Of Things Unseen

by L. Jaye Morgan

  “...the woman was found dead in her apartment...”

  The scariest moment of all would always be when the sketch of some burglar, rapist, or murderer would appear on my television screen and fill me with terror. I had always been afraid of police sketches because they were intensely creepy, like looking at a disembodied head floating in white space.

  “...police say the suspect is wanted for robbery in at least three states...”

  Its dead eyes stare back at you with no expression, and you imagine those eyes looking down at you just before you die. It’s a stranger, the kind your parents told you about when you were five years old, the kind you’re never to talk to, and definitely never to go with, even if they tell you your mom is sick and sent them to pick you up.

  “...the driver failed a Breathalyzer and was charged with DWI and vehicular homicide...”

  I can still remember the sketch that scared me most. Some white guy had been terrorizing a college town in Florida, raping and killing coeds. Some even had their heads cut off. I watched, rapt, so terrified I wanted to change the channel but desperate to know what they would report next. Then they flashed the artist rendering of the monster and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I couldn’t have been more than 10 years old at the time.

  “...body was found tied to a tree. Police aren’t sure how long the man had been there...”

  But that was then. It was 20 plus years later and I was alone again, with the emptiness, sitting on the floor folding laundry and half-listening to the evening news. I began to feel something strange. Something familiar. I was folding a fitted sheet, perplexed by its complexity, when the words drifted into my consciousness, forcing me to pay attention.

  “...no concrete leads in the case of the missing woman but a witness reported seeing a man sitting outside the apartment late that evening. The witness was able to provide a police artist with enough identifying information to produce a sketch, which we’ll show you now.” My head swiveled toward the television involuntarily, and before my mind could register what my eyes were seeing, my body tensed, my breathing sped up, and my heart skipped a beat.

  It was a disembodied head just like all the others had been. The suspect was a black male, and according to the news anchor, approximately 30 to 45 years old. Beard, medium brown complexion, and a close-cropped haircut.

  The terror I felt at that moment far surpassed any I had experienced as a little girl sitting alone, watching the news, waiting for something horrible to happen. The image on the television wasn’t a strange face. I knew this person.

  It was my brother.

  MY STOMACH CHURNED and I tasted bile, and my head spun in a thousand directions before a fog settled over my mind. The ringing in my ears drowned out my thoughts as I kept my eyes closed and waited for my body to relax. The deep breathing exercises only succeeded in making me gasp for air. I was drowning.

  My brother. The one who had caused me so much pain when I was just a girl. Was it possible that he was a murderer? He was obviously violent and he liked to hurt people.

  The pounding in my heart matched the pounding in my head beat-for-beat and a thousand tiny razors sliced my throat when I coughed. I needed water but the floor shifted beneath my feet when I stood. I fell back onto the couch and closed my eyes again.

  However many minutes passed, it was enough time for the sun to sink a little lower. When I opened her eyes I saw shades of purple and pink dancing across the carpet. My heart rate was normal again and the pounding had reduced itself to a dull ache.

  Andre. Who I still kind of loved, even after everything. It was inconceivable, and yet somehow, it made perfect sense. I didn’t know a whole lot about serial killers but I’d heard or read somewhere that many of them start as children, hurting animals and other children. It fit.

  Leah flashed through my mind. Her sweet little face with the chin dimple that everyone called a butt chin. I could see her as clear as the hand in front of my face. What if...?

  I picked up my phone before I could talk myself out of it. It could have been a coincidence, but I believe it was fate; there was a table full of flyers a few feet from where I was sitting. I stared at the tip line number for a while, willing myself to do the right thing. Then I wondered if I was the right person to gauge what was right in this situation.

  I dialed the number. I had to.

  “Hello, tip line.”

  I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

  “Hello? Are you there?”

  Still nothing.

  “If you’re calling to leave a tip, you can report anonymously. We don’t need to know your name or location. Hello?”

  I couldn’t do it.

  Betraying your own family must be one of the most unforgivable things one could ever do, and then to be so cowardly as to do it anonymously—that felt even worse. Regardless of what had happened in the past, he was still my brother. My blood. And I wasn’t even sure I was right.

  Maybe it would be better to get some advice first. To have someone far more rational than I am tell me how ridiculous I was being. Yes, that made much more sense.

  I set the flyer down on top of the stack and picked up the business card that sat next to it.

  Chapter 17

  “DID YOU FIND MY DAUGHTER’S gun?”

  Barrington was confused by the question. They were only 30 minutes into the search of Jeneice Harwell’s apartment when her father requested to speak with him privately. Being pulled away agitated him but it had to be done. He was the liaison, after all, the most and least important man in the entire investigation.

  He led Mr. Harwell across the complex parking lot and the two stood next to Barrington’s car. “I’m sorry, did you say gun?” he asked the grieving father.

  “Yeah. I bought Jeneice a gun about a month ago. It was a nine millimeter.”

  Barrington squinted against the brightness. He had left his sunglasses back at the office. “May I ask why you bought your daughter a gun?”

  “I wasn’t too comfortable with the girls living alone in this area. It’s not exactly the safest spot.” A father’s love. A father’s fear. Barrington was intimately acquainted with both. “I can understand that. Do you know where she kept it?”

  “It should be in her safe. She fought me on it at first. She’s never been a big fan of guns. She’s scared of them. But I think she felt sorry for me so she agreed to keep it if I bought her a safe to put it in. I put the gun and safe in the back of her closet and I think she kept the key in her nightstand.”

  Barrington regarded him carefully. “If it was locked in the safe then I’m sure it’s right where you left it.”

  Mr. Harwell adjusted his Atlanta Falcons baseball cap, up and then back down, before clearing his throat. “Well, I just wanted to let you know so you can let your officers know that the gun is legal and my daughter owned it legally, and not for any illegal activity. And also that there’s no...danger. To them.”

  Barrington nodded, having gotten the message. “I appreciate it, sir. I’ll let them know.”

  Mr. Harwell smiled. “I was actually supposed to take her to the range to get her comfortable with handling it. And shooting of course.” His face fell as he looked off into the distance. “How is it looking, Detective? You can be honest.”

  “We don’t know very much right now but I can assure you—” Barrington began, stopping himself before allowing the official party line to tumble out of his mouth. His voice dropped a few decibels and he relaxed his shoulders. “Look. I’m a father too, and I know. I get it. I can’t tell you what you wanna hear because I really don’t know anything yet. But this is my priority, okay? I will do...we will do everything we can to find her, okay?”

  Mr. Harwell took a deep breath and blinked several times in rapid succession. “What should I be doing? I’m just...I’m lost right now, man.” It was both a question and a plea. Barrington wished with everything in him that he could give this man some reassurance that his daughter would be fou
nd but that’s not something an officer can ever promise.

  “I would gather as many family, friends, neighbors as you can to help search. Get someone to make flyers, hang them all over the neighborhood and then branch out to the surrounding areas. You want to keep this on people’s minds. Someone may have seen something, and that one little something could be the key.”

  “Alright. Okay,” Mr. Harwell said. He spat on the asphalt behind him and leaned against Barrington’s car. He appeared to be on the verge of passing out at any moment.

  “I tell you what. I’m gonna give you the number to someone who knows how to coordinate this type of thing. If you want, give her a call and she’ll help, okay? I’ll let her know to expect you.”

  “Do you think it will help?”

  Barrington gave his most honest answer. “It can’t hurt.”

  AS HE DROVE AWAY FROM the scene, Barrington thought about Jeneice’s parents and the many ways their lives were about to change. He had seen it before and it wasn’t pretty. Mothers who refused to eat because their child was somewhere out there possibly starving. Fathers who blamed themselves, no matter how far away they were at the time of the abduction. Nothing breaks down a man faster than the inability to protect his own children. The deterioration was rapid, and it wasn’t uncommon for a parent to die within a few years of a child’s disappearance. The stress was too great a burden for their bodies to handle.

  It hadn’t been Barrington’s choice to leave. Before he could finish up at the apartment, he got a phone call from Price telling him to report to the office. His frustration level was at an all-time high for the day but he did what he was told.

  Barrington walked right into Price’s office, unsure of what he was going to find, and was greeted by the putrid smell of coffee and Cheetos. “I’m here,” he announced, irritation dripping from his voice.

  Price didn’t look away from his computer screen. “I was wondering where you were at on that tip.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one you told me about. The Bernard fellow, the one whose sister called him in?” He still wouldn’t take his eyes off the screen. Probably looking at porn.

  Barrington tilted his head and squinted at Price, scarcely able to believe this shit. What was the point of calling him home to ask a question that could have been answered over the phone? “I was looking into it when the search team went out to the girl’s apartment.”

  “Right. Well, I think those guys have got that handled for now. I need you to work that tip for me. And some others,” he said with a wry smile.

  Barrington smiled back, but only with his mouth. His eyes were cold. “Are you sure that’s the best use of my time, sir?”

  Price sighed. “For now, yeah, it is. Sorry.”

  “No problem. Just making sure. I’ll get on that now,” Barrington said as he turned to walk away.

  “Also, CSI pulled a tire impression from the scene.”

  Barrington whirled around. “Which scene?”

  Price finally looked away from his computer. “Arabia.” He rolled his eyes. “I know. There are a million tire treads in the area. But this one was a short ways down the embankment. We have to see where it goes.”

  Barrington thought it best that he did not point out how ridiculous it was. “I’ll go down as soon as I follow up on Andre.”

  “Thank you. Dunn, if nobody ever tells you this, I want you to know: you’re a team player. Clutch.”

  Barrington simply turned and left.

  ANDRE DEVAUGHN BERNARD. Age 40. Black male, 5’10, 181 pounds.

  Barrington pulled his DMV records as well as his criminal history. The latter was quite extensive. There were nine mugshots for various offenses: drug possession, possession with intent to distribute, theft by receiving, theft by taking, drug possession, petty theft, shoplifting, robbery, and finally, assault. The man had clearly struggled with a drug addiction for most of his adult life and had stolen to feed his habit. That wasn’t unusual.

  Barrington honed in on the robbery. No weapon, just intimidation. He’d stopped an elderly man who was coming out of a convenience store just after 2 am and robbed him of his wallet and cellphone. The entire event was captured on surveillance cameras and Andre was identified by the store clerk himself, as apparently he was a frequent customer. Barrington chuckled. Another criminal who wasn’t smart enough not to shit where he eats.

  The assault seemed to be the outlier. Andre had gotten into a fight with another man at Strike Three up on Westall Road. He dropped a bowling ball on the man’s foot and punched him repeatedly. The judge was easy on him and Andre was out in two years and some change. He had been a good citizen since then, or at least crafty enough not to get caught. Despite his lengthy record, there was nothing to suggest he had the ability or the means to abduct and murder several women without leaving any evidence.

  Barrington studied the sketch again. It did resemble Andre, but that wasn’t enough to go on. His sister had seemed adamant, though. He thought back to their conversation, her voice shaky but still tinged with sweetness. She had been upset and unsure of what to do. Barrington reassured her and promised he would quietly look into it and no one else had to know. And then he had told Price about it during a private meeting. Idiot.

  Price had found it amusing and truthfully, it was. It was almost absurd in its coincidence. A woman working with the families of several missing—and now murdered—women believed her own brother might be the killer. What were the odds? But Barrington didn’t believe in coincidences. There was something there; he just wasn’t sure what it was.

  CSI WAS ON THE SECOND floor, down four from robbery-homicide. Barrington had worked with them numerous times during robbery investigations and was familiar with all of the technicians but he preferred Travis Greer. They spoke the same language.

  The offices were old and dusty, much like the rest of the department, but they kept the money flowing to keep the lab up-to-date. It became a priority a short time after an embarrassing and entirely preventable incident involving an old cold storage unit and DNA from a couple thousand rape kits.

  Barrington spotted Travis through the window and knocked to get the man’s attention. Travis swiveled around in his chair and smiled, waving Barrington inside. The two were around the same age but Travis was the oldest man Barrington had ever seen wearing braces. He even put multicolored bands on them.

  “Barrington, what’s up?” Travis asked as he rose to from his seat. The two dapped and hugged.

  “Not much man, you know how it is.”

  “It’s good to see you, Family, you’re looking sharp,” Travis said, his eyes taking in Barrington’s suit. “You’re always clean, man, like you ‘bout to walk up in somebody’s pulpit.”

  That got a laugh out of Barrington. The first all day. “I gotta be me, man.”

  “Aye, I hear you. So what do you need?”

  “They got me working on this investigation, man, the missing black girls.”

  “Oh yeah, I have some stuff back here on it.”

  “Yeah. My lieutenant sent me to follow up on some tire tracks.”

  “I got ‘em. Say, why they got you working a homicide?”

  Barrington leaned against the counter and sighed. “Politics.”

  “Say no more. Alright, I have photos and casts,” Travis said before spreading an array of glossy eight-by-ten photos on the stainless steel counter. He went into a cabinet and lifted an off-white rectangle off of the shelf. The object made a loud noise as it landed on the table.

  Barrington studied the pictures. “Y’all did a good job on these.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a problem. It rained out there at some point before we got there and the raindrops eroded some of the pattern.”

  “Shit,” Barrington swore towards the ceiling. It could never just be easy.

  “Now hold on,” Travis said. “We were still able to narrow it down to the manufacturer. I ran that through the database and I have a list of models.”
/>   “I can work with that,” Barrington said, feeling some relief.

  Travis tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “Don’t get too happy. That’s not gonna get you the car. That’s gonna get you hundreds of cars.”

  Barrington relaxed against the counter, deflated, needing it to hold him up. There was no way they’d be able to prove anything in court using a sample with no unique characteristics. He’d worked robbery cases with extraordinary tire track evidence, with casts that captured everything down to the nail stuck in a tire and the wear pattern caused by a small hole in a suspect’s driveway. But with a manufacturer and list of models, the most he’d be able to do is eliminate potential suspects. And it would be a lot of work. Fuck!

  “Well thanks anyway, man. Y’all did what you could.”

  “Wish it was more. Say, where y’all at on the investigation, though?”

  “Honestly, they ain’t telling me shit.”

  Travis looked around before walking closer to Barrington. “What time are you getting out of here?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Maybe another hour or so. Why?”

  “I need to holler at you about something. Meet me at the spot at 6:30.”

  BUSBY’S SAT AT THE corner of Perry and South Carver. It was nicer than most dives, and still black-owned and operated, so Barrington favored it over the pub most of the cops stopped at when they left work. The biggest draw was that Busby’s played the music he liked.