There Once Was A Child

by Debra Webb

  I consider Walt’s comments about the scene where we’re headed. No body but lots of blood. “Could be the vic is in the ER after cutting him or herself with a knife.” Seems a reasonable possibility. “If the blood’s in the kitchen, might be nothing but an accident during meal prep.”

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  “We will indeed.” Nothing takes your mind off your personal problems like a potential homicide.

  By the time we reach Linden Green Drive the distant ache in my skull has become a throb on the left side of my brain and black spots float in front of my eyes. Not a good sign. The shit storm is coming. My hope is that I can delay the inevitable until we get through this scene.

  One side of the yard in front of the gray duplex is cordoned off by yellow crime scene tape that ninety-degrees at the far end and continues on around to the backdoor, I estimate. A police cruiser sits in the driveway behind a rusty white Corolla that presumably belongs to the vic. A white van sporting the blue Metro Crime Scene Unit logo is parked on the grass at the edge of the street. Along both sides of the block, curious neighbors have ventured out into their yards to watch the evolving show. Probably the movie of the week around here—a rerun of last year’s classic Death of a Drug Dealer.

  “Nice place,” Walt comments.

  I glance around at the trash in the yard, the old, tattered sofa on the porch of the potential vic’s place of residence. “Yeah.”

  A car sits on blocks in a neighboring yard, various parts have been stripped from the metal carcass. Trash is scattered about and banked against the trees on the opposite side of the street. The power lines sag and the pole nearest the crime scene looks ready to fall over. An empty doghouse sits to the right of the driveway, the bald ground around it suggesting an animal was recently chained there.

  I hate when people chain up dogs.

  We park on the opposite side of the street, next to the tree line. As Walt said, we’ve been here before. Two houses down is where the drug dealer was murdered the last time we were called to this block. Evidently someone new lives there now. A little girl with curly brown hair hides behind her mother’s legs. I wonder if the mother realizes that a man was murdered in the house where she now resides? Definitely not the kind of place where you want to raise a kid, if you have a choice. Not that I know one damned thing about raising kids.

  I exile the thought.

  Officer Sean Little meets us at the yellow perimeter. The starched creases in his inspection-ready uniform make me feel like a dirt bag. My trousers and shirt are clean but they haven’t seen a crease since the last time I bothered with a dry cleaner. Like me, Walt wears his favorite jacket, a navy one that matches his trousers. Unlike me, my partner always wears cowboy boots. Not just any boots either. Lucchese, handmade boots. Over the years he’s become known as the “cowboy detective.” Nashville loves Detective Walter Duncan. Me, I’ll stick with my flat-heeled, rubber-soled ankle boots. You won’t catch me in heels like the detectives on TV or in the movies. Being a cop is rarely glamorous work.

  Officer Little nods a greeting and says, “Crime scene investigators just got here.”

  I don’t have to ask if Walt called the CSI guys. He prefers to get them rolling rather than waiting until he’s on the scene to make the call. Typically we show up about the same time, which works out for everyone. We have a look and they do their thing with no delay in the process.

  “Any of the neighbors see anything?” Walt asks.

  “If anyone did, they’re not talking.”

  I lag behind as we cross the yard and climb the two steps to the front door. Once inside the small living room we drag on gloves. I force my sluggish brain to inventory the space. Battered sofa is the only seating in the room. An ancient box style television is tuned to some morning show, the poor cable connection making the screen all fuzzy. The television sits on a scarred wooden table. Fake wood floor is dark enough in color to hide how dirty it likely is. Popcorn ceiling is a dingy yellow, an unpleasant match to the discolored blind closed tight on the one window in the room.

  The headache is raging now. My vision is starting to blur, damn it. I’ve never had one of these headaches on duty. Why, after all this time, are they back? After years of no migraines I can’t believe another one is happening scarcely forty-eight hours after the last. I close my eyes for a moment and try to slow my plunge toward hell. The dank odor of human filth and the underlying metallic scent of blood have my gut roiling in protest.

  “You okay, Liv?”

  I snap my eyes open and bring my partner’s worried face into focus. “Migraine. I’ll muddle through.”

  “The volume on the TV was turned all the way up when I got here,” Little says. “I turned it down. The other side of the duplex is vacant so no one noticed the racket. The guy who lives here didn’t show up for an appointment with his attorney.”

  He flips to a different page in his field notebook. “One Alexander Cagle. So Cagle called in and asked for a welfare check. Back door was ajar when we arrived. There’s a bedroom with nothing but a mattress on the floor and a small bathroom down the hall. Kitchen’s straight through that doorway.” Little gestures to the cased opening beyond the sofa.

  Walt and I enter the kitchen where a crime scene investigator is doing his thing. A sizeable pattern of blood has coagulated on the faded blue linoleum. There’s a wad of cloth, maybe a washcloth or a hand towel, in the middle of it. No other readily visible signs of a struggle.

  “Obvious forced entry at back door,” Little says. “The perp appears to have encountered the victim at the sink. Since none of the neighbors heard a gunshot and we haven’t found any indication a weapon was discharged in the room, I’m thinking he used a knife.”

  “Could be the perp had a gun,” Walt offers. “If the vic was washing dishes, he may have tried to defend himself with a knife or some other sharp object readily available.” He gestures to the dishes soaking in the cloudy water in the sink. “Perp didn’t want to fire the weapon and risk disturbing the neighbors so they battled it out. Someone was injured.”

  As the two discuss the possible scenarios, their words keep time with the throb in my skull and the events play out in my brain like snatches of some low-budget slasher film showing in a dark, sketchy theatre.

  Walt asks, “You have an ID on the possible vic?”

  “We’re assuming it’s the guy who lives here. Just moved in about a month ago. Joseph Fanning, that pedophile who was released last month. He was all over the news for a couple of days.”

  “You should go back to the car,” my partner murmurs.

  I realize Walt is speaking to me and I force my eyes open. Hadn’t noticed they had closed. “I’m okay.” Except I’m not, not really.

  In fact, I’m a long ass way from okay. I’m pretty sure I’m going to puke any second and the smell of the blood isn’t helping. Staying vertical is growing more questionable by the second. I can only see half of my partner’s face as he stares at me, worry marring his features. The visual disturbances have begun in earnest. There will be no slowing down the inevitable or the momentum now.

  “Officer Little, make sure Detective Newhouse gets back to my vehicle. I’ll take care of things in here.”

  If I weren’t afraid the coffee I drank this morning would spew out all over my partner’s beloved boots I would open my mouth and argue with him. Instead, I stumble back outside, puke halfway across the driveway for all the nosy neighbors to see, and then climb into the Tahoe.

  I close my eyes and slip into the darkness closing in on me.

  Sleep is the only way to escape this hellish nightmare.

  Detective Walter Duncan

  I hate this place.

  It’s the same clinic where I brought my wife after she was diagnosed with cancer. The same place I came to and received my own death sentence just two weeks ago.

  I hate the medicinal smell. Despise the flowery print of the paper on the accent wall in the lobby. Can’t get comfortable in
the burgundy upholstered chairs that remind me of the endless vials of blood they suck from my body like vampires. I’ll bet they didn’t think about blood when they chose the color, they were probably too focused on matching the jewel tones of the accent wall. I wouldn’t have known it was called an accent wall if my wife hadn’t told me. She always wanted an accent wall in our living room, she’d said. Surprised, I told her I didn’t recall her ever mentioning such a thing. I would gladly have papered a single wall for her.

  By then there wasn’t time for her accent wall.

  Maybe that’s why I’d rather look at just about anything other than that damn accent wall in this damn lobby. Appointment after appointment you sit in this lobby, watch the same tired, pain-filled faces until one day you come for an appointment and one of those faces is gone. Next time it’s another one. Then a new face appears. After a while, you come to realize one thing with complete certainty: soon it will be your face that doesn’t show for a scheduled appointment. You’ll be the one who died since the last appointment; the one who was planted over at Woodlawn or Spring Hill.

  A nurse appears and calls my name. I stand and follow her through the door and then down a long sterile corridor. She weighs me, checks my blood pressure then smiles and leaves me waiting in a plastic chair in this all white room with its cold stainless steel surfaces and wrinkled copies of last year’s magazines.

  I hate this place.

  There are other oncologists in this city. I guess I could have gone somewhere else but what’s the point? I’m dying. Might as well take the easy route. This clinic is closer to my house. I know the staff. Know what to expect. I also fully grasp why I’ve found myself at this place—smoking.

  Lung cancer. Terminal. The Pall Malls I smoked for thirty-five years will now claim a second victim.

  First it was Stella, my precious wife who never smoked a cigarette even once in her life. My second-hand smoke killed her. She swore it wasn’t me. Her father had smoked, too, she reminded me. Died at the ripe old age of eighty-one still puffing on those unfiltered Camels. Stella insisted her lungs were already damaged before she and I ever met. Between the Camels and the coal the family had used to heat their home when she was a kid, she was doomed from birth, she insisted. None of that changes the fact that it is me I blame. I was the one she lived with for thirty-five years of her life. She only lived with her father for twenty-two. I’m the one who killed her. Just like I’ve killed myself as surely as if I stuck my service weapon to my temple and pulled the trigger.

  And all this time I thought I was a pretty smart guy.

  When the doc delivered the bad news two weeks ago, he urged me to immediately begin the treatments to try and slow down the progression. That was the route my sweet Stella chose. Fury tightens my lips. And for what? The chemo treatments made her so damn sick. Her beautiful hair turned pure white and then it all fell out. She wasted away to skin and bone. In the end, the treatments didn’t slow down the progression one little bit. The only result was the additional misery she suffered the final days of her life. All that extra pain and torment for nothing. She died in three months just as the doc had speculated when he first gave us the bad news.

  Why the hell would I repeat the same steps and expect a different outcome? Isn’t that the very definition of insanity?

  It works differently for different people, the doc assured me when I made that profound statement to him. We can’t know if you don’t try, he counseled at my initial visit after all the tests. The treatments could add months, perhaps even a year to my life expectancy. The part he didn’t mention—even if I did gain some extra time—was the cost. Not the financial cost. My health insurance covers most everything. It’s the cost in quality of life that rules out the possibility, in my opinion, and right now that’s the only one that counts. I am alone in the world. Stella and I never had children and with her gone, I have no one else to consider.

  I think of Liv and feel instantly contrite. But I wouldn’t be doing Liv any favors by dragging this out. She would only feel obligated to take care of me. I don’t want to put that on her. She has enough on her plate. I remember how she took care of me after Stella died. Liv had just made detective and landed me as a partner around the time Stella was diagnosed. I wasn’t fit for duty, I recognize that now, but I couldn’t stay at home. Liv held me up, covered for my fumbles and watched my back until I was myself again.

  Hell no. I will not shovel more worries onto Liv’s back and I will not be a guinea pig for this clinic’s research.

  I’m dying. Game over.

  No retiring in two years and moving down to Florida to go into the PI business with my former partner. I shake my head. Bob Stack and I were partners for nearly as long as Stella and I were married. God, I miss that woman. Miss Bob, too. Liv is a good partner, though. I just hope she makes the right decision where this knuckleheaded fiancé of hers is concerned. I don’t like him. He might be rich and from one of Nashville’s most prestigious families, but that doesn’t make him right for her. The truth is they couldn’t be more different. It wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t keep trying to change her.

  I don’t claim to have all the answers, but I do know that when you love someone, you love flaws and all.

  While I wait for the doc to go one more round in trying to convince me to give the treatments a shot, I stand, stretch my back, and exhale a blast of impatience. Eventually I take the three steps across the exam room to stare at the vivid illustration of the human lungs mounted on the wall. Too bad mine no longer look anything like that. More in the range of black tar pits.

  Finally, I sit back down and mull over the list Liv and I discussed as I drove her home. Poor kid. I’ve never seen anyone suffer so with a headache. My wife’s sister had migraines. I remember she’d have to go into a dark room for the whole day if one started. She had them consistently every month her whole life but she never talked about how awful they were. I see how hard the headaches are for Liv. Crazy part is that until a few days ago she hadn’t suffered one in years. I hope they aren’t back to stay. No one should have to live with that kind of gorilla in the corner, ready to attack at the worst possible moment.

  Personally, I think it’s the stress. Hell, her daddy died just a couple of months ago. He was the only family she had left. She’s damn young to be in the same boat with me, all alone in the world. Well, she has that fiancé but I’m not so sure about him. I keep that part to myself though. She has to make up her own mind about how she wants to spend the rest of her life.

  She’s noticed that I’m off my game. I hope I’m not piling more onto her stress level. Even before I got the cancer diagnosis I could be a pain in the ass sometimes. She pretends not to notice. I’ve been a cop for a long time. I have certain routines and ways of doing things. She appreciates my experience and I appreciate her, period. She’s a good girl and deserves better than to be arm candy for some rich boy who thinks he’s God’s gift to women.

  None of my business, I remind myself. I don’t even know the guy that well, but I know his type. Full of himself. Wants to rule his little piece of the world. I got news for the guy, Liv won’t be ruled by him. Not for long anyway. She’ll see the light and then Mr. Fancy Pants will be history.

  This case adds another layer of stress to both our lives. Fanning, the probable vic, is a newly released pedophile whose victims were mostly little girls. The bastard is a couple years older than me and the thirteen plus years he spent in prison wasn’t nearly enough. God only knows how many children he abused before he got caught. Personally, I hope someone dragged him out into the woods somewhere and beat the shit out of him before pouring gasoline over his naked body and setting him on fire. Enough said.

  Except, now he’s Metro’s problem. No matter that he is a monster, not worthy of the air he breathes, the man did his time. He’s entitled to the same protection under the law as anyone else. I roll my eyes and heave a weary breath. It’s Liv’s and my job to make sure the investigation is handled by
the book. The chief already called and warned me that the world will be watching to see that the no good SOB—my words, not the chief’s—gets the same treatment as any other citizen of our fair city.

  Right after lunch I started assessing the list Liv and I had compiled. Pulled up most of the recent addresses and places of employment for each name. Hopefully, Liv will be back tomorrow and we can knock out that list in a couple of days unless we run into trouble locating one or more. The info found in the various databases we can access is sometimes out of date. But we’ll find each and every one of them however long it takes. So far, that appears to be the best starting place.

  Seventeen. That was the number of families who came forward—the number of kids Fanning was accused of sexually molesting, but it was the last one he lured into his car who nailed his ass to the wall. The other cases were difficult to prosecute since they had no evidence beyond the victim’s testimony and a few were beyond the statute of limitations. Ultimately it was that last kid who made the difference. His is the first name on the list and the only male victim.

  Mario Sanchez, twenty-five now. He was ten at the time of the abduction. He escaped, nearly killing Fanning in the process.

  Too bad he didn’t.

  I visited Sanchez’s mother this afternoon. She showed me his high school and college graduation pictures. He’s an engineer now, working toward a second degree in architecture, with a wife and their first child on the way. I called his wife, too. She is visiting her folks in Memphis for a few days. She stated that her husband and a couple of his buddies are on a mountain climbing expedition in Mexico and won’t be back until Sunday. She gave me the names of his two friends so I could verify his whereabouts. I didn’t get around to doing that part since I had this damn appointment.