by Jack Parker
Blearily wondering what she knew about the previous evening, I let my head fall back onto the arm of the sofa and covered my face with my hands. "Well, thanks for that," I said through my fingers. "You worry about me too much, you know that? That's supposed to be my mother's job."
"Well, she's not here right now. Being your secretary, I'm next in line." She indicated the mug and cream as I dragged my fingers down my cheeks, pulling my lower eyelids with them. "I made you coffee. Obviously. I hope it came out alright – I was trying to do six things at once."
I swung my legs over the edge of the sofa and sat up slowly, blinking back a wave of dizzy exhaustion. "Anything you make comes out alright, Jilly," I grunted, covering a yawn, and then froze. I usually only called her that in my thoughts, and it was almost strange to hear the name come out of my mouth.
She didn't seem to pick up on it – that, or she didn't mind the pet name. Maybe she even liked it.
"I don't know about that," she replied, rolling her eyes. "I can think of some things I'd like to improve." For a long moment, she stood there, chewing her lower lip and watching me as I fought to fully bring myself to consciousness. "You really don't look good, Chance. If you need anything else – Advil, food, whatever – just let me know."
"I'll take you up on the head drugs," I said immediately, unwilling to let her know my hidden anxiety. After all, it was more than weariness that was making me look like shit.
She still looked concerned when I didn't elaborate, and I found myself immensely grateful for the simple fact that she cared. Had she known that there was something on my mind, she would have begged me to tell her – not because she was nosy in any way, but because it would help me to talk about it, something she knew just as well as I did. But I didn't want to put that responsibility on her shoulders. Asking advice was one thing – confiding in her, another – but exposing her to the horrors of a murder was something else entirely. Of course, there was the possibility that I simply wasn't giving her enough credit. Maybe I was protecting her when she didn't need it, and maybe she would even have resented it had she known. After all, she was a big girl, and sweet though she was, she certainly wasn't naïve. She knew all too well how harsh the world could be.
So stop trying to be her father.
I suddenly remembered that she was still standing there. "Oh – sorry." I scraped a hand over my jaw, which was certainly purple and swollen. "Yeah, I'll just take some Advil when you get a chance."
Maybe then I could stop acting like a zombie.
Jill rolled her eyes in mild annoyance. "I might have a hard time finding some in that nightmare medicine cabinet, so if I'm gone too long, send SWAT after me."
She left the room and I cupped my face in my hands, fighting the urge to just flop back on the sofa and fall back to sleep. With so much on my mind that I didn't want to think about, it would take no effort, and I would be out in seconds.
You've got a long day ahead of you, I told myself grimly, peering through my fingers at the floor. You need to focus.
I made a sound halfway between a whine and a moan. But I need sleep to focus. And I need a shower.
Well, it would have to wait. Neglecting the milk and sugar altogether, I raised the mug to my lips and took a glorious mouthful. Jill had made it strong, anticipating that I would need a jolt.
Bless her heart.
I rose stiffly and crossed the room to my desk, cradling the mug in both hands. A beautiful day had dawned while I'd been sleeping, visible in strips past the wooden slats of the blinds. Snow still blanketed lawns and vehicles in heaps, and the streets remained a network of pale blue swamps, but the smiling sun overhead made everything seem pleasant. There was no warmth, but the light was reminiscent of spring.
Jill was back a moment later, and this time she'd brought with her a pair of Advil capsules. "Don't take those with coffee," she cautioned as she came around the desk and pressed them into my palm.
"Surely you jest," I returned, promptly popping the pills into my mouth and raising the mug to my lips.
She sighed wearily as I followed her back around the desk into the center of the room. "Did you give your mother this much trouble growing up?"
I scooped up my notebook from the coffee table and dropped back down onto the sofa, smiling innocently. "Oh, tons more. I've matured with age."
She passed through the doorway and out of sight, laughing, and I settled back into the niche my body had created in the cushions.
Okay, I thought, rifling through the pages of untidy scribbles to refresh my memory. The agenda.
First, I had to head back over to the most recent crime scene to see what clues I could unearth there. Following in the CSI squad's wake yet again meant that I most likely wouldn't find anything, but it was still necessary for procedure. And in the rare event that they had missed something valuable, I'd get to redeem myself for my outburst the previous evening and maybe even get to be a hero for a change.
Second, I planned on visiting the city morgue to check up on the late Mrs. Daniels. Even though I'd received no word yet, there was a good chance that the coroners had found something useful – information that could potentially further the investigation. It couldn't hurt to drop by and see things firsthand for myself. Besides, patience has never been one of my defining virtues.
The sigh escaped me before I could corral it. I dropped the notebook onto the coffee table, rubbing my eyes with a thumb and forefinger. An hour of sleep wasn't going to carry me through the day, but that certainly wouldn't be a legitimate excuse in the eyes of one Kevin Slyder.
I finished my coffee within the next few minutes, so I shuffled down the hallway to Jill's office to make more. She was busy tapping away on her typewriter when I entered, so I started the coffee–making process myself. She must have heard me fumbling at the cabinet behind her, however, because she abandoned whatever it was that she was typing and got to her feet.
"I can do it, Chance," she volunteered, coming to stand beside me.
"I'm not helpless, dammit," I said, but without any fervor. The yawn that escaped my lips rendered me incapable of further protest, and I surrendered the can of Folgers without bloodshed. "You know I'm not gonna argue."
"I have to make enough work to last the day anyway." Smiling thinly, she set to work on the java and I slouched against the wall. "Making coffee was in your job description, remember?"
I was skeptical, but amused, and I arched an eyebrow when she glanced my way to prove it.
"I think that was something that caught my eye, actually – that you had a good sense of humor." She was already scooping grounds into the pot with an experienced hand. "I mean, now I know you were probably being completely serious, but at the time I thought it was a joke. You really don't you remember, do you?"
I felt like laughing but failed to muster anything more than a chuckle. "Well, it was two years ago."
She rolled her head back and forth in gentle disbelief. "Doesn't seem like it's been that long, does it? Time flies."
"You tell me – I'm not the one that has to put up with me." I actually hadn't intended it as a joke, but I suppose my tone of voice made it into one.
"I don't have to 'put up' with you," she assured me immediately in that matronly tone of voice that frowns severely upon self–pity. And even though I couldn't stop myself from arguing, I knew she was telling the truth. She'd never lied to me before, at any rate. And even if she was, it wasn't such a bad thing to lie about.
"You're just too damn nice to admit it," I rejoined, rubbing my eyes furiously with the heels of my hands.
She crossed her arms over her breasts, affecting a dangerous pose. However, a humorous light was in her eyes, which found its way to her lips, curling them upwards into an ever–so–slight smile. "I am?"
I scratched at my scalp, eyeing her with false apprehension. "I dunno – you tell me. You been complaining about my bad haircut and horrific behavior to all your friends and family recently? How many shrinks you up to now �
�� three?"
There was a moment where we smiled goofily at one another, and then we shared a good laugh that ended in an awkward silence.
"God," I said after a moment, rubbing my sore, unshaven jaw. "You can tell I need sleep, huh? For once, I can't think of anything stupid to say."
She snorted. "If you didn't mention it, I was going to."
With a sigh, I pushed off the wall and crossed her office toward the tiny bathroom. "I'm going to splash cold water on my face."
"Don't make a mess," she returned, seating herself at the typewriter again.
The running water in the office had annoyed me since the day I'd signed the first lease. It always took the toilet far too long to stop running after it had been flushed, and the tap water even longer to get warm. On most winter days, sometimes the best the water heater could manage was a sinful lukewarm temperature – the kind Christ would spew from His holy mouth. However, on this day, the water that came out of the faucet was freezing, numbing my hands almost instantly upon contact. Any other occasion, I would have been seriously irritated, but today I welcomed the icicles sprouting in my nerve endings as a greater wake–up call than caffeine.
I dried my face on the hand towel, shook stray water droplets from my hair, and then paused to examine my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were dark and bloodshot from weariness, and there was no question that it was time to shave. Momentarily, I found myself stuck there, looking deeply into my own eyes. The youth sparkling there was undeniable, yet so was the fact that the years were starting to catch up with me, encroaching on the corners of my eyes like wrinkled bookends. Beginning, middle, ending. I certainly couldn't keep running forever.
Cool it, Socrates. I shook myself and turned the light off as I left the bathroom.
"That felt good," I announced as I came to stand beside Jill.
She smiled in acknowledgment past the pencil in her teeth, tapped a few more keys to finish the row, and then turned to look at me. "So, when are you going to fill me in on what happened last night?"
I'd finally realized just how she knew about the incident the previous evening. In a way, it was my fault, considering I'd unintentionally made myself hard to reach. "Sorry Chief woke you," I said, seating myself on her desk beside the typewriter. "He tried my house but obviously I wasn't there, so he must have gotten your number from –"
She waved a hand in the air dismissively, prompting me to continue.
"Well, I feel bad anyway." I rubbed my neck and yawned heavily, collecting my thoughts. "Alright. So, plain and simple, a woman was murdered in Richwood."
Jill drew her brows together. The action wrinkled the bridge of her nose, just below the line of her eyes. "Wow," she said slowly. "Not many murders in this area."
According to police records, it was only the seventh since the 50's – discounting several indictments of vehicular homicide. I pursed my lips, seeing Daniels' face again as I stared hard at the floor. "They raped her too, Jill. Poor girl was only twenty-four, I think. Married for only a few years. Never got a chance to have kids."
Jill didn't say anything, but I could see the comprehension in her vivid eyes. She finally understood the strange preoccupation that was gripping me. But to her credit, she didn't interrupt to mention it, and for that I was grateful.
A hollow sort of ache had begun in my guts again. I swallowed hard past a sudden lump in my throat and resumed the narrative. "It'll be in the papers today. We think they killed her accidentally – they were just trying to keep her quiet and make her cooperate. I guess she was fighting too hard and there were three of them…"
I looked hard into Jill's eyes and found the strength there to go on. "But would it really have been better if she'd lived? I mean, women who are raped become… demoralized. Even though it's not their fault, they lose all self–respect. And a hell of a lot of them resort to suicide when they can't take the guilt anymore."
"Chance, you can't do that," Jill said immediately, before I had even finished the sentence. "You can't play that hypothetical game. What happened is what happened: you can't try and rationalize fate. And you can't make it your responsibility."
"I guess you're right." I shook my head noncommittally. "I don't know, Jill… I've always been proud of this town, you know? This whole county for that matter. It's always been a good area. When I was growing up, you never heard about anything like this in Gloucester. I mean, sure there's always been crime – it's not Bensalem or anything. But now… Until I nab these creeps, it isn't much of a safe place anymore, I guess."
Jill blew a sigh out of her nose. "I don't know how you do it."
I began popping my knuckles to release some of the tension in my fingers, and also to occupy my hands. "What?"
"Deal with all that stuff. Death – murder. Rape." Her eyes were dark suddenly, smothered. I didn't like it. She deserved to always look like the sunrise.
"I guess it just doesn't bother me anymore," I replied with a grimace. "I mean, I can't say I'm proud of that, but… After you've witnessed the first couple of times, you don't get creeped out anymore. I mean, I've been around all that sort of stuff since I started with law enforcement, so I guess I'm used to it. Even if it's been a while since the last time I had to work a case like this."
My scowl righted into a small smile as I reminisced. "I ever tell you I was a cop with SPD for four years? Before Kevin Slyder, of course. Chad Mainson was chief then, and there was no DA – this was when I had just graduated from the academy. Our force worked cases as far as Philly and even once or twice in Camden, so I've seen a few murders. Rapes, a couple, but I've never actually headed an investigation this serious. My unit mainly worked drug detail, which could get violent, but rarely deadly."
Contrary to what I expected, Jill seemed genuinely interested in the story. I must not have bored her with the lackluster details before.
"How'd you end up a PI?" she asked. "Did you quit SPD?"
"Yeah, I eventually got tired of patrol duty and the narc territoriality. I tendered my resignation and set up this agency to do more hands–on stuff. I'd rather find a guy's debtor than chase speeders, y'know?" I raked fingers back through my hair, then shook my head. "It's funny, I'm grateful to be working something big like this again, though. I love helping people."
Jill nodded slowly, her eyes meeting mine but gazing past them somehow to something – someone – not even in the room.
I slapped my thighs with my hands. "On the plus side, we did catch one of the perps last night and interrogated him. I got a few names out of him, but that was pretty much it."
But that wasn't pretty much it. As a matter of fact, I had threatened the kid's life and overstepped my bounds as a detective and a police officer. It was sure to be in the newspapers along with the murder, and Slyder would have no choice but to remove me from the investigation if the flak became too intense. That would be absolute worst–case scenario, but there were bound to be other repercussions as well.
Yet, for some reason, I didn't put that on the table for Jill to mull over. It wasn't embarrassment, pride, or fear that stayed me. I couldn't really define it. I just didn't want to hurt her hopes, I guess – our joint anticipation that this case was going to be our big break, the one that would help our agency take off.
So, concluding the story quite simply, I said: "Things are a lot more complicated now than they were when I started." The lie of omission stuck in my throat, and I almost had to cough to get it out. I didn't like being dishonest with Jill.
Oblivious, she folded her arms on the desk. "How so?"
There was more than one answer to that question. "Well, for one thing, SPD is now operating under the assumption that there's someone directing these gangs to make the hits – yeah, we think there's more than just one group involved now too. For another thing – assuming that we are dealing with two or more gangs – we have absolutely no information on these other guys, or the mind that's directing them."
She nodded, making a sympathetic face.
I didn't meet her eyes when I made the admission, afraid of what I might see there.
Surprisingly, Jill didn't seem upset at all when she replied. "Well, you said it yourself – this is something horrible and you haven't dealt with this kind of thing for a long time. I can understand you being upset."
I chuckled weakly. "This was a little more than upset, Jill." I looked full in her eyes and said bluntly, "I pointed my gun in his face."
She looked back just as firmly. "But you didn't shoot him."
It was the truth, and her response stunned me for a moment. The end certainly didn't justify the means, and that wasn't what she was suggesting. She wasn't dismissing the act either: she was simply drawing the line straight for me to see, leaving the judgment for me to pass for myself.