by Nikki Sex
Life was good.
Chapter 39.
“The day I can't do my job drunk, is the day I hang up my badge and gun.”
― The Drew Carey show
~~~
Detective Bronowski
The forensic and tech departments were both on the second floor of the station. Roman meandered through the area until he was directed to a stocky, nerdy-looking guy with a bad complexion highlighted by his thick red hair. Old and new computers were on shelves, and on tables, and on the floor. The geek guy was completely surrounded.
“I’m Detective Bronowski, are you Edgar Gates?” Roman asked.
Gates stood up and held out his hand, “Yes, I am.”
Roman shook his hand, which felt pudgy, sweaty and sticky. A half-empty box of chocolates and candy bar wrappers rested near Edgar’s workstation, which to Roman’s mind, explained everything.
“What have you found?” Roman asked.
The techie squirmed uncomfortably and gestured toward the computer he was working on. “Check it out.”
Roman took a look, initially uncertain as to what he was seeing. It took a moment for his mind to register the unexpected and unwelcome sight.
What the hell? Pictures of naked little boys… and adults. Shocked and appalled, Roman jumped back as if burnt.
“Fuck!” he cursed loudly.
It’s impossible to unsee something, but Roman wished he could. He had a strong urge to run home, lock up his kids and take a long, scalding hot shower.
The visit to André Chevalier made complete sense now. Chevalier dealt with PTSD and ‘sexual matters.’ Clearly, Grant Wilkinson—war hero, or not—was a depraved pedophile. What a sicko! Had he been going to Chevalier in an attempt to alter his addictive deviance?
Maybe Wilkinson’s senior found out or caught him in the act? Or perhaps his father threatened to tell, and therefore he had to be silenced. This changed everything, including providing motive.
“How many pictures like that are there?” Roman asked.
“Hundreds. I haven’t counted,” Edgar replied.
“Dirty fucking pervert!” Roman muttered. “That bastard’s going down!”
“Sir?” Edgar asked tentatively. “Are you referring to the defendant, Grant Wilkinson?”
“Who else?” Roman said, surprised by the question. “Why? Or do you think this filth was downloaded by someone else? Am I missing something?”
“Sir, the last time these photos were accessed was over three years ago,” Edgar said. “That was before the victim was murdered. This computer was one of thirty-eight technical items sent to us to be examined for this case. It’s the oldest and had cobwebs on it, which is why I left it for last. It apparently came from the shooting range. I suppose whomever owned it, must’ve stored it there.”
“Are you absolutely certain that this filth was not downloaded by Grant Wilkinson?”
“If it was him, why hasn’t it been accessed for so long?”
Roman frowned. “Maybe he was trying to quit the habit and only gave it up three years ago. These photos were in his possession and possession is nine-tenths of the law. I’m inclined to think he’s a pervert.”
Edgar Gates flinched, appearing rather ill and even more awkward and uncomfortable—if that was even possible.
“What?” Roman demanded irritably.
“Sir,” Edgar said. “I believe it may be best for you to look at this picture.” He put the cursor on one small photo, enlarging it so that it covered the whole screen. “I think…” He took a deep breath and licked his lips. “If you take a closer look, you might recognize this child.”
Disgusted, Roman shook his head. “Jesus H. Christ! The things I have to do in this job,” he bit out angrily under his breath.
Someone was going to have to scrutinize every picture and every face. With luck, an entire pedophile ring could be taken down.
For once Roman was extremely glad he worked in homicide. That onerous task was a job for the ‘Child Abuse Squad.’
Taking a deep breath in through his nose, Roman stretched the muscles of his back and neck. Bracing himself, he then concentrated his attention on the features of the victim. It was a young boy, perhaps seven years of age. His face could be seen clearly.
Roman felt as if the world suddenly tilted on its axis. Stunned and hastily averting his gaze as if his eyes had been seared, he backed away.
“Shit!” he swore in a feral snarl, his eyes focused blankly on the linoleum flooring.
“Yes, sir,” Edgar agreed fervently. “You can say that again.”
Roman’s eyes lifted to focus on Edgar. “Print me a copy of the image of Wilkinson and his father, and give me a memory stick of everything on that hard drive.”
“All right.”
“This is highly confidential. Don’t talk about this or make copies for anyone else, right?”
“Not a problem.”
“Did you recognize any other people in any of these pictures?” he asked, but Roman’s mind was otherwise engaged. Thanks to this new evidence, he could obtain a subpoena for Chevalier’s records. They would very likely show motive, yet the DA was not going to like it. What an ugly case.
How would I feel if my father had done that shit to me? he thought. Would I want to kill him? And the obvious reply. Of course, I would.
“No.” Edgar said, looking away.
Astute, observant and intuitive, Roman Bronowski was a good detective. Usually he noticed when people were untruthful. However, because Roman was preoccupied, his mind racing a million miles a minute, he missed Edger’s obvious tells.
Edgar Gates was lying. Of the hundreds of photos on that hard drive, Grant Wilkinson’s face was not the only one he recognized.
Chapter 40.
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
― Maya Angelou
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
Renata and I lean against the headboard, sitting side-by-side. I adore that slight dusting of freckles over her thin, straight nose. With her full, kissable lips, high cheekbones and delicate, feminine features, all set in her heart-shaped face—the woman is a stunner.
Yet, it’s so much more than her beauty that draws me. Renata’s presence seeps into my soul like some kind of magic. So cheerful and kind despite everything that’s happened to her, she inspires me to work toward vanquishing my demons. I want to be better, not only for myself, but for her.
I still can’t believe Renata wants me.
An inner voice whispers caustic thoughts. This can’t last. I’m too damaged to be with others. I deserve to be alone.
It’s a relief she guessed the truth about my father. Thanks to police interference, I wouldn’t have been able to tell her. I still haven't disclosed details, but that shouldn't be as difficult as it was when I told André. I'm sure Renata has a good idea of what happened already. Sadly, my story isn't unique.
Now, I’ve committed to revealing a more dangerous secret, one I vowed to take to my grave.
“So, you want to know how I got these scars?” I ask her.
“Yes!” she says, turning toward me. “Are you going to tell me now? Is that why you look so serious?”
“Darlin,’ this is a very big secret, a national security kind of secret,” I reply. “Considering all the stuff you already know, we’re both in hot water as it is.” I throw up my hands. “So, what the hell, you may as well know the rest.”
Renata laughs.
God, the sweet sound of her laughter chases every doubt and shadow away. I feel like Superman around her—well, except when it comes to sex.
“I don’t want to get you into trouble or anything,” Renata says. “Maybe you shouldn’t tell me. What you’ve just said is enough, I can fill in the blanks.”
I meet her worried gaze with a serious expression of my own. “You keep asking about my scars—but that’s not the only reason I’m telling you. Now that you know this thing about my dad, you
may as well know my other big sin.
Renata’s eyebrows shoot up. “Sin?”
“Sin,” I confirm with a firm nod. “Until I met André, as you know, my life was rolling out of control in one direction—all downhill and straight to hell. I went through some real shit, but this is something I did as a soldier.”
I shake my head. “It was the last straw, like the cherry on top of a life-long cake made of crap. I came away from that mission more confused about my life, the things I’ve done and who I am than ever before—which is quite a statement given my history.”
Her gaze softens. “If that’s the case, now I really want to know. It sounds as though you need to unburden yourself.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” I reach for my phone and start punching in numbers.
“What are you doing?”
“Ordering a pizza,” I explain. “I’m going to be hungry after this.”
Renata laughs. “Be prepared, eh? I had you pegged as a Boy Scout. I’ll have a pizza supreme with everything on it.”
I smile. “Mm, a girl after my own heart,” I say, and call in the order. “They say it’ll be here in about thirty minutes.”
“Perfect,” Renata says.
I clench my jaw for a moment, bracing myself to finally tell the untellable. “You know I was a sniper in the Army?”
“Yes,” she says.
“When a sniper is on active duty, he may be loaned out to other government agencies. He’ll get his orders from his commanding officer, who will have received his orders from the Joint Chiefs, who gets their orders from the Secretary of Defense at the request of the CIA. In many instances the sniper doesn’t know he’s being used as a CIA operative.”
“OK,” she says doubtfully, following my story.
I smile and continue, “So, at this one point in my military career, my sniper services were used by the CIA in an undercover operation. I was perfect for this particular assignment because I can pass as Hispanic and I’m fluent in Spanish. My spotter and I were flown down to Michoacán, one of the largest ports in Mexico, for the job.”
Renata watches me closely while chewing on yet another fingernail. I know just how she feels. My hands are shaking so I put them against my thighs. I could use a couple of fingers of Maker’s Mark bourbon to settle the rawness of my nerves.
“Michoacán is located between two large mountain ranges,” I tell her. “It’s a beautiful place, with a tropical climate. Once a year, the forests of Michoacán welcome millions of monarch butterflies who fly down from the cold Canadian mountains.”
“Really?” she asks. “I’d love to see that.”
I make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “As lovely as the place is, if you go, I won’t be coming with you. If I did, I might not get back home again.”
“Oh,” she says, as understanding dawns in her eyes. “I see.”
I nod. “The Target of my mission was the head of a drug cartel called Los Caballeros Templarios—‘The Knights Templar.’ My spotter and I spent five days keeping this guy under surveillance, scrutinizing his every move.
“The more time I spent observing this man—” I gesture with my open palm, “—The Target, the more I liked him. He spent quality time with his wife and with his three children—the oldest a boy, around sixteen. The Target was teaching his son how to jump his horse; he was an excellent horseman and a patient teacher. My spotter and I were hidden, watching and waiting for the ideal moment in which to take the shot.
“When you study a target, day after day, you get to know them, to some degree. I felt conflicted by my orders to terminate him, partially because I was already so conflicted about father-son relationships.
“The Target wasn’t a predator, I’d have known if he was. The more I studied him, the more I found myself becoming envious of that teenage boy. I couldn’t help but admire his father. There was tremendous evidence of love in that family; between the parents and the children and between the husband and the wife.
“However, I was on mission and I know how to push unwanted emotions away. When the time came to kill him, I didn’t hesitate,” I say quietly, not looking at her. My mind returns to that moment, remembering.
It was early evening and the Target and his wife were in the bedroom. The woman was sitting a safe fifteen feet away from him, brushing her long, dark hair. The Target was looking out the window. I was counting my heartbeats and taking slow, measured breaths. I heard the sound of my weapon as it fired, felt the kick of its instant recoil, the smell of the gunpowder. I felt a detached, clinical pleasure of achieving two perfect shots fired in quick succession: heart and head.
I ignored the wife’s reaction, as I ignored the estate lights turning on and illuminating the entire forest.
I return from my reverie and clear my throat. “After completing our mission, we ran to the Jeep. Luis was behind the wheel when our Jeep was suddenly hit by a shoulder-fired missile. There was nothing left of him at all—it was a direct hit. That’s how I got my scars, from burning fuel and flying debris. Somehow, I managed to survive in the jungle for several days, while my enemies and their dogs searched for me.”
“You could have been killed,” Renata whispers, her face very pale.
“Yes,” I agree. “I certainly came close.”
Eyes glistening, she reaches out and takes my hand between both of hers, holding it tightly. Shit. Is she about to cry? Her tears shred me.
I’ve had so little experience with women and even less with their tears. My mother was unemotional and my sister has always been an angry screamer. Renata’s cried a few times, but I always seem to find a way to comfort her.
I squeeze her palm. “I’m here,” I reassure her. “I’m OK.”
“Thank God,” she breathes softly.
Instinctively, I press her hand to my lips and release it. It surprises her, this chaste attempt at comfort from the man who doesn’t kiss.
Renata smiles at me.
Briefly, I return her smile. I find myself absently rubbing the scars on my neck and face—the wounds I received that night.
“Eventually, I was found by a priest, taken to his church and nursed back to health by him.” I explain. “At least healthy enough to travel and make my way back across the border.”
My mind returns to Padre Sigala, and to me, lying on a cot in the basement of his church. The light from a single candle hurt my sensitive eye—the one I could still see out of, in any case. The priest, a cautious and patient man, cared for me by himself.
“I’ve never been acquainted with a priest,” I say. “People bandy around terms like ‘unconditional love’ and ‘non-judgmental’ but Padre Sigala was the real deal.”
“What do you mean?”
I worry my lower lip between my teeth, while I try to find words to describe him. “He was slim, about my height and perhaps forty years old,” I say. “His manner was unimposing. If you passed him on the street, you wouldn’t notice him. It was his eyes I found so compelling.”
Wisdom, compassion and serenity shined out of those dark, brown eyes.
“He was spiritual, I guess.” I explain. “I suppose he was trying to emulate Jesus in his attributes and attitudes. Not many people can pull that off.”
“Certainly no one I know,” she says.
I slant her a wry smile. “I still send money to his little church—through an untraceable account, of course.”
She grins. “Of course.”
“Anyway, throughout the long nights I was with him, Padre Sigala and I had many philosophical discussions. He never asked for my name, and I didn’t reveal personal details. Together, we mainly talked about God and the meaning of life.”
My mouth is dry as dust so, I jump up and snag a Coke out from the small hotel refrigerator. “You want anything? I ask Renata.
“A 7-Up or Sprite, thank you,” she says, in her soft voice.
I hand her a can of 7-Up. Desperately thirsty, I open my soda and take a long drink. My craving fo
r alcohol becomes particularly intense in the face of disturbing memories.
I take a deep, fortifying breath. “Due to the circumstances, as you can appreciate, I spent many, many hours alone and in agony. My face was hideous. I was badly injured and very near death. The man who had been my spotter for two years and who was the closest person I had to a friend, was dead. My military career was over. There was absolutely nothing I wanted to go home to—and nothing to live for either.”
I swallow hard and confide a humiliating truth. “I could barely eat anyway, so I decided to stop drinking and to just let myself die.”
I hear Renata’s sharp intake of breath, then she takes my hand again. “I’m so sorry.”
“I was pretty sorry back then, too,” I quip, but neither one of us laughs.
After a beat, I say “That was my breaking point, that moment when death seemed an easy option. It wouldn’t take much to ‘shuffle off the mortal coil.’ The Padre was great—only you or André would have been better company.” I smile at Renata and her eyes light up.
“Still, Padre Sigala was experienced in dealing with despair. The stubborn man badgered me constantly, giving me reasons to keep living.”
Renata squeezes my palm in encouragement. “Like what?”
“He argued that at the very least, suicide was bad manners,” I say with a grin, squeezing her hand in return. “The good Lord gave me life, so I shouldn’t throw His gift away.”
“So utterly de rigueur,” she chuckles. “That definitely sounds like something André would say!”
I laugh. “True,” I agree. “To André’s mind, there’s never a good excuse to be impolite.”
We grin at each other.
Grant licks his lips and averts his gaze. “There was a moment when I lay sick and half-dead in the basement of that church. For the first time in my life, I honestly prayed.
“You were brought up as a Christian and never prayed before?” Renata asks. “I thought you went to church every Sunday.”
