by A N Drew
Hicks didn't speak.
"I might have said some things. Lifted him up by his collar. Ed stopped me."
I wasn't sure what I should be more worried about, Hicks getting angry, or her long-drawn-out silence. Her hands were in the same position on her desk. She looked down at them, then back up at me.
"Were you recording this?"
"No, not that part. McElroy insisted I stop recording; I thought I'd get a confession out of him."
"Jack, level with me. You're not right. How are things at home?"
I didn't want to answer that, so I left it.
"It's not a bad thing to talk to someone. It will help. If you don't want to talk to a counsellor, talk to one of the other guys."
"Maybe I will,” I said, knowing full well I wouldn't talk to anyone about what was going on at home. Some things were too private.
"I appreciate the honesty. But I'm going to have to ask you to go home."
"Again?"
"Jack, it's Saturday. Take a weekend off. Spend some time with your kids. Do the things that the rest of the damn world does; go out and live life."
"I think I'm finally getting somewhere."
"Maybe, but this is causing a problem with you. It's getting to you. I can see it, the whole team can. I'm not taking you off the case just yet, but I don't want you falling off the ledge, Jack. Take some time..."
I shook my head. I didn't like it, but I knew she was right. Truth be told, it could have been a whole lot worse. Hicks hadn't ranted, hadn't taken me off the case yet, but she was on to me. She might have a point. Maybe going home to see the kids, surprising them, and going out to the park, might be good.
I stood up. "Okay, boss, see you Monday."
Hicks looked up as I stood and walked away. I paused in front of her office door and turned to look at her.
"Go see your family, Jack."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I knew something was wrong as soon as I pulled into the driveway at home. My head pounded, and my stomach churned. I put both hands on the steering wheel and closed my eyes.
Abbie's car wasn't there. I wasn't home that often, but when I did go home, Abbie was always there. She spent time either helping at the school one day a week or shopping and running errands. Not that I would know anyway. Nowadays, I only really slept and ate there, and there hadn't been much of either of those two lately.
The darkness inside surprised me. The blinds were closed, no lights were on, and the shadows in the hallway and the living room didn't exactly ease my worry.
Something was different somehow, the routine thrown out the window.
I put one hand on the stair railing and called up. "Anyone home? Abbie? Maddy? Molly?"
Nothing.
So, I called again. Still nothing.
Shit, I hoped nothing had happened to my wife, but then surely, she'd have called or sent me a text message if anything bad had happened. Right?
Wrong.
As soon as my feet hit the polished floors in the living room, I saw it in the semi-darkness. A large envelope stood propped against the big screen TV, with my name scrawled in long, loopy writing across the front.
My wife Abbie's handwriting… I paced across the polished floorboards, rubbing at my forehead. My temperature must have jumped a couple of notches.
I opened the envelope and flicked open the page with my left finger. The words practically burned off the page.
'Jack, I almost wish we were back in the days where you'd yell at me. Now, all you do is ignore me. I wish you'd scream at me again. At least that way, I'd know you still cared. I know you're a detective, and you were when we married all those years ago, but you’re different now. You’ve changed. Things have got to you. You keep on declining my calls. You're never here and show no interest in us. Am I that unimportant? Are your children? Do we mean so little to you? Do we need to become a rape or a murder job to get your damn attention? This is not the first time either. I love you and have always wanted to help you. Despite all my efforts and my support of you and your career, what you've put me through in your quest to save the world isn't fair or deserved. You've had me in tears numerous times and barely noticed. All I want from you is an acknowledgment, a sorry, or some sense of responsibility for the promises we made to each other all those years ago.
I'm tired of being the dutiful spouse, to always be the understanding one, to push my own needs aside all the time and just worry about yours. I can’t continue to just brush each incident, each missed concert, missed dinner, missed milestone, under the carpet like it never happened. Don't you understand that every time you ignore us or ignore me, I love you just a little bit less? Or don't you even care about that either?
I feel angry, hurt, infuriated, and devastated. Obviously to you, none of that matters. All you can see is that I don't understand, which is so off the mark, it’s ridiculous. But then you don't know me anymore, and don't know your children, so how could you understand? And worse, I don’t think you even try to. It’s all about you, your life, and what you are doing at work. When did you last ask about me?
So, I've taken the kids to Nikki's to get some space, a bit of perspective.
I'll talk to you when I've calmed down and this has blown over a bit.
Abbie.'
My knees weakened, and I fell back onto the couch. I had no chance to get up and get a bucket. The dry heave came from nowhere. After I got my breath back, I pulled the phone out of my inside jacket pocket and dialled Abbie's number.
It rang and rang so long I wondered if she would let it go to voicemail. "Pick up the phone, pick it up Abbie, please,” I whispered. "I'll change, I promise. Anything."
It rang endlessly, so it seemed. And now I thought about that line in her note, saying how I ignored her calls. So—this was what it felt like to get ignored? It was painful. Horrendous. I rang and rang back several times.
It rang for what seemed like forever… before it finally stopped.
She didn't say hello immediately but simply sat there on the phone waiting for me to speak. Eventually, she did.
"Jack?” I heard the quaver in her voice but didn't comment on it.
"I'm sorry. I'll do anything. Come home."
"Did you read the note?"
Another pause "Yes."
"And?"
"And you need to come home, this is crazy." My lungs constricted, making it hard to breathe. I extended the fingers on my right hand, staring at my nails, bitten down to the quick.
"You know what's crazy? Me being there as your invisible maid. I might as well be a single mother, Jack. We never talk, don't do anything together, you hardly sleep at home, staying up all night drinking, so what's the point anymore?"
"The point is, you’re my wife.” The muscles in my arms spasmed, so I rested my right elbow on the arm of the chair.
“In name only, Jack.”
“What do you mean, in name only? Come home; the way to sort it out is together, not with you at your fucking sister’s place."
"Like I said, I need some space, some time away."
"I need you here, not over there, so do the kids."
"How in the hell would you know what your kids need? You hardly ever see them."
"Please, can you maybe bring the kids back just for the weekend? Scratch that—I'll come and get them. The boss told me to take the weekend off."
"And why's that, I wonder? Has she seen what I've known for a while now? That you need help?"
"Abbie, what I need right now is you and the kids.” I moved my left hand to my chest. My heart had slowed momentarily.
"No, what you need is to face the reality of the situation. There's no shame in getting help, Jack. It might be the start of something better, like it used to be."
"Just come home; we'll talk more when you get here."
"No. I meant what I said. I need some space. Once I can see things have changed, we'll talk again."
"Abb—"
She'd hung up. I didn't need to ho
ld back the moan anymore. I screamed at an empty room. At the TV, the darkness, the empty scotch bottles standing in a line beside the armchair. I got up and kicked them.
Time stood still. No movement or sounds registered. A lone bird chirped. I tried to make sense of how we'd got to this point, with her giving up on our marriage and me alone in an empty house haunted by a little girl’s life snuffed out, so far, an unsolvable case.
When we'd met, my promotion to sergeant had come through only weeks earlier, and I'd been accepted into detective school at the academy. We'd gone out to celebrate, me high on my own success, Abbie smiling shyly at my confidence. My prospects looked good, my career stretching up and out. I didn't want to be with anyone else, and Abbie felt the same, or so she said. Back then, we’d actually talked to each other, smiled, laughed, drank, and made love. We had fun back then. I didn't have a great deal of time back then either, but we'd gone out occasionally, dancing, drinking, kissing, and revelling in each other's company.
We only had eyes for each other.
Like most couples, the crumbling of our marriage had happened slowly; we'd got distracted, taken our foot off the accelerator. Or, it was taken off for us, first by young kids arriving on the scene, although admittedly Abbie had done most of the work there, and then it was work that gradually took the top spot in our lives. My wife wasn’t earning, so I'd volunteered for as much overtime as I could get—the pressure to provide for my family bearing down on me. We just got stuck in the pattern, and the more work I did, the more I’d felt beholden to the job.
I'd been buoyed by hope, though; hope that if I worked hard and long enough, I'd put bad guys away no matter how difficult, or how long it took.
Then we'd refinanced the house, putting the kids into private schools, and I'd scored myself another promotion which kept up the mortgage payments. Abbie had seemed on board, and I'd never strayed, but then I'd never considered work would come between us rather than something terrible like an affair on either side.
We'd heard stories over the years of other couples separating, but it had usually been due to a third party, or so we'd thought. Maybe work had split up those other marriages too, but then none of our friends really talked about their relationships and it definitely wasn't something I'd ever talked about with Ed Garrett or any of the other guys at work.
So, we just kept on spinning the wheels of the daily grind, Abbie taking care of the kids and running the house. She did a great job and I preened, telling myself how smart I'd been in choosing her. We made sure the kids had everything they needed, me putting bad guys away, promotions every now and then, and working for what I thought was our future and our kids’ future.
As I dropped onto the floor, knees up, head in my hands, I knew now it had all been for nothing. No family, and four murdered children—and on a fast road to nowhere.
I knew the Holmes job had put me back, way back into the hole of drinking and pondering in a dark place. I'd assumed Abbie would be where she always was, at home guiding everything, my rock, the glue holding us all together.
But I guess even glue disintegrates over the passage of time.
I'd taken her for granted. I realised it too late, like most husbands, I supposed.
In a dazed stupor, I gazed at the wall where a family picture hung. The kids were much younger, toddlers, their faces innocent and their shining hair brushed with ribbons tied in bows. Abbie had worn makeup and had her hair done for the picture, pressuring me relentlessly into doing it, saying we didn't have enough nice family portraits if any at all. She wouldn't shut up about it, she'd worn me down.
So, I'd scrubbed up and put on my best gear. Hell, I'd even shaved and managed a smile for the click of the camera and the annoying woman telling me how to stand, to pose, to smile.
Now I'd been broken into a million pieces inside, each jagged edge spinning, digging in, cutting… until the pain became unbearable.
The spinning, almost unnoticeable earlier, sped up until I screamed and roared in protest. The roar coming from a place I didn't recognise and my voice that of an unknown person, disconnected, not mine at all.
I reared up from the chair and lunged at the picture, pushing it with one hand, knocking it off the picture hook. It bounced to the ground, landing with a heavy, sharp thud as it landed flat on the polished floorboards, the corner of the thick frame leaving a pointed dent in the wood.
I kicked the coffee table but it barely moved, so I spun around to the mantelpiece, the shelf above the open fire we rarely used.
I let out a scream of rage, closed my eyes and pushed my hand quickly along the length of the mantel, shoving pictures, ornaments and other paraphernalia so they flew off the end. Some smashed onto the floor with a satisfying sound, while others catapulted across the room and hit the wall.
I clenched my fists and fell backwards, landing heavily onto the couch. My breath rasped heavily, and I gulped for air.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd done something like this, in fact, I didn't think it had ever happened. But the pressure had built up now, eventually blowing into a volcano of fury. Now it had erupted, I looked around at the room with fresh eyes.
Smashed porcelain littered the floor, and the head of an ornament lay a short distance from my right foot. I kicked away the staring eyes and watched as it smashed against the back wall and floor. The silence reminded me of the bleak fact that my family wasn't here, with no prospect of their return in the immediate future.
I reached across with my left hand, and opened the cupboard door, leading to my trusty stash of Jameson whiskey. My recent return to the days of old—drinking whiskey straight from the bottle—meant I'd been forced to actually pay the local bottle shop a visit and had stocked up. There were now three left, hiding in the cupboard beside the television.
I grabbed one of them and lifted it towards me. I grasped its neck with my right hand and twisted the cap until it opened with a click. I took a swig and the familiar heat making its way down into my chest soothed and greeted me like an old friend.
I thought about what the boss had said and toyed with the idea of talking to someone about the job, before quickly discarding it.
Sitting around talking about the case wouldn't bring relief; it would only make it more real, all too solid. I imagined the blank look of the counsellor, asking me personal questions about the case, my marriage, my relationships—and shuddered.
No, humans were imperfect and unpredictable; if nothing else, the point had been brought home in the light of the day’s developments.
Better to rely on my old friend Mr. Jameson. I tightened my grip and took another swig. Unfortunately, in the light of my recent reacquaintance with the liquid amber, it took a good many more swigs than usual until the buzz kicked in and my shoulders relaxed. I rubbed my brow and got up to walk to the kitchen window.
I gazed outside at the backyard, where the swing set lay abandoned, and the toy bunny and scooter lay strewn nearby. Light pierced grey clouds, and flecks of rain decorated the window.
Something needed to break in the case soon, or the only thing left to break would be me. I needed the DNA sample taken from Jones to come back positive on Monday. If not, we were back to square one.
I wondered if I could take much more. If at that moment, someone had told me they could erase the last few days from my memory, I wouldn't hesitate. I'd tell them to lay it on me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It had taken almost a whole bottle of mouthwash first thing Monday morning, but I finally felt confident I'd evade boss lady’s finely-tuned sense of smell. Without my wife or children home, I'd wallowed in my own thoughts and finished the last of the three Jameson bottles early Monday morning. Very early, in fact.
When I eventually reached the office, her radar peaked when I made it to my corner office cubicle, standing beside my computer to lean on the divider, her left elbow perched on top.
"How did the weekend treat you, Fletcher? Refreshed and ready for the next round?"<
br />
That was one way of putting it, I guess.
"I need to see the DNA results, I'm pinning my hopes on a warrant for DNA testing on McElroy.” I’d evaded her question, didn't look at her either, instead just staring at my screen and clicking on an email I hoped was the result I desperately craved.
“Sounds good.” Said Hicks.
“Okay.”
"I’ve been thinking about this one, Jack. I think we need a meeting with the crew, great minds and all that."
I removed my hands from the keyboard. "Okay, when?"
"In the next few minutes. The boardroom’s free, most of us are in the office, so no time like the present.” She disappeared, leaving me to muse over her thoughts on the case. I wondered if she was considering calling in outside help.
I couldn't delay the inevitable for much longer, no matter how much I protested. In cases over child exploitation and sexual abuse, the SOCiT team would be notified. A Sexual Offences and Child Abuse Investigation team would want to be part of this one, and I had to admit, I could do with some help and added resources. I would have to cast aside my attachment to the case, no matter how reluctantly.
I trudged towards the kitchen for some coffee. Holmberg walked down the corridor towards me. "Looks like it's hotting up. I take it the boss filled you in on the meeting?"
"Yeah,” I mumbled, adding sugar to the black coffee.
I followed him towards the boardroom. A few other officers I recognised, Ed Garrett, Andy Collen and Larry Weston were in there, already seated. Hicks chatted to Collen, and as Gary and I entered, she looked up.
"Gary, Jack. Shut the door behind you, will you?” Holmberg shot me a look and shut the door. We both took seats at the opposite end of the ten-seater table.
Pictures were pinned to the whiteboard, its arrows pointing in various directions.
"Okay, so Jack's been working intensively on the case, but I thought we'd share resources. The body of seven-year-old Jessica Holmes was found in Sherbrooke Forest a week ago. The body was staged, and she'd been tortured and sexually assaulted before death."