Forbidden Birth

by William Rubin

  The three men looked at each other. They were puzzled by April’s sudden insistence on leaving, but they were resigned to the fact that she would. They filed out one by one, April closing the door behind them.

  April sobbed as she sorted through her clothes and got dressed. She shuddered as she saw her image reflected off the EKG monitor. In her tattered and torn clothes she looked like a streetwalker after a bad run-in with her pimp. Still, it could have been much, much worse. She was relieved and grateful to just be going home. With time, hopefully, she could forget about today’s events. For now, she would file them away, to keep company with the rest of her secrets.

  Signing out against medical advice might raise some suspicion with the police, but in the end it should help more than hurt, she thought.

  “All ready,” April said in an upbeat voice as she called out to Doctor Singh and the officers, her head peeking out the examination room door. Singh was long gone, but as the officers filed in she asked, “What do I need to sign to be released?”

  Marone showed April the form Singh had left for her. She signed it and asked, “Where is the best place to catch a cab around here?”

  “Not so fast,” said Marone. “We still have some ground to cover. We’re all going to the station so we can talk.”

  “Yeah, the bad news is you’re stuck with us a few more hours, April,” interjected Fitzpatrick with a sly smile.

  “Fitz, why don’t you show Miss Cassidy to the squad car. I need to tie up a few loose ends here with the doc.”

  “Ten-four, Rory.”

  “What about my rights? I want to go home,” April pleaded.

  “In due time, young lady, in due time,” said Marone as Fitzpatrick lead her away.

  Marone approached Singh. “Tell me, doc, what do you make of this? She sure wanted to get out of here in a hurry, huh?”

  “Well, hospitals do tend to arouse fear and anxiety in patients. There is no harm if she follows up with her internist in the morning. Beyond that, due to patient confidentiality issues, I do not feel comfortable commenting.”

  “Her secrets are safe with me. If you don’t believe me, maybe talking about it at the precinct would be more persuasive? Otherwise, let’s hear what you’ve got,” Marone said forcefully.

  “Very well,” Singh said with a sigh and a dismissive wave of his hand. “As I said, her injuries are superficial, perhaps a small non-displaced fracture at the most. Nothing more than that. One thing is curious though…”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “She had a very small circular wound on her abdomen and a bruise on the left side of her face. Both were fresh but a few hours older than the rest of her injuries. It appears she was assaulted earlier today as well. If she is a call girl, that is not so unusual, otherwise I think it is rather strange.”

  “When’s the last time you saw a hooker turning tricks blindfolded, gagged, bound, and laying in a pile of garbage? Naw, I don’t buy that. She doesn’t talk or act like a hooker, either. But something ain’t right here, and I think April knows what it is.”

  Chapter 6

  The young woman laughed freely as she played with the children and tried in vain to keep her long, blond hair from blowing into her eyes. Bruce Park in Greenwich, Connecticut was a great place to spend a sunny weekday afternoon. It was sixty acres of pure bliss. Picnic areas, a playground, and a fitness trail intermingled and merged with well-manicured softball fields, tennis courts, and a beautiful little pond. Jessie, Michael, and the young blond were totally making a day of it. And why not? Chores around the house had all been done in record time so she and the kids deserved a little reward, a little fun in the sun!

  Her impish smile, her silky smooth, well-defined and full cheeks made her irresistible—and she knew it. He knew it too. The Giver had been watching this one for quite some time.

  She was a classic example of the kind of patient The Giver selected for his work. On the surface she was a sweet, young, Icelandic girl who came to the US with the noble desire to work as an au pair. Dig a little deeper and the real Erika became apparent. On the weekends she partied non-stop in NYC with her friends, displaying an almost unrivaled promiscuity that culminated in her becoming pregnant by Jessie and Michael’s dad, Brad Kimball.

  At this stage in his work The Giver needed stem cells. These young, promiscuous women were an excellent source of those cells. They also reminded him of his mother, as physically beautiful and morally corrupt a woman as ever walked this earth. When he inflicted pain on women like his mother, it made his work all the more enjoyable.

  He knew everything there was to know about Erika and her schedule. Monday was art class for Jessie and swimming lessons for Michael. Tuesday through Thursday they both attended preschool at the local country day school and had play dates with friends. And Friday she shuttled the girl to ballet and the snot-nosed little punk to piano lessons. In between, the darling little au pair, with the perky tits and an ass so beautifully sculpted that Michelangelo himself would weep, tended to all the little brats’ needs—when she wasn’t out having some fun herself, that is.

  Erika had obviously learned how to have a good time. How fitting that her hedonistic tendencies were what first brought her to his attention, first stimulated, dare he say aroused, his interest in her.

  She could chomp on all the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she liked. She could feed the ducks, play on the monkey bars and the slides to her heart’s content. He wasn’t buying it. None of it fooled him. No, he knew what she was really like, knew the unspeakable things she did when there were no little children around to see her. And he would make her pay for it.

  For The Giver there was no greater pleasure in life than to deliver pain upon one so deserving as she.

  Chapter 7

  The frustration was mounting for Kev and I as we tried to identify our vic’s badly decomposed body. We had consulted with the Missing Persons squad earlier in the day. Most of their cases dated back years, but three of them were recent enough for us to look at. Our vic could be a Mexican girl from Oklahoma who visited last fall and has been missing ever since, an illegal immigrant cleaning lady from Central America who might have been pregnant and who stopped showing up for her jobs on the Upper East Side back in February, or an Asian woman from Scarsdale who emigrated from Taiwan two months ago and disappeared last month. Or Jane could be any number of hookers, runaways, or other illegals that had been spotted in the city within the last three years before they disappeared.

  Kev and I decided to work through the first three missing persons. The timelines fit on our case better and the leads would be easier to track. Also, the brutality of the crime suggested there was an urgency to the murder, which seemed to rule out killing someone who had been missing for years. My gut had me leaning towards the Asian woman, Tracey Lin, since her timeline synced best with our case.

  Our precinct, the 1-7, was a cauldron of activity, perps strewn throughout. I looked over at Kev, envious of how oblivious he was to it all, as he worked through some leads on the computer. I dialed Doctor McGowan, hoping she would have good news for me.

  “I’m as frustrated as you are detective. Our analysis of the victim’s vitreous cavities came up negative for progesterone and estrogen, and the only creatine kinase we isolated was the BB variety‒”

  “Which is only found in the brain and doesn’t help us determine if the lacerations occurred prior to death. We’d need to isolate the CK-MM isoenzyme. If there are large quantities of that then we know she was beat up before she was killed.”

  “Correct, Detective Ravello.”

  “In five years at Washington General I saw a ton of trauma, doc.”

  “I’m sure you did, Detective; it’s one of the country’s busiest hospitals for trauma.”

  I pressed on. “We already know from the β HCG result that our victim was pregnant so her circulating levels of estrogen and progesterone would be significant. Do you think the blood-retinal barrier was responsible for our
failure to detect any?” During my ophtho rotation in med school I learned how isolated the eyes were from the rest of the body; the blood-retinal barrier kept many substances out of the eye that otherwise flowed freely through the bloodstream.

  “I’m afraid so, Detective. As you know, our understanding of the blood-retinal barrier is still evolving, so I was hopeful we would find what we were looking for, but in this case it has clearly inhibited our investigation. Any leads on determining our victim’s identity?”

  “Nothing solid. I do have a hunch that she may be a Taiwanese woman who settled in Scarsdale about two months ago before disappearing last month. Are there any genetic markers we can use to establish our vic was Taiwanese, doc?”

  “I can run an analysis of her human leukocyte antigens and mitochondrial DNA, but I’m not optimistic. To my knowledge there are no markers that indisputably identify someone as Taiwanese.”

  “Thanks for your efforts, Doctor McGowan. I’ll let you know if we come up with anything.”

  “I’ll do the same, Detective.”

  I hung up and turned to my partner. “Kev, anything on the Mexican girl or Central American cleaning lady?”

  “Nah. I’m with you. I think Tracey Lin is most likely our vic. McGowan have anything to say?”

  “Nothing helpful.” My phone vibrated in my pocket. “Shit, who’s calling me now?”

  “Ravello here.”

  “Ravello here too.”

  “Oh, hey Dad. Everything okay? I’m sorta crazed right now.” A retired NYPD detective himself, Dad knew how stressful and thankless the job could be―it was one of the reasons he vehemently opposed my recent career change.

  “Everything’s fine Chris. A buddy canceled on me for tonight’s Mets game. Can you make it?”

  I had my father to thank for my love of the game, but the timing couldn’t have been worse.

  “I’d love to, Dad, but I’m neck deep in a case right now, and we’ve got some issues on the home front. I think Michelle would kill me if I went to a game right now.”

  “It’s a tough transition, going from Rye to Peekskill, even with your old man giving you a house to stay in.” Dad chuckled before turning serious. “I just worry about the neighborhood Chris. It’s not the safest, especially with a young family.”

  “We’re fine, Dad, don’t worry, just some minor adjustments.”

  “Say, I’ll get tickets soon for the whole family. Michelle can’t complain if you’re all going and it’ll be a welcome break for everyone. Good luck with the case, son.”

  “Thanks Dad. Catch up with you soon.”

  Chapter 8

  Cars sped behind and above them as Marone, Fitzpatrick, and April walked up the stairs leading into the 48th precinct. The police station was a large, tan structure occupying the area between Washington and Park Avenues, next to and beneath the noisy Cross Bronx Expressway. Though just a dozen blocks from St. Barnabas and quaint Little Italy, the area was rough and tumble, infiltrated by druggies, prostitutes, and the like. April was wide-eyed as she walked past the usual cast of rough characters inhabiting the station. She sidestepped to her left just in time to avoid a collision with a large black woman in red fishnet stockings, a black miniskirt, and orange hair.

  “Watch where the hell you going!” the woman said as she looked April up and down. “You sellin’ girl-scout cookies, bitch, or you got something else you’re peddlin’?” she said with a hearty laugh.

  “That’ll be enough from you, Betty, mind your own business,” replied Fitzpatrick. “Just keep to ya’ self, April, and you’ll be fine,” Marone said.

  April wasn’t sure she believed him, but she followed Marones’s advice anyway as she stepped over a foul-smelling wino and around two Hispanic men adorned in gold chains, gold rings, and sleeveless undershirts.

  “Fitzy, why don’t you lead the way for the young lady? Might be faster,” Marone said “Let’s go to conference room A, get some privacy.” Fitzpatrick complied, taking April by the hand and pulling her forward through the crowd. They waded past one degenerate criminal after another until they reached the conference room. Fitzpatrick pushed the door open and waved his arm inwards. “Here we are, lassy.”

  April poked her head through the door and looked around. Drab, gray cinder-block walls surrounded a small window looking out to the precinct.

  “Want any coffee, dear?” Marone asked as he came up behind her and pointed April to one of four metal chairs surrounding a wooden desk in the cramped room.

  “No thanks, I’m okay,” April responded.

  Fitzpatrick left for the coffee and vending machines.

  “All right, why don’t we start at the beginning, April?” Marone said as April sat down. He adjusted the blinds, cutting off April’s view through the small window.

  The sound of officers yelling at a criminal who struggled to break free from their grasp permeated the room. Marone, unfazed by the disturbance, closed the door behind him, but April could still hear yelling and what sounded like chairs being knocked around. She squirmed in her own chair. “So April, how did you end up over on 185th and 3rd?”

  April hesitated, uneasy with how closed in she felt in the small room and the commotion just beyond it. “Well, um, I’m sort of hazy on the details, if you want to know the truth. I remember waking up in a car just before I was thrown out. Then I had no idea where I was, but I knew it wasn’t a nice place—I felt some rats crawling over me, then a couple of scary guys showed up and started attacking me,” April said with a shudder.

  The yelling and scuffling grew louder. April stared intently at the conference room door. A struggle ensued, bodies bouncing off the conference room door before the commotion was brought under control. April jumped out of her chair.

  “It’s all right, April, you’re safe in here. Er, what happened then?”

  April slowly sat down, her gaze once again transfixed on the door. Eyebrows knitted towards each other, as if in deep thought, April considered her words and then replied, “I was trying really hard to get myself free. I knew those guys wanted me, maybe wanted to kill me. But it was no use. Before I could do anything, they had my legs cut free and my pants down. One of them tore my panties while the other…the other held me down.” April sniffled as her shoulders shook. She wiped her nose with a tissue and took a deep breath and exhaled before continuing, “I, I didn’t have a choice. I was scared and didn’t know what to do,” April said as her face took on a look of pain, fear, and torment. She tried hard to keep her composure, succeeding just barely.

  “I had given up hope. But thank God that’s when I saw you and Officer Fitzpatrick. I mean, I couldn’t see you, but, uh, I heard the siren and those guys ran away.” April’s face shifted expressions again. This time her brow spread apart, taking on the smooth appearance of unbridled gratitude. “Thank you so much. I would be dead if not for you two,” she said as her hands reached out for Marone’s.

  “That’s okay, April. Just doing our jobs,” Marone responded in a fatherly tone as he kept his hands folded and out of April’s reach. He struggled to maintain his objectivity. He was unwilling to let his guard down or be drawn in by sympathy or pity for the girl.

  “Now tell me, who dumped you there in the first place?”

  April looked at Marone with a blank stare for a few moments. “I…I can’t remember. I know it sounds weird, but I was in such a fog. I still am, sort of.”

  “You mean to tell me you can’t even remember how you got tied up and all? I find that difficult to believe, young lady. Come clean! What’s going on?” Marone said, irritation evident in his voice.

  “It’s not like I’m hiding anything, officer. I just can’t remember much for some reason. Just little pieces here and there. Oh God! Oh God, I remember being strapped to a table. Someone was doing something to me. I don’t know what, though. I just don’t know.” April sniffled, fighting back the tears that welled in her eyes. “What’s wrong with me? I’m not sure if that was real or just a nightmare
.”

  April buried her face in her hands and cried, her shoulders and head bobbing up and down in exaggerated, herky-jerky motions.

  “Now, now. I know it’s hard. But let’s try and keep it together, April,” Marone said as he handed her a handkerchief and patted her arm. “Let’s go back to that table you were lying on. You have no idea what was going on or how you got there?”

  April shot up again, froze, and then cringed as she heard more screaming and fighting just beyond the conference room door. “No, no, no,” April sobbed in response. “I just know when I tried to get up, something or somebody pushed me back down. And the next thing I remember was the car ride and getting dumped out.”

  “How’s it going, Rory?” asked Fitzpatrick as he quickly entered the room and pushed the door closed behind him with his foot. “Shit, it’s getting pretty crazy out there, Ror. Must be a full moon or something.”

  “April confirms the perps who got away didn’t rape her, but she isn’t sure how she got into our neck of the woods. She recalls something about being tied down and then the car ride. That’s it.”

  “Hmmm. Were you on a bender, April? Out at a bar? Maybe entertaining a bit this evenin’?” asked Fitzpatrick as he placed his coffee and a bag of chips off to the side. He leaned across the table, his face inches from April’s. “What do you do for a living, April? Was you working tonight before this mess started?”

  “I know I was leaving work. That’s the last thing I remember well,” April said in between pauses to dab her eyes with the handkerchief. “Then being on the table and then in the car. I don’t know why it’s so jumbled.”

  “Tell us where you work and what you do for a living, April,” Rory asked with intensity.

  “I, uh, sort of dance. I’m classically trained, but it’s been so hard here in New York. I’ve been working as a dance instructor and waiting tables in between auditions. But nothing’s come through yet, so I’ve been working some shifts over at the Golden Garter. You know, near the Deegan and 138th Street. It was just until I get some money together or get a dancing job,” April replied self-consciously.