The Broken Mother

by Thomas Fincham

  McConnell turned to him and nodded.

  Holt grabbed the tape and unrolled it while walking to the other side of the parking lot. He then tied one end to a sign post.

  When McConnell had the entire property secured with the tape, he came over to him. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

  “No problem,” Holt replied.

  There was a reason he had offered to assist McConnell. Holt never saw himself above helping a fellow officer, but in general, detectives left those kinds of duties to their subordinates while they focused on the crime itself.

  McConnell was dating Holt’s partner, Detective Dana Fisher. Their relationship was once a secret in the department, but ever since Fisher returned from Lockport, she no longer wanted to hide it.

  Holt would do anything for Fisher, and he knew she would do anything for him.

  He was grateful that she had McConnell by her side after what happened at Lockport. She needed someone to confide in, and while Holt offered his support, he knew he was not strong enough to help her through this difficult time all by himself.

  Fisher was eager to get back to work. She had called him daily to inquire about the cases he was working on. While the department had cleared her to return to duty, Holt felt it was too soon. Holt had been in the same situation as her—twice, in fact—and each time, he rushed back to work knowing he was not ready. He desperately needed something to occupy his mind, to make him not think about what he had been through.

  It was not up to Holt to deny Fisher’s request to come back. That was the sergeant’s decision. But Holt had a say in whether he was comfortable having her work next to him. After years on the force, he had earned the right to choose his partner on a case. He missed Fisher every day. She was more than a colleague to him. She was his friend. And as her friend, he wanted what was best for her. And that meant she got some rest and relaxation.

  A homicide investigation was an intense ordeal. No matter how experienced a detective was, there was the emotional aspect to cope with. A human being’s life had ended prematurely, and those grieving wanted to make sense of their loss.

  Holt believed Fisher did not need that kind of stress right now. She should not be digging for clues, chasing down leads, doing all the tedious work required to find a suspect.

  Holt spotted someone in the back seat of McConnell’s cruiser. “Who is that?” he asked.

  “She won’t give her name,” McConnell replied. “But she’s the one who called 9-1-1.”

  “Did she go on the premises?”

  Holt was always concerned about people leaving their DNA on the crime scene. It was an additional person he would have to cross off the list of potential suspects.

  “The 9-1-1 call came from inside,” McConnell replied.

  Holt understood what that meant. The woman in the cruiser had gone inside Emily’s Place, saw what had happened, and used one of the center’s telephones to alert the authorities.

  I will deal with her later, he thought. “Okay, show me what you found,” he said to McConnell.

  McConnell paused and then said, “I have to warn you, sir, it’s not pretty.”

  Holt almost scoffed. “Death is never pretty.”

  “No, you don’t understand. It’s not one victim… it’s three.”

  FIVE

  The first body was a few feet from the front door. The victim lay on her stomach with her face turned to the side. she was wedged in the second doorway just ahead.

  “Melody Ferguson,” McConnell said as he stood behind Holt.

  Holt was still. He held the door open but did not take a step inside. A part of him did not want to go any farther. He wanted to spare himself the horror of what he was about to see.

  But as a homicide detective, he had no choice but to enter.

  He inhaled deeply through his nostrils and then exhaled.

  He went inside.

  He was in a narrow space. On the right side was a wall with a bulletin board on it. It was covered with announcements from the center, information on social programs, and even coupons and vouchers from nearby grocery stores.

  The women who came in were desperate. Most were fleeing a violent situation and were without much money. The vouchers and coupons would go a long way in helping them get through the first few days on their own.

  There was a door on the left.

  Before Holt could ask, McConnell said, “It’s a small office.”

  Not only was McConnell supposed to check for signs of life, he also had to survey the entire scene to make sure there was nothing dangerous for the first aid responders or police personnel. This involved going through each room to confirm.

  Holt nodded, swallowed hard, and then gingerly stepped over Melody Ferguson’s body to get through the second door.

  He was in an open space with three desks that had several chairs placed before each one.

  Women who came in would discuss their situation with an employee from the center at those very desks. The employee would then present the women with their next course of action.

  As a patrol officer, whenever Holt had driven a woman to the center, he would sometimes sit with them in order to make them feel comfortable.

  There was a blue door to the left and a hallway up ahead. Holt knew that behind the blue door was a space similar in size to this. The space was divided into several rooms. One room had a bed, in case the center was unable to find sleeping accommodations for someone at the last minute. The next room was a play area with toys, arts-and-crafts material, and a television. Most women who came into the center were accompanied by young children.

  Holt could not imagine how stressful and traumatic the situation must be for the children. One minute they were in the comfort of their own home, and the next they were in a strange environment. The people who worked at the center made sure the children were taken care of. They played games with them, gave them snacks and candies, and let them watch their favorite shows. Anything to ease the transition.

  Holt felt a sharp stab in his heart, and he shut his eyes to let the pain pass through.

  Who will help these women and children now? he thought. Who will be there for them in their hour of need?

  “Sir?”

  McConnell’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

  He turned and saw the same pain on McConnell’s face. His lips were curled into a frown and his eyes were moist. McConnell had already gone through the initial shock of what he had seen, but even then, it was hard for him.

  “It’s farther up,” he said slowly.

  He was glad in a way to have McConnell with him right now. Externally, Holt exuded toughness and grit, but internally, he was soft and sensitive.

  “Right,” Holt said.

  They moved into the hall when Holt spotted the second victim. She lay on her back with her arms and legs spread out. Like the first victim, she also lay wedged in a doorway.

  “Paige Giles,” McConnell said.

  Holt again had to tip-toe over Paige Giles to get to the next room. It was an office with wide windows. There was a door on the left, and on the right was a wooden desk with two chairs before it.

  Behind the desk was the third victim. She was slumped in the chair with her head tilted back.

  “Emily Riley,” McConnell said.

  Holt knew her. Everyone who was vaguely familiar with the center knew her.

  She had not only built the center, it was also named after her.

  Holt stared at the two bodies before him and felt a shiver go up his spine. With three dead, he knew the sergeant would send someone to assist him. This was not a job for one detective, but two.

  Holt realized he needed someone he could trust.

  SIX

  Dana Fisher walked the grocery store’s aisles, pushing a shopping cart. She was five-foot-five and weighed close to a hundred and ten pounds. She had dark shoulder-length hair. Her nose was pointed upwards, and it moved whenever she opened her mouth.

  Fisher was a homicide dete
ctive with ten years of service with the Milton Police. She had seen the worst of the worst. She had solved cases that would haunt the average person for the rest of their life. What made her different was that she thoroughly believed in what she did.

  She punished criminals for their actions, and by putting them in prison, she was making the world a better place. At least that is what she told herself each day.

  Fisher grabbed a can off the shelf and examined it. There were half a dozen variety of tomato sauces available, and she was thinking of making pasta for dinner.

  She was not much of a cook. She was the only girl among three boys. Her mom did most of the cooking, and if you asked Fisher, she was the best cook ever.

  Growing up, her family did not have much money, and as such, they hardly went out to eat. Instead, her mom would always whip up something at home. She would make pizza, shawarma, chicken nuggets, hand-cut fries, panzerotti, barbecue chicken, and other delectable dishes. Her mom never made her brood feel like they were without anything.

  The music in the grocery store was soothing and upbeat, a musical tonic to make shoppers relaxed as they browsed the aisles.

  For Fisher, the cheerful song currently playing was like salt being flicked into a wound.

  Her trip to Lockport had left her physically, mentally, and emotionally devastated. Only the support of her family and friends helped her get through that trauma.

  She was still scarred, though. A feeling that whispered, I should have done more, hung over her mind like a dark cloud. She had seen much tragedy in her line of work, but she never imagined it would hit so close to home.

  She always thought her badge would somehow shield her from tragedy, but she now knew she was being naïve. If tragedy could rock the lives of other detectives, why should she be immune?

  Fisher knew she would never get over what happened in Lockport. Time would never fully heal the wounds. But if she focused her energy on something more productive, like work, it might somewhat ease her pain.

  She read the labels on the sauces and decided to pick one at random.

  Lance won’t complain, she thought.

  She was grateful to have McConnell. He had been there for her every step of the way. Before going home, he would drop by her place each night. Over dinner they would discuss his day. As a patrol officer, he saw more excitement than most people. Domestic disputes, drug overdoses, stabbings, drunk driving, and gang violence. He saw it all.

  It made her feel like she was still in touch with what was happening at the police department.

  McConnell was a better cook than her, so he normally prepared dinner for them both.

  Today, however, she wanted to surprise him.

  She had woken up bright and early—a habit from childhood—and instead of going for her morning jog, she spent time on the internet trying to find a recipe she was comfortable following. Pasta seemed like the easiest, so she went with that.

  The grocery store was open 24 hours, so she decided to get a head start. The store was empty this early in the day, so she could take her time choosing the ingredients.

  I might even pick up a lemon sorbet for dessert, she thought as she wheeled the cart into the next aisle.

  Her cell phone buzzed. She debated whether to ignore the call. She was, after all, on leave.

  Her phone kept buzzing.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled it out.

  She recognized the number.

  SEVEN

  Lee Callaway stared at the muzzle of the revolver aimed between his eyes. The gun was so close to his face that he saw nothing but an empty void inside the barrel. For a moment, his life flashed before his eyes. Unfortunately, his life consisted of him getting drunk, sleeping with countless women, and losing all his money in casinos.

  He cringed that not a single image of his daughter popped up in his head. This could very well be his last moment on earth, and here he was reliving his greatest hits of debauchery and reckless behavior.

  In hindsight, his life had been an utter waste.

  Callaway was tall, tanned, and he had silver around his temples. Even with the crow’s feet around his eyes, he still looked youthful.

  He was a private investigator who prided himself in being extra careful.

  Not today, though.

  The man holding the gun was his client’s husband. Callaway had been hired to follow the husband as he spent his nights with his mistress. The husband had caught Callaway’s Dodge Charger parked outside a motel. The husband must have taken down his license plate number, which he then used to find Callaway’s name. Once he had that, it was not hard to search for him online. Callaway had a website for his PI business. The web page had not been updated in years, but it had all the information anyone needed to get in touch with him. The husband then called Callaway and offered to hire him for a job.

  Callaway jumped at the chance of securing another case. He failed to do his due diligence and find out more about the person looking to hire him. He also did not double-check where he was meeting this prospective client.

  The alleyway was behind a bottling factory. The factory was closed for renovations, which made for a great spot to shoot someone without anyone finding out.

  “Give it to me,” the husband growled in a thick accent.

  “Give you what?” Callaway stammered.

  “The camera. The one you used to take photos of me and my friend.”

  You mean mistress, Callaway thought. “I didn’t bring the camera with me,” he claimed.

  “In that case, goodbye, Mr. Callaway.”

  The husband cocked the hammer.

  Callaway flinched.

  “No, wait! I can get it for you.”

  “How?”

  “It’s in my car.”

  The husband stared at him skeptically.

  “No, honest,” Callaway said. “It’s in the trunk of my Charger.”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s parked outside the alley.”

  The husband’s eyes bore into him. “No games, okay? If you try to run, I will shoot you. If you try to scream for help, I will shoot you. If you try to fight—”

  “I know, I know. You’ll shoot me,” Callaway said.

  The husband motioned with his gun. “Let’s go.”

  They walked down the alley and came out onto the street. Unfortunately, the street was vacant at this time of day. No one would hear his cries, and no one would come to his aid.

  The husband had chosen the location carefully.

  Callaway got the feeling the husband had been in these kinds of situations before, perhaps back in his home country of Latvia, and that murder was not beneath him.

  Callaway was not about to take any chances.

  He opened the Charger’s trunk and pulled out the camera.

  The husband snatched the camera from Callaway’s hands. “Did you make a copy of the photos?” he asked.

  “I didn’t have time.”

  That was the truth. It was only last night that Callaway was on the stakeout outside the motel. He was hoping that after his meeting with the husband this morning, he would go get the photos processed.

  The husband scowled and then hurled the camera onto the street with all his strength.

  Callaway winced as the camera smashed into a dozen pieces.

  “If I see you anywhere near me, I will kill you,” the husband said. “Do you understand?”

  Callaway had no doubt the husband would follow through with his threat. “I completely understand.”

  The husband put the gun in his jacket pocket and stormed away.

  When he was out of sight, Callaway let out an audible sigh of relief.

  He realized he had been sweating profusely throughout the ordeal. He sniffed his underarms and made a face.

  I need a hot shower after this, he thought. Maybe even a drink.

  He reached down and picked up the broken camera.

  He opened the back of the camera and removed the tiny mem
ory card.

  Idiot, he thought. Where has he been for the last decade? Cameras don’t use film these days.

  He pocketed the card, looked around, and quickly got in the Charger.

  Time to get the hell out of here, in case he changes his mind and comes back.

  Callaway gunned the engine and roared away.

  EIGHT

  Holt had to get away from the crime scene. The sight of the dead women, who had given so much to so many people, was overwhelming. He felt sick to his stomach. He had never vomited at a crime scene before, but today could be the day.

  He did not want to contaminate the crime scene with his DNA. He decided to get some air by going out front to speak to the person who had discovered the gruesome scene.

  Holt found her in the back of McConnell’s police cruiser.

  She refused to give her real name. Holt noticed puncture marks along her arms. Her fingernails were dirty, her hair was coarse, and her teeth were stained.

  She was a drug addict who was perhaps also homeless. Holt felt for people in her situation. Society cast them aside as if they were a disease. They were invisible—nameless and faceless.

  But Holt did not see it that way. These very people were once someone’s child. They once had a mother and a father. The father may not have played a role in their development—he may even be nonexistent in their lives—but the mother most certainly had. And no parent would ever wish for their child to grow up dependent on drugs and without shelter.

  Holt viewed them as lost children, no matter how old they were. Somewhere along the way, something had steered them down a self-destructive path. A dysfunctional family environment. An unplanned pregnancy. They could have run away from home. Lost their jobs. Gotten involved with some bad people. Whatever the cause, if they were viewed as people who were once children with hopes and dreams for a bright future, it was easier not to judge them.

  “So, what should I call you?” Holt asked gently.

  She shrugged. “My friends call me Angel.”

  “Angel?”

  She lowered her shirt collar. There was a tattoo of an angel with wings on the nape of her neck.