by Stevan Mena
CHAPTER 46
Jack stalked through the halls of The Lansing Metropolitan Recreation Center, which was filled with inner city kids playing basketball in the gym and working with computers in the library, staying out of trouble. He approached a receptionist perched behind a tall gray counter, she was typing away at a computer.
Jack tapped on the counter with his fingernail to rouse her attention. She was engrossed in her work and didn't respond. He cleared his throat.
"Can I help you?" the receptionist asked, continuing to type at blazing speed.
"The art gallery, where is it?"
She spoke without taking her eyes off her screen. "You go down that corridor," pointing in the direction Jack had just come from. A woman stepped around Jack and handed the receptionist a cup of coffee.
"No sugar?" Still locked on the screen.
"In it," the woman said, moving past Jack and down the hallway.
The receptionist reached for her coffee and finally looked at Jack, curious why he was still standing there. "You go down the corridor, turn right, just up the stairs."
"Thank you." Jack turned and doubled back the way he came. He saw the mistake he made and wondered how he'd missed the bright green sign pointing the direction towards the Gallery. He shook his head and climbed the metal staircase.
The gallery was very simplistic, just a single corridor with a white divider down the middle. The partition created two long hallways of artwork on either side. Every few feet, there was a space in the partition that you could pass through to go from one side to the other. No one else there seemed to have an appreciation for fine art, so the area was very calm and quiet.
Jack admired each framed painting, searching. They were all good, but seemed pedestrian compared to Rebecca's work. Or Carmen's. He knew, if it was still there, it would stand out like a gold brick atop a pile of coal.
He didn't even bother to check the names, confident he would know it when he saw it. Finishing one full aisle of art, he turned around to come back up the other side. The third picture in caught his attention.
On second glance it nearly floored him.
It was a painting of a little girl holding her mother's hand. The little girl was wearing a bright yellow dress.
She was the spitting image of Rebecca.
Jack's eyes went wide, his lips curled into a tight seam. "It's not possible," he said softly. But neither was the diary. He reached out and touched the painting with his fingertip. He slid it down to the inscription on the bottom. C.M.
Under the frame was a bronze banner which read: 1st Prize Awarded to Carmen Muniz. There was a small plaque alongside the portrait with a black & white photograph of Carmen. The plaque was titled: Follow Your Dreams.
Jack took a seat on a small two-sided white bench in the middle of the room. He couldn't take his eyes off the painting, off the image of Rebecca. He was shaken to his core, but excited at the same time. He felt privy to something extraordinary that most would dismiss as ridiculous fantasy. But here was more firsthand proof. His head spun with theories, attempts to inject some rationality into what he had experienced over the last few days. He now fully comprehended Leonard's trepidations; this is why Leonard made him walk in his shoes first. It wasn't something he could describe — he had to see it for himself. It's very hard to dismiss something when you've seen it with your own eyes. But had Leonard gotten this far? No, he hadn't dug this deep.
Rebecca's clues had solved Carmen's disappearance and her story had opened his eyes to new possibilities about life. But was this exercise solely for his benefit? He bit down, grinding his teeth, angry and frustrated at himself. Jack hadn't been able to piece together the clues he'd been given and somehow solve the greater mystery. Something is missing! A clue he'd overlooked, an interpretation he'd gotten wrong. The answer was there, right in front of him, staring him in the face. Dammit, Jack, think!
Jack sat for a long while, feeling worthless. He'd begged for a chance to solve this case, to make good on his promise — and he'd been granted that opportunity in the most amazing of circumstances. He was getting closer, he could feel it. But his detective's acumen wasn't up to the task. He was blowing it.
He wanted to call Leonard, discuss it, get his thoughts, tell him maybe he would get a chance to re-write theology after all. But that conversation was miles long, and Jack didn't have the time. He had a murder investigation to solve, a killer to catch.
His cell phone rang, he let it buzz a few times. He was going to let it go to voicemail - But what if it's Laura? The guilt was still fresh from the other day.
"Hello?"
"Jack, it's Harrington. Get back to the station, quick."
"What's going on?"
"We got him."
CHAPTER 47
Laura paced in the kitchen, holding the phone to one ear and her other hand to her forehead. Her hair hadn't seen a shower in days. "I don't know what to tell you, Ted."
She listened to the answer.
"What about Val, can't she fill in?" Laura tensely twisted the cord with her fingers. "Well, I have a situation here, I just can't make it right now."
She looked out the window at a potted plant wilting in the cold, dry winter air. She had meant to bring it inside. It was all but dead now. Just another thing that had taken a back seat on her priorities list. Can't even care for a potted plant. What am I doing in charge of a human being?
"Fine, do what you have to. I'm sure I can get another job in a grocery, it's not like it's a fucking career. Yeah, fuck you too." She hung up and peeked over her shoulder, hoping Rebecca was not in earshot. Not that she hadn't heard her utter that phrase to her father a thousand times during their divorce.
Laura hung up the phone. She sighed weakly into her hands; no strength left, even for outbursts of frustration. She lit a cigarette, inhaling and exhaling angrily, falling deeper into depression.
She picked up the phone again and dialed, inputting the last known number of her nomadic ex-husband. The operator came on to tell her that the number was no longer in service.
She moved through the living room to the back door. She looked out into the yard, thinking Rebecca was on the swing, but the creaking metronome she'd heard was a persistent wind blowing it back and forth.
She headed upstairs to check on her. She entered her bedroom — empty — the grilled cheese sandwich and glass of milk she'd made her for lunch was still sitting on the table by her easel, untouched. "Rebecca?"
She checked every room upstairs. "Rebecca?" Her voice grew nervous.
She raced back downstairs and spun in place, not sure where to look next. She turned and went through the side door into the garage. The garage door was open, the cold blast of the outdoor air chilled her skin.
She saw Rebecca's bicycle was missing.
CHAPTER 48
Harrington briefed Jack as they walked through the precinct hallway towards the interrogation area. There was an electricity in the air, Jack could feel his hands trembling with adrenaline.
"Name's Teresa Mason, 26, she managed to give a description before she passed out," Harrington said.
"Mason? Doesn't sound like his M.O."
"HP cornered the bastard on the interstate, she gave a pretty solid ID to a neighbor who called it in. I think we got him, Jack."
"How is she?"
"Critical condition, suffered massive trauma to the head. Put up a good fight; they're not sure if she'll make it."
They entered the holding area adjacent to the interrogation room. Jennifer stood near the two-way glass, watching the suspect. He sat alone in a chair, light shining on him overhead, the rest of the room dim.
Jack stepped up to the glass, peering in. Can it be this easy? My incompetence so immense that you had to hand deliver him to my doorstep?
"Who is he?" Jack asked. Jennifer read from a printout:
"Edward Bishop, 42, plumber, has a prior record of sexual assault of a minor, served four years. Spent time at Northville Psychiatric
Hospital on four separate occasions, self admitted."
Bishop sat slouched in his chair. He was boyish looking; wiry brown eyes so dark they were almost black. A thin, pointed nose. Scratches on his cheek. He looked disinterested. "He also works part time for Baxter Mills Inc. They contract out bonded cleaning services to offices, municipalities, schools. They're under contract to several universities in this area."
Jennifer handed the report to Jack.
"Someone should talk to Baxter about their employee vetting process. They search the vehicle?"
"We found a black duffel bag in his van," Harrington said, "gloves, rope, knives, and wire, along with these." Harrington placed a few professional looking laminated ID cards on a table, all different occupations, all had Bishop's photo. "We also found several stolen laptops."
"Forensics is running a trace on the vehicle for blood samples," Jennifer said.
"What about his residence?"
"They're tossing it as we speak," Harrington said.
Jack shot an anxious look towards Harrington. Harrington shook his head. "They didn't find anyone."
"How long has he been here?"
"I called you as soon as they brought him in, wanted you to be the first to speak to him." Jack turned to look in again at Bishop. He'd seen him before. His picture, his prior arrest. He was one of hundreds of potential suspects he had studied during the investigation.
Jack walked out and around to the interrogation room entrance, taking a moment to compose himself. He slowly turned the handle and entered.
Bishop stared at the floor as Jack approached. Harrington entered behind Jack and closed the door.
Jack bypassed his usual tactic of pushing the table across the room, leaving the suspect exposed. He had so many questions, he didn't want to start out confrontational. There was too much work to be processed between them. He took the seat across from Bishop. Harrington stood behind Bishop, his arms folded.
Bishop lazily tilted his head back to take a look at Jack. He observed Jack's labored movements, the pain he was trying to conceal. Jack placed the clipboard with Bishop's arrest report down on the table. Bishop lifted his handcuffed wrists and awkwardly scratched an itch on his cheek with the back of his knuckle. Jack felt a certain unease about him.
Bishop was unattractive, ugly, with thin hair combed forward to cover his receding hairline. He had a fresh bruise around his left eye. Jack sat perfectly still, staring at Bishop, hardly even taking a breath. He picked up the clipboard and read aloud:
"You live at 23 Washington?" Bishop remained silent, blank. "Is that your residence?"
Harrington stepped forward and grabbed Bishop's brittle hair, forcing him to look at Jack. Bishop grinned at Harrington's show of force, as if he expected it. Jack flitted his hand for Harrington to release him. Harrington obliged, letting go and taking a step back.
"Several messages sent to Teresa Mason were traced to an IP address registered to your computer," Jack said.
"I don't own one. But nice try," Bishop said, his voice effeminate, high pitched and nasal.
"Claims he was home all day," Harrington said. He looked down in Bishop's direction. "Lemme guess, didn't match your tall, dark, and handsome profile; things went downhill from there?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"She's clinging to life in the ER. Claims you attacked her," Jack said.
"Who?"
"Two witnesses saw you exiting her apartment at the time of the attack," Harrington said. "They scraped your DNA from under her God damn fingernails. I'm sure that's not the only place they'll find it."
"You say you were home all day?"
"That's right."
"So what happened between 5 and 7 P.M. that caused you to race onto the expressway headed towards Ohio?"
"You guys are full of shit."
Jack tossed an ID card onto the table between them. Then another, and another. "Forged plumber's license, telephone repair man." Jack turned over another one to read it. "I see you work for the US Post Office too?" Jack tossed it into the pile accumulating on the table. "You stay busy."
Bishop licked his lips and rolled his eyes, locking them in an odd angle, appearing quite deranged.
"Uniform's a good ruse to gain entry into a woman's home, isn't it?" Harrington said.
Bishop started to stand up; Harrington sat him down with one push from his powerful arm. Bishop shrank, sensing Harrington's immense strength.
"I read Teresa Mason holds a black belt in Karate. What happened, finally met your match?" Harrington said, a bullying grin, he wanted to hurt Bishop so desperately.
"Fuck yourself," Bishop muttered in a monotone grumble. Harrington cracked his knuckles in anticipation, but Jack's stare held him at bay.
Jack continued to read from the printout: "Attempted rape, attempted murder, resisting arrest." Jack raised his eyebrows at the next detail, then looked at Bishop, sizing up his thin, diminutive frame. "Attacking an officer? Resisting arrest? You're in a lot of trouble, Ed. But that's nothing new, you have a long track record of sexual offenses. Did time in jail for rape, paroled a little over 4 years ago."
"Would explain the gap in time between the murders," Harrington said.
"Yes it would," Jack said to himself.
Jack took a photo out of his inner jacket pocket. He placed it down in front of Bishop. It was a picture of Angelina.
"Recognize her?" Jack asked. Bishop looked away and spit on the floor. Harrington grabbed him again and twisted his head to look at the picture. "You look at it!" Harrington growled.
Bishop stared at the picture, breathing heavily through his teeth. "She's been missing three months now. Take a good look."
"Never seen her."
"If you don't help me, I can't help you," Jack said.
"You know what they do to sexual offenders in general population, you've done some time," Harrington said.
"Take a good look," Jack said. "Do you know where she is?"
"After a while, they all start to look alike."
Jack stood up, frustrated.
"Give me a few minutes with him, alone," Harrington said.
The door opened and Jennifer entered. "Mr. Bishop's lawyer is outside."
Jack leaned over the table, placing both palms down, leaning right into Bishop's face. "Right now I've got you on aggravated assault, weapons possession. If Teresa dies, you're looking at murder."
"I want to speak to my lawyer, tell him how you physically mistreated me." Bishop flashed a big toothy grin. He looked back at Harrington, who remained stone faced, only the rule of law holding him back. Jennifer held the door open, Jack pulled on Harrington's shoulder to exit with him.
They retreated into the adjacent room. Jack looked in at Bishop, who was sitting up straight now, his hands on his lap, not a care in the world. Bishop turned towards the glass as if he could feel Jack's stare, sending the rare chill down Jack's spine.
"They found a tan Buick Skylark parked behind his house. It's registered in his name," Jennifer said.
"The Ann Arbor victim, Delgado, was last seen getting into a late model tan vehicle before she disappeared," Jack said.
"We have Teresa Mason's account, Bishop fits the profile," Harrington added.
"She doesn't," Jack said.
"Maybe he got tired of Latinos," Harrington said.
Jack watched as Bishop picked his nose, examining his fingertip for prizes. "I expected more intelligence from someone so meticulous and patient. Ten years is a long time to evade suspicion."
"Could be a ruse; they're master manipulators," Jennifer said. Jack watched Bishop's lawyer enter the room, taking the seat where Jack had been sitting.
Jack exited the holding area and walked down the hall. Carl Rosa entered his path from the other end, ambushing him head on. Carl was sweaty, on edge, ready to burst.
"Jack, I hear you're holding a suspect in custody?"
"That's right."
"Did he take my daughter?"
"What are you waiting for?"
"He's a suspect. If he knows anything, we'll get it from him."
Carl pushed past Jack. "I've waited long enough."
"Carl, you can't go back there," Jack's words prodded an officer nearby into action. He grabbed Carl, restraining him at the waist. Carl didn't resist.
As they walked him away, he paused and turned to Jack. "Do you have any idea what it's like to have the only thing you love in this world… ripped from your heart?"
Jack's lip quivered. He had no desire to bring Carl Rosa up to speed on his familiarity with grief and loss. And he understood, after years of hearing that question repeated in one form or another, that it was rhetorical.
Jennifer approached from behind to rescue him. "Jack, call for you."
"I'll take it in my office. Excuse me, Carl." Jack respectfully placed his hand on Carl's shoulder as he sidestepped him to get to his office.
He closed the door behind him and picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Jack, she's gone."
"Laura?"
"I've searched everywhere. Her bike is missing-"
"Okay, okay, slow down. Where are you?"
CHAPTER 49
The rain pounded the pavement like buckets of water dumped all at once. Thunder cracked in the distance. Laura hopped in place, anxious, scanning the street.
Jack's car finally turned the corner and pulled up along the curb. Laura raced off her front porch and climbed in.
"What happened?" Jack asked, pulling away, not even asking which direction they should head.
"I don't know, I was on the phone - when I went to check on her, she was gone."
"Don't worry, we'll find her."
"I'm sorry, I didn't know who else to call."
"I'm glad you did."
"She's gotten worse, Jack. I don't know if I can handle it anymore. I haven't slept in days; I can barely see straight."
"What's the last thing she said to you?"