‘It’s Captain Frusco, but you can call me Norman.’ Norman smiled trying to put Narla at ease. He wasn’t fully aware of all the facts but knew enough for a little gentle diplomacy. A policewoman entered behind Frusco, they followed Narla in to the lounge. Frusco admired the decoration of the house. The simple colour scheme, the tastefully arranged but expensive furniture. The paintings on the wall, not by famous artist’s but originals. Aesthetically pleasing, gentle on the eye without being pretentious.
‘I’ve brought along Policewoman Reynolds, if there is anything you feel uneasy about telling me, you might find it easier.’
Narla was nodding, already ahead of Frusco. Guilt adding to the plethora of mixed emotions swimming around in her head. Frusco and Reynolds sat opposite Narla occupying different ends of the three-seat settee. Norman Frusco placed a voice-activated tape recorder on the glass table that separated them. ‘Whenever you’re ready Miss O’Connell. Whenever you feel fit enough to tell us.’
Narla cleared her throat, coughed and swallowed nervously.
‘Daddy?’ Ray shook his father’s arm gently, trying to rock his father from a deep slumber. ‘Daddy, Uncle Leroy’s on the phone...He sounds strange...Daddy.’ Ray shook his father once more. The words began to filter through to Rick Montoya’s sub-conscious; his son’s voice was miles away, like a sonar, getting nearer and nearer until it breached the boundary between dreams and reality.
‘Daddy, Uncle Leroy’s on the phone he sounds weird, I think he’s crying.’
Rick woke up. The bed was empty, Rick’s mind instantly started to assemble information; he looked at his son, standing in front of him in his Spiderman pyjamas.
‘Okay, Ray. Tell Uncle Leroy I’ll be there in a moment.’
Ray trotted off outside the bedroom and down the stairs. Rick could hear his son telling his partner that ‘Daddy would be right down.’
Rick sat up in bed and rubbed his face. Today was barbeque day. Jo-Lynn would already be at the supermarket buying provisions. He stretched his legs and inhaled a lungful of Turtle Island’s finest air. The air conditioning unit hummed, breathing out cool air, making the environment a little more liveable. Rick stood and briefly glanced outside the window. Clear blue skies and the sun already hammering out a fierce heat, ‘today’s gonna be another hot one’ Rick said to no one but himself as he pulled on a pair of shorts and headed out for the phone.
‘Yeah, what’s wrong, you an’ Lia not comin to our little wing ding?’ The smile on Rick’s face shrank as Leroy told him that Lia had left him ‘for good this time’
‘I’ll be right over...you stay cool.’ Rick put the phone down and called his son who was happily ensconced in front of the T.V. watching cartoons. ‘Ray, call Korjca and see if she’ll look after you until mom comes home, I gotta go to your Uncle Leroy’s. I’m leaving a note for Mommy attached to the fridge.’
Ray continued watching the cartoon; his hand stretched out and grabbed the receiver of the phone in the living room. He pressed one of the automatic dial numbers stored in its memory without even looking. By the time Rick showered and dressed Korjca was ready to take charge of Ray. Rick kissed his son, pinned the note to the fridge and was heading over Independence Bridge within twenty-five minutes of the call. Lia leaving Leroy was not a huge surprise to Rick, she had confided to Jo-Lynn on numerous occasions how unhappy she was with Leroy working all the hours that God sent. Jo-Lynn sympathised and made sure that she told Rick, certain that the message would get back to Leroy, which it did. But the job was worse than a mistress; it broke marriages and relationships indiscriminately without infidelity.
Seventeen
‘I’m watching you,’
Jo-Lynn Montoya moved her trolley around the aisles, picking up various groceries.
His heart thumped; the excitement was almost too much to endure. The feeling of light-headedness virtually consumed him. He could take her at any time...any time at all. As he approached her, each step became a tiny orgasm, closer and closer. The feeling exquisite. He so much wanted to feel her warm blood over his body.
‘All good things’ became his new mantra. He’d make them pay; He’d make them all pay.
The door to Leroy’s home was open; Rick didn’t wait for an invitation. He found Leroy sitting watching some home movies on the video.
‘She’s gone…it’s like she’s dead, it’s like I’m dead.’ Leroy turned to face his partner and was not ashamed to show the grief etched on to his tear stained face.
‘What are we gonna do with you?’ Rick sat down next to Leroy and hugged him, while his partner sobbed uncontrollably.
‘Jeans and a tee shirt, or shorts and a vest? I don’t know why I’m asking you, you’re not much help.’ Georgina threw the clothes at her reflected image in the mirror. She had been awake for two hours, placed calls at the station and hospital plus one back at the bureau to see if they had come up with anything fresh. All the calls drew a blank; it seemed that she would be able to take her half-day’s leave after all. A half-day off during any investigation was a luxury, one after only a couple of days was almost unheard of, it was a sign of what little progress had been made despite the evidence. A fact that depressed Georgina, but she would take her time knowing the next free day might be a long way away.
‘Shorts and a vest plus plenty of sun block.’ She finally made up her mind, dressed and put on a pair of Nike Air’s on her feet. She looked sporty and fit; neither attribute was a lie.
Georgina decided to take another tour of the Island, this time by car before going to Detective Montoya’s. She threw some cold sodas into a rucksack along with her camera, donned a white baseball cap and headed for her rented Lincoln. She pulled the soft hood of the convertible back and decided to drive semi alfresco rather than breathe the manufactured cool air of the car’s air conditioning. Sunglasses on, she hit the highway toward Turtle Island.
Dr Martinez bounded up the steps two at a time rather than use the elevator. He spoke into his cordless phone and listened in breathless excitement.
‘Good...and what are his vitals...excellent.’
The news that Stephen England was out of his coma was the first bit of good news that day. Some days were totally devoid of good news. On those days Martinez seemed to spend his entire shift handing out bereavement counselling numbers and crisis support cards.
He thought he heard a noise, a creak on the landing. Thirteen-year-old Dolan Cooke quickly pressed his mouse and the screen in front of him changed from a lurid pornographic photo of a young girl barely his age giving head, to something far more innocuous. God, he hoped it wasn’t his mother again. He shifted in his seat, pulled his tee shirt over his groin and listened…nothing. He hadn’t heard the car return; it was just guilt-ridden paranoia. His heart throbbed; his cock throbbed. He clicked back on to the porno site, hoping to download a mpeg, something he could really get his teeth into and saw the small inviting advertising banner constantly flashing. A red skull and crossbones. Underneath the banner an eighteen-inch prosthetic penis was being gorged by three young women, another site was offering the best in animal sex; an equally naked woman appeared to be engaged in coitus with a horse. So much to choose from. Dolan’s hand hovered between the adverts, undecided. He clicked on the red skull and crossbones, ‘DeathCam.net’. The page opened with a flashing Skull interspersed with a picture of Max Dalton’s crushed and bloodied face. Curiosity drew him deeper into the web site.
‘This is so cool.’
Another creak on the landing, this time Dolan, already too absorbed by the images of violence in front of him did not turn, his eight-year-old sister watched over his shoulder as image after image after image loaded, each worse than the last. He turned his head.
Georgina O’Neil decided to take another look at the houses that ran along the river. The victims were both held for a period of days before their murders, maybe longer. Both of them had made their exit via the river, one alive, one very much dead. Georgina surmised that these ho
uses would be as good a place as any to hold the victims. The location was certainly quiet enough; you could torture, kill or maim in the open, let alone locked away within the confines of a house and nobody would hear you scream. She had parked the car on the grass verge, which ran along the main highway in Turtle Island then walked a mile or so, following the river where she could. Stopping only to view through a pair of binoculars at the numerous houses that were dotted along the banks. Any one of them could hold the answer. She watched a boy, his father and grandfather pitching balls and practicing batting, in a makeshift baseball diamond outside one of the houses. Memories of her tomboy childhood flooded back. Shooting baskets with her father whose rudimentary knowledge of the game wasn’t too bad considering his Irish origins. The sun beat through her cap causing beads of sweat to form on her brow and run down her face. She wiped her face dry using a small towel taken from the motel and took a long cool swig of coke before continuing on her journey. Georgina carried on walking for a further half mile and had counted five realtors’ boards ‘for sale or let’ in the one and a half miles covered. Three were on the river; two set a little way back, one bordering the forest. She had barely completed an eighth of the river’s circumference around the island. Viewing the empty properties would be heavy on manpower and time, especially with such a small local force. She sat briefly, to rest in the long grasses, enjoying the sun beating over her, realising that a house search of the empty properties could also prove to be a futile waste of time if the killer was a local, happily ensconced in marital bliss. For all she knew, it could have been the father playing ball with his son or even the grandfather. She shook her head trying to clear the jumbled mess of thoughts, hoping that one solid idea would stick that could lead them to their man. Her growling stomach told her lunch was not far away and she remembered the barbeque.
Georgina looked at her watch 12-53, ‘time to go’ she spoke to the field, almost with the expectation of a reply.
She stood and walked back to her car. As she walked, she swished her hands through the long grasses playfully pushing them to one side, suddenly beginning to relax for the first time in weeks. She promised herself a holiday when this case was over. Two weeks in this field with a supply of drink, good food, some choice reading and maybe a friend, sounded just like heaven at the moment. She stopped to take another gulp from her bottle; the soda was starting to get warm. Taking her bearings, Georgina wondered to herself whether the killer had been in the very field where she stood, maybe in the very spot. The notion uneased her, leaving her feeling vulnerable. Not easily spooked, she had the feeling that eyes were boring in to the back of her head. She quickly swivelled round. Her hand instinctively reached for her weapon a 9mm Smith and Wesson. More of an up close and personal type of weapon but she was an expert shot and felt confident with the gun’s relative lightness. Only this time the weapon was back at the motel locked away in the room safe. Her car was little more than six hundred yards away, but her legs suddenly felt paralysed and as rational as she thought she was, Georgina could not help but feel vulnerable and exposed. The feeling made her uneasy, it went against every piece of training that she had learned. Instinctively she knew she was being stalked, something primal was awakened in the field and her intuition was telling her to get the hell out of the field. Georgina started walking toward her car, she knew it lay just beyond the field, parked on the verge. She dipped into the rucksack and searched for the key while she walked. Her pace quickened then suddenly she was jogging. The edge of the field was getting closer and closer. All the time she was looking, scanning every tree, watching for possible hiding places, every nook and cranny. The long grass by its very nature was the perfect cover; Georgina knew she could be running straight into danger, into the arms of who knows what. Panic was now beginning to replace any level-headed detachment she should be applying to the situation as a professional. Her behaviour was completely irrational, but she kept on running until she left the field and headed down the grassy bank to the verge where her car was parked. She already had the key in her tightened grasp and plunged it into its waiting socket and twisted. The central locking popped reassuringly. She pulled the door open and dived into the seat, gasping for air. Quickly, Georgina looked over her shoulder and checked the back seats then pressed the interior locks on the doors. She finally began to relax, tilted her head back, resting against the head restraint and briefly closed her eyes, trying to regain her composure and make some sense of her unreasonable behaviour. She breathed deeply; her hand automatically fumbled for the radio cassette. A little music might help. Some lead singer from a heavy metal band was singing bring your daughter to the slaughter. Her fingers pushed home her cassette, and the gentle sound of Alison Krauss singing came through the speakers. Georgina’s lips started to mime along with the words on the overplayed tape. A feeling of normality was returning. She opened her eyes, and there it was, on the dashboard inside the car. A child’s tooth; a solitary, white, tiny milk tooth. The tooth appeared to be old, it certainly didn’t look fresh, there was no trace of blood or tissue and the root was dry. Georgina opened her rucksack and pulled out a transparent evidence bag. She picked the tooth up with the tweezers she had in her make-up bag.
The drive back to the precinct was tense but without further incident. She left her car to be dusted for prints and other DNA matter the intruder may have left behind. After a brief phone call to Norman Frusco, she borrowed a car from the car pool and drove out to Rick’s for the barbeque.
Stephen England was sitting up in bed. His eyes had blackened, his nose and jaw were broken, as was every tooth in his mouth up to his molars. His cheekbone was shattered, and his skull was fractured in two places. From his neck down to his waist he had another fifteen broken or fractured bones, including his elbow. Stephen England was very unlucky to be alive; the living nightmare to which he was trapped made a life spent in this condition nothing to be envied. He did not know how he got into this condition and found comprehending anything other than the fearsome memories that flashed through his mind impossible. Who the strange girl was who was holding his hand?
Dr Martinez shone a torch into Stephen’s eyes looking for pupil dilation, only the left eye dilated the right was blown. Indecipherable words spewed rambling and incoherently from his pulpy mouth. Cara Morton sat quietly, waiting patiently for the doctor to finish his examination. She had a thousand questions that were burning down the length of a fuse.
Eighteen
The temperature on the thermometer read 97 Fahrenheit, Georgina looked at her watch it was a little after three in the afternoon. Police guards sat discreetly across the street watching the house. She recognised the large ginger headed man from the precinct as Detective Walberg and his partner as Officer Collins, both of them were assigned to protect Rick’s wife and son. She waved to them before pressing the doorbell. Walberg lifted his coffee cup in salute to O’Neil. She watched Collins lean over and whisper in his partner’s ear. Whatever he said made Walberg smile. Georgina couldn’t hear but had worked long enough around a predominantly male workforce to guess that the content of his amusement probably involved her body. The shorts that she wore, while not tight were short and the vest was loose and baggy, neither items designed to flatter, but O’Neil knew that most women could wear a sack and invite sexual abuse. Walberg’s tongue snaked and this time it was Collins turn to laugh.
‘Come on, come on; open up.’ Georgina was pleading with whoever was going to reach the door first. She never did like being in a shop window and it pleased her even less to give letches like Collins and Walberg a hard-on. She could hear noise and the sound of footsteps running to the door. Small feet, the sound of a child.
‘I’LL GET IT.’ A wee voice called.
Ray opened the door and his face became a Christmas tree whose lights had just fused.
‘Oh.’ he said not bothering to hide his disappointment. He turned ignoring Georgina and called. ‘It’s some woman.’
‘Some woman.’ G
eorgina thought to herself, feeling the juxtaposition of her sexuality from the males of this world whose hormones had yet to kick in. From the North to the South Pole in a matter of seconds, another eight years and he would be tying his dick to his leg to keep it down. Ray trotted off without another word.
Georgina called after him. ‘Hey Ray, you not gonna say hello?’
Ray stopped. ‘How’d you know my name?’
‘I know lots about you.’ She lied. ‘I’m a friend of your dad’s. I work with him.’
‘You a policewoman?’ Ray turned his head to face Georgina.
‘Something like that.’
A woman came from the kitchen.
‘I’m sorry, has little Ray not invited you in?’ Jo-Lynn Montoya was holding out her hand as she walked down the hall. Her grip was firm and warm, her eyes smiling.
‘Rick has had to go out. A bit of a personal crisis but he said he won’t be long.’
‘Oh...I’m sorry. Is everything alright?’
‘Yeah, come on in. Don’t look so concerned. You’re Miss O’Neil right?’
‘Georgina.’
‘Well the problem's Leroy, Rick’s partner.’ Jo-Lynn began to explain. ‘Leroy is having the crisis actually.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Georgina said. She followed Jo-Lynn through to the kitchen. Ray ran ahead of them.
‘I guess I can tell you, considering you’re a work colleague an’ all. Leroy’s girlfriend Lia has upt and left him. The big old softy is pretty upset. So, Rick’s over there doing his ‘she was no good for you anyway’ speech.’ She laughed ‘Not that that’s true. It’s quite ironic, Lia was the best thing that could happen to Leroy.’
Turtle Island: 20th Anniversary Edition (Georgina O'Neil Book 1) Page 9