Take Your Turn, Teddy

by Take Your Turn, Teddy (epub)

  Strode flipped the first page aside. Underneath was a grotesque photo of the victim. Her hair stuck to the stickiness of the open wounds in her chest. The ends were stained with a darkness that stretched to the gash on her head.

  Strode turned to the other officers. “Was she hit with something?”

  Burklow shrugged his shoulders. “It could’ve been anything. She could’ve fallen. Hopefully, she knocked herself unconscious before the guy got to her.”

  Strode tried not to be infuriated that no one looked for the weapon that could’ve created a wound like that to the poor girl’s head. Strode was thankful that Finch shared Burklow’s background with him. And now, he could see why she did. A comment like that would’ve otherwise had him in Burklow’s face. She was sparing Burklow another outburst.

  Finch came from behind Strode and reached for the file.

  Finch grabbed the photo and held it up to the light. Then she set it on the table, giving it an angled turn. “Burklow, where is the evidence report? I need to see what you found.”

  Strode raised his eyebrows. They kept Finch out of the loop on this. She was learning some things alongside him.

  “Wait,” Strode said, “you found this girl, Burklow?”

  Burklow, with that same shoulder shrug and clueless look on his face, said, “Well, I was the responding officer.”

  “And you didn’t bring Finch along?” Strode felt the edge in his voice. It emphasized “didn’t,” stressing the first of several errors Strode was sure he would uncover in this conversation.

  Strode’s heart pounded as he clenched his sweaty hands. He tried to let it go, to keep all the contents inside, but like a careless child, he spilled the glass, and his rage poured out.

  “You let them write this off.” Strode turned the photo so it was facing Burklow.

  Strode’s finger stabbed the picture of the battered corpse and then pointed at Burklow. “You didn’t want to help this girl? You didn’t think she deserved your attention?”

  Burklow’s shit-eating grin withered away so all that was left was hurt. “There was nothing left. She was gone. I called it as I saw it.” Burklow, not sarcastically but in a defeated manner, raised his hands and turned the picture back to Strode as he said, “Hopeless.”

  Finch ignored them both. Strode realized she was studying the photo as the men turned it back and forth toward one another. She had something.

  Strode turned from Burklow, trying to focus instead on what could move the case forward. “Finch, what is it?”

  She pointed at the bottom of the picture. “Do you see her shoes?”

  The Byers girl was wearing platform shoes. The black and white photo indicated that the shoes’ soles were a darker color than the white on top. This time, Finch was the outsider. Strode and Burklow looked at one another, both without a clue.

  Burklow took another swig of his drink.

  “And her pants. Don’t you guys see?” Finch held the photo in front of the men.

  Burklow turned away and murmured, “Your point, rookie. Find it before my stomach finds the floor tile.”

  Finch looked back and forth at them with a wide-eyed eagerness. She was waiting for it to click.

  It didn’t.

  Finch pointed to the photo, standing beside it like an instructor to a blackboard. “These are fashion pants. Look, they have a high waist with the long zipper and flared bottoms.”

  Burklow laughed. “Solve this case, Finch, and you’ll get a nice bonus. Then you can go get yourself a pair.”

  Finch held the picture in front of her chest and turned to Strode. It hit him. He saw it too. “She wasn’t dressed to go hiking or running.”

  Finch nodded and smiled. “Yes. She was going out.”

  Then what the hell was Marlene Byers doing in Warren Woods?

  Burklow took another swig of his drink, and Strode noticed the overweight officer swaying as he spoke. “We tried to get people to steer clear of the woods. But things like this just don’t happen here, so I think the locals just thought it was this freak thing and tried to move on. People only avoided the path for a day or two.”

  Strode wanted to say, “You let them believe it was ‘some freak thing.’”

  Instead, his curiosity called him to another file. The tab read, “DEREK RUSSELL.”

  The photo of him looked an awful lot like how Nate Williamson did. Except, Russell, like the Byers girl, didn’t seem dressed for the woods. He was wearing long pants with a cardigan sweater. Glasses lay above his head, cracked and coated with a mix of dirt and blood.

  There was no sign of the shoes.

  Strode turned to Burklow. “What kind of shoes was this man wearing?”

  “Uh. I’m not sure what they’re called. They looked like slippers to me, except they were leather.

  Strode wasn’t sure what the hell those were either, but he was willing to bet those weren’t durable outdoor shoes. This man hadn’t planned on going to the woods either.

  “Mules,” Finch said. “Those shoes are called mules.”

  “Why aren’t the shoes pictured, Burklow?” Finch asked.

  Strode flipped through the DEREK RUSSELL file. A date was highlighted, three days after they uncovered the body. That’s when they found the shoes, more than a mile from Russell’s body. Strode handed the sheet to Finch.

  The next sheet indicated that some of the cardigan’s fibers had stuck into Russell’s skin. Wool. Strode thought wool might be fine in a well air-conditioned home, but certainly not outside in June.

  Finch peered over Strode’s shoulder. “I knew Russell. He was a writer. He had a fancy place in New York, but he came back here in the summer to write.”

  Strode put the picture down and bit his lip, a bad habit but a sure sign he was thinking. “Finch, where was Russell staying?”

  “The old cabin just behind the main entrance of Warren Woods. It’s quiet, so he always liked wri—”

  Finch stopped. Her eyes zipped back and forth and then up to Strode’s. “I have an idea. I think I’ve got something, but I need to go to the cabin first. I’m hoping something there can prove me right.”

  Burklow came to the table and examined the images himself. “Well, shit. We do have something. Let me get ahold of the cabin’s keys somehow.”

  Strode nodded. If Burklow wasn’t going to bring any brains to the case, at least he supplied resources.

  Burklow shoved his cigar into what looked like a cereal bowl on the counter. “So, we go to the cabin. Then what’s next?”

  Strode followed up. “We have to walk the woods. See if we missed something.”

  Burklow shook his head. Strode and Finch could tell it was more thinking than Burklow had done in a long time.

  Finch’s eyes were wild with avenues of thought and the satisfaction of moving one step ahead in the case.

  That rush had become a stranger to Strode. But it surged from the petite cop to him, and he welcomed it back like an old friend.

  “Well, Strode, what do you think? Are you sticking around for this?” Burklow asked. Finch watched Strode with concentrated, hopeful eyes.

  Strode twirled his keys around his scrawny fingers and said, “I’m in.”

  7

  Burklow made another trip to the police station to grab the cabin’s keys. Strode and Finch took notes of things to search for at the cabin and reviewed the files to see if there was anything they should be looking for in the woods.

  Strode rubbed his eyes. Despite the anticipation and adrenaline rush he felt moments ago, his eyes were heavy.

  “Finch, I could really go for that cup of coffee now. Do you think Burklow would mind if I—”

  Finch rose as Strode reached for the cabinet door above the coffee pot. She waved him away.

  “I can do it,” Finch said. “Go sit down. I can tell the day has worn on you. You look like you’re about to keel over.”
>
  Strode laughed. “Between you and me, this is probably the most I’ve done out of the house in a while.”

  Finch raised an eyebrow. “But in the house, what do you do?”

  She was good. Strode left the door wide open for her to catch on to his at-home investigations. He imagined the bulletin board in his office, the newspaper clippings, the red thread, the notes he took from radio reports throughout the country. He tracked everyone, the guy who was moving through the Seattle area and killing college girls, the guy who sent cryptic letters to the Chronicle, but more than anything, Strode tracked disappearances of children.

  Above all the thread and all the crime scenes, at the right of his bulletin board were two pictures: one of Jackie Warren and the other of Teddy Blackwood.

  Strode’s head suddenly felt like it weighed a ton. The pressure filled his ears and throbbed in his eyes.

  He stood. “I’d actually love to clean up a bit. Which way is the bathroom?”

  Finch answered fast like it was a reflex. “Go straight down the hall. There’s one in Burklow’s bedroom.”

  She turned from the counter smiling. Strode tried to smile back, but the pressure was building in his head.

  “On second thought, why don’t you use the bathroom in the basement.” Finch laughed. “Trust me, I’m sparing you from ungodly terror.”

  Finch covered her mouth as if she had let out more energy than she meant to. Her smile faded as she straightened her top and smoothed her already tamed hair. There weren’t many policewomen, no matter where you went in the country, so Strode understood why Finch worked as hard as she did and always tried to maintain a level of professionalism.

  The opposite side of the kitchen had a wide mouth and spiral tongue of stairs. Strode went down and around the steps. The motion collided with the pressure in his head and made him feel nauseated.

  But the surprise of the basement, how clean and cool it was, pulled him from it. The basement was furnished with shag carpeting and a ping pong table. Various framed jerseys hung on the walls from all sorts of New York teams.

  So, it wasn’t just the Yankees.

  A framed Knicks jersey displayed a neatly laid out net in the corner. Strode would have to remember to ask Burklow the story behind that. On the other side of the ping pong table were two couches and a television. There was a basket in the corner with spare pillows and blankets, all a purple-pink tie-dye pattern. Strode figured this must’ve been the perfect spot for sleepovers. Burklow’s daughter probably had many growing up. Maybe the reminder of his daughter was why Burklow left this area untouched.

  Strode followed the tan shag past the spiral steps and toward the back room. He could hear Finch opening and closing cabinets and rattling glassware.

  There was a tall step into the back room. The room was painted a soft blue with a big chalkboard wall at the farthest end. The front had a mirror and a leather chair that stood on a round metal base. Outside of the bathroom was a picture of Audrey Hepburn with her hair done up, wearing an elegant black gown and holding a long and lavish cigarette between her gloved fingers.

  Suddenly, the pressure in Strode’s head returned. This time, it was accompanied by a potent smell that stabbed into his temples.

  Strode turned, trying to find the source and the bathroom. He stumbled to the wall and used his upper body to hold himself up. Bottles were spread out on the countertop, and beside them lay a pair of scissors, a spray bottle, and a large sink with a handheld hose.

  The pain lifted for a moment, allowing Strode to put it together. This was Sarah’s. Sarah was a beautician.

  The smell was getting stronger. Strode felt the inside of his nose become inflamed with irritation. Then his eyes followed. That’s when he knew that smell was bleach.

  “No, Jackie. Please, please. Not here.”

  At the back of the home-salon was a small closet door. Strode hoped that was the bathroom. He hoisted himself up from the counter, knocking several beauty supplies to the floor.

  The bleach smell was nauseating, and he felt as though his feet were otherworldly. He commanded them to move but looked down to find they were still. His feet looked as though they were stories below him.

  Strode closed his eyes, counted to three, and moved as quickly as he could to the chair at the center of the room. His hand tried to use it for balance, but the chair spun and sent him to the floor.

  Invisible fingers drilled into the sides of his head. He closed his eyes and, like a soldier at war, crawled to the bathroom door. His limp legs hung behind him as his core and arms tried to carry the weight.

  Strode found yet another step and threw himself over it. With his eyes still shut, he felt for the toilet bowl. When he was sure he found it, he threw his head to the opening, and bile splattered the hard-water-stained residue. His stomach dug for more and burned when it pulled up only saliva and a bit more bile.

  Strode coughed into the toilet bowl. When he was sure he had nothing left in him, he brought his hands to the toilet’s side and inched his way up to his feet. With his hands still in place and his ass waving in the air, he looked above the toilet into the eyes of a white-faced clown. The artist gave its teeth a sinister point and a grin far too wide to be human. Its eyebrows reminded him of images he had seen in religious art, warning of the temptations of the devil.

  Creepy ass clown.

  Strode tried to push off from the toilet, but nausea held him in his position. Then, he heard a chuckle.

  “Had too much to drink. Have you?”

  Strode closed his eyes and began to turn his head. His body immediately punished him for the movement, and he coughed up more chunks, this time missing the porcelain toilet.

  “You’re falling apart, bud. Coming completely unraveled.”

  Strode’s eyes moved to see the broad grin of the clown opening and closing. Its eyes flashed a hellish red at him. Its face began to blur, and the colors of the bathroom swirled together. He was going to faint. Or maybe he already had. He couldn’t decide.

  “What if you’re having a stroke? Sudden numbness. Dizziness. Confusion. Poor guy. That’s what this seems to be. Imagine what they’ll say, ‘Strode had a stroke.’”

  The clown’s jaw fell beneath the photo as he roared with a booming laugh. The bathroom walls shook, and the hand soap holder crashed to the floor causing pieces of glass to spread around Strode’s feet.

  The clown’s mouth stretched and showed rows of leech-like teeth—the teeth of a monster. The clown continued to shriek, and its high-pitched laughter teased the possibility of blowing a fuse. The lights in the basement wavered, and the bars of the striped wallpaper shook as if the clown was imprisoned behind them demanding its freedom. But it only laughed and laughed.

  “Strode had a stroke! Strode had a stroke! Strode had a stroke!”

  A choir of invisible children began chanting with the broken jawed clown.

  “Strode had a stroke! Strode had a stroke!”

  Strode tried to stand again, but it was no use. The pain beat into his head and only worsened with the cries of his tormentors.

  Strode bowed his head and closed his eyes. When I open my eyes, this will all go away.

  Strode waited a moment and opened his eyes. The clown was still there. It had climbed from the picture frame and was crouched on top of the toilet. Its jaw hung open, and when it spoke it brought its hand to the bottom of its mouth to help it open and close—the cost of its teasing.

  The clown began to kick its feet one at a time as it danced on the fragile toilet and let it slam into the water-stained wall. The clown’s tiny yellow-paper hat bounced on the top of its head as it chanted, “Strode had a stroke. Strode had a stroke. Strode had a stroke.”

  Strode shook his head, counted to three, and tried again. Then, the clown stood face to face with him.

  It turned its head to the right until it nearly touched its shoulder. It laughed again
and allowed its jaw to fall to the floor bloodied and torn.

  The clown spat through its razor-sharp teeth. Strode could hardly understand it as it said, “Oh, but Officer Strode, if you have a stroke, who will bring that little girl home? Who will find that little boy?”

  Strode shouted, “How do you know about that?”

  The clown laughed back at him and did its maddening little dance again. Pieces of its face, beefy and wet, fell to the floor.

  Strode rose to his feet and grabbed the clown’s blood-soaked cotton candy-printed shirt. “How do you know about Jackie and Teddy?”

  Even with half of its jaw in a gooey mess on the floor, Strode could tell the clown was smiling again.

  Strode, his passion reinstating some of his strength, slammed the clown into the bathroom door. Pieces of its face flailed as it dangled and drooped toward the floor.

  “Listen, you creepy fucker.”

  The clown giggled. “Tsk. Tsk. Oh, Strode. You naughty boy.”

  Strode smacked a hand upside the clown’s face. His palm burned from the contact.

  “How do you know? Tell me where they are!”

  The clown brought its white-gloved hands to Strode’s face. Strode’s head bobbed as his vision tunneled. The clown hooked its two pointer fingers in Strode’s mouth and said, “Oh, my sweet boy. You really ought to smile more.”

  The clown tugged its two fingers up.

  And Strode hit the floor.

  8

  “Put it over his head,” Finch ordered Burklow.

  Strode opened his eyes only to find a brief moment of light swallowed by the dark. Something wet was on top of his head.

  Finch’s patience thinned. “Ugh. Not like that. Move. Move. Let me do it.”

  Strode’s eyes fluttered as he fought to hold them open. Burklow threw his hands in the air and moved to the wall opposite of him. He leaned against it and lit a cigarette.

  Burklow inhaled and blew a puff of smoke down on Finch and Strode. “This is Mommy stuff, Finch. I don’t know what the hell to do for him.”

  Finch’s dark eyes were on Strode, and he could see the annoyed expression on her face shift to anger.