by Hugh Macnab
Then there’s Kathy Mason. The only other female in the division. Five years younger than me and smart as a whip. Probably a little too quick to judge, but popular with everyone because of her caustic humor. Double D breasts don’t do her any harm either.
They’ll make an excellent team. I just hope I’m up to the task of leading them.
We get started with me walking through everything, just as I’d done earlier with the Sheriff. They ask plenty of questions, before we get down to agreeing the priorities and who is going to do what.
1 Find and protect the two remaining people on the list who have not yet been attacked.
2 Establish contact with all other relevant County forces and gather case files for all open homicides.
3 Analyze all information to see if we can find why these people are targets?
4 See if there is any pattern to the killings - method, timing, weapon
5 Establish what connects these people?
6 Fresh review of all evidence from Pamela Wilson’s home, including the videos and cell phone records.
7 Find out if Pamela Wilson had an assistant. If so, find this person.
By the time we’ve completed this initial list, the scale of the case is getting to us. I realize that all three are giving up cases which are probably important to them. That’s how we are as detectives. We start something; we commit to see it through. So I’m feeling guilty that I intend to keep two of my own involvements going. I decide to own up and take their criticism on the chin.
I explain about my cousin, Joey. And why I want to help Narcotics if I can. That I don’t think this will be a significant effort, but it’s personal and they all appear to accept that.
Then I tell them I want to reel in Mark Jason’s two gym buddies for the assault on Pamela Wilson. They argue that it’s part of the same case anyway, so I should go ahead. They’ll handle the volume of grunt work on the serial killer basics.
It’s already dark when I leave the office in a cab, heading home. I get the driver to stop at the local twenty-four-hour mart and I buy some basics. Milk, coffee, bagels, yoghurt, popcorn, Tampax and a six-pack of Corona. I’m intending to pig out and watch more MASH. A girl needs downtime.
Loaded up, I’m just approaching the front of my apartment block when I see movement up ahead in the shadows. I stop where I am, with both hands full and no way to get to my Glock without dropping either the grocery bag or my Corona six-pack. It won’t be the six-pack.
Chico Vegas steps out of the shadows and stands directly in front of me, hands casually in his pants pockets.
‘Yo, detective. See you partyin’ tonight?’
‘If I am, you’re not invited, if that’s what you’re hoping for.’
‘No, man. I mean I likes you an’ all, but you're too old for me. Couldn’t keep up, you know.’
‘Not a question I ever see myself having to answer. What do you want, Chico?’
‘I want to give you ma condolences, man. Joey was a screw-up, but he was okay.’
‘Next you’ll be telling me you had nothing to do with his death, right?’
‘Not me, man. I think you already dealt with the guy responsible.’
‘The Joker?’
‘What can I tell you, man. He was one scary dude.’
‘Rumor has it he was your right-hand enforcer, Chico? Are you losing control?’
‘You got it all wrong, detective. I don’t need no enforcer, cause I ain’t doing nothin’ illegal.’
I don’t even respond to that one.
‘I ask you again, Chico. What do you want?’
‘I just want you leave me alone. I done nothin’ wrong. Just let me be. Best for both of us, don’t you think?’
‘Is there a threat in there?’
‘No, man. No threat. Just think of it as friendly advice. You know. Neighbor to neighbor.’
‘Yeah, well, thanks for that. Very thoughtful. I’ll take it on board and give it some real deep thought.’
‘That’s my sweet sugar. Knew you would see it my way. Job done. See you around, detective.’
With that, he steps back into the shadows and disappears. I hate that he knows where I live. That he keeps appearing out of the shadows. But what can I do? This is home and I can barely afford it as it is. No way can I afford to move.
By the time I change into my sweats and Blades Tee-shirt, take the popcorn from the microwave and pop the cap on a Corona, he’s already slipping from my mind.
I slouch into my beanbag, notice for the first time that my butt’s no longer painful, and tune into MASH only to hear a knock on my door.
Laying the Corona aside and unholstering my Glock, I make my way to the door and open it to find the young girl I’d given the throw-away cell phone. In the shadowy hallway, she looks small and fragile. I don’t know what to say. She beats me to it.
‘I want to live with you.’
I’m so surprised. I say nothing, just stare at her. Then wave her in.
She enters, looks around, then turns her sad eyes back to me.
I remember what I’d found out about her background. That she’d never known her father, that her mother OD’d and never cared for her. That she had been in and out of juvie court and the care system. Now, here she is telling me she wants to live with me.
I need time to process. I don’t trust myself with what to say, so I pass her the bowl of popcorn and tell her I only have coffee and bagels. Would she like either or both?
She opts for both and flops onto the beanbag. I head for the kitchen and the coffeemaker.
I set the machine up and stand watching this lost soul sitting in my beanbag, eating popcorn like fury. I suspect she hasn’t eaten for some time again, and I feel guilty that I live such a frugal existence that there’s nothing else but bagels in the apartment to offer her.
I think back to her words at the front door. She said she wants to live with me. Not visit. Not stop by. But live.
The childish simplicity of her request upsets me.
If only the world was so simple.
Given her background, I reckon that’s quite a statement for her to make. In one way it makes me feel privileged that she has singled me out. But at the same time, horrified that I’m the best on offer to her. For her to trust me so much after such a short time, speaks volumes about the people she has been around, living on the streets. That embarrasses me. I guess it reminds me how privileged I am to be a detective and to have an apartment to live in at all, even in this shitty neighborhood. How there are many just like her, much less well off and living a life in a nether-world ignored by almost everyone.
The coffee stops draining. I ditch my corona and pour two mugs, fish the bagels out of the toaster and take everything into my small lounge area. I hand one cup and the bagels to Trace before sitting on the two-seater. I start the conversation like a good detective would, with a question.
‘How have you found me?’
‘I followed you home. The night you gave me the cell phone. It was easy. I think something was distracting you.’
‘I was probably thinking about you.’
‘I guessed that,’ she said, blowing on her coffee.
‘You know you can’t come and live with me. You realize that, right?’
‘Why not?’
There’s the faintest quiver in these two words, but I hear it and my heart sinks. For someone so fiercely independent and used to looking after herself, it’s taking a lot of courage to ask for help - and to risk trusting someone she barely knows. She’s seeing me as the way out of her hopeless life. All I did was buy her a meal. Not charge her for attempted theft, and give her a cell phone. Yet I’ve become her beacon of hope.
My mind is racing. For her, this is an important moment in her life. One of these sliding-door moments. In her mind, living with me her life will improve, otherwise she’ll be back on the streets. That realization makes me feel guilty again. I realize I’m only thinking of how to get rid of her without hurting her.<
br />
‘I’m not capable of looking after you.’
‘You needn’t do anything. Just let me live here, that’s all.’
‘I can barely afford to feed myself, never mind two of us?’
‘I can help with that?’
‘How?’
‘I’ve been watching you. You shop at the 24/7 across from the apartment.’
‘Watching me?’
‘Sure. And you waste money shopping in the wrong place.’
‘And you can do better?’
‘Much. I know the cheapest place for everything. Like your Corona, for instance.’
‘You buy Corona?’
‘No, but you do. You pay eleven dollars, ninety-nine cents for a six pack. I can get you the same for seven dollars, ninety-nine. That’s a four dollar saving.’
‘That’s just one thing,’ I hear myself argue, secretly impressed.
‘You use regular Tampax and buy the small packs of thirty-six for nine ninety-seven. I know where to buy the large pack of two hundred for twenty-nine, ninety-nine. You’re paying twenty-seven cents for each instead of fifteen cents.’
‘How do you know I use regular Tampax?’
‘I told you. I’ve been watching you.’
‘Where did you learn math like that?’
‘If I ever have money, I want to get as much as I can for it. Whereas you throw money away. If I do the shopping, we can both live on what you earn.’
‘It’s not all about money.’
‘Everything’s about money.’
‘No, Trace. It’s not all about money. There are legal issues, and your education to consider, not to mention I don’t have a spare room and maybe I just don’t want the responsibility. Have you thought of that?’
I feel instantly ashamed of myself again, for that last sentence. I’ve spoken what’s on my mind, but that’s where the thought should have stayed. I realize it as soon as the words come out of my mouth.
It could well be my imagination, but I think I see a tiny spark of light extinguish in Trace’s eyes. I’ve doused the enthusiastic mathematical wizard with reality. Now, she’s just a vulnerable twelve-year-old asking for my help. And I’ve potentially destroyed her dreams. I try switching tack.
‘Why tonight?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, why have you chosen this particular night to come to me?’
She paused for a few moments before answering.
‘You rounded up the friends that were helping look after me.’
‘I did what?’
‘You and a hundred others. You cleaned us out. I saw you come into the building and split through the back.’
‘You were living in the Project?’
‘With my only friends. Now they’re gone.’
More guilt creeps over me. I remind myself that actions often have unintended consequences. And one of these is sitting in front of me with her heart on her sleeve, pleading for my help. I try to be positive.
‘Look, before we decide anything, we have to talk everything through a lot more. Agreed?’
She nods, hopefully.
I wonder if I’ve just given her false hope, and whether this is a kindness or just plain cruel. After all, it doesn’t matter how much we talk, there’s no way I can look after this girl.
‘Right. Step at a time. I’ve a sleeping bag somewhere. Why don’t I look that out for you? You’ll have to sleep on the floor.’
‘Fine with me. I’m used to hard floors. At least it’s not cold in here.’
Twenty minutes later, Trace is asleep - at least I think she’s asleep. I’m laying in bed, wide awake, wondering how the hell I got into this mess. Puzzling over how I might get out of it. Feeling guilty again - this time about having a twelve-year-old sleeping on the floor when I’m in my nice, comfortable bed.
At the same time as I’m having all these conflicting thoughts and feelings, there’s something strangely comforting in listening to her breathing, and knowing that someone is prepared to trust me so much. I guess it’s how I would have felt had I allowed Bossy-boots to survive.
28
When I climb out of bed, it’s the first morning my entire body feels okay in a long time. Just as I noticed the night before, even my butt is no longer painful. The even better news is that my knee doesn’t hurt. I guess time does heal after all. When I swing out of bed, I realize I can smell fresh brew. Then the events of the previous evening come back to me. I’m no longer alone.
Trace is sitting on a stool at the small breakfast bar, her hair wet, already sipping coffee and looking at something on my laptop.
I don’t have the energy to tackle her for making herself at home, so I mutter good morning and make for the shower.
Now, I’m not a particularly tidy person, but things just aren’t where I left them. The hair shampoo is on the base of the shower rather than in the rack. My hair brush has moved to the wrong side of the washbasin. I see a scrunched Tampax wrapper laying on the floor in front of the bin. The shower head is still dripping, and water-trails cover the glass frontage.
I’m just beginning to realize the enormity of how little Trace has had in her life, and how dependent she will be on me until I figure out what to do with her. She doesn’t even have her own hairbrush.
Realizing that, I look suspiciously at my toothbrush and decide I can survive without cleaning my teeth for one day, or showering.
We don’t talk much over coffee. I explain that I don’t work regular hours and can’t say when I’ll be home. She’s fine with that. I give her a spare key and twenty bucks for food.
Then, as I still don’t have transport, I tell her I’ll run to work.
On goes the gear, including the badge and Glock. I’ll head for EJ’s, then shower at work. I pack fresh underwear and a shirt in my small backpack and set off on a leisurely run. Medium pace, medium length.
I arrive at EJ’s forty minutes later, still pain free. It feels good after so long. I’m not even sweating.
Breakfast that morning will have to be light and cheap. It’s getting close to the end of the month, my bank balance is running on air and I can’t really afford the twenty I’ve given Trace. I order waffles and syrup, with coffee and more coffee. Top ups are free. I love this place for that.
Thirty minutes later, I’m in the shower in the locker-room when someone else comes into the next booth. We have a sign we put on the door with a man in a shower on one side, and a woman on the other, so I hope this is Kathy. It wouldn’t be the first time some smart-ass has turned the sign over once I’m in there. I’m apprehensive till I hear Kathy’s voice.
We talk while we scrub. I decide not to mention Trace to anyone until I’ve decided what to do about her. I’m at least due her that much. Instead, I tell Kathy I’m heading up to meet with a profiler.
She tells me the team stayed till late after I left. They think they’ve identified the two live possible targets, and have also established communications with the other Counties. She says they’ll update me fully when I get back, later.
When I’m towelling off, Kathy’s standing in front of the washbasin, with her head hung low and her hair down over her head, using a hair dryer. She’s naked.
It seems I’m right. Her boobs are several sizes larger than mine, and as ridiculous as it seems, I feel inferior and suddenly self-conscious. I wrap a towel tightly round me and move beside her to use the other hair dryer.
We stand together like that, the entire female detective contingent, with one of us drying her hair, the other worrying about her boob size.
When the dryers are off, Kathy turns to me and tells me how lucky I am not to have her massive boobs. How hard it is to have any of the guys take her seriously. How whenever she enters a room, or meets the guys for a drink, they always look at her boobs first.
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never thought of it like that. Probably because I’ve never noticed guys looking at my boobs. Why would they? Nothing to see.
&
nbsp; After that we finish dressing in silence and go our separate ways, with me still trying to figure out if my smaller boobs are a good thing or not. It seems a strange thought to be entering a psychiatrist’s office with, but, hey.
Maggie, the receptionist isn’t at her desk, so I go straight to the open door of the inner office. Del Roy is rummaging around in a file box with her back to me. She’s a little older than me but still in trim shape. I know she served with the FBI for quite a few years, earning a reputation as one of the finest profilers. You don’t get any job in the FBI if you're not fit. It looks like she’s still exercising regularly.
I knock on the door to get her attention. She turns and smiles.
‘Good morning, detective. Good to see you again.’
‘Thanks for seeing me so quickly.’
‘Come in and take a seat.’
Then she says the words I always love to hear.
‘I’ve just brewed some fresh coffee. You like yours black, I believe.’
After we’re sitting, I start by showing her the picture from the last frame of Pamela Wilson’s video. I want her take on the expression on the young girl’s face. I also want to understand why such a young girl would want the services of a dominatrix.
Del Roy says she would rather hear the full story before commenting.
So, a few minutes later, I’m retelling the story one more time, wishing I’d made a recording the first time back at the Sheriff’s office. Del Roy sits quietly, just listening, which surprises me; I thought she’d be full of questions.
I’ve underestimated her.