Portrait of Rage (The Marcel Experience Book 1)

by Cynthia H. Wise

  “Are you suggesting someone kidnapped a little girl, bound her with duct tape, brought her here, carried her through a twenty-foot-high window, placed her in this attic, and left through the front door to set off the alarm so she could be found by police, just to frame Thomas Shear?”

  “That’s one possible scenario.”

  Hayes stared at his partner in complete astonishment. “You can’t be serious.” When Winward didn’t respond, his dark expression turned stormy. “I think you’re crazy. Somewhere along the line, you sailed right off the deep end.”

  “I haven’t, but the man we’re dealing with has.”

  “Mark, what you’re suggesting is really out there. I’m sorry, but this time, I just can’t go along with you.”

  “I suppose you’ve got a better idea?”

  “Yeah, I do. Maybe, just maybe, Shear’s been our man all along. Maybe he kidnapped a little girl, bound her with duct tape, and brought her here. You have to remember. He’s been out of circulation a long time. His urge to kill must be overwhelming. But he knows he can’t be out of sight of someone for any length of time. He would need to establish an alibi, right? So what does he do? He leaves her with full intentions of returning later to finish his dirty deed. But his plan’s spoiled because she manages to free herself. She runs downstairs and out the front door, thereby tripping the motion detectors and alarm.”

  Winward stood over the duct tape and stared down at it, as if his steely gaze could extract the answers they needed.

  “I think your scenario’s as crazy as mine,” he stated, turning to face Hayes. “You’re forgetting that Shear doesn’t know the surveillance teams have been called off. For all he knows, he’s still being watched. If he is our man, why would he jeopardize everything he’s tried to do by taking such an enormous risk?”

  “It wouldn’t be such an enormous risk if he’s the one who tipped the commissioner,” Hayes said. “Mark, you know as well as I do, we’re not dealing with a totally rational human being. In a psychopath or sociopath’s mind, he can rationalize anything. Especially if a certain urge is strong enough. I don’t think he would hesitate with risk. He’d find a way around it.”

  “Okay. I agree with that. But if he really wanted to keep someone here, don’t you think he would’ve done a little more than bind her with duct tape? I don’t care how irrational he is, the guy’s not stupid. He would’ve taken measures to make sure escape was impossible. Hell, at the very least, he would’ve locked the attic door.”

  Footsteps on the stairs severed further comment. The two men turned to see the wiry form of Lonny Jenkins enter the attic. His blond features looked grim with discontentment. It was obvious he was not a happy man.

  “Déjà vu, gentlemen,” he grouched. “I want you to know I was cozy as a bug under the blankets, snuggled up to Miriam’s glorious butt, sleeping like a baby. I’ll tell ya, guys, I had a hard time answering my damn beeper. This place is quickly becoming a pain in the ass.”

  “At least you’ve got a glorious butt to snuggle up to,” Winward replied.

  “You know what your problem is, Mark? You have no social life. You’re married to the bad guys of society.”

  “No. Just one. And he was here tonight.”

  “Hendricks told me about the front door. I’ve got my people on it. He also mentioned duct tape.”

  Hayes pointed. “It’s over there. There’s also traces of what we think is blood in the same area.”

  Jenkins set his forensic case down and opened the lid. “After I take some photographs, I’ll see what I can find. Then I’ll bag and tag everything for more extensive testing at the lab.”

  “Great,” Winward said. “And when you dust, don’t forget the shutters and those paintings. Also, concentrate on the windows on the second floor at the back of the house. I have a hunch that’s how he got in.” He ignored the sharp glance he received from Hayes.

  “Gotcha.”

  “Thanks, Lonny. Let us know if you find anything. We’ll be outside checking the grounds.”

  “No problem.”

  Hayes followed Winward down the stairs, but they were stopped by Hendricks on their way out.

  “A call came in a few hours ago. Brenda Kellerman, age eight, disappeared from Towne Center Mall around nine o’clock tonight. A full-scale search is underway.”

  Winward rubbed his brow. “Damn.”

  “Do you think there’s a connection?” Hendricks asked.

  “It’s too early to tell,” Winward replied, but his expression had grown dark and solemn. “We’ll have to wait and see what Jenkins comes up with, if anything.”

  The two detectives continued outside. Pulling flashlights from their pockets, they cast their halogen beams in a slow, sweeping search of the snow covered ground as they made their way around the house. Flakes tapped coldly against their exposed faces and tickled their eyelashes.

  “It’s cold as a witch’s tit out here,” Hayes grumbled. “I don’t know what you’re hoping to find, Mark. The ground’s frozen solid. This snow’s not helping things, either.”

  “I know. And it looks like the flakes are getting bigger, like it’s getting heavier.”

  “It is. The forecaster said we could get up to four inches tonight.” Hayes lifted his face into the cold air and then tucked his chin into the scarf around his neck. “At least the wind’s dying down.”

  Winward slowed his steps as they rounded the corner to the back of the house. He looked up, then cast his beam on the ground several feet from the foundation. After a careful search, he took several paces further on and repeated the process.

  “If you’re looking for footprints, take your pick,” Hayes said sweeping his light out and over the churned snow. “People have been back and forth all evening.” The accumulation of falling snow was already filling in the crevices.

  “I’m not looking for footprints,” Winward replied. “I’m looking for ladder prints.”

  “Hmrrghm.” The disgruntled bear noise. “Of course you are,” he growled.

  Ignoring his partner, Winward moved on then squatted. Two shallow dips could be seen in the freshly fallen snow. He took out his camera phone and snapped several pictures from different angles. Then he carefully brushed away the collected snow before concentrating the beam from his flashlight for a closer inspection.

  “What about this Brenda Kellerman thing?” Hayes asked. “I heard what you told Hendricks, but do you think it’s connected?”

  Winward looked up to meet Hayes’s gaze. “My gut says yes. What does your gut say?” He held Hayes’s eyes long enough to make his point, then returned his attention to the ground in front of him. “Don, take a look at this,” he said, fingering a tuft of stiff grass. “I think we just found a needle in a haystack.”

  He took more pictures as Hayes crouched beside him and directed his light.

  “See how the frozen grass is crushed? And look at this.” Winward aimed his light further on. “Same thing. I’d say that’s about the width of a ladder, wouldn’t you? Also, whatever did this had a slight back and forth motion. I would guess the same motion a ladder makes whenever someone climbs the rungs.”

  Hayes turned a speculative eye on his partner. Following Winward’s gaze, he realized they were directly beneath the study window. He shook his head.

  “Mark, you know as well as I do that those marks could’ve been made any number of ways. The ground’s been trampled by officers, for heaven’s sake.”

  Undeterred, Winward stood and shined his light around the perimeter of the backyard. Seeing the double-garage sized shed, he made his way toward it.

  “You know I can’t buy into any of this supernatural shit, don’t you?” Hayes asked, following Winward inside.

  “There’s nothing supernatural about someone using a ladder to reach a second story window, Don.”

  “You know what I mean. If I buy this theory of yours, it would mean I’d have to buy the rest of it too. I’m not saying we didn’t see something la
st night, but I have to believe there’s a plausible explanation for what happened.”

  Winward shined his light around the twenty-by-twenty shed. “I understand. I’m not sure I’m buying it all either. All I’m asking is for you to try and be a tad bit more open-minded. We wouldn’t be detectives if we failed to investigate an avenue open to us just because it went against the grain.”

  “If I try to open my mind a little bit, will you try to keep a level, rational head?”

  Winward held his flashlight beneath his chin and presented Hayes with a ghoulish grin. “Absolutely,” he said in a bad imitation of Bela Lugosi.

  “You’re a real comedian.” Hayes shook his head and turned his attention to the contents of the shed. “He does his own lawn maintenance,” he stated, casting his light over a weed-eater and leaf-blower hanging from hooks attached to a peg-board wall. His light traveled lower and rested on a brand-new red riding lawn mower. “I wonder how much that puppy cost.”

  Winward gave him a dubious look.

  “What? I’m in the market,” he said with a shrug.

  “The important thing is, he owns an extension ladder,” Winward replied, holding the item in question in a beam of light. He walked over to where it rested on its side against the wall and inspected its feet. “Well, well, what do you know? It still has a few blades of grass attached.” He snapped more pictures then examined the crushed blades. “They’re still moist.”

  “That still doesn’t prove anything, Mark.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  An officer appeared at the door. “Detectives, Jenkins needs to see you right away.”

  Winward and Hayes left the shed. They found Jenkins waiting for them in the attic.

  “Things don’t look good, gentlemen. I thought you should know we found a child’s fingerprints on that tape and the front door. We also used laser and found shoe impressions on the hardwood. Picked them up with an electrostatic dust lifter for the lab to analyze. Several sets are adult males and I’m guessing they’re yours from when you entered the house for a search. We’ll need a comparison print to take back to the lab. The child’s print we found looks like a child’s tennis shoe. Is that the kind of things you were looking for?”

  Winward looked grim and heaved a sigh. “It’s what we hoped we wouldn’t find.”

  “One more thing. All of the child prints were leading out and down the attic stairs. There were none coming in.”

  Hayes’s black scowl intensified. “She was carried in.”

  “Then left to find her own way out,” Winward said.

  “Also, the trace found on the tape tested positive for blood. The lab will compare the blood and hair to see if they match.” Jenkins picked up his forensic tool box. “Well, we’re finished in here,” he said. “What little other trace evidence we found will be analyzed at the lab. I have a hunch your perp is either a resident, or wore protective clothing while he was here such as shoe booties and gloves. Probably even a hat or hair net.”

  “I’m betting on the resident,” Hayes stated.

  “Maybe,” Winward replied. “Lonny, work the study, will you? And don’t forget the window, inside and out. Check to see if a pane of glass has been tampered with. There’s an extension ladder in the shed out back that you can use. Before you do, though, it’ll need to be processed. There’s fresh grass in the tread of its feet that needs to be bagged. Samples need to be taken from the two marks on the ground beneath the study window, as well. I want them analyzed to see if that ladder made those marks and, if it did, when. I took pictures before and after I disturbed the snow. There on my cell. We’ll download them later.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  The two detectives were silent as they listened to Jenkins’s footsteps recede down the attic stairs. The knowledge of another child being taken filled them both with seething anger.

  “I think it’s time for a door-to-door.”

  Hayes gave a jerking nod. “The sooner the better.”

  Back-up was called in and a residential search soon began. While officers woke residents to be interviewed, others, along with Winward and Hayes, worked methodically, moving from house to house, searching the surrounding grounds for signs of the missing girl. Increasing snowfall made the hunt difficult, but it served to strengthen their resolve to find the child before the weather worsened. Time was working against them and they knew it.

  Minutes passed as the night wore on. Their radio crackled with life as individual search teams checked in, but there was no news of a child being found.

  “If she was snatched from inside the mall she probably wasn’t wearing a coat. Do you think she could’ve made it this far?” Hayes asked, shining his light beneath a row of snowcapped shrubs separating two properties.

  Winward blew hard on his gloved fingers, trying to warm them, frustration etching his face. “I doubt it. Not in this cold.”

  “Maybe we should start working our way back.”

  “And pray someone else finds her before we make it.”

  “Yeah, if she’s here to be found. She could’ve gone in any direction.”

  Winward played his light in a wide arc of the area before following Hayes across the deserted street where slush churned up by earlier motorists had refrozen creating a lumpy crust of ice. He lowered the beam and the hair on his body stood on end. It had flickered across the porch of a neighboring house and there, huddled in the corner, wedged between the wall and a stacked cord of firewood, was the curled-up form of a child.

  Winward shouted for Hayes as he ran across the frozen, snow covered lawn. He bounded up the porch steps and kept his light

  level as he dropped to his knees in front of the still form. Her blue lips stood out from her ghostly complexion and his heart chilled at the coldness of her skin as he felt her neck for a pulse.

  “Paramedics are on the way,” Hayes huffed, vapor clouds forming around his head as he crouched beside Winward. “Is she—?”

  “She’s alive, but just barely. We have to get her inside.”

  Winward peeled out of his parka and wrapped it around the child’s body. He then cradled her against the warmth of his chest and waited impatiently as the locked storm door rattled in its frame with the urgency of Hayes’s pounding.

  Lights flooded the darkness. A gruff voice answered the summons in angry, muffled tones. “Who the hell is it, and what the hell do you want?”

  “Police,” Hayes shouted. “We have a medical emergency. Open up.”

  The front door cracked open and the ruffled man’s eyes widened at the sight of Hayes’s dark, burly form pressing his badge against the glass of the storm door.

  Thick iron-gray brows, bristling like exotic tentacled insects, drew together suspiciously. “What kind of medical emergency?”

  “A child with hypothermia.”

  “How do I know you really—“

  The door swung open and a thin woman in her fifties appeared. She was wrapped in a thick robe and her short bottle-blond hair was slightly flattened on one side of her head. She took one look with quick, assessing blue eyes and immediately unlatched the storm door lock.

  “Out of the way, Luther. Let ’em in. Can’t you see the poor child needs help?”

  Hayes snatched the door open and pushed past the man as he followed Winward inside.

  “In here,” the woman directed, taking charge. She led them into a living room to the right of the foyer that was decorated in floral pastels. “Lay the child on the sofa while I get some blankets. Luther, fix up your hot water bottle. The child needs it.”

  Hayes pulled the coffee table out of the way as Winward laid the little girl down. She was soon buried beneath several layers of warmth.

  “Her pulse is getting weaker,” Winward announced, keeping his fingers pressed against her fragile neck to monitor the rhythm of her heartbeat. “Where are the damn paramedics?”

  “They’re on their way, Mark. Just stay cool. It’s up to us until they get here.”


  “Damn it,” Winward growled, feeling her pulse give out. “She’s in cardiac arrest.”

  He pulled the little girl from the sofa and laid her on the pink carpet where Hayes began compressing her chest.

  “Don’t do this, Brenda,” Winward demanded. “Come back to us, honey. Your mamma’s waiting for you.”

  Hayes counted, “One . . . two . . . three . . . four.” He watched the small chest rise with the air Winward forced into her lungs.

  The process continued until sirens screamed to a halt in front of the house. Paramedics rushed in and soon had full control of the situation.

  “How long was she exposed?” one asked, assessing vitals.

  “Two, two and a half hours,” Winward answered.

  “How long has she been in cardiac arrest?”

  “Three minutes. What took you guys so long?” he demanded. “The hospital’s ten blocks away.”

  “Come on, Mark,” Hayes said, pulling Winward back. “They’re here now. Let ’em do their job.”

  The paramedics worked to regain cardiac rhythm. “I’ve got a pulse!”

  “Let’s get it stabilized.”

  Everyone in the room let out a collective sigh. Minutes later, Brenda Kellerman was lifted onto a gurney. A sea of policemen parted as she was wheeled outside and placed inside the ambulance. Reporters had been kept on the periphery, but at the sight of the little girl and the sudden activity, their voices rose in a wave of noise as cameras began to flash.

  “I’m going with her,” Winward said, climbing inside the ambulance.

  “Okay,” Hayes agreed. “I’ll take care of things here and meet you there.”

  He slammed the doors shut and the siren began to wail as the vehicle pulled away.

  Winward rubbed his grit-filled eyes as the sun began to lighten the crisp, cold morning. The blanket of snow would soon reflect its glare, but he stood shielded behind the tinted glass of a hospital window as he looked out at the growing mob of reporters.

  “Here,” Hayes said, handing him another cup of coffee. “Have another jolt.”