Prime Suspect: A Psychological Thriller With A Twist You Won’t See Coming

by Cole Baxter

  They thought I was dead. Had I been dead? Or did Devon pay them off to say I was dead, just like he paid off anyone he didn't want to hear from again?

  Was I a ghost?

  I was quite sure that I wasn't a ghost because I felt all the things that a human would feel from being unconscious or even dead for a short period. My mouth felt incredibly dry and my throat was very sore. I tried to speak, but it just came out raspy. I tried to move, but I couldn't do anything more than sit up before a huge wave of dizziness swept over me. My hands and feet were so cold that they hurt, and I felt like I could eat an entire house at this point.

  I pulled the sheet up toward me for modesty and tried to think of what to do.

  There were lots of other cold metal tables around me covered in white sheets. The wall beside me was clearly full of bodies as well, with the cold metal doors closed.

  I was terrified. I hated dead bodies. I even hated dead birds. I couldn't stand the idea that something would be gone forever. I needed to get out of here, but I couldn't.

  What would happen if I just walked out of the morgue?

  Everyone would react in shock. The doctors who had declared me dead would probably get in trouble. But at the end of the day, the worst thing that would happen was that Devon would come back to the hospital and make me go home with him.

  Then, I would be dead for real, no doubt.

  I shivered and tried to wrap the sheet more tightly around me for comfort. I had to make a plan. I couldn't just leave. Besides, I was naked. I wasn't going to get too far.

  A terrifying thought crossed my mind. I wondered if any of the other corpses were still wearing their hospital gowns.

  That was the worst thing I had ever thought of in my life. And yet, that was what Devon had reduced me to thinking. This was the length I was willing to go to if I could get away from him.

  I heard footsteps in the hallway and I lay back down. I didn't know who was coming toward the door, but I couldn't risk the off chance that it could be Devon.

  That would be just like him, to check that I was really dead.

  The door swung open and I heard someone whistling. I knew it wasn't Devon then because I knew that he couldn't whistle. I peeked through my eyelids and saw that it was a big, bear-like man with a short afro. He was wearing a lab coat and his eyes were large and brown.

  Dr. Mario Grace, said his name tag. That was ironic. I wondered if he would be my saving grace.

  I had heard so many horror stories about corpses just waking up in the morgue. I hoped this man had it happen before, and I hoped he didn't have any heart conditions. I had to ask someone for help or they would likely cremate me before they could figure out that I was alive.

  "Hello," I said softly.

  It was exactly as I feared. He screamed in a pitch that did not sound like anything I expected to come from a man of his size. He turned around with wide eyes and stared at me before turning pale and stumbling back.

  "I'm not dead." I tried to sit up rapidly to show him that I wasn't. "I'm not dead. There must be some mistake. I'm sorry. I didn't know how else to tell you."

  There was a long pause. To be fair, I didn't blame him for going quiet. After all, what did you say to a corpse you were about to do an autopsy on?

  "You're not . . . dead?" he asked at last.

  "No," I replied, and tears came to my eyes. "But I wish I were."

  His face softened and he regained some of the color in his face. He stayed where he was, but he released his death grip on the table behind him.

  "What is your name, dear?" he asked.

  "Laurie Whitman," I managed. "I . . . they thought I was dead."

  "Laurie," he said. He reached out and pulled the chart off the end of my table and then flipped it open. As he read it, his face softened even more. "Oh, Laurie," he said at last. "It seems like you have quite the tale to tell."

  "I'm really not dead," I said. "I remember coming in. I couldn't breathe. I . . ."

  "It says that you were mugged," he said. "And strangled. What must have happened is that you medically died for a few minutes when your throat closed, and you didn't respond to any revival methods. It seems they called the time of death a little too early. They should have kept trying. Your throat opened and the air came back . . . and here you are."

  "I remember . . . some of that," I said. "It's all very hazy."

  "Yes," he said in a kind, soft voice. "It would be very hazy if you were deprived of oxygen that long. You poor thing, it must have been . . . terrifying."

  "It was a relief," I said. I was flooded with all sorts of emotion that I didn't know how to identify. Was I scared? Was I confused? Was I happy? Nothing seemed to be making any sense.

  "Relief?" he asked.

  "Yes," I said. "Because . . . the pain would stop."

  "Do you have any . . ." He paused. "Do you have any mental health issues? Did you do this to yourself, I mean?"

  "No," I said. There was something about this man who was like a truth serum. Everything was just so lovely about him. He was so kind, and the look he was giving me was more compassionate than I had seen in years. "No. I didn't. But I wasn't mugged, either."

  "I suspected you weren't," he said. "Can you tell me what happened?"

  "My husband did this to me," I said.

  He nodded like he expected it. "I see," he said. "On purpose?"

  "Sort of," I replied. "He has been violent during sex for years."

  "Oh," he said and looked down at my chart again. "This is not the first time that you've been here."

  "Not the first time that I've been in the hospital for this," I said. "But it's the first time I've . . . ended up down here."

  "Well, I'm sorry to say that it was only a matter of time," he said softly. "I see so many cases like this. So many poor girls . . . my heart breaks for them. But you are here. You're alive."

  "I am," I said.

  "And I assume your husband is not somebody you'd like me to call to share this good news?" he said.

  My eyes widened and I shook my head. "No," I said. "No, please don't tell him."

  "I won't," he said. "Not if you say he’s the one who caused this. But there must be someone you want me to call? Someone who can come and help you? You've been through a great deal of trauma and—"

  "There's no one," I said as the hot tears fell down my face. "My husband cut me off from all my friends and family long ago. There's no one you can call now. There's no one to even remember me, I bet."

  He took a deep breath.

  "Well, I'm not going to let you be alone," he said. "What can you do to help?"

  "You could . . ." A plan formulated in my head. Before I even fully realized it, I was speaking. "You could just not tell anyone?" I suggested. "And help me get out of here?"

  "What?" He looked shocked. "I have to tell—"

  "No, you don't," I said, pleading with him. "Look, if you tell someone, Devon will find out. It doesn't matter whether you tell someone on the other side of the country. He has ways of knowing things. And once he finds out, he will come after me again."

  "Laurie, there are ways of keeping you safe," he said.

  "No." I shook my head. "No, I don't want to deal with anyone. I just want to get out of here and leave Laurie Whitman dead on the table. I want a new name and a new life and to forget everything."

  "You can't just walk out of here," he said. "For one, you'd probably be a bit unsteady on your feet. That much trauma to the body would take a long time to heal. You'd need to be under a doctor's care."

  My eyes flickered to his name tag.

  "Aren't you a doctor?" I asked.

  "I . . . no," he said. "I mean, yes, I am, but I can't do that."

  "Yes, you can," I pleaded desperately. "You said you wanted to help me. This is the best way to help me. Please. Please get me out of this life."

  Our eyes locked across the table. We were surrounded by people who had already lost their lives, and I was sure that helped motivate him
to save mine.

  "Please," I begged.

  He sighed. "All right," he said. "All right, I think I can help you. But it can't be forever. When you are recovered, you need to tell people where you are. There is someone out there who is missing you and will want to know who you are. I'm sure of it."

  "I don't think so," I said with my head hung low. "There is no one anymore."

  "Why don't we get you through all of this?" he asked me. "And then we'll figure out the next step."

  "That sounds good," I said, even though I knew it was just prolonging the inevitable. "But how are we going to get out of here? It's not like I can just walk out of here."

  "No," he said, "but the van is coming soon."

  "The van?" I asked.

  "The coroner's van," he said. "To take the bodies to a funeral home."

  "Right." That didn't even occur to me. I felt like I was in shock, and nothing made sense. "So, you don't . . . cremate them here?"

  "No, love," he said. "I'm really just the caretaker, and I sometimes do the autopsies to make sure that everything is as it seems."

  "And make sure they really are dead?"

  "And make sure they really are dead," he said. "The van can take you wherever I tell them to take you."

  "But then how will I get out on the other side?" I asked.

  "I'll be there waiting," he said. "Don't worry. I'll arrange for you to go somewhere where it's not strange that I accompany the bodies."

  "All right," I said. "I will have to sort out somewhere to stay and . . ."

  "Don't worry about somewhere to stay," he said. "I can take care of all that. In fact, you can stay with my wife and me."

  My eyes widened in shock.

  "I can?" I asked.

  He nodded. "Of course," he replied. "You will need medical supervision, after all."

  My eyes filled with tears again.

  "That is so kind of you," I said. "Thank you so much."

  "It's absolutely no trouble," he replied. "You poor thing."

  "Why are you being so kind to me?" I asked.

  He smiled. "You haven't seen a lot of kindness in this world, have you?"

  "No," I said softly. "Not lately."

  "Then consider that the reason," he replied. "I want to be able to help more people, so I'll start with you. You'll like my wife. Her name is Belinda, and she's a fighter, just like you."

  "Thank you so much," I said as I pulled the sheet closer around me. It seemed that the temperature was dropping every second we were in this room.

  "Why don't we see about getting you some clothes?" he asked with a smile.

  I nodded. "Warm clothes," I said.

  He chuckled. "Yes, I'll see what we can do," he said and headed out of the room.

  I took a deep breath and put my head in my hands.

  It would be a long road ahead. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like I could relax. I felt like maybe, just maybe, there was hope.

  Chapter Five

  Blake

  “So, she's written some . . . books about her experiences?" I asked Sam. I really didn't like to come into the office more than I had to, so I was trying to get all the details out of him now. "And she's doing some motivational speaking?"

  "Yeah," he said. "She’s gaining quite the following of women who were in that same situation at some point. A lot of women are crediting her with being the reason that they escaped and are now free."

  "I mean, that's pretty good," I said. "Good for her. But the question is, where was she for three months?"

  "She won't say," he said. "She claims she doesn't want her former husband's parents coming after the people who hid her."

  "Why would they go after them?" I asked. "If anything, she should be afraid of them coming after her."

  "Apparently, she has her reasons." Sam shrugged. "But the fact that she won't say who it is, that's sort of sketchy."

  "I agree," I said. "So, his parents are still alive. What are they like?"

  "The father is described as, 'as bad as he was'," Sam said.

  I cocked my eyebrow.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked. "That he's an abuser? That he taught his son how to choke women out during sex?"

  "I don't know." Sam held up his hands. "I really don't know. All I know is what I have been told and what little digging I did on my own showed me."

  "Well, there's no way she'll be able to hide who sheltered her," I said as I looked down on my notes. "I'll take care of that in like two seconds."

  “Okayay," he said. "That'll be a good missing piece of the puzzle. But how long do you think it’ll take you to uncover the whole truth?"

  "I really don't know," I said. "It depends how screwed up this whole situation is, frankly. Do you know anything else?"

  "Laurie's talked about the fact that she had a hospital stay in another county," he said, "which I assumed meant she needed additional medical care after she faked her own death."

  “Okayay, that could be interesting," I said as I scribbled. "And what about his parents? Aside from apparently being as bad as he is, what else do you know?"

  "I know that they’re very wealthy and they’re very powerful players."

  "In what game?"

  "In all games," he said as he leaned in. "So be careful, all right, Blake?"

  "I'm always careful," I said, even though I knew that I was the furthest thing from careful. I knew what Sam wanted. He wanted to keep me safe, and he had been more protective of me since Lola died.

  There was nothing that could actually keep me safe, though. There was nothing that could make me want to live. I was just breathing in and breathing out every day, and if one day, someone walked up to me and had a gun to my head and asked for either my wallet or my life, I would probably give them my life.

  Sam knew that, and that was probably why he was acting so protectively. I knew that I gave off that vibe with my grief, and I knew that even though I was getting better, it still hung heavily in there.

  "I know you are," he said, even though we both knew it was a lie.

  "Do you know anything else?" I asked, and he shook his head.

  "As usual, you’re welcome to go through the evidence rooms and all. I won't tell anyone."

  "Oh, thank you because, you know, I didn't used to practically live here."

  "You don't live here anymore," he reminded me. "So remember that it's a favor. That money could set you up for a long time, Blake, if you’re smart with it."

  "I don't like how you imply that I'm not going to be smart with it," I said. "What do you think is going to happen, Sam, if I get that money? I'm going to go home and shoot myself up or something?"

  "No," he said. "I just want you to know that there are still people who care about your hanging around."

  I rolled my eyes. "I know, I get it. Don't worry, I'll be fine in this case."

  "Let's assume it's just a medium level of screwed up," he said. "What can I tell the clients?"

  "I don't know." I shrugged. "A few weeks? Why won't you tell me who they are?"

  "Because it doesn't matter," he said. "I want your mind completely free for the case and unbiased toward one side or another."

  "Interesting," I said and made a note. He raised an eyebrow.

  "That doesn't mean the client is on one side or another," he said.

  I smirked.

  "Of course, it doesn't." I could tell he was annoyed with himself for giving something away.

  "Blake!" he cried, but I just shook my head.

  "It's fine. Anything else you don't think you should tell me?"

  This bookish redhead suddenly showed up. "Sorry, Sam, we have that conference call in five minutes."

  I would have assumed that she was just a newbie on the force until I saw the way Sam looked up at her and nodded. It wasn't a romantic nod. It wasn't a nod of professionalism or a nod of annoyance that we had been interrupted.

  It was a nod with so many thoughts behind it. It was a nod that said wait
until you hear what I have to tell you later.

  It was a nod of partnership.

  Partnership. He had gotten a new partner.

  I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe what I was staring at.

  The young woman went away, and Sam turned back to me. I was sure that my jaw must have been hanging on the floor because he sighed.

  "Blake . . ." he said.

  "Really?" I asked him in shock. "Seriously?"

  "Blake, it's not that big of a deal."

  "It's not that big of a deal? How could it not be that big of a deal?"

  "Because . . . it's not," he said. "Jared has been gone for a long time."

  "So?" I asked. "I thought you were Mr. Solitary. I thought you were Mr. Independent. Who is she?"

  "Her name is Anna," he said. "She's not a rookie. She transferred in from another department when her mother moved here and then got sick. She left her partner back there and we decided to team up."

  "Oh, yeah, because everyone knows it's just that easy," I said. "To just team up and act like you never worked with someone else."

  "Blake, don't be a jerk," he said. "Jared would have wanted me to work with someone again. He would have thought it was goddamn dangerous to go out there alone. And he's right."

  "Sure," I said. "Whatever. Or maybe Jared would have thought that the career you built for yourselves was pointless."

  "Oh, my God," he said and put his head in his hands. "Don't make this harder than it actually is."

  "Don't make it harder?" I asked. "Don't point out that the person you trained with, learned to be a cop with when you were just a rookie, had an untimely death and you just took up with someone else?"

  "Jesus, Blake," he whispered. "It's not like we were sleeping together. And it's not like I'm sleeping with Anna."

  My eyes widened. I didn't know if Sam knew I had been sleeping with Lola. I didn't know if he knew we were more than just work colleagues. I suspected some people probably whispered about us because we were so inseparable, but there were plenty of partners who did that.

  "Whatever," I said and got up. I gathered up the file folder and he sighed.

  "Blake, don't be like that," he said. "There's a few other things that I want to show you."