The Braille Killer (An Alice Bergman Novel Book 1)

by Daniel Kuhnley

“Will do.” If I’ve learned anything in my two years as a homicide detective, it’s the fact that there is always something to be found; some sort of clue. The twisted psychos that commit these crimes have a need to be understood—to be validated. Most of them want to be caught. This bastard is no different. His letter in my car proves it.

  “The room’s all yours, Detective. Please let the coroner know as soon as you and Detective Ryan have finished. And Detective, I wouldn’t spend too much time in here. What’s been done here is not good for the soul.”

  “Understood.” I step out of Deborah’s way as she moves toward me. She exits the room, and I close the door behind her. I take several moments to compose myself before taking in the scene, but I know that no amount of time will prepare me for what I’m about to see.

  I lower my hand from my nose and mouth. The smell is so offensive that I gag with every breath, but I refuse to plug my nose again. I won’t disrespect the victim. Victim. I chide myself. Victim is so impersonal given the circumstance.

  All the blood is on your hands.

  She has a name. Sarah Johnson. I force my gaze toward the tattered mattress that lies on the floor in the corner of the room, and then to her.

  So young. So little. So like me.

  She’s lit up by police work lights. If not for the two sets of them we’d be in near darkness. No overhead light exists, and the single lamp next to the mattress lies on its side, its shade ripped, and its bulb shattered.

  A lone window breaks up the wall to my left, but little light penetrates the layers of tape holding it together. Its small size and high placement fall short of current safety standards. A child would struggle to reach it or fit through it. An adult would likely get stuck.

  The greenish-brown carpet doesn’t match the rest of the house. It’s gummed together in spots and covered in a thick layer of dust and hair. A yellow, tented marker with a black “1B” on it sits at the foot of the heavily-stained mattress, next to a mound of cigarette butts.

  How long had he been here? The thought devastates me, and then I recall his words from the voicemail: “I took my time with her.”

  I walk over to the mattress, marked “2B,” and every atom in my body cries out for her with an agony I’ve never felt before. My nails dig into my palms as I fight to hold back a torrent of tears begging to be released, but my sorrow is so deep that it quakes me to my core. I cannot stand any longer on shaky legs, so I kneel next to the mattress. Next to her.

  I retrieve a pair of latex gloves from my pants pocket and struggle for several seconds putting them on. I hate wearing them, but I must follow protocol. The level of bacteria and disease carried by a dead body is significant, so gloves are a necessity. I’m sorry, young one.

  My fingers tremble as I pull back bloodied, matted strands of blonde hair from her sunken white face. Her eyes have been removed and her nose crushed into her skull. I don’t know if she suffered these wounds before or after death, but I know it’s my fault. He did this to her because of me. Rage builds in my chest and tightens my throat. He will not get away with this. I won’t let him.

  Her deep-purple dress with tiny white flowers is covered with dried blood and ripped from sternum to pelvis, and her panties and bra have been removed. Her arms are folded across her swollen abdomen, and her legs are spread wide. It only takes a moment for me to realize that she’s been positioned this way on purpose. Her arms and legs form an “A.” A for Alice. I swallow hard. Had anyone else noticed?

  As I examine her further, I notice several small rounded wounds that run down the inside of her left thigh. I look back at the pile of cigarette butts and understand what he used them for. As I look closer, I realize that they aren’t just random burns. There are six distinct sets of wounds. A pattern. No, not just a pattern, but six letters written in braille. A message left for me to find. A M E R C E…

  I rack my brain, but the letters hold no meaning for me. I need context around them. What the hell are you trying to tell me you sick bastard? I commit the letters to memory and then finish my examination. Nothing else stands out.

  I move back to my left, toward her head, and settle next to her once again on my knees. Her broken face holds my gaze. How beautiful you must’ve been. How someone does something so heinous to such a beautiful little girl is beyond me. My heart aches for her and for her mother.

  Something compels me to lean over and cradle her face in my hands. I’ve never had a compulsion such as this, and the thought of her cold, dead skin separated from mine by a thin layer of latex gives me pause. Touching her would violate every rule and protocol.

  I want to rise and exit the room, but the compulsion grows stronger. There must be a reason for it, and I’m left with no choice but to obey it.

  I do, and the entire room darkens around us until nothing remains but her and me. Never has this happened, and it scares the hell out of me, but there’s no turning back now.

  The smell of decay crawls back out of my lungs, retreats from my nostrils, and I breathe deep. I close my eyes and touch my forehead to hers, but it isn’t cold and clammy as I would’ve expected. Instead, it is warm and soft.

  My pulse slows and time itself seems to halt. My skin burns with fire and I feel a shift in myself in a way I cannot explain. It’s unexpected and it startles me. I’ve never felt anything like it before. I open my eyes, but I can no longer see. I am blind, as she is.

  A moment later, I realize that I’m no longer myself.

  I am Sarah Johnson.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I huddle in the corner of my room on my mattress, scared to death of the bogeyman looming in the shadows. He visits me often and has never done anything to harm me, but tonight I sense something has changed. Tonight, he’s dangerous.

  Somehow, he knows I can feel the change in him, and he moves toward me with lightning speed. I scream for my mom, but I know it’s too late. He drags me from my corner by my feet and pulls me underneath him. He clamps his sweaty hand over my mouth and forces my legs apart.

  “Scream again, Sarah, and I’ll gut your mama too.” Spittle peppers my face, and his rancid breath of pickles, garlic, and cigarettes chokes me.

  I nod.

  He growls at me. “You’re nothing more than a birth defect that should’ve been aborted. A blind girl, invisible to the world. No one will even notice you’re gone.”

  He moves his hand from my mouth to my chest, and I can finally breathe. “Please don’t hurt my mom,” I manage to say through waves of sobbing.

  “Hush, little baby.” His breath is hot on my cheek. “I’ll sing a song for you tonight when your mama and I celebrate her freedom from you. She likes some good karaoke, doesn’t she?”

  He’s a big, strong man, and he crushes me when he shifts his weight. “Don’t you worry, darling, I’ll show her a good time. Won’t be a problem going down the rabbit hole like it was with Alice.”

  He grabs my mouth and squeezes my lips apart, and then he sticks his ashtray tongue between them. I reach out to fend him off, but my hands meet a rat’s nest of sweaty hair and a thick scar that runs down the middle of his chest. Fear envelops me, and I become rigid. He grabs my arms, pins them underneath his legs, and then rips my dress down the front.

  I cry out, knowing what’s coming next.

  My left cheek explodes with pain, and my head jerks to the right. “I warned you.”

  My groin warms as urine soaks my panties.

  He breathes heavy. “You piss yourself?”

  His hand grabs my crotch, and he rips my panties right off of me with a grunt. His hand returns to my face, his fingers wet with urine. I can smell it. I turn my head to the side, but he digs his fingers into my cheeks and pulls my head back straight. “You just cost your mama her life. How does that make you feel? Tell her. She’s watching. She’s listening.”

  I scream, but he silences me with a blow to the throat. I cough and choke, but I cannot breathe. I cannot move. He stuffs m
y urine-soaked panties into my mouth and clamps his hand over it and my nose. The acidic, ammonia taste makes me dry-heave, but I’m helpless to do anything about it.

  My body jerks. My lungs burn. I fight for air. I cling to life. As long as I can. He won’t relent. Light fades into darkness. I know it’s over.

  I don’t understand. Why choose me? It’s my fault. Somehow. Everything is. My fault.

  Sorry. Mom. Forgive…

  * * * * *

  I gasp as my spirit returns to me, and I fall back onto the floor. What the hell was that?

  My heart hammers in my chest and sweat saturates my clothes. Tears soak my face and my hair as though I’ve been out in the pouring rain. I am myself again, but the darkness of Sarah’s world remains with me.

  I peel off my latex gloves and massage my throat, the strength of his blow still fresh in my mind. Throbbing pain radiates from my left cheek and down into my jaw, making my teeth hurt. His rancid breath lingers in my nostrils, and his tattered hands still stroke my skin.

  This is my fault. Your blood is on my hands, Sarah.

  My head is splitting, but my vision has begun to return. The room blooms into focus, but I still cannot conjure a single explanation as to what just happened to me. I don’t know if I should tell Seth about it either. I’m not sure he’d understand even if I were to. How would I even explain it to him? I cannot fathom a way.

  The inside of my left wrist itches something fierce. When I start to scratch it, I notice that there’s something on it. It feels sinewy like a raised scar. I hold it up to one of the floodlights so that I can get a better look at it.

  I have a birthmark on the inside of my wrist that looks like a curved sickle blade resting over the top of an open eye. Usually it’s a light shade of brown and smooth to the touch, but right now it’s raised off my skin like a brand and has turned from light-brown to dark-red.

  I’m lost as to what it might mean, if anything, so I turn my focus back to Sarah. I lean over the mattress and stroke her hair with my bare hand, the damned gloves having lost all meaning. “You’re not alone, Sarah Johnson. You’re not invisible, and I will never unsee you.”

  I curl my other hand into a fist. And I will avenge you.

  I find my feet, stumble out of Sarah’s bedroom in a daze, and lean against the wall in the hallway. Activity swarms the house like a beehive, but I pay it no attention.

  Seth meets me in the hallway. “You okay?”

  He tries to take my arm, but I push his hand away. “Not here.”

  I walk through the house and out the front door. Seth follows. The air, though not as fresh as I’d like, breathes life back into my lungs and revitalizes me.

  We sit down on the edge of the porch, and Seth sweeps a few rogue strands of hair away from my face. He presses the back of his hand against my forehead. “You’re burning up, Alice.”

  I nod and close my eyes. The heat burns straight through the back of them, all the way to the back of my skull. I squeeze them tight in hopes of generating some moisture, but all the tears I shed for Sarah have left them dry.

  In my mind, I rewind the moments of the day back to our arrival on the scene. So many people had been watching from afar. Had one of them seen something? Could one of them be him? I had discounted him watching us earlier, but now I’m not so sure.

  He watched Sarah for months. He wouldn’t want to miss this. And, like Sarah and so many others, I think he wants to be seen. He wants to see our reactions too. My reaction.

  I exhale and open my eyes. Seth still stares at me. “He’s close, Seth. I can feel it.” I look around. “Somehow, he’s watching us.”

  Seth frowns. “How do you know the perp is male?”

  I glare at him. “You really think a female would be capable of doing that to a child? Mutilating and raping her?”

  His eyebrows rise, and he raises his hands. “Yeah, I see your point. All signs point to a male perp, but we’re not certain she’s been raped.”

  I know, Sarah, and I’ll never forget what he did to you.

  I stand, descend the two steps, and walk across the yard, my arms folded over my chest. I scan the street, the yards, and the windows of houses. Curtains covering the window on the house across from us sway a bit.

  As with Sarah, I’m compelled once again to act. I don’t understand what’s driving me forward, but I race toward the house with urgency.

  Seth follows me, his rubber-soled boots smacking the ground with each long stride. “Alice, wait up. Slow down.”

  I ignore Seth’s request and reach the front door in a few more strides. I knock on the door but don’t wait for an answer. Instead, I yell through it. “Detective Bergman, homicide. Open the door!”

  I pummel the door with my fist so hard that it creaks open on the third blow. My hands tremble with rage. I draw my gun and then push the door open with the tip of my boot. I enter quickly and sweep the small living room with my gun. The room is barren, save an elderly man sitting in a wheelchair by a window to my right.

  The man smiles, calmer than the situation should allow. “No need for a gun, detective. I said the door was open.” His voice is rough, and it prickles my skin.

  Seth enters the house and pulls up next to me. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he whispers.

  I don’t have time to deal with Seth, so I ignore him again. I keep my gaze on the man and lower my gun. “Are you alone?”

  “Ever since my Eleanor passed.” The man sucks on his lower lip for a moment and then looks right at me. Shadows streak his face. “Ten years ago today, if I remember right. Name’s Russell. Didn’t catch yours.”

  “Detective Bergman.” I holster my gun and move toward him. The compulsive drive has faded, but rage still grips me and forces me to talk in short sentences. “About eight hours ago. Did you see anything? Hear anything? Anyone lurking around? The last few days? Someone you didn’t recognize? Anything?”

  The man chuckles but it sounds more like fits of coughing from lungs crippled by emphysema. “Darling, I’m not sure if it’s the glaucoma or the cataracts that has bested my eyesight. Either way, there’s not much I see too well these days. Was thinking about having a tea party. Would you like to join me, Detective? Everyone’s invited, even the queen.”

  The queen? I growl and storm out of the house.

  Seth is hot on my heels. “Alice, stop!”

  I halt in the middle of the street and rage at him. “What the hell do you want me to do, Ryan?” I shake my finger at the Johnson’s house. “Did you see that girl in there? Did you see Sarah?”

  Seth frowns. “How did you know her name was Sarah? We didn’t get an ID on her until after you went into the room.”

  I cross my arms, afraid if I leave them free, I might punch him. “What difference does it make how I know her name? Did you see what he put her through?”

  “I did, and it sickens me.” Seth grabs my shoulder, but I jerk away from him.

  “Don’t touch me, Ryan, not right now.” My glare catches him between the eyes. Had it been a bullet, he’d be dead. “That bastard is out there right now taunting us. Laughing at us. Toying with us.”

  Seth rakes his head with his fingers. “I understand, but you can’t storm into people’s houses and shake them down. Besides, you know as well as I do that this isn’t the kind of neighborhood where people willingly talk to the police. They don’t trust us. They all feel like suspects.”

  “That’s because they are suspects.” Heat radiates from my cheeks, and my jaw is so tight that it aches. “I’ll kick in every door on the block if that’s what it takes to get information out of these people.”

  Seth sighs. “That wouldn’t accomplish anything, and you know it. Besides, if you did happen to get some intel that way it wouldn’t be admissible in court.”

  I grit my teeth. “Screw the courts. All I care about is catching this bastard before he has the chance to kill again.”

  “
There’s no way to know if he’ll kill again. We have no motive or suspect yet.”

  “Someone does something that sick and you think they won’t do it again? He took his time with her. You saw the pile of cigarettes.” My face is so hot it feels sunburned.

  “You need to calm down before you do something really stupid. What’s gotten into you today anyway? You act as though this case is personal to you.”

  I glare at him. What am I supposed to say to that? Yes, Seth, it is personal. Sarah’s dead because of me. It’s all my fault.

  Seth pulls back a little bit and cocks his head. The lines across his forehead deepen. “Is it? Is there something you’re not telling me? Did you know this girl?”

  He touches my shoulder and this time I don’t pull away.

  I shake my head. “No, it’s nothing like that. I knew a girl when I was younger that was abused like Sarah. Thank the stars she wasn’t killed.”

  I hate lying to Seth, but I know he wouldn’t understand. How could anyone understand the things that I’ve seen and what I’ve been through? My headache rages and my head spins like a top. I need to sit down again. I return to the sedan, open the passenger door, and collapse onto the seat.

  Seth opens the driver’s door and slides into the seat. “You’re not looking so hot. Are you feeling okay?”

  “How can I be after all this?” I lean the seat back and settle into it. “Has anyone heard from Sarah’s parents?”

  He shakes his head. “I spoke with Officer Spalding while you were in the room with the victim. No one’s heard from her mother, Yolanda Johnson, since she left work yesterday afternoon. Her father’s not in the picture. Doesn’t feel right, does it?”

  We’re taught to detach ourselves from horrific acts like what was done to Sarah, but I still hate that he calls her the victim. After my experience, I’ll never be able to detach myself from Sarah; at least not until I’ve avenged her. I won’t hold it against him though.

  I stare up at the black cloth headliner. “She’s dead, Seth.”

  “The mother?”