A Desperate Place

by Jennifer Greer

  “If my deduction is correct, and I believe it is”—Weldon stared hard at Panetta, enjoying the suspenseful moment—“another teratoma.”

  “Teratoma?” Panetta eyed the tumor as if it might be contagious.

  “This one is rather grotesque, I must say.”

  Riggs leaned in and visually examined the tumor through the magnifying glass. What she saw literally raised the hair on the back of her neck. She pulled back, a hand involuntarily going to her throat.

  Panetta glanced at Riggs, clearly even more unnerved by her reaction, and took a step back.

  “What exactly,” he asked, “is a teratoma?”

  “Teratoma is Greek for ‘monstrous tumor.’” Weldon held it aloft. Riggs took the opportunity to shoot several pictures of it, carefully including the doctor for good measure. He would appreciate that later. Holding up a ruler for measurements and special context, she shot four more pictures as Weldon rotated the tumor.

  Growing frustrated, Panetta demanded, “What … is a monster tumor?”

  With a hint of a smile between his well-cushioned cheeks, Weldon explained, “This, detective, is a germ cell tumor. Basically, an abnormal development of pluripotent cells. They’re usually congenital by origin, and found in the reproductive organs.”

  “In layman terms,” Panetta prompted.

  “They’re relatively rare tumors, made up of all three germ cell layers. For instance, in this particular mass”—he paused for effect, making sure Panetta made eye contact—“I can see a tooth, some bits of hair, and what looks to be an … arm.”

  Panetta looked horrified and crossed his arms as if to ward off a chill. “Are you serious?”

  “Oh, quite.” Weldon smiled broadly, beneath his clear plastic splash shield. “It’s not uncommon in these types of tumors to see organs and body parts; sometimes we even get an eyeball.”

  “Monster tumor. I get it, but I’ve never heard of it.”

  “I assure you, they’re quite real, as you can see. Pull the tray over, Riggs.”

  She rolled the surgical tray up under the light. To think such an anomaly could grow inside a person was truly repugnant, like an alien fetus.

  Weldon set the tumor in a shallow pan and angled the magnifying glass so he could apply the scalpel. He cut around a circular ridge and split the tumor, pulling it apart to reveal a cyst within the tumor, which he sliced open. “Morbid!”

  Almost reluctant, yet captivated, Riggs examined the exposed nucleus of the cyst. “Oh … my God.”

  Panetta swallowed hard. “Can it get any worse?”

  “Look for yourself,” she said, and snapped more pictures.

  He leaned in over the magnifying glass. Perplexed, he frowned, then paled noticeably.

  Riggs said, “It looks like a lower torso with a leg and hair.”

  Panetta excused himself to get fresh air, the door hydraulics hissing closed behind him.

  Riggs returned her attention to the tumor, fascinated and repulsed at the same time. Something Weldon had said earlier surfaced. “You said another teratoma. What did you mean by that?”

  “Oddly enough, I did an autopsy this afternoon on a fire victim, and he also had a teratoma. Only his had developed in the temporal lobe of the brain. I’ve sent it over to Dr. Kessler’s lab. It wasn’t as defined as this one. Again, not the cause of death, although it certainly could have caused some nasty headaches. Maybe a bout or two of hysterics.”

  “Hysterics?”

  “Oh yes. The dastardly thing was partially brain cells. So his immune system would have attacked it and his own brain.”

  Riggs shuddered. “What was the guy’s name?”

  “Delano. Robert Delano. I happen to know his wife. She’s on the Shakespeare Festival board with me.”

  “And cause of death?” Riggs felt her heart quicken. “Was it fire related?”

  Weldon shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. His lungs were clear. I believe he died before the fire started, probably of a heart attack. His CK, creatine kinase, was elevated. Which wouldn’t surprise me in the least. No doubt he was quite tormented. Poor bastard.”

  Panetta returned to the room, pale but composed. Riggs made a point of ignoring his departure. It was the first time he’d ever left an autopsy.

  Even so, he must have felt the need to defend himself. “I’m trained for warfare, not science. And that thing is sickening.”

  She agreed with him and quickly filled him in regarding Delano’s teratoma.

  He frowned. “That’s a very big coincidence.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Yeah.” Panetta rubbed his chin. “Two vics on the same day infested with that thing. What are the odds?”

  Riggs eyed the tumor, intrigued from a medical perspective. But after twelve years as a police officer, six of those spent in homicide, she had no illusions. She didn’t believe in coincidences.

  CHAPTER

  9

  PORTER’S, A RENOVATED 1910 railway station that had been converted to an upscale restaurant, had few patrons after midnight. The cozy bar boasted its use of the original passenger ticket counter with its glossy, dark wood, imbuing the room with ambience from another, far more elegant era. Shadows of amber and gold warmed the brick walls, creating an overall pleasant experience, with subdued lighting from replica craftsman-style chandeliers. The rich atmosphere attracted mostly professionals and the local elite. And fortunately for Whit’s tight budget, Porter’s also served inexpensive appetizers from nine PM until closing.

  The place smelled of sweet potato fries and grilled steak. Her stomach growled.

  After scanning the four groups seated around bistro tables and a few loners occupying the bar, automatically evaluating their level of threat or usefulness and finding none of either, Whit zoned in on Katie Riggs sitting on a cozy corner couch. She made a beeline for the high-backed chair next to her best friend, more eager than she cared to admit for a drink. Like any good journalist with a healthy sense of rebellion in their soul, she considered alcohol mandatory recreation. Not the wrinkled, sodden, old-school version; more like the wine and martini crowd … unless you were overseas, and then anything goes.

  On the way over, in the car, she’d called Stu and persuaded him to hold additional space above the fold for her story. After much needless bickering, he’d reluctantly agreed to wait until one AM. Her argument for more inches had been solid. She figured the dead woman was a local dignitary, because the district attorney’s office had announced a press conference to be held at nine AM with Mayor Ostrander. The fact that the mayor was involved suggested the body was a notable person. The DA, Edward Littrell, was a media hound who sucked up the spotlight at every opportunity, especially around election time. But if the mayor put his mug on camera during a murder investigation, there had to be a good reason.

  However, her inquires had been unable to dig up any buzz on the street. Even Stu couldn’t strong-arm it out of his stash of cronies. Riggs was her last hope.

  “Hey, McKenna!” They exchanged a fond hug. Riggs wore jeans and a black tank top, slender and beautiful as always in a natural way. “I ordered your favorite, Pinot Gris.”

  “Thank God!” Whit hadn’t found time to change from her stained skirt and white blouse. She needed to get back into the habit of stashing a change of clothes in her car and at her desk. Eight months off the job and she’d relapsed into a rookie. She had, however, slipped her long, red hair into a ponytail.

  “You look a little worse for wear,” Riggs noted, her hand plucking at the singed fabric on Whit’s blouse. “What happened?”

  “All hell broke loose. That’s what happened.”

  Riggs’s gray eyes widened in alarm.

  Whit settled into a leather armchair next to the couch. The private nook beneath the stairs set them apart from prying eyes. The waitress stopped by, and they placed their food orders, although Whit wasn’t hungry. She emptied half the glass in two long sips. She suppressed an “Ahhhh.” The c
hilled wine was crisp and blessedly cool on the back of her throat.

  “Hey girl,” Riggs said, with raised brows. “Thirsty?”

  “I had an episode today.”

  “What kind of episode?”

  “A flashback.”

  “Afghanistan?”

  “Yeah.”

  Riggs set her cappuccino, on the table and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I was up on Gin Lin Trail.”

  “Panetta said you were there, but I’m surprised you would venture up the trail.” She asked, “What in the world possessed you to go into the woods?”

  “My witnesses. It was do or die; otherwise I wouldn’t have done it. I was halfway up the trail when it hit.”

  “Are you all right now?”

  “I don’t know.” She bottomed the rest of the wine, eager to douse the fire burning in the pit of her stomach, embers of unease. “I’ve been a wreck all day. Holding it together like a junkie.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Honestly, Katie. I don’t want to remember. I never told you this because I felt … I don’t know … weak, but I still have John’s last text message on my phone. Do you know what it says?”

  Riggs shook her head.

  “It says: Meet you in the lobby.” She felt tears prick her eyes and quickly blinked. She took a deep breath and blew it out. “I’ve read it every day since his death. Until today I was waiting safely in the lobby. I liked it there.”

  “You told me that’s all you could remember. I assumed it was because you cracked your head on that rock. So you purposely suppressed the memory?”

  Whit nodded. “Probably. Cowardly, huh?”

  “No. Just human. I’m sorry, Whit.”

  “Every time I think about the memory, I just feel sick.”

  “Grief is a battle you can’t run from.” Riggs sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “You’re not the only one with secrets. I never told anyone, but my near-death experience with cancer sent me into a tailspin. My fear of death was starting to get the better of me. I was obsessing. Losing my edge out there in the field. So I figured the best way to tackle it was head on. That’s why I transferred from the violent crime division to the ME’s office. Don’t let fear keep you from processing your grief.”

  Noting the firearm and badge attached to her belt, she was reminded that Katie could relate to her better than most. They’d both lived their lives on the front lines. She looked into Riggs’s eyes and knew she understood, and returned a grateful smile. “You’re a wise old soul.”

  Riggs smiled back. “That’s what they call me. Can you talk about the flashback?”

  With a deep breath, Whit found the courage to relive the disturbing scene and share it with Riggs.

  All the while, the visual clarity, so perfectly real.

  No time to think, just a mindless dash into the woods. Stark sunlight piercing the trees broke through the shadows to the forest floor, illuminating the leaves, pale lime and speckled with dark green. Seconds before the air-shattering crack of the gun, the summer sound of a honeybee. She swirled around, coming to a halting stop by grabbing a tree branch. John’s blue eyes, wide with fear, seemed to stare into her soul. The spray, dark droplets exploding into the sunlight like rubies tossed into the air. His whole body jerked upward and collapsed with a cloud of dust.

  Dry mouthed, Whit swallowed. “Before now, I only had the information that the medic told me on the chopper, and the doctor’s brief summary of my injuries. All the personal, Technicolor images were apparently buried somewhere in my mind.”

  “I can understand why. It sounds brutal. I don’t know what I’d do if I witnessed Richard being shot. Denial is a natural part of healing, but you can’t stay there.”

  Whit polished off the wine in her glass, trying to hide the tremor in her hand. “I know that’s true, but today, seeing John’s face after the bullet tore through his head—it left me numb at first. He didn’t die immediately, as I had thought. He called my name. Made eye contact with me when I turned around. His face full of shock, his mouth dropped open, eyes wide with fear. I can’t get that image out of my mind.”

  Katie nodded. “Murder is life smothered midsentence. John’s life was not fully lived out, and neither was yours. I’m sorry. The reality is you have to make a new life without him for your sake and the girls.”

  “I don’t know how I can learn to live with the guilt. That I pressured him into risking his life.”

  “To be honest, from what you described, it doesn’t sound like John ever intended to make it out alive. By shoving you in front of him, he was basically acknowledging what you had already said. There was no hope of surviving if you stayed with your captors. The odds of making a run for it weren’t great either, so he chose to sacrifice himself to give you a head start. Otherwise he would have pulled you along behind him, but he didn’t.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” Whit tried to remember every detail of their twenty-second sprint into the woods. Tears suddenly filled her eyes. “For me to be so far ahead of him, he must have stopped.”

  Riggs nodded and handed her a tissue. “I think he meant to save your life. Perhaps he hoped they wouldn’t shoot him if he stopped and bargained for your life.”

  She wiped the tears away. “I’m not sure what to think.”

  Taking a moment to absorb the conversation, Whit leaned back into the curve of the chair, her pulse slowing as the wine soothed frayed nerves. But the bloody images kept sifting through her thoughts. Overwhelmed with the day’s events and understanding that she might never find the answers, she searched for a diversion, and focused on Riggs’s new tattoo. “What’s this?”

  Riggs extended her slender wrist. “A reminder that I’m not alone.”

  Whit examined the cross. “If I thought a tattoo of a cross would banish my demons to hell, I’d do a full-body tattoo, like the Koita women in Papua New Guinea.”

  Riggs laughed, but her gaze was sympathetic.

  “Although, I have to admit,” Whit continued. “I’ve said more than a few prayers since John’s death. Especially for Emma and Jordan. I didn’t mean to make light of your tattoo.”

  “Don’t worry about it. A little humor is the best medicine.”

  For the first time Whit noticed soft jazz playing in the background. Alcohol buzzed through her brain, lulling her into a fog. She blinked, recalling too late how empty her stomach had been.

  Riggs smirked knowingly. “The wine knocked you for a wallop, didn’t it?”

  “Am I lisping? Drooling?”

  She laughed. “No. I just know you.”

  “Well … no worries, Detective Riggs. I might be two steps away from a straitjacket, but my journalism skills are still golden.”

  With a shake of her head, she asked, “Okay Lois Lane, what’s the scoop?”

  Whit sat forward, more than ready to push the afternoon from her mind and get back to work. The story had always been her hiding place. As long as she was working the news, gathering the facts, telling the story, she had purpose and meaning, and sometimes she could escape the realities of her own life.

  “You’re gonna love this. It’s a description of the killer’s car.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Credible witness?”

  Affronted, Whit said, “Of course. For their age. Now, you tell me. Who is the Applegate victim? A local hotshot?”

  “Yes and no.” Riggs frowned, the fringes of her blonde bangs hitting her eyelashes. “What do you mean … for their age?”

  “They’re minors, but very astute minors. So, was she a local celebrity?”

  “Local and famous. But I’m not so sure about the minors. How old?”

  “Almost teenagers. Old enough.”

  Riggs tilted her chin up as she wrestled with her thoughts. Nodding, she came to a decision. “Every minute counts during the first twenty-four hours of the investigation. We need that lead. Espec
ially in this high-profile case. And you’ll release the information only a few hours before the press conference anyway. I’ll trade, though I still have reservations.”

  Relieved, Whit said, “I think it’s a solid lead. The kids showed me where they witnessed the guy digging the grave. We were on a rock above the trail. I had a bird’s-eye view of you and the other investigators today. Here.” She leaned forward and showed the pictures on her iPhone taken from the hideout earlier today. “I wouldn’t do anything that might jeopardize your job, you must know that.”

  “I don’t think you would. But as you and I know, life sometimes takes curves not of our choosing.”

  “I’m betting Stu will want to post it on our online edition almost immediately, before the hard copy hits the streets,” Whit warned.

  “We need that lead. Hours count, and I don’t expect you to just hand it to me. No self-respecting journalist would.”

  “Thanks, Katie.”

  “All right, McKenna. God is smiling down on you with this one. Are you ready?”

  Whit gathered her pen and pad. “Who is it?”

  “We confirmed the vic as Niki Francis … the actress.”

  “Niki Francis? I can’t believe it.” Never in a million years had she envisioned a person of such media magnitude. “You mean the Niki Francis? Good God!”

  “Unfortunately, it’s true. Her housekeeper filed a formal missing persons report yesterday. We’ve confirmed her ID through dental records.”

  “I’m … I’m shocked!” Images of the actress flashed in Whit’s mind: vibrant and beautiful, sometimes gutsy and strong, at other times playful or deeply dramatic. Her flirtatious smile while accepting the Oscar last year, and the huge donation she’d recently made to the Feed the Hunger Foundation. The magnitude of this story was not lost on her. “There hasn’t been a death with that kind of star power since Whitney Houston.”

  “I know. It’s hard to believe. She was larger than life. I’ve been trying to wrap my brain around it all day.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Preliminary reports are inconclusive. We’ll know more when we get the tox report in a couple of weeks. But whatever the cause of death, someone dumped her there in that hot, dank hole with crusty river rocks and bugs.” She shuddered. “The kind of death I have nightmares about.”