by Jette Harris
“Press here if it gets to be too much,” he whispered. He positioned himself by the kitchen door, with a clear view of Frank and Remington.
“I won’t have any more of that perversion in my house!” Frank growled, rounding on the younger agent. Remington held up a hand, drawing up to his full height.
“That perversion isn’t in your house,” he pointed out. “It’s in another house. In fact, we don’t even know where they are right now.”
“He can stay there!” Frank roared.
Remington ground his teeth and nodded. “Chuck seemed pretty afraid of returning home, anyway, wouldn’t you say?”
“Well—yeah…” Frank swallowed and took a deep breath. “He is engaging in behavior that isn’t tolerated in this household.”
Remington raised his eyebrows. “It may not have sounded like it, Mr. Witt, but your son… was being raped.”
Frank’s mouth worked as he processed this and rejected it. “He sounded pretty happy to me.”
“Battered wives tend to sound pretty happy, too.”
Frank froze. “And what are you implying?”
Remington shook his head and shrugged. “I’m thinking… Your son is more willing to stay with a known rapist and murderer, a man who beat him unconscious, rather than come home. Don’t you find that a bit… curious?”
Frank’s red face paled. His lips trembled with rage. “Get—out. Get out of my house.” He stormed back into the kitchen and reached for the recorder. Cathy recoiled. Steyer swept it off the table. “Get out. Take that with you. This investigation is over.”
“Let—her—go,” Remington said.
Frank looked at him, then looked down. His fingers were wrapped around Cathy’s upper arm in a vise-like grip. He pulled the hand away, shaking.
Remington whipped his card out of his inside pocket—although they already had one—and slid it across the table, glaring at Frank. Steyer tapped his elbow. Fuming, Remington followed him out of the house.
67
There were several roads in that part of the county that rarely saw traffic, many of them secluded. That evening, one of them saw an unprecedented two cars: one red Jeep, and one patrol car, in the middle of the woods. The patrol car rocked rhythmically. One of the back doors was open, and a booted foot was hanging out. After several minutes of the squeaking suspension making the only sound, one of the occupants began to moan and mutter. His voice increased in volume until emitting a loud groan.
“Fuck, I needed that,” Rhodes panted. “Son of a bitch!” He lay across the back seat, his pants rolled up under his head. His boots, socks, radio, and duty belt were scattered across the floorboard. Byron had to maneuver around his legs in order to pull his pants back up. The wet stain on Rhodes’s shirt indicated reciprocity wasn’t necessary.
“This is probably the most uncomfortable place we could’ve picked,” he said, leaning down on the deputy’s chest.
“I’ve been in worse,” Rhodes said, lacing his fingers into the steel partition. “This could be the most unsanitary, though.”
Byron smirked and shook his head. “I can’t believe I did that…”
“Again?” Rhodes teased.
“Again,” Byron said. “Ever.”
“Com’ere,” Rhodes said, putting a hand under Byron’s chin and raising his face to his. As they kissed, Byron decided he was past caring. He laid his head on Rhodes’s chest. They were silent for some time, listening to the radio chatter.
“Hey, D?” Byron asked.
“Hm?” He had no idea why Byron had taken to calling him “D,” but he liked it; It amused him.
“When did you know, like, for sure you were gay?”
Rhodes had been expecting this one. He took a deep breath. Although he had rehearsed this ad nauseam, he felt fundamentally wrong for telling it. “I’ve always known,” he said. “I hit puberty, and when all the other guys started liking girls, I liked boys.” He shrugged as if it had been nothing, like many of the men who said such things. For them, it was most likely true.
Byron returned his head to Rhodes’s chest, where he could not see the deputy’s grim expression. The longer he brooded in silence, the louder the woman screaming in his mind became. The smack of several violent slaps sounded real, present.
“No!” a child yelled. “Stop it! Get off her!”
“Yeah?” The man on top of his mother reached out for him. “You’ll do, then.”
Rhodes flinched, a child’s scream tearing through his memory.
“What?”
“Wasp!” Rhodes shot up.
“Oh, shit!” Byron jerked his head around, backing against him.
Rhodes forced himself to laugh. “It’s gone now.” Sighing, he unrolled his pants and pulled them on.
Chuckling, Byron put a hand on Rhodes’s arm to prevent him from pulling his pants up. “Hey,” he whispered into the older man’s ear, “teach me something...” His fingers wrapped around Rhodes’s penis and he lowered his head.
68
Tech worked three days a week, assembling toy models for a hobby shop off Marietta Square. The job was only something to keep his hands busy. Rhodes, wearing Beaumont’s uniform, circled the square three times searching for the store, then spent fifteen minutes to find parking.
When he finally stepped inside, he found the old man immediately. A nook at the back was partitioned off with velvet ropes. Beyond them, Tech sat at a large table. Rush played softly from a stereo behind him. Rhodes watched as he arranged minuscule bits of castle out by pattern, then set to work painting a dainty figure. The chemicals in the paint must have been burning his nose, because he sniffled.
“What’s this gonna to be?” Rhodes asked.
Tech peered at him over his magnifying glasses. “Ah,” he grunted, recognizing the deputy. “A castle. Late medieval. This, I suppose, is the damsel in distress.” He stared at the figure, forgetting Rhodes was there.
“What’s distressing her?” He pulled the old man back. “Is there a dragon?”
“A man, I suppose. I have an… evil wizard here somewhere.” He sifted through a box of rejected figurines, then turned back to the little girl in his hands. “There would have to be some kind of magic, of course. Otherwise, I imagine this damsel-in-distress business would get boring. Eventually, she would get tired of it and just run out the front door!” He smiled at the deputy, but his eyes were pained.
Rhodes smiled back. “He could just keep the doors locked.”
“I suppose that works just as well,” Tech shrugged. He lowered the figurine onto its back and picked up his paintbrush.
Sniffing, Rhodes skimmed the models collecting dust along the walls of Tech’s nook: airplanes, historical buildings, epic battles, scenes from books and movies. His eyes landed on a box close to him. He reached in and plucked out a toy rabbit. He held his breath as he inspected it: The rabbit was made of tan felt with a yellow felt hat, marked with Sharpie to make it look like woven straw. It wore overalls cut from denim, most likely an old pair of jeans.
“Br’er Rabbit,” Tech said, making Rhodes jerk his head up.
“Heather made this,” Rhodes said, then pursed his lips.
Missing the slip, Tech nodded. “That’s just a prototype. Lauri’s youngest has the other one. No… David… Second-youngest.”
“Can I…” Rhodes paused. He reached up to tug at the hair on the back of his head. “How much would you like for it?”
Tech snorted with a sad smile. He shook his head. “It’s not the store’s. I don’t even remember how it got here.” He pointed at the models on the wall in front of him. “I must have used it in one of these scenes.” He stared at the rabbit, then rubbed his beard with the back of his hand and waved dismissively. “Take it. It’s best if…” He shook his head. “You can give it back to my granddaughter when this nightmare is over.”
Rhodes stared at the old man, rubbing his thumb over the front of the rabbit’s overalls. Tech would not meet his eyes.
“I will,” Rhodes said.
****
Rhodes was jittery as he drove back to the house. He wondered if he should be worried he might find a dead girl when he arrived. He shook that thought off and focused on a different one: reducing the number of players on the field. Frank Witt had led Rhodes to make up his mind. Now he just needed to decide when and how.
As he pulled up to a stoplight, David Bowie’s Rebel Rebel came on the radio. Rhodes drummed his steering wheel along to the beat, until he turned his head. He froze. Lauri Shatterthwaith, oblivious to the bouncing in the Jeep beside her, sat behind the wheel of the SUV on his left, in the turn lane for the grocery store.
Rhodes took in a deep breath and let it out. She was still. Quiet. Alone.
The green arrow appeared, and Lauri blinked as if waking up, and turned into the parking lot. After the turn lane cleared, Rhodes flicked on his blinker and pulled in after her.
69
Lauri’s throat was tight. She had been waiting for days. The groceries she had purchased sat forgotten next to her car, meat spoiling and ice cream melting. It had taken all of her composure not to drop them in the middle of the parking lot. The only thing that had prevented her from running over and tearing the box open was the fleeting hope he might have screwed up, there might be a fingerprint on the tape.
“Have you touched it?” Steyer asked. The cardboard along the edge of the flaps was torn, as if someone had torn the box open after it had been taped shut, but the tape used to reseal it showed no signs of damage.
Lauri closed her eyes and shook her head. Everyone else had received a box. When her box never appeared, she feared the worst. She was both relieved and anxious, terrified of what the contents might reveal; There must be a reason he had waited so long.
And why was it on her car? Not on her porch?
Remington voiced this question as he took photos.
“Coul—Could you just open it… please?” Lauri asked, her voice strained, as if Monica herself could pop out.
Lowering the camera, Remington glanced at Steyer. The senior agent skimmed the parking lot to ensure it was free of spectators, then nodded. Remington slipped the camera into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his butterfly knife. He flipped it open and sliced through the edge of the box. A faint smell of bleach drifted out. He peered inside before lifting the lid all the way.
Clothing sat in a neat stack, folded with military precision. A purple ribbon with a silver knight’s helmet lay on top. Lauri breathed a sigh of relief.
“Do these belong to your daughter?” Remington asked, pulling the camera back out. Lauri nodded. He photographed the top layer, then carefully spread the necklace and shirt out on the car.
“There’s not…” Her voice caught in her throat. She reached out to stroke the fabric. “There’s not any blood on her clothes.” Tech had told her about the alarming amount of blood covering Heather’s shirt. She peered into the box. A white bleach stain spread across the front of a pair of jeans.
“This could explain why it took so long,” Remington said. He lifted the jeans out. “He probably thought some of his DNA might have gotten on these…” He held them up to inspect the stain, and something clattered to the ground. He looked down to find a pair of dog tags. Steyer leaned down to scoop them up.
“Russell Brewer,” he read, running his thumb over the imprint.
“Those were on Heather’s car keys,” Lauri said.
“I wonder why they weren’t in her box,” Remington said.
Steyer did not offer an answer, but pulled a small evidence bag from his pocket and slipped them in.
Monica’s panties and flip-flops lay at the bottom of the box. The panties had been black before being soaked in bleach. Remington began to lift them out, but Steyer pushed his hands back down and shook his head. Remington held them below the rim of the box and spread them out. The elastic over the left leg had been ripped. There was a brown outline of a bloodstain smudged across the front, faded by the bleach.
Lauri covered her mouth and turned away. Steyer caught her before she fell to her knees. “She’s just a little girl! Just a—just a…”
Remington’s mouth twitched. Heat rose in his face. Folding the clothing back inside the box, he resisted the urge to shake his head. He had seen little girls become victims before. Monica was not a little girl; She was a young woman.
This rationalization did not make his hands stop shaking.
70
“We have two questions concerning the box—”
“Only two?” Young asked, raising a brow.
“Only two that don’t lend themselves to speculation, and analysis can’t answer,” Steyer explained.
“Why did he include Tech’s dog tags with Monica’s stuff?” Remington posed. “And why did he leave the box on the car and not on the porch?”
“Bingo,” Steyer said.
Kondorf walked in, stirring a cup of coffee. Young handed him a stack of photos. He studied them, shaking his head when he found the torn panties. “How old is Sterling?”
Young shrugged. “Thirteen or fourteen. She starts high school this fall.”
“Makes me glad for once I don’t have any kids,” Kondorf muttered. He popped the stirrer in his mouth and gnawed on it.
“Say what?” Remington asked.
“Can you imagine what it would be like if the kids found a box on their porch, tore it open not knowing what it was, and finding their sister’s torn panties?”
Remington’s brow furrowed. He began to grind his teeth.
“What are you thinking?” Steyer asked.
“Children…”
“The Shatterkids?” Kondorf asked.
“No, no… Detroit.” Remington shuffled through the files, pulling one out. “Leila Speers’s little girl.”
“Hailey,” Steyer said.
“Was she Sterling’s age?” Young asked.
“No, younger, much younger.” Remington skimmed the pages.
“Eight,” Steyer said. “She reported a man wearing a police jacket and hat, with a badge, sitting with her at the park until her grandmother came to pick her up. He promised her she would see her mother again.”
“Sounds like a death threat,” Young said.
“It does,” Steyer agreed. “We took it to be a threat as well, so we put her in protective custody. But she didn’t agree. She said the man was nice, and not scary at all. She believed him.”
“A lot like what the Shatterkids reported.”
Kondorf shook his head. “You’re saying he didn’t leave the box on the Shatterthwaiths’ porch, because… he didn’t want to freak out the kids?”
“He didn’t want to freak out the kids.” Steyer nodded. “He didn’t want to scare the kids.”
“He likes kids.” Remington nodded as well.
“That’s… disgusting,” Young said.
Steyer shook his head. “No, not like that.” He turned toward his desk. “Not like that…” Pulling out his phone, he waved them out. “Excuse me.”
71
1997
Detroit (“Jay Faliro”)
The girl looked just like her mother. She was small, even for her age, wan and lean. Nevertheless, she was adorable. There was no justifiable reason she should look so sad. Faliro fought against the instinctual pity that welled up into his throat as he approached her. She was sitting in a swing, toeing the dirt beneath her. She didn’t look up, even when his shadow fell over her.
“Hailey?”
She looked up, head tilted with curiosity. He held the stolen badge out to her.
“My name’s Detective Hunter.” The name and rank felt awkward in his mouth; he usually rehearsed his name for weeks beforehand.
Taking the badge, she ran her fingers over the stolen rank and the department name. He wondered if she could read the words yet, and had to remind himself that even he could not read at her age.
“Is this about Mommy and Daddy?”
“Yes.” He hooked
the swing next to her with a finger. “Do you mind if I sit with you?”
She looked at the swing, then shook her head. He sat down awkwardly; He had never sat in a swing before. After rocking a few times, he made a mental note to get one.1
“Is anyone with you?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. Lowering her head until her hair covered her face, she shook her head. Although this was good for him, he frowned. “Do you know when someone is coming to get you?”
She shook her head again.
“Would you like for me to stay until someone shows up? I can do that; I can stay as long as you like.”
She raised her hair and looked him over before nodding. “Have you heard anything about Mommy?”
Faliro bit his lip, tempted to share more than he had planned by the pity he had not yet been able to batten down. “Yes.”
“Is she OK?”
“She’s alive,” he said. Hailey looked confused, but he prevented her from asking any other questions by asking, “What was it like, living with your mom?”
Her face brightened a little, and she rocked back in a swing a bit. “It was warm. Mamie’s house is always cold, like wintertime.”
“Does Mamie take good care of you?” Seeing as she was at a public park, all alone, he already knew the answer to this question, too. Hailey shrugged. “Does she read to you? Help you with your homework?”
Hailey shook her head. “I don’t think Mamie can read.”
Rhodes had to suppress an expression of disgust and surprise.
“Mommy used to read to me. Did your mommy read to you?”
He smirked, amused at how disarming children can be without even knowing it. “When I was younger than you are, she did. She stopped when I got a bit older.”
“When you learned how to read?”
“No, I actually had a very hard time learning how to read,” he confessed.
She was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Me too.”