Nobody's Damsel

by E. M. Tippetts

  “You’ve gotta be kidding. I’m nowhere near the scene.”

  “I’ve got this,” I said to Miguel. “Really. I’ll handle it.”

  He glared at me as if I’d invited the press, then stalked off towards the traffic cones lying discarded in the street. A car turned the corner and Miguel ran at it, no doubt to flag it down. “Hey, come on! Help me set up a roadblock!” he yelled at the uniformed cops, who looked overwhelmed trying to take statements from all the members of the public who continued to flock to the scene. “And somebody catch that dog! I want to know if it’s from the house of the crime scene, whether it’s got any blood or residue on its paws. Come on, people!”

  Those decisions about what evidence to gather and from where were up to the detective. I wondered if Miguel always tried to take control like this.

  The photographer snapped picture after picture, and now it was obvious that he was just doing it to be annoying. Miguel wasn’t famous.

  “Yeah,” I said to the paparazzo, “he’s a little intense.”

  “Hello, Chloe.” He eased into a relaxed position, his torso leaning out of the car as if he were reclined on a chaise lounge.

  “What are you doing here? Getting more pictures of me looking stressed out so that you can tell the world my marriage is almost over?”

  “Now, now, I don’t write the stories.”

  “Okay, look. You and I know each other. You’ve helped me in the past. When you staked out my house back when Jason and I were dating, you didn’t get pictures of me when you had the chance, and you took pictures of my- uh, the guy who was stalking me instead.” I had almost said “my brother”, but had to remember, this guy leeched information and sold it to the highest bidder. “I’m going to talk to you as if you’re a rational, decent person, and if I find my words twisted on TMZ, I’ll know I misplaced my trust in you.”

  The paparazzo didn’t reply, just waited.

  “You can’t start selling pictures of me at work. Stalk me around town going to the grocery store and stuff if you have to, but don’t turn this into a circus.”

  “What are you offering?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What are you offering? See, the way this works is, you offer me the chance to get exclusive pictures of something, and something juicy. You kissing another man, for example, and I agree to play by your rules.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “That’s the way it’s done.” He seemed genuinely amused by my disbelief.

  And I just felt stupid. Life with a famous person had such a steep learning curve. I turned away from him and his flashbulb illuminated the falling dusk, bringing the branches in a nearby yard into sharp relief for a split second, and leaving blotchy retinal burns that I had to blink away as I made my retreat. Maybe the police could arrest him for something, or at least intimidate him with their uniforms and badges.

  Miguel had both roadblocks set up by now and was scanning the street with a high-powered flashlight. He was nothing if not thorough, and I had to admit, this was a good field for a picky, exacting person. You only got one shot at a fresh crime scene, and if we underestimated its scope, valuable evidence would be lost. It was always easier to reduce the size of the restricted area than to increase it.

  The air was cooling fast as the sun sank towards the horizon, though I could still feel warmth emanating from the pavement below. “Waiting on the search warrant,” Miguel said as I approached.

  Another car pulled up to the roadblock, its headlights making all of us squint.

  “Hey!” shouted Miguel.

  The door opened with a click and the vehicle rocked on its suspension as a figure got out. “Someone order dinner?” Dave’s voice. Jason’s personal assistant.

  The paparazzo flashed away with his camera as I jogged over. I couldn’t see Jason in the car, but given the situation, he might have been crouching on the floor. Oh the glamor of fame.

  I heard running footsteps behind me and glanced back to see Miguel. “Hey,” he snapped. “Who is this guy?”

  “You the other crim?” said Dave. “Got you something.”

  I walked around to the passenger side of the car and peered in through the glass. Jason lay on the back seat and waved at me with a cheery smile. Exclamations and shrieks from down the street let me know that the women who’d been talking about me were on their way. I stood up.

  “You want beef or chicken?” Dave asked Miguel.

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, but thanks.”

  “It’ll go to waste if someone doesn’t eat it.”

  “Well…”

  “Beef or chicken.”

  “Eh, chicken.” A paper bag passed between the two figures silhouetted against the deep blue sky, just post sunset.

  “Hey, sorry to disappoint!” Dave shouted at the approaching horde. “It’s just me. I’m not famous.”

  “Everyone needs to either go home or stand outside of that road block.” Miguel pointed to the far one. “No mobbing my colleague. There’s nothing to see here.”

  By now Dave had come around the car and stood, facing me. More shrieks meant people weren’t convinced he wasn’t Jason in disguise, though it’d have to be quite a disguise. Dave was four inches shorter, skinny, and wiry. “A word?” he said.

  “Yeah, what’s up?”

  Dave turned and leaned back against the car. I noticed he positioned himself so that Jason couldn’t see his face. “You might want to plan a surprise visit to LA. Maybe a few. Do what you did for his birthday the year before last and just show up.”

  “Okay…”

  “And don’t tell me anything about your plans or schedule.” His voice was pitched low. It was obvious he did not want Jason to overhear.

  “Sorry?”

  “’Kay, listen close because I can really only say this once. I’m Jason’s employee, so that’s where my loyalties lie. Don’t give me any power over you, not even the power to know when you’re likely to show up next, because if Jason ever asks me to help him do anything you don’t want, I’ll do it. That’s how these things work. It’s nothing personal.”

  My head spun a little as these words sank in. “So if Jason wanted to cheat on me and lie about it-”

  “I can make sure you never know, but only if I’ve got your schedule and can anticipate when you’re likely to show up.”

  “That happen a lot?”

  “I can’t tell you. You can’t trust me.” He pushed off the car and handed me a paper bag. “Hope you like beef.”

  My phone rang to the tune of the theme song from Jason’s cheesiest movie. “Hey gorgeous,” he said. “Just thought I’d drop by.”

  “Hello husband who is nowhere near me right now.”

  “I know, I’m so far away. Wonder what time zone this even is.”

  “It’s all just so glamorous.”

  “Let me guess, you’re waiting on the warrant?” His parents had both worked for the DA’s office, so he knew a thing or two about the criminal justice system.

  “Yep.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t get out and wait with you.”

  “Me too, but thanks.”

  By now Dave had moved around to the driver’s side and opened the door to get in.

  “Thank you for bringing two meals,” I called out to him.

  “Hey, I know how to buy people off, all right? Food’s one of the best bribes.”

  “I have never made you buy anyone off.” Jason sounded genuinely offended.

  “Oh, that’s right. You haven’t, officially.” He tilted his head in a way that conveyed giving a wink.

  The paparazzo took another picture.

  “Can I go punch that photographer?” Jason shook a fist in mock fury.

  “Your lawyers advise against it,” said Dave.

  “So I’d have to pay him off after I did it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Dang it.”

  “But let me see what I can
do about suppressing the images. We can’t have people in Albuquerque flocking to crime scenes to harass Chloe. And we’ve gotta get out of here before we have a mob on our hands.”

  “I’ll see you later on tonight,” said Jason. “I love you.”

  “Love you too.” I gave him one last smile before hanging up my phone and turning away to carry my takeout food back up the street and stash it in the van. The street was clear and I was impressed. Miguel had herded all of the fans to the other end of the block. Now he stood in front of the house, waiting.

  “Miss Chloe!” the detective called out from the front yard. “Good to see you. Real good to see you.”

  Now I knew who he was. “Officer Baca?” He was one of the officers who’d saved my life ten years ago, and who’d helped throw my brother back in jail two years ago, after he’d been paroled.

  “That’s Detective Baca,” said Miguel.

  “It’s Jesse,” said Detective Baca.

  I wanted to grin from ear to ear and grasp his hand in a warm handshake, but the look in his eyes pulled me up short.

  His eyes focused beyond me, as if I were made of mist. “It’s good to see you tonight,” he repeated. “Real good.” One hand smoothed his mustache again and again, his fingers shaking as if we stood in the freezing cold even though the night was still warm.

  I didn’t know him well, but he struck me as someone who’d seen more than his fair share of nasty crime scenes, which meant this one had to be exceptional.

  Here it was. Another test to see if I could do this job.

  “Ma’am,” said a young CSI, wearing a navy blue polo shirt and glasses that reflected the flashing lights of the patrol cars outside. “Multiple gunshot wounds inflicted at a downward angle, which implies she was sitting or kneeling. From the way she fell and the blood splatter pattern, I’d speculate she was kneeling. The gun was a semi-automatic pistol that fired .357 magnum rounds.”

  “All right.” Clayborn nodded and struck a decisive, yet contemplative pose, her arms folded, her chin lifted, her gaze sweeping the room, missing nothing.

  “We’ve searched the house,” said another CSI who walked in from another room. He was older and wore rubber gloves. “The assailant entered via one of the front windows, which he broke with a rock. No latent prints.”

  “Do we have the gun?” asked Clayborn.

  “No ma’am,” said the first CSI. “Not yet, at least.”

  Clayborn nodded and looked around the room again, then turned and headed down the hall.

  The second CSI trailed after her. “Assailant’s most likely mode of exit was out the back door which was found unlocked.”

  “Did you dust for prints there?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. Nothing useful.”

  “What about witnesses?”

  “Just the neighbor who reported the break-in.”

  “I want him brought in for questioning.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The detective swept her gaze around again, then her eyes narrowed. “That,” she said, pointing to a spot of blood on the floor. “Please tell me you didn’t miss the significance of that.”

  The house was a small one for the neighborhood. Only one story. The first thing I noticed when Miguel and I stepped inside was that it reeked of blood and gore, a sickening iron smell that made me want to gag. There was blood smeared on the tile in the entryway that had shoeprints in it. “Hey,” said one of the firefighters, an older man who walked with a limp. My first guess about those uniforms had been right. “I can give you a description of how we found her,” he said, his voice a rasp, his gaze eagle sharp. His sagging jowls wobbled slightly as he followed me down the hall.

  “Yeah, that’s great, man,” said Miguel. “I’m concentrating.”

  “We just need to do a walk through first,” I explained, “And then we’ll do the sketch and take the pictures. Can you wait for a little while?”

  The firefighter nodded.

  I picked my way across the entryway to catch up with Miguel who had already moved down the hall. The marks on the walls, pictures knocked down, and the dragged out blotches of blood on the rug made a trail to one of the bedroom doors, before which was an enormous pool of blood. It looked to me like the victim had crawled or dragged herself here and then lain, unable to stop her own bleeding.

  Detective Baca had followed us, silent as a cat. “Yeah, the guys opened that door to do a protective sweep, no sign of anyone in that room. Can you try to pull prints off the knob anyway?”

  I nodded. I could try, but they’d likely all been destroyed when the officers opened the door.

  “That room, Miss Chloe,” said the detective, “is why I’m especially glad to see you tonight.” Before he could elaborate, someone else flagged him down and he headed back down the hall.

  Miguel did a quick circuit of the other rooms while I ran back to the van to get the supplies to dust the closed bedroom doorknob for prints, which I then lifted with clear tape and pressed down onto index cards. Once I was done, we opened the door.

  And I found myself staring into a little girl’s room. The pink bedclothes were strewn across the floor and lying in among them was a much battered and loved sock monkey doll. It had been made with a pair of purple socks, rather than the traditional brown, yet still had the bright red smile and black button eyes, one of which hung by a few threads.

  My heart gave a dull thud in my chest. There was no sign of blood and no body visible. I hoped against hope that this was a missing person’s case and not a homicide.

  “That,” said Clayborn, pointing at a spot of blood on the carpet, “is from a second victim. The body of our first victim wasn’t moved. No signs of dragging or carrying. The only way for blood to get here is from a second victim.”

  “Or the perpetrator,” said one of the CSIs. This one was a young one with a shaggy haircut and an eager-to-please expression.

  “The victim had long nails,” said Clayborn. “If she’d fought back, some of those nails would be broken off, and they’d definitely be bloody. No blood around her mouth either, so she didn’t bite him. There’s no evidence whatsoever that she was armed, so it’s a second victim.”

  “We need to find out who else was in the house,” the CSI announced.

  Clayborn grabbed a tissue out of her pocket, and opened one of the bedroom doors. It was a child’s room, painted lavender. A much loved, much worn purple sock monkey sat on top of a unicorn bedspread.

  “Ma’am,” said one of the older CSIs. “We can hope the child wasn’t here. Maybe the victim had shared custody?”

  Clayborn shook her head.

  I looked over the room carefully. We didn’t know how much of the mess had happened in the course of the crime versus during the officers’ protective sweep. They’d had to make sure that the child wasn’t lying injured like her mother had been out in the hallway.

  Miguel joined me and shone his flashlight under the bed and into the closet, what we could see of it from where we stood on the far side of that enormous bloodstain on the carpet. I got down on my hands and knees so that I could better see under the bed and desk. No bodies, just toys.

  “Okay,” said Detective Baca, who’d sneaked up on us again. “Maybe the little girl wasn’t here at all. I mean, maybe she doesn’t live here full time.”

  I pointed to the monkey doll. “That is not a toy you leave behind when you go stay at Dad’s. That’s the toy she carried with her everywhere.”

  He nodded grimly. “Yeah, I had the same thought. You two get to work taking pictures and all that good stuff.”

  “You do the honors, Vanderholt,” said Miguel.

  I retrieved the camera from the van and grabbed a few bites of dinner, which had turned out to be filet mignon. Hardly what most people meant when they asked, “Do you want beef?” This was my life now. The meat was tender enough that I could cut away two mouthfuls easily and be on my way back to the house with the camera in my hand in no time. The crowd on the far sid
e of the roadblock had grown. There were even men coming to watch. I wondered if the stories about Jason and Vicki had been run by one of the mainstream news outlets.

  Crime scene investigation is a lot more tedious than it looks on television. I began by taking pictures from the corner of each room of interest. I did a few pictures each time so as to get the full panoramic view of the room. Each picture I logged carefully. Then I sketched a layout of the house to give context for those pictures. This took much longer to do than to explain.

  Once I’d finished that, it was time for me to get out the measuring tape. I found the firefighter who had offered to talk to me earlier. He took a moment, looking off into space as he accessed the necessary memories.

  “She lay on the floor, her feet pointed down the hall and her head resting about here.” He pointed to a spot on the carpet.

  “Okay, keep pointing.” I measured the distance from the nearest wall and again from the nearest corner, so that it would be possible to recreate the scene by triangulating the position. Then I sketched the hallway and asked, “Was she lying on her side or-”

  “Face down. Lucky she didn’t drown in her own blood.”

  I looked at the patch of carpet. “There’s no blood there. You sure that’s where her head was?”

  “Ah, lemme think.”

  The problem with witnesses, even ones like this firefighter who’d likely been to multiple crime scenes, was that the human memory was fallible. It was as easy to warp recollections as it was to recite them, so anyone who thought too hard about what they’d seen could be creating a fabrication in the process. Not an intentional one, but a fabrication all the same.

  The firefighter stood up and looked up and down the hall. He walked back to the other end of the hall and stood, his hands on his hips. “All right, her head was right in front of the door. Her feet stuck out a little from the bloodstain.”

  I pointed to a few spots where her head might have been before he nodded.

  “She was flat on her stomach, one arm over her head, one arm out to the side, her hand like this.” He mimed gripping the carpet. “One of her legs was bent, the other one straight.”