I stand up straight and look at him. My vision blurs again. If I didn’t know it was him, I wouldn’t be able to identify him. What is wrong with me?
I pull off my latex gloves and toss them on the table. “I know, and I’m sorry.”
Seth rakes his head. “I should’ve insisted that you go home earlier. This is on me.”
“Seth…” I want to tell him everything, but I’m in so deep that bringing him on board now would jeopardize his job and put Mother and Veronica at risk.
“What?” His voice stabs at me, and he knows it. He pulls on his hair. “Sorry, I’m just trying to work this out.”
I round the table, stagger over to Seth, and grab hold of his forearm. He didn’t seem to notice my lack of balance. “I’ll talk to Deborah and Charlie. They’ll be able to sort it out. In the meantime, we need to do some interviews. Neighbors, schoolmates, teachers. Someone must’ve seen something.”
He peels my hand away from his arm. “Hell no. You’re too close to the case and not thinking right today.”
I plead with him. “Don’t do this to me. I swear I’m fine.”
“No you’re not.” His gaze is steel and his voice stern. “You’ve done more than enough interviewing and crime scene investigating for one day. You’re going home. Officers Brex and Spalding will do the rest of the interviews and follow-ups.”
I place my left hand in my back pocket and slice my finger on the edge of the folded piece of paper. I clench my jaw and curse under my breath. How could I have already forgotten it?
“You’re right. I need to go home and get some rest. I’m about as stressed as I can get.” I reach over and grab his right hand with mine. “I’m sorry about today. I promise I’ll be myself again tomorrow.”
His eyebrows rise. “It’s about time you admit that you have faults.”
“Trust me, I’m fully aware of them.” I turn and spit on the floor. “I have a mouth that still tastes like vomit to prove it.”
Seth leans over, kisses my forehead, and recoils. “Ew!” He scrubs his lips with the back of his hand. “What the hell did you get on yourself?”
There’s no way I can tell him that I touched my forehead to Yolanda’s, so I shrug again and lie once more. “In this place? God only knows.”
A zombie moan escapes from Yolanda Johnson’s parted lips, and Seth and I start.
“She’s still alive?” I can’t believe I’m asking. How did I miss it?
Seth checks Yolanda Johnson for a pulse and then grabs his walkie-talkie. “We need medical attention in the basement! We’ve got a live one! I repeat, we need medical in the basement!”
CHAPTER FIVE
After a long shower and an hour’s rest, I find myself sitting in a chair inside my storage unit. I stare at the metal sheeting that makes up one of the unit’s walls, but my thoughts are far from contemplating how they built it. Instead, my thoughts are focused on my failure as a detective.
I’m struggling with this case. With life. Everything is so difficult. How can I solve this on my own?
I’m running a marathon through quicksand, and every step I take I sink deeper. If I stop now, I’ll never start again, and the thought is tempting. Let myself sink into the quicksand until it overtakes me.
But it’s never that simple. Nothing ever is. At least one has died because of me, and I don’t even know why. I cannot connect the dots between Sarah and myself, nor can I find a connection between her and this psycho killer.
I groan with frustration. Why I’ve kept all this from Seth is beyond me. He’s my rock, but now I’ve done things that I can’t come back from; things that would bring shame on him as well, and I can’t do that to him. He deserves more. Someone better than me.
The badge I carry is no longer one of honor but of deceit. In a single day I’ve lied, cheated, and abused my authority. I’ve tampered with, stolen, and destroyed evidence all in the name of what? To hide my guilt?
Why have I done this to myself? How did I let this bastard crawl under my skin and compromise me with a few hollow words? He points a finger at me and I accept the guilt without question. What did I do wrong? Survive?
I can’t even look Seth in the eye now without struggling for air, and it kills me. Tears wet my face, and I can imagine the godawful mess I must look like. I use the backs of my hands to wipe my eyes and cheeks, and when I pull them away, they’re marred with streaks of black mascara. An image of my life. Beauty ruined.
I sigh and recline farther in my chair. Why can’t I be the one to just give up? Why was I chosen to carry this burden? I’m not strong enough. I’m only one person, not an army. Why should I continue? What’s the point of it all?
I know the answer, but it does nothing to ease the burden. For Sarah. For Yolanda. For all the girls he’s yet to kill.
I shiver as though I sit naked in the snow in deep winter. I pull the hood of my jacket over the top of my head, stuff my hair into it, and draw the strings taut. When I rented out this storage unit seven years ago, I knew I’d made a great decision: a climate-controlled, interior unit. Plus, the owners ripped off Tolkien for its name: Dunharrow Storage. How could I go wrong?
This unit serves as my refuge from both the dry desert heat and Mother. It also provides a place to store the collection of letters and items left for me by the psycho who stalks me, and it’s a place where I can pore over all the details I’ve connected to said psycho through a decade of investigation without being disturbed.
It’s no paradise though. It’s small, dusty, and drab, and I can hear the rodents crawling through the walls behind the sheet-metal. Also, the lighting is poor at best. I’ve gone through more batteries than I can remember to keep my lantern powered. However, it’s still a place of my own. No one knows about it but me.
It’s late, but there’s no time for sleep. He’s out there right now preying on some other girl. How could I sleep? I might be the only one who can stop him. The blood is on my hands, and I can’t allow it to continue to flow. I cannot rest until I find him.
Papers and pictures cover my desk and fill the boxes that line the wall to my right, an array of chaos I’ve collected over the last decade. I’ve yet to make sense of any of it, but tonight I’m determined to organize it all and find a pattern.
On the way over to the storage facility I stopped at Home Depot and bought a six-foot by four-foot corkboard, a box of inch-and-a-half sheet metal screws, and a pack of thumbtacks. I rise from my chair, retrieve the small drill from its box in the corner of the room, and use it to mount the corkboard to the sheet metal wall behind my desk with six of the screws.
I step back and examine my work. The board isn’t perfectly straight but will serve its purpose. I’m sure this violates my rental agreement in some way, but I really don’t care.
I draw a question mark on a small piece of paper and tack it to the center of the board. It will serve as the hub for connecting everything I know about the Braille Killer—it’s the name I’ve given him.
I rummage through the boxes on the floor and dig out an envelope dated July 17, 2009—written in my own handwriting. I unbind the envelope and pull out a piece of yellowed, card stock paper. I carefully unfold the paper and place it against the back of the envelope. There are no ink or graphite marks anywhere on the paper. Instead, it’s written in braille, and, based on the accuracy and spacing of the raised letters, I believe a braille typewriter produced it. Unfortunately, that kind of typewriter is quite easy to obtain and virtually untraceable.
I stare at the paper for several moments. My heart races just as it did the day I received it. My stomach curls in knots and lurches as I slowly glide my finger over the paper’s raised bumps. Gooseflesh covers my skin as the words come to life in my mind:
She is dead because of you
And my heart’s been set afire
If you confess, it will do
It’s all that I require
You claim it was an accident
You’re so far from innocent
Your survival is the proof
You’ve nothing more to fear
Unless you cannot see
The path has been made clear
A map to help find me
I shudder. Why am I to blame for her death? Because she was in love with me? It’s not my fault, but it doesn’t stop the guilt from strangling me. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, but all I see is Sarah’s broken body. I clench my fist and push the guilt back into its cage where it belongs.
I open my eyes, reach into the envelope again, and pull out a photograph of a girl named Denise Chavez. In the photograph Denise is splayed on the floor, face-up. Her head is turned sideways at a grotesque angle, her neck broken. A pool of blood surrounds her head and shoulders like a crimson bridal veil—a stark contrast to the surrounding white porcelain tile.
Her scream pierces my ears again like it did that day, a short outburst before a sickening crack and thud. I wince and stutter backward to my desk and lean against it. It was an accident. I force myself to break free of this endless cycle of guilt and stare at the photograph.
Denise is wearing a pair of tight blue jeans with holes in the thighs and knees, and a white, short-sleeved blouse with a V-neck. Rings in various shapes, colors, and sizes adorn several of her long, slender fingers. A thin silver necklace wraps her neck, its puzzle-piece-shaped pendant lying in the pool of blood next to her. The silver pendant has a heart embossed on its center.
I turn the photograph over. It has a date embedded in its lower right corner: 2008/07/17 4:14pm. Ten years ago today.
I pin the letter and photograph to the top-left corner of the corkboard with a pushpin. It’s a start to the puzzle I’ve yet to solve. The need to sit and brood over the clue nearly overwhelms me, but I force myself to push it aside. I need to see the entire picture. Complete the puzzle.
I return to the boxes, find the envelope marked July 17, 2010, and pull it out. I unbind the envelope and squeeze it open. A silver necklace slides out and nearly hits the floor before I hook its chain on my finger. I lift it up and let it dangle in front of my face. The puzzle-piece pendant twists back and forth several times before settling. I look between it and the picture on the corkboard and confirm that it’s the same necklace.
Every time I see these items, my mind cycles over the same thoughts and questions the same things: had he been there that day and removed it from her then, or did he remove it from her later?
He must’ve been there. Who else would’ve taken the photograph?
Nothing ever changes and nothing new arises, but I must follow the ritual. I obsess over them for several minutes, but I cannot break their cryptic code.
I push the necklace over my wrist and then take the accompanying piece of folded paper out of the envelope. The letters are the same each time: raised braille lettering on yellowed, card stock paper without a single mark of ink or graphite. I read the letter again with my finger:
You took her from me; she wasn’t yours to take
You’re a cheater and a liar, nothing but a fake
Alice of Wonderland, you cannot be
Blinded by words, you will never see
Scratch the surface and take a peek
To find what isn’t yours to keep
All the clues, they lead to me
Confess your sin and be set free
I pin the letter to the corkboard, next to the first letter, and then I hang the necklace from the pushpin. I move back over to the boxes and busy myself finding the third envelope before I have a chance to contemplate the two clues. A minute later, I hold an unbound envelope in my hand marked July 17, 2011.
I remove the contents from the envelope: a folded piece of paper and a newspaper clipping about Denise’s death. I set the envelope on the desk with the others and hold the newspaper clipping up to the light.
I read the article aloud, thinking it might help me catch something I’ve overlooked when I’ve read it in the past. “Denise Chavez, a 19-year-old female, plunges sixteen feet to her death outside of her therapist’s office. The police have ruled it an accident, but some are wondering if she jumped from the banister. Dr. David Strong, Denise’s therapist, would not comment on the matter, citing doctor-patient privilege. The only other witness at the scene was a blind girl. Denise, a ward of the state, has no known relatives, associates, or friends. Her remains will be cremated at the Valdez Funeral Home on Tuesday, July 23, 2008.”
I set the clipping down on the desk and sigh. Nothing new. I unfold the accompanying paper and drag my finger across the words:
Two years have passed and not a single peep
You’re more helpless than Little Bo’s lost sheep
Blind as a mouse, is there anything you see
I’ve left all the clues that will lead you to me
No accident threw the princess off the wall
So don’t pretend you didn’t cause her fall
Just admit that you have sinned
And all of this will come to an end
Frustrated, I grab a pushpin and stab it through the two papers and into the corkboard next to the last one. Its end catches my thumbnail and drives underneath it. “Ouch!” Blood seeps from under my nail and drips on the floor before I can get my thumb to my mouth. I suck on my thumb for a solid minute before the throbbing pain subsides.
I want to punch the wall, but past experiences remind me of how that will turn out. Instead, I find the fourth envelope marked July 17, 2012 and rip it open. All its contents spill onto the floor, so I discard it on the floor as well. I bend over and pick up the folded piece of paper and high school photograph.
The large photograph has North Highlands HS 2008 Senior Class embossed on it in gold lettering across its bottom. There are seventy of us in the picture. I’ve counted numerous times. We’re standing in front of and on top of a set of aluminum bleachers out by the football field. I’m in the picture on the bottom left, standing on the grass. I’m not quite facing forward, and I’m not looking toward the camera either. It’s a typical picture of me. On the second row, two people to my left, is Denise. She’s facing forward, but her eyes are angled toward me. A heart’s been drawn around her and me with fire-engine-red lipstick. I want to rip it up, but instead I pin it to the corkboard next to the other items.
I unfold the paper. The uniform braille lettering flows underneath my finger like water from a faucet, but the words are anything but refreshing:
Two little lovebirds standing on a field
One gives ground but the other won’t yield
Why must you continue to pretend
That you didn’t kill your lover friend
You couldn’t handle forbidden love
So you made that final shove
Admit it, Alice, her blood you spilled
And when you do, I’ll be so thrilled
Like Hansel and Gretel, you’ll get yours too
Just follow the crumbs I’ve left for you
I pin the paper above the class photo on the corkboard. How long had Denise been in love with me? She never said a word to me. I didn’t even know who she was until the day she died. She was as invisible to me as I was to everyone else, save Veronica.
Had Veronica kept it from me? She can be the jealous type.
Speaking of Veronica, it’s been several days since I’ve heard from her and it worries me a little. We talk almost every day or at least message each other. I take my cell phone out of my pocket. The display reads 02:14. I’ve got zero bars. I always forget that I have no service when I’m holed up in my storage unit.
Veronica works graveyard shifts, so there’s no point in calling her now. I slide my phone back into my pocket and eye the boxes against the wall. Papers and envelopes still spill from them. Have I even made a dent?
My stomach rumbles. It scares me how often I forget to eat. Even worse, my thr
oat is parched. I can’t remember the last drink I had other than the bottle of water Seth gave me yesterday morning.
Time for some Slice ‘N Drive. It’s the perfect stop for late night pizza. You roll up to it like an ATM machine, select your toppings, and get hot and fresh slices in one minute. My mouth is watering already.
I pull off my jacket, exit my storage unit, and lock up. I take the elevator down to the first floor and walk twenty paces along the dark corridor before the lights finally flick on. The motion sensors work about as well as the security cameras dangling from the ceiling.
Outside, my sedan is the only car left in the parking lot and sits beneath the single functioning light. I head toward my car and halt just beyond the loading zone awning, half-way between the building and it. The interior light is on. The hairs on my nape rise with my pulse. I’m certain it wasn’t on when I arrived.
I draw my gun and flashlight and approach the car with caution. The rear passenger door is ajar. Each heartbeat crashes in my ears like thunder as I lean forward and peer inside the window.
CHAPTER SIX
My hand trembles as I pocket my flashlight and yank the car door open. A traitorous seatbelt buckle lies across the doorjamb. “Stupid seatbelt.” It must’ve caught in the door when I grabbed the Home Depot bag earlier. I holster my gun, move the buckle out of the way, slam the door shut, and climb into the driver’s seat.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m back in my storage unit scarfing down two slices of pepperoni pizza and guzzling a 44oz Mountain Dew. Normally, my storage unit would be the last place I’d choose to eat food, given the present company of mice, spiders, and roaches. However, I can’t afford to waste more time. There can’t be another Sarah.
The Braille Killer (An Alice Bergman Novel Book 1) Page 5