No Rhyme or Reason

by Mairsile Leabhair

  “I’ve got a Jane Doe rape victim with no memory of it. In fact, she can’t remember anything about herself. Someone pumped her full of opioids, burned off her fingertips, and left a message on her underwear.”

  “What kind of message?” she asked.

  “It was written in semen and said snitch.”

  She paused a moment, then asked, “Where’s the victim now?”

  Exhaling quietly, I said, “I’m taking her to my apartment.”

  “That’s not exactly protocol, you know,” she stated.

  “It’s a long story, Cap, but she sort of bonded to me and won’t let anyone touch her unless I’m there.”

  “Again, not protocol,” she chastised.

  “Understood, but she is a unique case and I think we need to look past the rape and figure out why she was marked as a snitch. If that was all there was to it, she’d be dead. Someone wants us to know that they know. I just need to find out who they are.”

  “All right but keep me posted on any new developments.”

  “Roger that.”

  ***

  I unlocked my apartment door on the sixth floor and showed Joyce in. Flipping on the lights, I tossed the bag the hospital had given me on the coffee table and gave her the grand tour of my one-bedroom apartment. It wasn’t much but it was comfortable and affordable on a detective’s salary. My living room, though small, had a cushy recliner and a very comfortable couch. Of course, the television was my most expensive purchase, but it was worth every penny, especially on Sundays when the Dallas Cowboys were playing. The walls were a drab gray, but the photos that I took, mostly of animals, gave them a splash of color.

  “This is the kitchen.” I led her into the small but functional kitchen. It barely had counter space and what space it had was filled with a convection oven and microwave, wedged in between the sink and the stove. “And as luck would have it, I went to the store yesterday so there’s plenty of food. If you’re hungry, I make a mean omelet.” I had grabbed a snack at the hospital, but Joyce had not eaten all day, and it was well past supper time.

  “Um, no thank you. Maybe later.”

  “Is this your husband?” Joyce asked, pointing at a photo of my brother.

  I had my family photos hanging on the wall over the dining table, which was in a small alcove just off the kitchen.

  “God, no. I swing the other way. No, that’s my kid brother. He was there when you and I first met. Do you, uh, remember any of that?” Debbie had warned me about prodding her to remember something, but in this case, it felt like lying if I didn’t.

  “No, I’m sorry. He’s very nice looking.”

  “Thanks. He’s an Episcopal priest now.”

  “Are you also Episcopalian?” she asked politely.

  “Well, yes and no,” I answered. Her nose crinkled adorably as she arched an eyebrow. “Yes, I was raised Episcopalian but I don’t go to church regularly… or ever.”

  “I know what you mean. I’m Catholic but I don’t go… what? What’s that look?”

  “Oh, uh…” You remembered something! “I was just happy that you remembered something.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes. You remembered that you were Catholic. That’s very good.”

  Her eyes were swirling with a mixture of shock, confusion, and pride. But then they welled up with sadness and she said, “I can’t remember.”

  “Maybe not now. But you will,” I assured her. “It may come in bits and pieces when you least expect it, but you will remember, Joyce. I know you will.”

  “I believe you,” she said, exhaling softly. Then, in a voice so quiet I could barely hear, she mumbled, “I have to believe you.”

  Once Joyce woke up at the hospital, sluggish at first, she had become alert and focused quickly. The doctor warned me that it could take days for her system to flush out the drugs, but since he believed that this was her first time, she shouldn’t suffer from the withdrawal too badly. Maybe a little nausea or confusion, which, of course, she already had.

  “And this is where you’ll be sleeping,” I announced, leading her into my bedroom. It wasn’t very large, but it fit a double bed and a dresser. I didn’t need much else.

  “Oh, um…” She looked around the room. “Together?”

  “What? No.” My mouth suddenly went dry. “No, you’re sleeping here and I’m sleeping on the couch.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t put you out like that,” she said, shaking her head.

  Well, she has good manners at least. “I’m used to it. I usually fall asleep on the couch anyway.”

  I showed her the bathroom last. It was moderate with a nice big bathtub that I never used. Showers were quicker. Explaining that the towels and washcloths were in the cabinet, I placed a new bar of soap on the counter.

  “Could I take a bath?” she asked, pushing her matted hair from her face.

  “Yes, of course.”

  She looked down at her shirt. “Um, do you have any clothes I could change into?”

  The hospital had kept most of her clothes for evidence and sent her home wearing scrubs.

  “Are a T-shirt and shorts okay for pajamas? I don’t really have much else.”

  “No, that would be fine. I… what do I wear tomorrow and the next day?”

  “Tomorrow, you wear my clothes and the next day we can go shopping,” I answered.

  She gave me a measured look. I laughed as she stood on her toes until her eyes were level with mine.

  “Okay, yes, I’m bigger than you are, but I’ve got belts, and you can roll up the jeans and sleeves.”

  Now she was laughing. A healthy laugh that made her face glow. Very encouraging.

  “Thank you, I’m sure I can make your clothes work.”

  “The hospital sent home some ointment and bandages for your fingers. I’ll help you with that after your bath.”

  ***

  While she took a bath, I took off my gun, holster, and my badge and placed them in the coffee table drawer in front of the couch. Then I went into the kitchen and began fixing some omelets, hoping that it would entice her to eat something. She seemed wobbly and needed to get her energy back. She was in for a long haul, not just in getting her memory back, but in helping me find out who had done this to her. She was in the tub for so long that I had to put the omelets in the convection oven to keep them warm. I pulled down two plates from the cabinet and two forks from the drawer. Then I set out two glasses and waited. Just as I was about to check on her, I heard the hair dryer.

  My mouth fell open when Joyce finally walked out of the bathroom. She strolled out brushing her long flaxen hair, silky smooth with a thick wave gathering on her shoulders. Her blue eyes glistened against her ruby cheeks. Her button nose was made smaller by her full, red lips. She looked like a completely different person. She was beautiful before, even muddied and bruised, but now, clean and radiant and in my t-shirt and shorts, she was ravishing, sensual, sexy, in a word… wow! I don’t care if she is married. I can still look. I can still appreciate her beauty. Right?

  “Oh, something smells good,” she said, walking into the kitchen.

  “I was hungry so I whipped us up a little snack,” I said, pulling the omelets out of the oven.

  “Can I help?” she asked, placing the hairbrush on the counter.

  I picked up the two plates and nodded toward the glasses. “There are sodas, milk, and beer in the fridge. Oh, and a bottle of wine, also. And there’s an icemaker in the freezer if you want ice. Help yourself to whatever you want to drink.”

  Careful of her fingers, she opened the door to the freezer and the whoosh of cold air made her shiver. It also made her nipples harden and push against the t-shirt, which almost made me drop the plates. I diverted my eyes quickly, hoping I didn’t look like Pavlov’s dog in heat. What is wrong with me? I’ve been around beautiful women before and my body didn’t betray me like this. I’ve got a job to do and this woman needs my professionalism, not my lust. And if that weren’t enough, s
he’s a married woman and I will never be the third person in a marriage, period.

  “Uh… how was your bath?” I ask, placing the plates on the table. I grabbed the bag of potato chips off the counter and opened it.

  “I can’t remember when a hot bath has ever felt so good,” she replied.

  I glanced at her to see if she was joking. She wasn’t. Taking out a handful of chips and crumbling them, letting them flake over the omelets, I went back into the kitchen for the salsa and my drink. I saw her struggling with the ice bucket, using the palms of her hands to remove it from the freezer.

  “Here, let me get that,” I volunteered. “Direct contact with ice probably isn’t a good thing.” I filled the two glasses with ice and put the ice bucket back in the freezer.

  “What are you drinking?” I asked, opening the refrigerator door.

  “Milk, please.”

  “Oh,” I said, looking at the glasses with ice in them.

  “It’s okay. Who knows? I may like my milk extra cold,” she said with a soft chuckle.

  “That sounds good. I believe I’ll have milk, too.” I pulled out the gallon of milk and filled the glasses. “I’ve got salsa and pepper sauce on the table. Or would you like ketchup on your omelet instead?”

  She turned and looked at me. “I’m not sure.”

  It never dawned on me that she wouldn’t remember what she liked on her food. It was something so insignificant yet ingrained in us from early on. I reached into the refrigerator and grabbed the bottle of ketchup. “I’ll put it on the table and you can try it if you like.” I put the milk away and closed the fridge. Thinking of her hands, I took the lids off the ketchup and pepper sauce and put a spoon in the salsa.

  Sitting down to eat, Joyce studied her food for a moment. She looked at the fork and hesitated.

  “Oh, uh, would you mind if I cut your omelet up for you?” I asked. “Give your fingers a chance to heal.”

  “Thank you,” she said on an exhale. “That would be helpful.”

  I picked up her fork and began cutting the omelet into bite-size wedges. “What would you like on it?” I asked, placing her fork in her hand carefully.

  She shrugged. “How about a sample of each and let me experiment?”

  “That’s a good idea.” I poured a dab of ketchup on one side her plate, then a scoop of salsa on the other.

  Using her fork as a child would, with her middle joint, she speared a wedge and dipped it in the ketchup. She chewed, licked her lips and nodded satisfactorily. Then she did the same with the salsa with the same results. “Would you mind combining all three together, please?”

  Grinning, I added more ketchup, salsa and a dash of pepper sauce to her plate.

  She dunked a piece into the mixture and took another bite. A big grin crossed her face as she rolled her eyes in culinary pleasure.

  “Wow, you like it hot and spicy,” I said without thinking.

  “I wonder what else I like that way,” she replied, gazing at me with lascivious eyes.

  Oh, God. As much as I would have loved to remain swimming in her questioning eyes, I knew that I needed to lock that down, pronto. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone. Tapping the photo app, I pulled up the photo of her wedding ring.

  “We found this hidden in your sock. It was on your toe, actually,” I said, handing her my phone.

  Her mouth fell open as she dropped her fork on the plate. “A wedding band?” She looked at the photo. “What does that mean?”

  “It could possibly mean that you’re married and didn’t want anyone to know about it.”

  “Why would I hide that?” she asked, handing the phone back. “Oh, God. Was I having an affair?”

  “Well…” That was a possibility. Maybe the husband found out and got upset. Maybe the secret lover got tired of being secret. She seemed genuinely upset just now by the thought that she may have cheated on her husband. But neither option would have explained the message left on her underwear.

  “Please, I can see it in your eyes,” she said. “Just tell me the truth.”

  “It could have been an affair, but right now, we just don’t know what happened. I promise you, I will find out.”

  “What about children? Do I have children?” She looked at me with horror in her eyes. “Please, God, say I’m not pregnant now?”

  Chapter Five

  I Can’t Handle This — Jane Doe aka Joyce

  No! I cannot bring a child into this world like this.

  “We should be able to find out in a couple of days,” Trina said. It wasn’t very reassuring. She stood up and walked into the living room. “Veronica, the sexual assault forensic examiner who did your case, said that you were raped yesterday,” she explained rather matter of factly. Walking back to the table with the bag from the hospital, she sat down again. “She said they recommend that you wait two weeks after your period, but since you won’t remember when that was, give it a try at the end of the week.” Trina dumped the contents of the bag onto the table. Packages of gauze and tubes of ointment, small boxes, and even magazines. She picked up one of the small boxes, a pregnancy kit, and handed it to me. “She gave me a home pregnancy test for you.”

  Is this really happening? “The end of the week?” I looked at the box containing five test sticks. “I could be carrying my rapist’s seed inside of me for a week?”

  “It’s a possibility, yes,” she replied, her eyes looking strained. “But you could terminate the pregnancy immediately if that’s the case.”

  I could feel the blood draining from my face, and I felt lightheaded. “Not if I’m Catholic.”

  “Oh… that’s right. Episcopalians condone abortion due to rape, but the Catholic Church forbids it for any reason. No offense, but I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. Except for the man who raped you. I’d wish that on him a thousand times over.”

  “I would, too,” I agreed.

  “Well, I tell you what,” she added. “Let’s worry about that later when we know for sure. Right now, I’ve got a pretty good movie library, so how about we finish our omelets while we watch a movie?”

  My hands had begun to tremble from the pricks of pain in my fingertips. I looked down at my fingers, at the scabs beginning to crack in the cool air.

  Trina pulled the ointment and bandages from the hospital bag. “First, would you like me to put the ointment on your fingers now?”

  “Oh, yes, that would be nice. Thank you.” I held my right hand out first. Right-handed?

  Trina picked up the tube and, after taking the cap off, speared the safety metal with the tip of her knife. “You know, most people lead with their dominant hand. The one they write with or throw a baseball with.” She opened the gauze pads and pulled one out. “This should make your fingers feel much better.” Squeezing some ointment onto the gauze, she dabbed it on my index finger.

  It hurt, and I flinched, inhaling sharply.

  “I’m sorry. I’m too rough,” she said.

  “No, it’s okay. It’s not you. The gauze is catching on the scab, that’s all. It feels good, actually… after you got it on there, that is.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” she stated, tossing the gauze on the table.

  She dug in the bag again and pulled out a box of alcohol swabs. Tearing one open, she washed her own fingertips on the swab. Then she took the tube of ointment and squeezed a dab on her finger. She very gently smoothed it on my middle finger. “Better?”

  “Much better, thank you,” I replied, gazing at her with gratitude.

  She held my hand in her palm as she put the cream on my fingers. Her hand was soft, creamy, and so warm. I found myself wishing that she’d slow down, not wanting to break the contact. It was wrong, I know that. But it felt so right. So, how could it be wrong?

  “How does that feel?”

  “Much better now,” I replied. “You have a delicate touch.”

  “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “No. I don’t think that’s possib
le,” I said, stifling a yawn.

  “Thanks. Listen, you’ve had a long day. Why don’t you turn in?”

  “I will admit, the bath relaxed me.” I looked down at my hands. “But I don’t want to get this oily stuff all over your sheets.”

  “I’m not worried about it,” she replied and then grinned. “Besides, you’re the one who has to sleep in it.”

  I wiggled my fingers at her, threatening to wipe them on her.

  “All right now, don’t make me have to arrest you,” she teased.

  “Oh? With a pat down and handcuffs? That sounds kinky…” Oh, my God. Did I just say that? “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from. I mean, I’m married, and I know I’m not promiscuous. At least, I feel like I’m not, so I shouldn’t be talking like that.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “You’ve been through a hell of a lot and you’re just tired. That’s all.”

  “I think you’re right,” I said and stood up. “I think I’ll turn in.” Hesitating a moment, I asked, “You’ll be here… in the morning?” I knew I must sound like an insecure weakling, but I needed some reassurance. I needed to know that there was something stable in my life that I could count on.

  “Yes. I’ll be right here. Sweet dreams.”

  I walked into the bedroom, knowing I wouldn’t sleep. I just needed some space, some alone time to sort out my deranged feelings. Undressing and helping myself to one of Trina’s T-shirts, I crawled into bed and leaned against the headboard. Is it deranged to find an attractive woman desirable? Trina was everything I wasn’t. She knew who she was and what she wanted to do with her life. She was strong, kind, and incredibly beautiful. The charming part, and she was very charming, was that she didn’t realize just how beautiful she was. Was it any wonder that I flirted with her? Any wonder that there was a sweet tingling feeling between my legs? I sat straight up in bed and put my hand to my mouth. I’m a lesbian!

  To Sleep, Perchance to Dream – Trina Wiles

  Joyce had looked perplexed, sad, and confused. I’d give anything to see that mischievous glint in her eyes again. I had a feeling I was seeing her true, playful, confident self, and I wanted to see more of that side of her.