“Hey!” I shouted, pulling my gun from its holster.
The man ignored me, and the sound of clothes ripping, and skin hitting skin echoed in the darkness.
“Motherfucker,” I said, reaching the couple and grabbing the collar of the black shirt he had on. “Hey!”
The man pulled back and tried to shove me. The only light came from inside the library, but I could tell he was a fat fuck, most likely a crack head or a pimp.
“Oh, I don’t think so.” I pulled his arm behind his back, but he slipped back and tried to punch me. “You’re under arrest!” This time, my fist connected with his jaw…a few times. “You have the right to remain silent.”
He fell backward after the third or fourth hit, but he had already pissed me off.
“Fuck you.” He hissed, his arms weaving in the air.
I dragged him back up and began beating the shit out of him. “I suggest you do it.”
Movement from the corner reminded me we had a victim who might need medical attention. With a final kick to his ribs, I turned to the person he was beating to see a girl scampering, while trying to close her torn blouse.
“Ma’am, I’m a cop, it’s all right.” I held out my hands in surrender, glancing at the unconscious form of the douche bag who had attacked her. His pants were open and his tiny dick was hanging out of the zipper, but I wasn’t certain if he had raped her as only her shirt was torn and she had a skirt on.
“What is your name, sweetheart? I’m Detective Morgan.”
I pulled out my cell and holstered my gun, shining a light on my face so she could see me and my badge.
“L-Lainie.” She sobbed, her tears running through the smudges of dirt on her face.
“Okay, Lainie, I’m going to call for an ambulance and some other officers to come and help.” I touched the screen on my phone to call dispatch. “Don’t worry, everything will be okay. He won’t hurt you anymore.” I kicked the boot of the bastard for emphasis.
Because I was technically a witness, I had to let Murphy and Kennedy do the interviews. As soon as they arrived on the scene, I had Kennedy sit with Lainie as we waited for the ambulance to arrive. She denied he had raped her, but his punches had done some damage, as her breathing was raspy.
“The ID we pulled from him is stolen. We’ll have to obtain fingerprints and run them through the system,” Murphy told me, holding an ID belonging to some poor kid who looked to be eighteen at the most. The guy lying in the dirt was closer to my age.
The ambulance pulled up, and the EMTs began assessing Lainie, and then placing her in the back. The douche bag was still breathing, but out cold. He was lucky she had moved, as I had no intention of stopping my punches. Paramedics came over, strapped him to another gurney and also loaded him in the back of the ambulance.
“Murphy, you’d better follow me to the fucking hospital.” I climbed into the back of the ambulance, while the EMT tried to tell me I couldn’t ride back there. “Really, motherfucker? You’re taking a victim and an attacker in the same goddamn wagon and you think it’s okay?”
He stepped to the side and I took a seat beside a trembling Lainie, who couldn’t look at the man on the gurney.
“Listen, if he wakes up before we get there, I will gladly knock him the hell back out.” I tried to reassure her.
A slight nod of her head was the only response. “I didn’t even see him,” she whispered, as a drop of blood began to run from the cut on her lower lip.
“He counted on that, but don’t think for a minute this was your fault.” I looked at her, silently asking for permission to touch her lip with a piece of gauze.
“In the morning, this douche bag will be sitting in a jail cell and you will be just as pretty and pleasant as you were when you woke up this morning.”
I had no clue what type of girl she was, but I knew the sorry fuck lying on that gurney was nothing but a low life. This case wouldn’t be one of the ones I found on my desk the morning. With a decorated Detective as a witness, the perp would have to dig pretty deep to find an attorney to represent him.
Arriving at University ER, the doors flew open and several nurses and a single doctor, whom I recognized as Gillman from the case file on my desk, awaited instructions from the paramedics. Standing behind Gillman was none other than the girl from the bar, Claire.
Her face was different this time. Hair pulled back, scrubs hiding her shapely body, and her face serious. Gone was the glow from her drinking and in its place the mask of a professional. Confident, yet anxious.
Waiting for the gurney to be moved from the back of the wagon, I felt the stirring inside of my chest again. Just like the other night, a burning sensation, growing into bubbles. I chalked it up to too much Hennessey and not enough food. I jumped down from the back of the rig and turned around to assist Lainie down. I didn’t care for the attitude of the Paramedic; therefore I had no real use for him. I turned back around to find Dr. Gillman leaning over the bastard and shining a light into his bloody eye.
“Detective, would you follow me please,” Claire instructed as she walked into the hospital. Her hips once again moved in a natural sway, so unlike Shayla and her groupies.
As the EMT followed Claire with the gurney, I was being mindful of how I touched Lainie; trying to preserve all the evidence, yet let her know she was safe here.
Claire opened a wooden door, smiling softly in Lainie’s direction.
“My name is Claire Stuart, one of the nurses here, and more importantly for you, I’m also a crisis intervention nurse.”
She went on to explain she would be taking Lainie’s clothes for evidence and several pictures. She told Lainie all her rights under the law, then handed her a hospital gown, pulling a curtain around herself and Lainie.
Seconds later, she pulled the curtain back, an evidence bag containing Lainie’s clothes in a gloved hand.
“Lainie, I need to give these to the Detective outside,” she explained, raising the bag in the air. “But I need you to stay here—no food, no water and, please, no bathroom.”
She had barely cracked the door before she looked at me. “Detective, I’ll need to have a look at those knuckles.”
I raised my hand to my field of vision and saw what she was talking about. Three of my knuckles were covered with blood and looked to have a couple of gashes.
“Nah, I’m all right,” I argued. I didn’t need her to baby me. I’d had worse working on a flat tire.
“It’s not a request, Detective.” She pointed to the bed parallel to the one Lainie sat upon. I nodded again, as she opened the door, and crossed the room to hop up on the bed.
“T-th-thank you.” A whisper of a voice came from the tiny, frail blonde.
“There is no reason to thank me. I’m just glad I passed by when I did.”
Claire knocked quickly on the door before opening and peering around the edge cautiously. “Detective, may I see you in the hall a minute?” I nodded my head and excused myself to join Claire.
Once I stepped through the door, Murphy was standing in the corridor.
“Captain, we got a positive ID on the fucker.”
She flipped her phone in my direction, a recent mug shot looking back at me. Frances Cashmere Greyson, twenty-seven, most recent arrest, two days ago for possession.
“So he bonded out and then lost his fucking mind.”
“Maybe the DA can get a no-bond order this time,” Murphy added as she pocketed the phone and made her way over to Kennedy.
“Don’t hold your breath,” was my flippant response as I turned back toward the trauma room door, which was now closed. I assumed Claire was performing an exam and decided to wait.
I leaned my back to the wall, crossed my boots at the ankle, and tucked my thumbs into my leather belt. Why I was waiting, I had no clue. I could wash my hands and smear some ointment over the cuts. It hadn’t been that long since I had a tetanus shot either.
Fifteen minutes later, the door opened and out walked a fatigued loo
king Claire. Her look of surprise at seeing me drew a smile that could wrinkle my bad assed exterior.
“Hey, I’m glad you’re still here, I need to look at those cuts.” She motioned to my knuckles with the bag of trash she held in her gloved hands. “Give me just a second to get rid of this.”
I settled my head against the wall and closed my eyes for the briefest of moments, when I heard a commotion coming from the room where Frances had been placed.
I pulled myself up and walked in that direction, passing Murphy as I entered the door. A uniformed officer was struggling to get Frances to settle back into the bed so the nurse could administer care.
Yelling at the top of his lungs about how she couldn’t make him get stitches.
“Ma’am, he’s right. If the douche bag doesn’t want your help, go ahead and let him go to county with his injuries.”
I instructed Murphy to start his discharge processing, no need to waste the taxpayer’s money helping this piece of shit. Of course, all of this was said in front of Frances, who began to scream about his civil rights and how the nurses all sucked around this hospital. Something in me snapped and I reached around the nurse, moving her a safe distance away from him. Jerking the tubes and wires from his arms, ignoring his bitch-like screams.
“You hate the nurses here so much? Let’s get you the fuck out of here.”
I grabbed his shoulder, hauling him to his feet and passed him over to the uniformed cop, who moved him out of the room. Frances obviously wasn’t that hurt if he was causing all this shit.
Claire stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, though not looking at him as he was pushed past her. “I hate this one the most. Look at her, thinkin’ she’s better than me.” His hands were behind his back and he was glaring in Claire’s direction.
I moved forward, shoving him against a far wall. “Watch your fucking mouth, before I cut out your tongue.” Shoving him out the door and into the hall, Murphy taking him to a waiting squad car.
Clair motioned for me to cross the hall, returning to the room Lainie was still in. Gathered several supplies, moving with grace and ease around the room we were formally in, and placed them on the counter beside me when she was done. It was when she motioned for me to give her my hands that the odd feeling in my chest returned. When she physically touched me, something bizarre happened. My chest changed from the burning, bubbling sensation to complete calm. My entire body felt so relaxed, as if everything was going to be okay, unlike the mess, which was on his way to the station.
“I wanted to thank you,” she spoke; her voice pleasant, and I found I liked the sound of it.
“What for?”
“Helping Kitty.” She shrugged. “She was the nurse you moved away from the prisoner.”
I noticed she didn’t show him respect by referring to him by his name. She called him exactly what he really was.
“Yeah, well. The world would be a better place with a few less guys like that walking the planet.”
She nodded her head, but said nothing further. She cleaned my wounds with compassion and reverence, her eyes remaining on her task. I wondered if she did this with every patient, taking time to show a little humanity.
“There, all done.” She removed her gloves and stepped away.
“Thank you,” I told her, staring at my hands, now free from blood and dirt. “I guess I’ll see you around?”
She nodded her head, a thin smile on her face as she left the room.
“You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.’
~Eleanor Roosevelt
My last semester in college, I was asked to take part in a study group which dealt with various forms of domestic violence. One of the directors pulled me to the side after class one afternoon, telling me she could see a desire in me to make a difference. She handed me a certification application. With this additional class and an online exam I would need to complete, I’d be able to perform exams on possible rape victims. This was exactly what I needed. I couldn’t help Cheyenne, but maybe, just maybe, I could help someone else who crossed my path.
When I applied to work at University, it was the one certification I had above the other applicants. Having that piece of paper in my file didn’t help with the anguish I felt every time a victim came into the ER, or the memories of finding my sister that would resurface each and every time. It didn’t help while I collected evidence, which could get tossed out of a trial by some slick attorney who colored his words just right to save his scumbag client of charges. What that certification did do for me was get me into a position where I could provide understanding, comfort, and care for the victims. Those victims, and helping them immediately after suffering their trauma, seemed to make a huge difference.
“Lainie, my name is Claire Stuart and I’m going to help you by checking you out and making sure you don’t have any injuries we need to fix.”
Rule number one: You never approached someone who had just been violated in such a sadistic manner, with anything except caution and assurance. You couldn’t make the act of violence they suffered go away, but you could hold their hand as they progressed through it.
Lainie was shaking like a leaf and I wished like hell I had some of Daddy’s moonshine to take the edge off for her.
“He didn’t touch me there. The cop pulled him away before he could.” She never looked at me as she spoke, instead twisting her fingers around the pale green hospital gown, which pooled around her tiny body.
“Would you be okay if I checked you anyway? I promise it will be quick, and I will take great care of you.”
Nodding her head, she scooted herself back on the table, the paper crinkling with her movement. No bruises or scrapes were present on her lower extremities. All of her injuries seemed to be contained to her face and upper arms. Bruises, which would fade slowly over the next few days and weeks, were temporary reminders, but the mental scars would never go away.
“It was a last minute decision to walk across campus.” The sounds of her inner battle with herself had started to rise to the surface, a stage in the grieving process she would have to endure. “I’ve been looking for a new apartment and I wanted to check and see if there were any on the next street.”
I scraped the contents from under her broken and chipped nails. By the style of the clothing she came in wearing and the matching toe and fingernail polish, Lainie was a girl who took care of her appearance.
“I just moved into a new place myself, not far from here.”
Under different circumstances, she would have been someone I would have gravitated to, perhaps befriended.
“I got lucky, meeting the manager when I first moved to Charleston. It’s the first real home I’ve ever had.”
She pushed her fingertips through her silky blonde strands; her hair nearly reached the middle of her back, falling in natural waves with perfect ends.
“I know the feeling. My daddy was incarcerated three days after I was born and Momma had a slew of men who wanted to use her and take what little money the State of Kentucky gave her for me.”
My eyes shot to hers and my gloved hand rested on the center of my chest. Shock and awe consumed my emotions. “What part of Kentucky?” My excited voice joined the change in emotion.
“Richardson.” Her expression now quizzical, guarded.
A slow smile framed my face. I knew the town she was from very well. I had passed through it as I traveled to the University I attended.
“Clarkson,” I admitted with joyous exclamation.
For the first time since her arrival, and if I was being honest, completely unexpectedly, her face transformed into a smile.
“So, where is it that you live?”
“Bentley townhouses, on Battery Street.”
Her eyes grew big in recognition of the area. Battery Street was one of the more well
-known streets in downtown Charleston, acting as one of the arteries of the city. It was loaded with restaurants, shops, and tourist attractions.
Bentley townhouses were built on the site where, during the civil war, an ammunition depot stood. After the war, the owners built a boarding house and stables. The granddaughter of the original owners tore down the stables and enlarged the home. Although, she never seemed satisfied with the progress, no matter how much she added to the original house. She sold the property a few years prior to her death. Its current owners performed a complete makeover, hiring a designer who specialized in the time period of the house. They added subtle modern touches in the kitchens and baths, yet kept with the charm of the old South. Most of the locals knew of the Bentley property, it being one of the nicer townhouses in the area.
“Your daddy must really love you for you to live at the Bentley.” She scoffed.
She wasn’t the first to make this assumption. When I completed my personal information with the human resources, the lady who was helping made a similar comment. “Actually, my daddy, more than likely, was your daddy’s cellmate in prison.” Humor in the situation and in my attitude about his circumstances, were to blame for the smile I wore. “My uncle knew the manager over there. He introduced me before he passed away.”
Her eyes met the floor, hands returning to the stands of hair flowing down her shoulders. “I’m sorry…”
“Hey, you have no reason to be sorry. People assume because I live there, I’m sitting on an inheritance or something. It doesn’t bother me.” I shrugged while placing my hand on her arm. “So tell me, where are you staying now?” I dipped my head down to capture her attention.
“Um, over on Peters Road. My lease expires next week and I haven’t found anything in my price range.” Both hands were in her hair this time, the stress of what happened earlier and of being almost homeless marring her features.
“Listen, tomorrow I’ll talk to my landlady, Ms. Georgia, and see if she knows any places available. But for the next couple of days, how about you come and hang out with me in my hundred year old apartment.”
Absolute Power (Southern Justice #1 Page 8