The Broken Mother

by Thomas Fincham

  “I’m just concerned, you know.”

  “I am too,” Holt said.

  “Maybe we should have sent a cruiser to her house.”

  “We don’t know if she’s a target. Just because the other women were murdered, it does not mean the killer will risk capture by going after Nikki Jones too.”

  Fisher turned to him. “What if it is a hate crime?”

  Holt let out a dismissive snort. “Not that again.”

  “Just listen to me,” she said. “What if this person wanted to make an example of the people at Emily’s Place? And in order to do that, he has to finish the job, which includes going after Nikki Jones.”

  “I think the perpetrator has already done enough damage at the center. I mean, the only other thing I can think of is something you alluded to earlier.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Revenge.”

  She smiled. “Is revenge not a form of hate?”

  Holt frowned. “I don’t know if we can connect the two.”

  “Sure we can. You hate the other person so much that you want revenge for whatever wrongs they may have done to you.”

  Holt pondered Fisher’s words.

  They drove for another twenty minutes before they reached their destination. As Fisher pulled up to the red brick bungalow, she spotted a Mazda hatchback in the driveway.

  “It looks like she is home,” Fisher said, relieved.

  They parked behind the hatchback and got out. The lights inside the house were on. They rang the doorbell and waited.

  A few minutes went by.

  No answer.

  Fisher rang the bell again.

  Still no answer.

  Fisher pulled out her cell phone and dialed Nikki Jones’s number.

  She frowned and hung up. “I get a message that the number dialed is not in service,” she said to Holt.

  Holt’s eyes narrowed. He pulled out his weapon. Seeing this, Fisher drew hers too.

  Holt reached for the door and turned the handle.

  The door was unlocked.

  Holt looked over at Fisher, giving her an alarmed but alert look.

  Fisher took the lead and pushed the door in with her foot. She moved into the hall with her gun pointed ahead, finger near the trigger as she was trained to do. Holt followed behind.

  She did not have to go much further when she saw a body lying on the living room carpet. Holt moved past Fisher and made his way to the back of the house.

  Fisher knelt down beside the body. She checked for a pulse, but there was none.

  Holt returned to the living room. His face was grim. “The house is clear.”

  Fisher said nothing. Her face was ashen.

  Nikki Jones was lying in a pool of blood.

  Their worst fear had turned out to be true.

  EIGHTY

  Donny Brewer had a full head of hair, bright blue eyes, and a square jaw. Donny could be a model if he chose to be. Instead, he was a junior at the University of Mountainview, which specialized in aerospace engineering.

  Donny was the boy who had stumbled upon Hope and Noah at Erie Lake all those years ago.

  Callaway and Donny were at a coffee shop a short distance from the university.

  Donny had an orange and banana smoothie in front of him, while Callaway had black coffee.

  “Man,” Donny said, shaking his head. “You don’t easily forget something like that.”

  “I know this must be hard,” Callaway said, “but whatever you can remember from that day, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

  Donny exhaled. “I’m not sure. I told everything to the detective who took my statement.”

  “That’s how I found your name. It was in Detective Craig Hammel’s notes.”

  “Then I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “I just wanted to hear it from you, in case you may have forgotten to mention something to the detective.”

  Donny’s face creased. “Forgotten?”

  “I mean, you were eleven years old at the time. I’m sure over the years you must have replayed the events of that day in your head, and perhaps there could be something you remember that may be useful to me now.”

  Donny stared at him. “You said you’re writing a book, right?”

  “I am.” Callaway had given Donny the same story he had given Craig Hammel. Callaway could have chosen to be honest with Donny and told him he was re-investigating Hope’s case, but Donny had been through a traumatic event, and the last thing Donny wanted was someone to show up and contradict the statements he had given to the police.

  As far as Donny was concerned, Callaway was just trying to confirm his statements and maybe get a quote for the book.

  Donny looked down at his drink. “I only went to the lake to try out my dad’s smokes. My only concern was him finding out that I had taken them. I never imagined I would end up… in the middle of a crime scene.”

  “Did you see Hope Parsons drown her son?” Callaway asked.

  Donny shook his head.

  “So, she was already in the water with her son when you got there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what made you think she drowned him. In your statement, you said you thought she did.”

  He shrugged. “I was not even a teenager at the time. I didn’t know what was going on. I was still scared that my dad would ask me about his cigarettes. And not to mention, my mom would be heartbroken if she found out I was smoking, you know?”

  “You assumed Hope Parsons must have drowned him?”

  “I mean, she didn’t try to save her son, either. She just stood there in the water, staring at his body.” He shivered as he spoke.

  “After you found them, you said she tried to get you in the water too.”

  Donny looked away, and then he nodded.

  “Was she trying to drown you?” Callaway asked.

  “That’s what I thought at the time,” he slowly replied.

  “But after you’ve had time to go over the events, you think differently?”

  Donny shut his eyes and exhaled. “I don’t know what to think anymore. You have no idea how long I spent in therapy to make sense of that day.” He opened his eyes and looked at him. “Did you know I started blaming myself for that boy’s death?”

  Callaway sat up straight in his chair. “Why would you do that?”

  Donny’s eyes welled up. “I blamed myself for not doing enough to save him. Maybe if I had showed up sooner, I could have done something.”

  “You were just a kid,” Callaway said, his voice gentle. “Even if you had arrived on time, there was little you could have done.”

  “I could have called for help,” Donny said, tears streaming down his face.

  “You did. You blew the whistle your parents had given you.”

  Donny smiled. He reached into his shirt collar and pulled out a silver whistle that was hanging by a thread around his neck. “I don’t know why, but I still wear it to this day. I guess I feel like if I have it, I’ll always be safe.”

  Donny and Callaway sipped their drinks in silence

  Donny was now anxious to get back to campus, to be surrounded by his friends and classmates, and to forget the tragedy that he had stumbled upon as a chid.

  Callaway said, “When Hope Parsons asked you to come into the water, do you think she wanted to harm you?”

  Donny pondered Callaway’s question.

  “I don’t believe she knew what she was doing. After I’d blown the whistle, she asked if I was an angel who’d come to play with her son.”

  Callaway did not know how to respond.

  EIGHTY-ONE

  Nikki Jones was on her stomach with her face turned to the side. Her eyes were open, but they were vacant. Her arms and legs were spread out as if she was trying to break her fall.

  She had been shot in the back. Twice, Fisher silently observed.

  Fisher stood before the body with a heavy heart. She and Holt had decided they would keep this murder
silent for now. They knew, though, that sooner or later, the news of Nikki’s death would get out. There was only so long they could keep referring to her as Jane Doe.

  They did not want to, either.

  The victim had a name and a family. Her life was abruptly cut short because Fisher and Holt were late in finding her killer.

  I failed her, Fisher thought.

  Holt, seeing what she was feeling, placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

  Fisher said nothing.

  “We were at the house before. We broke in to make sure she was okay. We even spoke to her at the station, so she knew our concern for her well-being. We even tried warning her…”

  Fisher looked away. Her eyes were brimming with tears. She felt a knot in the pit of her stomach, and the more she thought about Nikki Jones, the tighter the knot became.

  She wiped away her tears with the back of her sleeve. “I’ll be fine,” she said.

  Holt nodded. “The front door was unlocked, but I don’t think the shooter left from there,” he said.

  Fisher looked at him. “Same as Emily’s Place?”

  “Yes, from the back door.”

  “But why?”

  “Maybe the shooter was worried that someone might have heard the gunshot, and he decided it might be too risky to leave from the front.”

  “Security?” she asked.

  Holt shook his head. “No alarm system in the house.”

  “What about the neighbors? Maybe this time someone caught him leaving.”

  “I checked the houses on both sides, and I saw no cameras.”

  Fisher frowned.

  “But there is something else of concern.”

  “Like what?”

  “The front door was unlocked, which meant either Nikki Jones knew her shooter and let him in, or the shooter forced his way in when she answered the door. I’m leaning toward the former.”

  Fisher blinked. “You really believe she knew her killer?”

  “Think about it. If she opened the door and was faced with the barrel of a gun, her initial reaction would have been to either shut the door or run down the hall, and the shooter would have shot her in the hallway. Because her body is in the living room, we can assume she walked back into the house with the shooter, and that’s when the shooter decided to kill her.”

  Fisher made a face. “I think it’s a bit of a stretch. When she answered the door, the shooter could have revealed his weapon. She would have no choice but to follow his instructions.”

  “But why the living room?” Holt said. “Why not shoot her anywhere else in the house?”

  Fisher pondered Holt’s question. She shook her head. “I don’t buy it.”

  “Why not?”

  “If what you’re saying is right, then that means Nikki Jones always knew the identity of the person who killed Emily Riley, Paige Giles, and Melody Ferguson.”

  EIGHTY-TWO

  George Kamen had weather-beaten skin, his thick mane of hair was completely white, his hands were big and strong, and he had a tattoo of an anchor on his left arm.

  Callaway was at Kamen’s house, which was a short distance from Erie Lake. They were sitting on the porch with cold drinks in their hands.

  Callaway had read Kamen’s statement in Detective Hammel’s notes, but he felt an obligation to Hope to go meet all the parties involved in the event.

  “You were a fisherman all your life?” Callaway asked.

  Kamen shook his head. “I was actually a carpenter. I had my own workshop. I built furniture. But I loved to go out and fish every weekend. Nothing beats being surrounded by water and waiting for a bite.” He was silent for a moment. “After that day, though, I could not get myself to go back in the water.”

  “Can you tell me what exactly happened that day?” Callaway asked.

  Kamen took a deep breath. “I remember it so clearly. It was a beautiful day. There was not a cloud in the sky, and the wind was just right for being out on the water. Usually, I’m lucky if I catch one fish, but on that day, I caught five. I was so excited I could not wait to get back home, clean the fish, and have them for dinner. As I was securing the boat to the dock, I heard a sound. It sounded like a whistle.”

  Callaway knew it was the very whistle Donny Brewer had blown when he stumbled on Hope and her son.

  “At first, I didn’t know what it was or where it had come from, but then I heard it again and again. I then saw them by the edge of the water, on the other side of the lake. I thought there had been an accident. Someone must have drowned. I hurried down the dock and over toward them. When I got there, I saw a woman, waist down in the water, next to a boy. I thought maybe she was teaching him how to swim. But then I saw another boy. He was on the shore. He had a whistle around his neck. He pointed to the boy and said something. I can’t remember exactly what it was—everything was happening too fast—but I think he said the boy in the water needed help.” Kamen rubbed his forehead and shut his eyes. He opened them and continued speaking. “I jumped into the water and pulled the boy on land. I tried to resuscitate him, but it was too late.”

  “What was the woman doing?” Callaway asked.

  “She wasn’t doing anything. She just watched me try to save her boy.”

  “She didn’t stop you?”

  “No, she just looked out of it.”

  “Out of it?”

  “Yeah, like she wasn’t all there. I asked her what had happened, but she wouldn’t reply. I always kept a fully charged cell phone on me, in case my boat broke down or any accidents happened while I was on the water. I used it to call 9-1-1. They were on the scene in twenty minutes, which was a surprise.”

  “Why?” Callaway asked.

  “The lake is a bit of a drive from the nearest hospital,” Kamen replied. “I guess when they heard it was a child, they rushed over even faster than normal.”

  “What did the woman do while you waited for the ambulance?”

  “Nothing really.” Kamen’s brow furrowed. “No, wait. She mumbled something about the boy sleeping, and then an angel had told her not to disturb him. I didn’t pay too much attention to her. I was heartbroken that I couldn’t get the boy breathing again. Like I said, after that day, whenever I thought about going back on my boat, the image of the boy would flash in my mind.”

  Callaway knew his time was up. He took a final sip from his bottle and stood up. He then thought of something. “How long were you out on the water that day?”

  Kamen licked his lower lip. “I think I was out for maybe an hour, or a little more, which was unusual for me. I could be on my boat from morning to evening. But it was one of those days where the fish were biting, and I had more than enough for dinner. I did not want to push my luck and see if I could hook more. Fishing is a hobby. A way to relax and clear my head.”

  Callaway nodded. “When you were leaving the dock to go fishing, did you see anything?”

  “Like what?”

  Callaway shrugged. “Anything that you can remember.”

  Kamen’s face creased as he thought hard. “When I was pulling away from the dock, I saw two boys on land.”

  Callaway’s eyes narrowed. “Two boys? What did they look like?”

  “They were too far to get a clear view.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “One of them was standing next to a bicycle, and the other was standing by the water. They disappeared from view when I got farther into the lake.”

  Donny Brewer had biked to Erie Lake, while Noah Parsons had walked. Kamen must have seen them.

  “Thanks for the drink,” Callaway said, and he left.

  EIGHTY-THREE

  Holt and Fisher still could not wrap their heads around the fact that Nikki Jones might have known her killer—the same person who had killed her colleagues.

  “If Nikki Jones and her killer were working together,” Fisher said, “then why did he kill her now?”

  Holt mulled the question over. “What if it had some
thing to do with us?”

  Fisher frowned. “I don’t understand how we can be responsible for her death.”

  “Maybe we are indirectly responsible.”

  “You’ve lost me,” Fisher said.

  “What if it was your message to Nikki Jones that was the precursor to what happened later?”

  Fisher could see where Holt was going. “I called Nikki Jones and told her we believed her life was in danger…”

  “…and she called the killer,” Holt said, completing her sentence.

  “The killer came over to the house, she answered the door, and when she led him to the living room, he shot her in the back.”

  “It’s entirely plausible,” Holt said.

  “So, where is her phone?” Fisher asked, looking around.

  The medical examiner, along with the Crime Scene Unit, were on their way. Until then, the scene was entirely Holt and Fisher’s.

  “It could be anywhere,” Holt said.

  Fisher leaned down and checked Nikki Jones’s pockets. “Empty.”

  “Where’s her purse?” Holt asked, looking around.

  “I’ll check the bedroom.” Fisher rushed to a room down the hall. She found the purse on the nightstand next to the bed. She rummaged inside Nikki’s purse and frowned. She returned to the living room. “It’s not in the purse.”

  They spent the next couple of minutes scouring the hallway, the kitchen, the bathroom, and the living room.

  “Do you suppose her killer took her cell phone?” Holt said.

  “It would make sense if she was in contact with him.”

  They were silent for a moment before Holt knelt down next to Nikki’s body. He looked at her hollow eyes and then at her right arm, which was extended out.

  “What’re you doing?” Fisher asked.

  Without answering, Holt followed the direction of her eyes and where her right arm was reaching out to. There was a hutch made of dark wood next to a wall, and it had cups and plates neatly displayed behind glass doors. At the bottom, next to the hutch’s legs, was a small opening, large enough to stick a hand in.

  Holt tried, but he only managed to get half his fingers through. He turned to Fisher. “I could use a feminine hand.”