by Alex Gates
“They’re that young?” Ben asked.
Homicide wasn’t an easy job, but I doubted Ben had ever encountered anything so… repulsive. It never got any easier.
Simms brushed the schedules and shift reports from his desk with an indifferent arm. Three files remained. Three tiny files for three tiny girls.
“This is the culmination of seven years of work.” He stared at the papers, as if the typed reports, photographs, and interviews were the true enemy. “We got nothing to show for it. Three girls, all taken from the same street. No one knows where they’ve gone. No one knows who took them.” He held my gaze. “And no one knows which home is next.”
It was a family’s worst nightmare, repeated three times in the same town, same neighborhood, same street. The case was absolutely disgusting for more reasons than just the evidence collected from the darker sites on the internet.
Someone was doing this to the families on the street.
Someone was targeting only their houses. Only those families.
Only their little girls.
“Sorry you had to see that video, but at least you didn’t see…the others.” He pointed to his desk. “Thanks for stopping in. I got some work to do.”
“Wait,” I said. “Just wait. There’s more. Our Missing is a man by the name of Eddie Kirwin. Do you know the name?”
He laughed. “I’ve probably interviewed half of Pittsburgh these last seven years. Expect me to remember them all?”
Only the one who had probably kidnapped the girls.
Ben spoke up. “He lives over in Perry South. Real class act. Sex-offender. Convicted in 1995 of involuntary deviate intercourse with a child. His home was full of toys for children. Playhouse in the backyard. Posters of Disney kids on the walls. He had the video.”
“Sounds like the type.”
And now for the kicker. I leaned in closer. “He also had a teddy bear on his bed.”
Simms frowned. “Be glad it was just a bear.”
“A bear in a chef hat.” I waited while he slowly straightened, his hands curling into fists. “The same bear Kaitlyn Gibson was holding in the video playing on his television.”
A long pause. Simms shifted out of his chair. The motion aged him ten years.
“You found Kaitlyn Gibson’s teddy bear?” he whispered.
It was the only toy the poor girl had in the last four years since her kidnapping. “He had it.”
“Where…” Sweat broke on his brow. “Where is it now?”
Ben huffed. “Burnt to a crisp.”
“What?”
I hated myself for losing the toy. At least I hadn’t lost my life, but it wasn’t much consolation.
“I went to Eddie Kirwin’s house for a welfare check,” I said. “His cousin was worried that he’d gone missing. He filed a report for us to scope it out—if only because the last time they’d talked, he’d heard a kid’s voice in the background.”
Ben crossed his arms. “And we didn’t think Sketchy Eddie was the type to have guests.”
Simms lunged for his coat, wrapping it over his shoulders with more speed than he’d possessed in the past five years. “Did you get a search warrant?”
And this is where life took a perverse joy in kicking me square in the teeth. “No.”
“What the hell are you waiting for, McKenna?”
“We had an accident at the house,” I said. “Gas leak.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“The house is gone.”
Simms swore. “Holy shit. That was the house from this afternoon? And you didn’t even have the decency to wait inside while it lit up the sky?”
“My luck hasn’t run out just yet.”
“One day it will.” His coat missed the rack and slid to the floor. Simms didn’t bother fixing it. He sunk into his chair. “And you’re gonna wish it had happened sooner.”
Ben extended less optimism than courtesy. “We have a bigger problem now. We didn’t have a search warrant for the bear or the videos, and we didn’t grab them before the explosion.”
I touched a particularly sore spot on my temple, a headache unrelated to the accident. “He must have known we were coming.”
Ben turned. “He what?”
“The house was rigged to blow.”
“Are you crazy?”
“What if Eddie Kirwin is the man who kidnapped those three girls from Poppy Drive?”
Ben made a face. “You think a man like that is some sort of criminal mastermind?”
“Why would he have her doll?” I nodded to Simms. “When the girls were taken, was anything else of theirs missing?”
His voice darkened. “Kaitlyn was taken with her teddy bear. Alyssa had a baby blanket. Sophia had an Elsa doll. All meaningful objects—their favorite toys.”
Then it all made sense. “The man who took those girls studied them. He knew them. Obsessed over them.” I shrugged at Ben. “Why else do you think he spent time interviewing Kaitlyn and filming the conversation? He wanted to know that information. Their favorite toys, colors, movies. The interview was another way for this pervert to get closer to his prey. Not just her body, but her mind and soul and heart.”
Ben shifted. “How the hell do you know that?”
“Because it happened to me.”
The words came a little easier now, but that didn’t make it easy to forget. Memories like that didn’t get beaten back—they hid in the shadows only to creep out in those frightening minutes just before falling asleep.
I continued, piecing it together. “The man who took those girls spent months stalking them, waiting for the perfect opportunity to kidnap them. And to keep them placated, he gave them their favorite toy. So why would Eddie Kirwin have Kaitlyn Gibson’s teddy bear? Not just in his possession, but in his bed?”
Simms nodded. “That’s a place of honor.”
“That’s a goddamned fetish.” Ben’s expression twisted. “Jesus. Our Missing might have kidnapped and molested those little girls?”
“And produced and uploaded enough material to give you nightmares for the rest of your life,” Simms said.
A page sounded through the department. I cringed as my name echoed across the offices.
“Detective McKenna…call for you on line one.”
I ignored it. “Maybe Eddie’s cousin accidentally spooked him? He called to check in, and Eddie thought he got too close to the truth. So, he decided to run. Smashed the gas line in his basement and hoped the explosion would get rid of the evidence so he’d have time to get away.”
Simms sipped his coffee again. “I’ll talk with the fire marshal. Maybe they’ll find something on the scene. Thanks, McKenna…Cash.”
“Chase,” Ben corrected.
I didn’t move. Did he think I’d just…
Head back to my desk? Not a chance.
“I want in.”
My declaration shocked them both. Ben quieted. The sergeant frowned.
“You?” Simms laughed, a forced ripple from his gut. “London, no offense. This isn’t a good case for you.”
“I’m already working Eddie Kirwin’s case,” I said.
“And his house already blew up while you were in it.”
“I was outside.” Just barely. “But I got his file. I have already started searching for him.”
“And you have no evidence to present of any wrongdoing,” Simms said. “Nothing tangible beyond your word of what you saw during a warrantless welfare check.”
“We don’t need it,” I said. “All we have to do is find Eddie Kirwin.”
“Detective McKenna, a call is holding for you on line one.”
“Whoa.” Ben snorted. “Now it’s we? What the hell makes you think I’d work this case?”
“What’s wrong with this case?”
Ben scowled. “Three girls? Kidnapped by a sexual predator?” Was it me, or did he look a little pale? “Recording the rapes and putting the videos on the internet? Come on. I’ve seen some messed up shit in homicide,
but this…”
Simms was quick to agree. “London, do yourself a favor. Listen to your partner. You don’t want in on this case. It’s…” He hesitated. “It’s not for the feint-hearted.”
All the more reason for me to help. I didn’t have the luxury of being delicate. Those sensibilities were stolen from me long ago.
“We’re supposed to be finding Eddie Kirwin,” I said. “So, I propose we do just that. Locate our Missing. Find him. Sit him down.” I shrugged at Ben. “And then we’ll have a nice chat with him. See if he wants to get anything off his chest.”
“What makes you think you can even find this guy?” Ben laughed. “Hell, you think he blew up his own damn house to destroy evidence. He could be anywhere by now.”
“Detective McKenna…” The page sounded annoyed. “Agent Novak is holding for you on line one.”
Damn it, James.
“Get your stuff,” I said. “We’re not leaving tonight.”
Ben grinned. “And what’s Agent Novak gonna say to that?”
“If it means saving the lives of three little girls?” I took the phone from Simms. “I think he’ll forgive me for skipping one little dinner…”
I took the call and spoke quickly. “James, I’m sorry. I completely forgot, but I had a big break in my case—”
His voice strained, a once familiar baritone now a shadowed rasp. “Forget dinner, London. Something happened.”
I didn’t like that sound.
Didn’t like those words.
I clutched the desk, ignoring how tight my chest suddenly felt. “Are you okay?”
His silence answered for me. A long moment passed. “I had a problem with my eyes.”
I’d never thought I’d hate glaucoma more than any crime or suspect. It’d already taken enough of James’ sight. What else could it do to us?
He sighed. “I had an attack.”
The word meant a hell of a lot of things in reference to his condition, and none of it was good.
I dreaded the question. “How bad is it?”
“London…I can’t see.”
3
No one is coming to save you.
You’re all alone.
-Him
An emergency with my FBI agent fiancé might have meant a serial killer, terrorists, a shooting, an explosion…
But the worst news I’d ever receive wasn’t with him in the field on assignment. It was right there in the ophthalmologist office.
We’d managed to find one of the best doctors in the city, but no matter the awards, the honors, or his exceedingly horrendous bills, every diagnosis was the same.
James was going to lose his sight.
And soon.
I burst into the office. After hours, but the receptionist had left the door open for me. She chewed a piece of Nicorette gum and read a magazine at the front counter. With a wave of her red, chipping nails, she motioned me to the back. Her smile was gentle, showcasing just the slightest crook in her teeth.
“He’s okay, hon,” she said. “The procedure is finished.”
Procedure.
I shuddered.
Procedures used to mean reading suspects their rights, getting warrants, following department hierarchy. But now? Every day was a new procedure. A pill for breakfast. Eyedrops at noon. Another set of eye drops at dinner. Two different medications before bed. On bad nights, James woke up at three in the morning to take a second steroid.
It didn’t used to be like this and it was only getting worse.
The guilt suffocated me. James had a surgery. Alone. Hell, I hadn’t even known he was in trouble. I hadn’t bothered to check my texts after raiding Kirwin’s house, and I hadn’t spared thirty seconds to listen to my voicemail.
I no longer had a circle of hell reserved for me—the devil chiseled my final resting spot out of the bedrock itself.
The corner office radiated light. I never knew that the dimness was worse for his sight—something about his pupils contracting and blocking drainage ducts in his eyes. I hadn’t thought much of it, especially since the only real time we had to discuss our days and our concerns was at night after a loaded weekday—and, while under the covers, we had better things to do than talk.
Usually.
I hesitated at the entrance to the examination room, stuffed with chrome equipment, a leather chair, sink and cabinets, and, of course, the patient. It left no space for a worried fiancée to drop her purse and firearm so she could properly fret.
James crossed his long legs at the bottom of the chair with a knowing—but impatient—shake of his head.
“Forget your cane?” he asked.
Damn it. Did he have to smirk too?
I crossed my arms. “Well, I guess you can see.”
“It’s coming back. I’m only partially blind, not deaf. You’re not using your cane.”
“You know…” I plunked onto the doctor’s chair and scooted closer. “If I knew you were just going to nag me, I wouldn’t have rushed all the way over here.”
“You shouldn’t have rushed without your cane at all.”
“That’s me. Always living on the edge.”
He agreed. “And falling off of it.”
I took his hand. “So, pack me a parachute instead of worrying about the cane.”
“Might not be a bad idea.”
James rested against the chair, his lithe hand flicking over the gold band nestled on my ring finger. He was damn proud of that diamond. Not of the size or shape, of course. Neither of us were prepared to drop that much money on a simple piece of jewelry. James was just thrilled it’d stayed on my hand for as long as it had. He’d threatened me with an engagement set of manacles. I told him to save it for the honeymoon.
“What happened?” I pulled away only once he discovered the smudges of ash and grime cascading up my arm. “You seemed okay this morning.”
Seemed, because our wistful glance over the Kurig wasn’t exactly an early morning snugglefest.
Should I have seen something? Realized he was in trouble? I racked my memory. No headaches. No missed medications.
I still should have checked in.
“Don’t worry.” He was good at sensing my stress—one of the reasons we worked well together. “The doctor patched me up.”
“I don’t like you getting patched.” I pouted. “I want you whole.”
“My eye didn’t fall out.” His lips quirked, mischievous. “This time.”
I smacked him. That couldn’t happen.
I hoped.
This wasn’t fair. James took good care of himself, and it still screwed him over. He didn’t smoke, only drank when we both had a night off and wanted to go out, and he hit the gym every morning. He had a forty-year-old body twenty-year-old men envied and women admired. His heart was fine, cholesterol only a little high, and his only complaint should have been the crick in his neck every morning that had arrived with the gray at his temples.
He was healthy.
His eyes were not.
“I should’ve been there.” The apology felt worthless without my usual atonement—a peace-offering of pancakes delivered while I was in my underwear. It usually worked, but tonight I’d add two scrambled eggs and bacon to his plate as my penance.
“I’m not hurt.” His was the same promise we always made when one of us came home bloody, bruised, or sporting new casts.
Though, traditionally, that honor had been mine.
“I got here in time.” He shrugged. “But I didn’t think you wanted to eat dinner with my parents on your own.”
A mercy.
James had followed in his family’s footsteps, choosing psychology as his career of choice. He used his powers for good—chasing serial killers and rescuing damsels in distress. But his parents preferred private practice and copious amounts of judgment. To them, a healthy mind was a cleared mind. They refused to believe that I’d shared everything about my kidnapping. They were right, but I’d told the lead investigator and my future hu
sband everything I was willing to tell.
The rest would go with me to my grave.
James pointed to his left eye. “I called and cancelled with them as soon as the headaches started.”
“Headaches?” I didn’t like that.
“Doctor Robins said the pressure shot up in my left eye, and that caused the pain.”
I stopped him there. “How bad?”
He grunted. On the James Novak scale of pain—it beat a shrug, snort, and wave of the hand.
Pretty damn bad then.
“The attack meant nothing could drain from my eye, and the pressure built. We didn’t have a choice. By the time I got here, we had to do the procedure immediately. I tried to call, but you wouldn’t have wanted to be here anyway.” James was a good man and left the details to my own horrified imagination. “Lasers were involved.”
My day-to-day duties with the department overwhelmed me with human misery. Every day, I faced cases of abuse, child neglect, missing persons, and sexual assaults. And it was fine. If life gave me a bloody case to solve, I could work it out. But when it came to eyedrops? Pressures?
Lasers burning holes in his eyes?
Dear God Almighty.
“London, I’m okay. I’ll recover. The hard part is over. Now we just…wait and see if anything was damaged.”
This was the worst part. “I am so sorry I wasn’t here.”
“Rough day?”
“You have no idea.”
Doctor Robins gave his usual rap-a-tap-tap on the door—a sound I’d learned from too many prior visits. The doctor had recently hit his fifties with grace, dignity, and a wallet fat enough for early retirement in another year or so. Until that moment, he maintained an imported tan from Miami which made his teeth gleam ever whiter.
Was it a forced smile today? His walk seemed slow, like a solemn gate. Not too direct, but still important. The sort of walk I used when approaching victims’ families with bad news.
“How are you doing, James? London, no need to get up.” Doctor Robins insisted I stay seated and stood by the door. “Now, I know your vision is blurry, and that will take a few hours to pass. Just a side effect from the procedure. Are you feeling better?”