You can buy and sell anything: guns, drugs, child porn, all online in exchange for bitcoins.”

  “In this case, Belle was directed to a random website and given a user name and a password. He had a few messages waiting for him there,” Agent Walthrop says.

  “A few?” Harper asks. He can’t stop thinking about last night’s fight with Seraphina and how it relates back to the clue from Brooke Beck’s murder: Heaven has no rage like love turned to hatred, Nor hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

  Someone is setting him up, and he is playing right into it. Harper’s mind is spinning. He needs to talk to Belle alone to figure out how deep this is.

  “That’s fine. I have nothing to hide. I went to see Jessa last night, just to talk to her, to see if I could get any more information about the other girls, the escorts that she worked with, to get a lead on Brooke Beck’s case. I was comforting her, and it may have gotten a little physical. Seraphina and I have been having trouble lately, and I had an affair with Jessa Dante. I’m not proud of it. I left and went home. I can’t believe she’s dead.” Harper says.

  “We have no new information on the Renaissance Killer, but we know Jessa is connected to Brooke Beck and that they worked together. We got one more surprise e-mail addressed to you, Harp,” says Agent Walthrop.

  Harper opens the e-mail with apprehension. “Whatever satisfies the soul is truth. July 15, 1996.”

  Now Harper’s body is tense with recognition. That quote from Walt Whitman and the date from his childhood still haunt him. It’s a day he would rather forget.

  “I grew up at the Walt Whitman Housing Project in Fort Greene. I was fifteen at the time, and it was the nineties. Guns and violence were just a part of the community. My father was a big, burly man, and he had a bad habit of hitting my mother when he was drunk. That night, a neighbor called to warn my mother about his agitation, and my intuition told me something bad was going to happen. He threatened to kill us both with a shotgun.”

  He looks at Belle, who nods, encouraging him to go on. “So I told my mother to lock the door to the bedroom, just like I always did, but that was when I heard him fire the first shot. I didn’t give him the chance to fire a second one. I shot him with my own handgun.”

  “Did you ever face prosecution?” Walthrop says.

  “I never faced prosecution because I was a kid and I acted in self-defense to protect my life and the life of my mother.”

  Belle nods, an acknowledgment of the pain and a story he must have heard a million times before.

  “Everyone knows what happened with my father. It’s an old story.”

  “Was anyone else there that night to witness what happened?” Agent Walthrop asks.

  “Agent Walthrop, should I have a lawyer here?”

  “We’re just talking. I’m asking you if anyone else was there the night you shot your father, other than your mother, who is now deceased.”

  “No. It was just the three of us.”

  “It does demonstrate that you have a history of violence, and now it seems you’ve added violence against women to the list,” Agent Walthrop says, looking at him with laser focus.

  Belle can sense the growing tension and chimes in. “Harper, when I couldn’t reach you on the phone, I tried the house and spoke to Seraphina. She said she was badly shaken after a violent fight with you. She said you hit her and she was bruised and her hand cut pretty badly. I asked her to come in so we could ask a few questions about last night,” Belle says, avoiding Harper’s piercing gaze.

  “I went home, and Seraphina was acting crazy again. We started arguing. She threw my cell phone against the wall and shattered it. She blocked the door, and I pushed her to try to get by. She lost her balance and fell. It was just an accident.”

  “And where did you sleep?”

  “In my car in the driveway.”

  “And did anyone see you sleeping in your car in the driveway?” Agent Walthrop asks.

  “Agent Walthrop, are you married?” Harper says.

  “I am.”

  “Then you know how it is. Things get heated.”

  “No, Swift, I don’t know how it is. I do know that I’ve seen you on TV a lot lately, just sucking up the screen time. The camera loves you. It’s like you think you’re some sort of movie star or something,” Walthrop says.

  “I’m beginning to think you don’t like me very much. I don’t need to tell you that digital imaging is the easiest thing to manipulate. Creating pixels in a file is as easy as creating a document in Word. You can’t really think I killed Jessa Dante and then beat up my wife? If so, prove it or stop wasting my time.”

  Belle drops his head, knowing this isn’t going to go over well with Walthrop.

  “I think I can trace all of this back to you, Harp. You were the last person to see Jessa Dante before she was brutally murdered. Your wife says you’ve been drinking a lot lately and staying out late partying. You father was a raging alcoholic who cheated on your mother every chance he got. Sounds like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “Why don’t you find out where these e-mails are coming from?” Harper screams, fists curled and ready to fight.

  “What happened before and after the video, Harp? And where were you at midnight?”

  Agent Walthrop has a reputation as the playground bully. Harper always found it difficult to work with the FBI. A known rivalry existed between the FBI and Harper’s work with the NYPD’s Intelligence Division. There will always be tensions that flare up, given both agencies are made up of human beings.

  Belle says, “We’re working on it, Harp. This person is going to a great deal of trouble to stay anonymous.”

  Harper can see Seraphina through the glass window of his office; her left hand is bandaged. He thinks she has added a few more nicks and bruises. She is seated quietly in the reception area, looking like the poster child for domestic violence.

  Harper is well aware of his wife and her flair for drama. Walthrop and Ganer agree to take a break, long enough for Belle to sit down with Seraphina.

  As the door closes behind them, he clicks on the hyperlink and watches the video of Jessa. It’s all he can do not to totally lose it. He has to compartmentalize or he will be frozen. He watches her move toward the camera, as if she’s looking directly at him, lips moving, like she’s trying to tell him something.

  Harper zooms in on Jessa’s face. The picture becomes grainy and pixelated but he can still see the fear in Jessa’s eyes.

  He thinks he can see her mouthing the words, “Help me.”

  Thirteen

  SERAPHINA SWIFT

  I am in a tiny room, staring across the table at Detective Belle.

  “Seraphina, I know you and Harper have been having a hard time lately. I need to ask you a few questions about last night.”

  “I’m glad you asked me to come i
n. We’ve been friends for a long time, the three of us.”

  I knew from Harper that others would be observing through the other side of a two-way mirror. I had to be convincing.

  Belle sighs, looks at his notepad, and says, “It’s really important you stick to the facts about Harper, Seraphina. I know you have a rich imagination.”

  “Patrick, I haven’t been sleeping well, and we’ve been fighting all the time. Lately, all I feel from him is anger. It’s like he wants me dead. I keep seeing the same boat off our dock, and a stranger was watching me very late into the night. My mind may have been playing tricks on me, but I swear someone was just staring at me, and then my cell phone rang and nobody was on the line. The day I got into a car accident, someone was following me. I told Harper, but he doesn’t believe me. My own husband doesn’t believe me.”

  “Seraphina, you don’t seem well. Your anxiety is off the charts, and you seem like you’re in a manic state.”

  “Patrick, he’s out every night, and now I find out he’s been fucking another woman. How am I supposed to act when my family is falling apart? I’m home alone all of the time, and I’m afraid. I have to be able to protect myself and my child. For all I know, Harper could be the one trying to kill me.”

  “Seraphina, what motive could he possibly have to want to hurt you?”

  “Everything we own is in my name. I paid for everything, all of it, with money from my family’s estate. All of our assets belong to me. Last night, I found a book in his gym bag with the pages folded down. It was a crime novel about a man who murdered his wife and got away with it. I found sections highlighted and pages folded down. It’s like he was researching how to get away with murder. I found a hotel receipt in his gym bag, and then I find him kissing another woman on a street corner. After last night, I really think he is the one that wants me dead, and I’m going to prove it.”

  “Look, I’ve known your husband for a long time, and it’s hard for me to imagine that he would ever want to hurt you. He loves you very much.”

  My head is spinning.

  “I know it sounds hard to believe, but I never thought my husband was capable of cheating on me either.”

  He slides a picture across the table. “Is this the woman you saw him kissing on the street corner?”

  “Yes, that’s her.”

  “And did you confront her?”

  I am choosing my words carefully, the panic rising within me.

  “Jessa Dante was murdered last night. She was strangled in her apartment,” he says, watching me closely.

  “I went to see Jessa last night to confront her. I asked her to stay away from Harper for the sake of our daughter. If nothing else, we’re still a family. It wasn’t a violent situation.”

  “What happened to the lamp? The one that was broken and had your prints all over it.”

  My stomach tightens, and the heat rushes in; my cheeks flush with anxiety. My mind races, caught in the shock of this moment. When I left last night, I think Jessa was still breathing. I can still see her chest rise and fall as the doors of the elevator opened.

  I was so angry. I was seeing red. At some point, I must have blacked out. I’m searching for the memories but I keep coming up with more blank spaces, just like that night in Boston.

  I can’t remember the rest. No matter how hard I try. Was I capable of murder?

  I say calmly, “So, let’s play that out. You think I attacked her and choked the life out of her. Do you really think I’m that strong? You can’t think I had anything to do with this. Patrick, she was a paid escort. It could have been anyone. She could have liked rough sex. It could have been an accident. Some girls are into that sort of thing, you know.”

  “Look, your prints are all over the crime scene. We know you confronted Jessa and that you fought with her,” he says.

  “I didn’t fight with her. She let me into her apartment by her own free will, and I asked her to stop sleeping with my husband because we have a child together. She’s a woman. She understood and agreed to stop seeing him.”

  My mind flashes back to the lamp breaking and my rage at Jessa’s advances. I can see her clearly lying dead on the floor, all beautiful and broken.

  “I confronted Jessa, but I didn’t stay. All we did was talk, and things may have gotten a little heated, but I didn’t kill her. I’m not capable of that.”

  “Harper told me you’ve been struggling; the insomnia, the night terrors, and the paranoia. It must be awful for you, both of you, really. Is the medication helping at all?”

  I can hear the beating of the steel drum inside my head, loud and throbbing, like a screaming train.

  “Seraphina, Harper says you’re acting crazy and that you blocked him from leaving after violently attacking him. I feel like you’re not being honest, and I need for you tell me what the hell happened last night. Harper is in trouble.”

  My anger is building like a storm rising. I can no longer feel my breath.

  “Last night, I saw my husband kissing another woman. I didn’t even know her name until you just told it to me. I confronted her, but all we did was talk. She agreed to end the affair, and I left. That’s the truth. Harper is the one who cheated. He is guilty. So why are you interrogating me? I’m just trying to keep my family together.”

  I start to cry now; the tears flow easily.

  Belle lets out a deeper exhalation. He seems to deflate in his seat, the chair swallowing him up, and I’m alone in this tiny room.

  “I went home, and Harper was drunk. I confronted him about Jessa. He threw a glass against the wall, and then he pushed me into the broken glass. He drinks all of the time now and never comes home. It’s no secret his father was a raging alcoholic and a womanizer. He came at me, eyes blazing—like he wanted me dead.”

  “Harper says you lost your balance and you fell. He feels very bad about what happened,” Belle says.

  “Are you questioning whether or not I was attacked?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “And if I was a man? Would you still be questioning me?”

  My anger is like a burning flame inside me.

  “Do you really think Harper is capable of doing something like this?” he asks.

  “I think my husband is brilliant and the only man I know who could get away with murder.”

  I can tell Belle is retreating. “Think about it. Do you really think he killed his father to protect his mother and that it was all self-defense? He’s got anger issues. He’s out of control. You just can’t see it. He’s charming, and he’s got you fooled just like everybody else. I have no idea where he slept last night. I just know it wasn’t with me.”

  I’m shaking now, and my hand is on the doorknob, my eyes stinging from holding back the tears.

  “We’re done here, Patrick. If you need any more information, you can go through my lawyer.”

  Now I know not all women are born warriors; some are molded through pain and suffering until they find the strength to break through their breakdown. I was the only one with enough mettle to face my husband and to hold him accountable for what he had done. After all, true love can’t be found if it never existed, and ours burned so brightly, it could have melted the wings of Icarus.

  I just set his truth in motion by smoking it out, separating it from all of the fiction.

  Now he will be forced to swallow his pride, the taste of it, as bittersweet as his lies. I only needed thirty minutes with Detective Belle to paint a convincing picture of my husband as a psychopath.

  I wouldn’t allow him to turn the tables on me, making me out to be a jealous and unstable housewife, bored and unhappy with her lot in life. My marriage is my Bastille, very much like the prison in Paris. I have far too many grievances falling on deaf ears. Now that my husband has eaten her cake, bad blood flows and burns, molten hot like lava. It’s still gleaming and glowing, l
ong after the fire is out.

  My phone is ringing, but I don’t answer it. A minute later, it beeps to alert me that I’ve gotten a text from Harper. It’s just three letters.

  *WTF?*

  I can see him, furious, clouds of smoke billowing from his ears like a Looney Tunes character. Moments later, the phone rings again, but this time it’s my father calling me back.

  “Hi, Dad. I can’t talk right now.”

  “We spoke to Harper. He says your anxiety is acting up. I’m going to call in a prescription. You need to go back on your meds, honey. You know anxiety disorders run in the family.”

  “Thanks, Dad, and so does misogyny. Did they make a pill for that yet?”

  “Do not go off your medication. You’re a mother now, and you need to be healthy for your child. Harper says the nightmares are getting worse and you’re acting crazy. Come in and I’ll fix those dark circles under your eyes.”

  “Dad, stop taking his side all the time. I’m not crazy. I’m just not sleeping. I saw Harper with another woman. He’s cheating on me.”

  I hang up on him. My father has never supported me, and he never will.

  I leave a message for Jacob Akani, requesting to start Krav Maga training tomorrow. I will need more than words to defend myself if someone is out there and they come for me.

  As I drive through the Lincoln Tunnel, the glow from the LED lights casts a strange glimmer on the faces as they flash by. At its deepest point, this tunnel is ninety-five feet underwater.

  My mind plays tricks, a hallucination of water rushing in around me, cars bobbing, like apples in the rising tide, crushing me. I start to breathe, retreating to the safe corners of my mind, breathing in and out, using the tools Dr. Ellis has given me.

  Like Alice, I feel like I have fallen down a most peculiar rabbit hole when I see the end of the tunnel. I put my foot on the gas, and I’m spit back out into the sunlight.

  Fourteen