Crossing the Line

by Hugh Macnab

  If I feel low about my decision to terminate Bossy-boots - which I do - that’s nothing to how I feel right at that moment. Yes, Bossy-boots depended on me, but she wasn’t actually here. Trace is sitting opposite me. Sharing my food. Living in my apartment. Making me laugh, and now cry - yes, my eyes are welling up.

  We sit like that. Each watching the other cry. Neither sure what’s happening, but feeling a new bond form. A bond made from powerful stuff. A bond made of love. No-one was more surprised than me at the thought, but it’s true. I love this annoyingly wonderful young woman. And from the expression of her face, the feeling is mutual.

  I reach across the table, take her hand in mine and make one of the most ridiculous promises of all time. I tell her she’ll be alright. That somehow, I’ll look after her.

  The relief on her face magnifies the stupidity of my promise. I’m left wondering how vulnerable I feel. It should be Trace feeling like this, not me.

  Unable to process any more of what just happened, I switch back to talking about Bossy-boots. Trace seems more than happy to follow my lead. I explain what Arnie Collins told me about micro-chimerisms, and how Bossy-boots is still in my bloodstream. In response, she asks another one of these bright questions she seems to come up with so easily.

  ‘I don’t understand. Why was your Medical Examiner talking with you about the unborn child you terminated?’

  ‘He wasn’t.’ But as I deny it, I realize that it was me who took what Arnie said and applied it to Bossy-boots. He was talking about Pamela Wilson and I was so wrapped up in my own grief, I completely missed it.

  I tell this to Trace.

  ‘So, exactly what did he say?’ she asks.

  I have to think for a few moments.

  ‘I think he said that the victim had most likely had a child early in her teens. No, that’s not right. He had looked at DNA and found that she had twins. A boy and a girl.’

  ‘Have you spoken to them?’

  ‘No. A witness just told us about them today, but I hadn’t connected it up to what the ME said before.’

  ‘You need to find them.’

  ‘Yes, Trace. I do.’

  On the way back to the apartment, I put an arm through Trace’s.

  At that moment, I feel closer to someone than I have in a long, long time.

  As we walk, I can’t help wondering about Pamela Wilson’s relationship with the children she abandoned at birth. At least she allowed them to go the full term, which is more than I did.

  44

  Having enjoyed the Stones on the jukebox the previous night at the Rusty Nail with Trace, I ask Alexa to waken me with a few of my favorite early tracks. Trace asks me to leave the volume up so she can waken at the same time. She says she wants to spend the day on the laptop looking for home-learning classes.

  So, first up is ‘19th Nervous Breakdown.’

  Then I boogie in the shower to Jumping Jack Flash and dry myself, accompanied by ‘I can’t get no satisfaction.’ I swear these guys wrote their music with me in mind, even although I wasn’t even a twinkle in Papa’s eye back then.

  When I come out of the shower, Trace heads in.

  Trace has switched the music to Ariana Grande and I can hear her singing along to the song she recorded with Lady Gaga - ‘Rain on me.’ I can only wonder if she’s boogying the same way I had to the Stones. Listening to her, she’s obviously tone deaf, but no way am I telling her. She’s happy, and that’s fine with me.

  As I’m lifting my badge and taking my Glock from the drawer in the bedside unit I’ve started concealing it in, I notice the small box containing Papa’s bones. Maybe I will introduce Trace to them that night.

  I leave five dollars on the breakfast bar - the best I can offer at this stage of the month.

  When I hit the office, I’m in a good mood. I assume that will change, but I don’t realize just how quickly.

  There are two messages on my desk. The first is a reminder from Jimi to call or stop by. I’d forgotten all about his message the previous day. The second is from 007 telling me I hadn’t given him my cell number, so he hoped I would pick up this message. He had booked a table at Mediterrano for eight. He hoped I would be there.

  Fuck and double fuck. I’ve missed him the previous night.

  First, I’d really been looking forward to getting together with him. For food and, well, who knows what else. Second, I love the food at the Mediterrano - a mix of Italian and Greek.

  I realize I don’t have his cell either, so call Jerry. From his tone, he’s not yet over me letting Vegas escape, but he gives me 007’s number.

  I call. He answers. I explain. He says he understands. I ask if we can try again. He’s at the airport flying back to Atlanta. We talk a little more, then hang up. Now my good mood has completely evaporated.

  My extension rings. It’s Kathy to say the team are in the conference room with donuts and coffee. The prospect cheers me a little. I head their way.

  We spend the first twenty minutes just joshing around, with me arm-wrestling Kathy for the double chocolate donut. I lose. She shares. I like Kathy even more.

  After we clear the mess, we start talking about work. Jamie confirms that as the following day is a Saturday, officers will be with JS3 round the clock. There will also be one present inside his home. We’re taking no chances.

  Kathy updates everyone on our visit to Pamela Wilson’s neighbor, and I finish with my thoughts about Pamela having twins in their mid-twenties.

  Jamie and Dene offer to track them down.

  Kathy says she wants to look more carefully into the accusations filed against JS3.

  That leaves me with time on my hands.

  I go looking for Jimi and find him in the coffee rec area. I grab a fresh brew and sit with him at a small table which looks out over the rear car park. It isn’t much of a view, but at least it’s a glimpse of daylight. I ask him what he has for me.

  ‘I was going over all the evidence from Pamela Wilson’s case as you asked. Fresh pair of eyes. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lie. Smoothly, I hope.

  ‘Well, a statement from a neighbor who saw a vehicle intrigued me. She said it was parked close to the victim’s home around the time of her death.’

  ‘I think I remember. She was walking her dog, right?’

  ‘Exactly. She didn’t know what kind of car it was, but what she said made me wonder.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘She described it as unusual, with a disabled badge.’

  Hearing the word disabled is triggering something, but as yet I’m not sure what. My interest level has just gone up a notch, and I encourage him to continue.

  ‘I took our vehicle identification manual and the police sketch-artist with me, and went to see her. We surprised her with the visit, but I think she was pleased with the attention. She made us tea, and we looked through the vehicle manual first until she picked out the nearest she could find. Then, the artist took over, asking questions and changing the vehicle she had chosen with some of her observations. She remembered a lot more detail than she thought she had.’

  ‘And?’ I’m getting impatient, but try to reel it in, remembering that working on a first homicide case is a big deal for Jimi.

  ‘We came up with a vehicle. It was wheelchair accessible. A silver Ford Freedom. It has a tailgate and ramp to allow wheelchair access, but from her description, it was adapted for a disabled driver.’

  ‘So, potentially, someone had two disabled visitors that night? One in a wheelchair.’

  ‘Yes. So, I went back to the victim’s address and canvassed the neighbors.’

  ’To see if they had a visit from two disabled folks?’

  ‘Exactly. They hadn’t. And no-one recognized the Ford Freedom.’

  ‘So, you reckon they were visiting Pamela Wilson?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I think.’

  ‘Outstanding work, Jimi. I’ve completely overlooked the significance of that witness statement.
’

  ‘But that’s not all,’ he says, struggling to hide his excitement. ‘I asked for all traffic cam footage from the surrounding area for the couple of hours around the estimated time of death.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Found a vehicle matching the description. We have the plate and the owner’s address. I wasn’t sure what to do next, so I left you a message.’

  Kicking myself for not responding the previous day, I thank him one more time, follow him to his cubicle to collect the information and go back to the conference room to give it to Jamie and Dene.

  After all the work they’ve put in over the past week, I think they should pick up our two newest suspects in the death of Pamela Wilson.

  Now, with everything at least reasonably in control, I feel strangely lost. This is the first free time I’ve had since coming back, when Dan asked me if I wanted to dive straight in. Little did I know what I would be diving into. But that’s what life in Homicide is like, and I enjoy it.

  I spend the next couple of hours reading routine reports and emails until Dene buzzes me to let me know they have our two new suspects in an interview room downstairs. Given that they know I’ll be interested, they’ve chosen the room with the one-way mirrored wall. They’re spot on, and ten minutes later I’m assessing the twins.

  The one in the wheelchair suffers from the greatest physical disabilities by far. It looks like her spine has collapsed under her own weight, leaving her crumpled and wheelchair bound. Although only in her mid-twenties, she looks old. From what I can see of her arms and hands, they seem relatively okay.

  Her hair is already gray and hanging listlessly to shoulder length. She’s wearing glasses with a heavy dark frame and lenses so thick, all I can see is a pair of gigantic eyes peering out.

  I know I should feel sorry for her, but there’s something creepy in those eyes.

  Her sister is physically the opposite. I would guess the best part of six foot, with a flat chest and broad shoulders. Where her sister lacks make-up, this woman excels. In fact, over-excels. I don’t want to seem cruel, but she looks more like a mannequin, or a circus clown.

  Her face is strong with a square jawline, and slightly bulbous nose.

  They look nothing alike.

  Dene and Jamie are sitting with their backs to me, facing the twins.

  Jamie starts the interview by telling them it is being recorded, then confirms their names, home address and that they own the vehicle found parked in their driveway.

  It’s the woman in the chair who gives the confirmation.

  Then Jamie asks them to name their mother.

  That’s when the evasion clearly starts.

  The next half-hour is spent with her explaining how difficult their past lives have been. Separated at birth. They’d grown up in a combination of hospitals, care homes and in one case, she - the woman in the wheelchair - had been living with foster parents. That hadn’t worked out.

  She goes on to explain how she had found out about her sister and eventually tracked her down and arranged for her to come live with her. The sister suffered neurological damage when she was born and is both deaf and dumb.

  As I’m listening, I recall a couple of details Arnie Collins had told me. First, a warning that cocaine users often produce children with a wide variety of physical and mental disabilities and challenges, and second, that the twins were one Male and one female. Not what’s in front of me. I have a suspicion that last mystery will be resolved before too long.

  I don’t know exactly when Pamela Wilson’s past caught up with her, but I can’t imagine how she must have felt when it did. It would surely be terrible to see the damage your drug-use has caused, but to also know you abandoned them to such a cruel fate must have been truly awful.

  As the interrogation goes on, Jamie puts a traffic-cam picture of their vehicle on the table in front of her and asks if she can confirm visiting Pamela Wilson on the night of her death.

  I suspect that, just like me, he’s expecting denial. Instead, she confirm that she was there. Then casually reveals what happened that night.

  They first visited Pamela Wilson at her home several weeks before. Told her who they were and asked for money. Pamela didn’t believe them and had virtually thrown them out.

  Back home, she was furious at the refusal to accept who they were. She tried to understand how she could get revenge for both her sister and herself, and used YouTube to learn about how to sever arteries, particularly the femoral. Also, how to leave the knife in the wound to prevent blood spatter.

  When they returned to Pamela Wilson’s home for their second visit, her sister in the wheelchair concealed a regular kitchen knife in her lap. She had wheeled her up to the front door, and when Pamela Wilson opened it, forced the wheelchair into the hallway, bringing their target within easy reach. The rest is history.

  I leave the interview room shortly after, trying to decide who to feel sorry for, or was it who to blame?

  A victim of horrific sexual abuse by a police officer and his two friends, who was also a cocaine addict, dominatrix, blackmailer, and a mother who had abandoned two severely handicapped children at birth. Or a wheelchair-bound assassin - along with her deaf and dumb handicapped sister, who is actually a brother - who had stabbed their mother to death?

  What a strange world we live in.

  Back in the office, I can at last stop thinking about Pamela Wilson and start thinking ahead. It’s my intention to join the guard detail for JS3 on Monday at the school. But if I’m going to do that, I should know my way around.

  I call the Principal at Golden Gate High and he agrees to stay behind with his facility manager to meet with me later that evening.

  45

  On the Friday night, Trace shows me some home-learning sites she’s found. Some are free, and she’s already signed up for those. But the ones that look most useful to me, all required tuition fees. I’m just not in a position to afford these, so we quickly agree that the free sites are the best in the short-term.

  Over Saturday and Sunday, Trace and I pretend we’re tourists. It’s strange for me, finding out that even although I’ve been living in Naples for three years, I really know very little about the place. The first day we tackle museums and the zoo, then on the Sunday we head down into the Glades.

  We decide on a motorboat eco tour. I show my badge and get thirty bucks knocked off the price, and twelve-and-under are free, so what’s another hundred out of my new car fund?

  The three and a half-hour tour is brilliant. We watch dolphins play in the surrounding water, while we search for manatee, alligators, sting-ray and a whole variety of birds. When the tour guide switches the engine off, the swampland is so peaceful. There’s only the occasional bird cry, or sound of a jumping fish to break the silence.

  Sunday night, we spend back at the apartment, both squeezed onto the beanbag, sharing a bowl of popcorn and watching Sam and Dean hunt more monsters. It’s a long, long time since I’ve felt so relaxed and comfortable in someone else’s company. And happy.

  Monday morning, I arrive at JS3’s home by seven-thirty as promised. I called him the day before and told him I would be his personal escort for the day. I think Charlie will be keen to finish her work and move on, so the only chance I have of catching her is when she tries to strike.

  On the drive into Golden Gate, I’m impressed with how relaxed Jon Smith is, given that he’s the last name on a serial killer’s list, with all others already being dead. I know I wouldn’t be so chilled.

  We chat about various things, mostly day-to-day things. I’m deliberately keeping the conversation light. So, it surprises me when he raises the subject of him being accused of assault when he first started teaching.

  ‘It didn’t just happen at the beginning of my career, detective. It happened on the very first day.’

  ‘Day one?’

  ‘Yep. I had just finished the last class before lunch and dismissed everyone, but one girl stayed behind to ask me a ques
tion. She was a ninth grader, so would have been around fifteen.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She came close to me and asked her question, but in a flirty way.’

  ‘She was giving you the eye?’

  ‘She acted like she was intending to give me more than the eye, detective. I was inexperienced and didn’t know what to do. I tried to answer her question.’

  ‘But that wasn’t what she wanted.’

  ‘No. She took my hand and told me how it was great to have a young male teacher in the school. That most of the males are old, and wouldn’t understand teenagers, especially teenage girls.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I didn’t say very much. I just stood there feeling helpless.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘She lifted my hand to feel her cheek and told me she had been dreaming of me touching her throughout class.’

  ‘Did you stop her?’

  ‘I should have, but I couldn’t think straight. I was only twenty-one, and she was attractive. I knew it was wrong, but I was like in a trance. I think my brain had switched off.’

  ‘Did she go any further?’

  ‘She placed my handle gently on one of her breasts and squeezed, asking me how it felt.’

  ‘You reacted badly?’

  ‘You bet. I jerked my hand away and shouted at her.’

  ‘You lost it?’

  ‘I lost it.’

  ‘How did she react?’

  ‘At first, she was quiet. Like she was thinking. Then she stormed out of the room, angry as hell.’

  ‘Did you go directly to your Principal?’

  ‘No. That’s where my inexperience let me down. I assumed it would all go away.’