A Twisted Path

by Steve Winshel

  “What’s your name, sweetie?” With a smile, she put a hand on the girl’s arm.

  “Felicia.”

  “Felicia, I have a little girl – a young woman, really – just about your age.” Merrill’s smile was meant to comfort Felicia, but instead it seemed to elicit a look of horror. Confused, she continued. “You just tell me whatever you need to.”

  “Mrs. Wick, I was here that night. I’m…I’m the one who killed Dr. Wick.”

  Merrill’s hand recoiled from Felicia’s arm, knocking her own mug and spilling half the contents on the floor, splashing her white linen pants and tan sneakers with dark liquid.

  “What? What do you mean? How could you…” Merrill was flustered, but not scared by the fact that she was standing in her kitchen with a just-confessed murderer as the morning fog was burning off and the first strong rays of sunlight started streaming in. She was somehow relieved. Relieved that her ever-diminishing memory, blurred by the medication, was not wrong. She had not stabbed her husband repeatedly, had not killed the man she loved. The girl standing in front of her had done it.

  Felicia didn’t know what to expect, wasn’t sure how someone was supposed to react when told there was proof they hadn’t committed murder and the real killer was standing drinking hot chocolate in their kitchen. She waited. She half expected Mrs. Wick to take the copper pot off the stove and beat her to death with it.

  “Oh my god, Felicia. Are…are you sure?” It was another ridiculous question, but given her own state of mind, it leapt naturally to Merrill’s lips. It was also rhetorical – not knowing you did something was different from being sure you did. This girl seemed sure. There was only one thing Merrill wanted to know.

  “Why? Why would you do that.”

  Now the tears in Felicia’s eyes were not from the steam still curling out of her mug. They began to collect in the corners of her eyes and then spill down her cheeks, more and more rapidly, some hitting the tiled floor and others landing in the cup she held.

  “Because…because he made me do things. To other men. Things I didn’t want to do.”

  Merrill stared at the girl’s face. She became lightheaded and felt her knees begin to buckle. This didn’t make sense, less sense than standing and talking to her husband’s murderer. It couldn’t make sense. She reached for the corner of the island to steady herself, forgetting the mug was still in her hand. It skittered across the surface, emptying the rest of its contents on the slick tile that matched the color of the floor. Merrill held on with both hands to keep from slumping to the floor and suddenly the girl was next to her, her arm around her shoulder, holding her up. No, no it couldn’t be. Not Carl.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Margolin’s heart raced and he could feel the blood racing to his face. He felt as in a dream, where he needed to get somewhere, urgently, and his feet were moving but he wasn’t getting anywhere. Panic started to creep in. He kept his voice calm, slow, years of training kicking in.

  “Yes, Merrill. Yes, I understand what you’re saying. I understand. Now listen carefully. You don’t know who this girl is, or whether she had anything to do with Carl’s death.” He tried to reassure her, tell her to stay calm, but Merrill kept interrupting.

  “Merrill, listen to me. Don’t call anyone else. Just keep her there. I’ll be right over.” He waited for her assent, but instead she filled the silence with the accusation the girl had made. About Carl. Margolin’s stomach dropped and he pressed his hand to his forehead to forestall the dizziness he felt starting to envelope him.

  “That’s absurd, Merrill. Just keep her there. I’ll be right over.” He hung up and put his head in both hands. It was coming apart, and now this girl, this Felicia who had been a patient of Carl’s, was standing in the house where she claimed to have killed him. And she was bringing down Margolin’s world.

  He squeezed his eyes tight, and pressed his palms hard against the sides of his head, the pain bringing him clarity. He reached for the phone and called Brant.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Furyk parked the Honda on the street. The front door of the Wick house opened almost before he’d taken his finger off the bell. Merrill looked pale and shook slightly, surprise in her eyes as though she were expecting someone other than Furyk to be standing there. A dark, wet stain on her pants looked recent. The pallor of her skin was not caused by whatever she was doped up on, something Furyk noticed immediately.

  “What’s wrong?” He looked past her to see if anyone else was in the hallway or looking in from an adjacent room. No one.

  Merrill recovered, her surprise replaced by pure happiness at seeing Furyk. “Mr. Furyk, I wasn’t…I thought…I’m glad you’re here”

  Furyk stepped through the door and took her gently, firmly by the arm and steered her toward the living room. She didn’t resist, but looked toward the kitchen as she walked and opened her mouth to say something. Furyk began to decline what he knew was a pending offer of coffee and then he realized it was more than that. With a sharp tug, he pulled her to his other side so he was between Merrill and the kitchen door. She stumbled slightly to catch her footing at the sudden protective gesture.

  “No, no, it’s okay. I mean, there’s someone here. Maybe, I think, you should meet her. She’s…” Merrill’s thought trailed away.

  Furyk led her to a soft chair on the far side of the living room, one eye on the kitchen door. Merrill let him lead her, but protested as she found her voice.

  “Her name is Felicia. She’s a lovely young woman. She says she knew Carl.” Merrill’s tone was light, and soft, as a bird might speak if given voice. Furyk read in it a dissociation from reality, that Merrill was losing her grip. “She says she killed Carl.” Furyk didn’t break stride but turned his full attention to Merrill.

  He sat her in the chair. “Stay here, Merrill. Don’t move.” He gave her a hard look and tightened his grip on her shoulder before turning toward the kitchen. He crossed quickly and wished he’d brought the small caliber .32 he’d removed from the nightstand that morning and slipped into the cutout hideaway he’d created in the bottom of the driver’s seat in the Honda. Instead, he acted on faith that Merrill’s behavior would have been different if the person in the kitchen was an immediate threat, young girl or not.

  Pushing open the swinging door with a quick thrust, he saw only a bedraggled teenager sitting in one of the stools lined up against the large standalone work surface in the middle of the kitchen. She had both hands cupped around a mug and her hair hung to hide her face as she hunched forward, trying to be as small as possible. The girl looked up slowly and turned sorrowful but somehow relieved, eyes toward Furyk.

  “Are you here to take me to jail?” She twisted her head and looked at a spot on the floor near the sink. “That’s where I stabbed him.”

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  The first message on Cordoza’s voicemail came from an unrecognizable number – but very familiar voice – and told him to reconnoiter the area near the Margolin house to look for the girl whose picture had been emailed directly to his handheld device. The second was a text message sent from someone’s personal computer using an anonymous email account and appeared as a few lines on the same PDA Cordoza used for non-official business. Both messages could only have come from Brant and the text was in all capital letters: WICK HOUSE NOW!

  Cordoza didn’t have a partner, couldn’t get one if he had wanted one anyway. He steered with his left hand, elbow resting on the door, window down, right arm hooked around the passenger headrest like he was making a move on a girl at a drive-in theater. Heavy shades, non-reflective and dark, hung on a crooked nose. They tilted slightly to the left, the swelling on his right cheek permanent unless he listened to the doctors and had the bone chip removed. Putting on the sunglasses reminded him every day of Furyk. He wouldn’t have the chip removed until Furyk was paid back.

  Tooling down the façade that was the Brentwood neighborhood, he checked the addresses and pulled his night-black C
rown Vic to the curb. He was plainclothes, but didn’t bother to hide the fact he was a cop. Let people know; let them be afraid. Service revolver in a shoulder holster he wore while driving even though it dug into his ribs, he backed it up with a Beretta kept tucked in the small of his back under the shirt he wore loose and outside his pants. He parked behind a piece of shit Honda with a heavy scrape on the hood. Probably the maid’s.

  Putting the car in Park, he scratched at the rash on his neck that wouldn’t go away. Pockmarks from childhood acne, interlaced with small scars from other causes, chased each other across his face. Cutting the engine, he looked at the Wick house like it was a target. He waited while the motor cooled, a loud ticking almost matching the beat of the sprinkler at the house next door. He spit once out the window and opened the door. Walking along the grassy strip in front of the house, he turned up the driveway but stayed on the brick edging. No crunching of footsteps on gravel accompanied his slow and steady movement toward the front door. A quick turn of his head to see if there were any neighbors out for a walk, and one hand pulled out his badge to make it official while the other went for the untraceable Beretta under this shirt.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Furyk let the girl’s words hang in the air. He’d seen smaller people do bigger damage than stab a man a dozen times. Carl Wick’s murder had been one of rage, yet the high-schooler in front of him looked capable of little more than being pissed off that she’d been grounded by her mom for a week. But the girl also looked like she’d been through hard times, been on the street, and seen the side of men that usually only surfaced behind closed, locked doors.

  Felicia filled the silence with sniffles to keep her runny nose from dripping further. Resilience in her voice belied any hesitancy in confessing to murder. “He took a while to die. It hurt a lot, I think.” She looked Furyk in the eye and whipped her head to throw back the hair that had lost most of its dampness from the morning. “I hope so.”

  He held her gaze, which was more determined than defiant. “Why?”

  Her smooth forehead creased as she made a face like a bad taste had appeared in her mouth. “Because he…he was a…” Furyk interrupted.

  “No, I mean why did you come back? Why are you here?” The reason for killing Wick was less compelling than why she would walk up to the house where she committed a capital crime and ring the doorbell after being free for days, with no one looking for her or knowing of her existence. Furyk still hadn’t answered her implied question as to whether he was a cop and was going to take her to jail.

  She wrinkled her nose in confusion about why he cared that she was back instead of wanting to know why she’d been here that night. A sliver of trust showed in her face. “Mrs. Wick, she was gonna be in trouble. It’s not…not her fault Dr. Wick is a – was a – pig.” She spat “pig” like she was getting the bad taste out of her mouth.

  A sensitive killer, with a cheerleader face and split-ends. She’d do well with a jury, he thought. Mainly, she’d take Merrill out of the eye of the storm. But if Merrill didn’t kill her husband, then what was the connection to someone making a try on Furyk’s life? Maybe it was just a coincidence. Merrill wasn’t the connection and he’d have to look somewhere else for the explanation.

  “How was he a pig?” Instead of sitting on a stool next to the girl, he should have been calling the cops. A little while longer wouldn’t make a difference, and he wanted to see if her story held up. She could just be an attention hound who’d read the papers and thought a little notoriety would get her some cash and a place to stay. Maybe even piss off her parents who probably wouldn’t let her go out on a date with some guy who rode a motorcycle – teen rebellion par excellence. Furyk tried to look sympathetic and understanding.

  “He was my doctor, my psychiatrist, I guess. They made me go see him, instead of going to juvenile hall.” Furyk’s stomach tightened every time he heard that phrase, despite the passage of decades. She didn’t notice. “First coupla times he was nice, friendly. Asked me about a lot of stuff. My parents and all. Like he cared.” The sour taste had returned to her mouth. “Then he started touching me. Not sexy or anything. Just holding my hand. Or touching my cheek.” Her resilience began to recede. She reached for the mug of cooling hot chocolate, but didn’t pick it up.

  “Then he told me he had a friend who could help, could help me get better – do better.” Furyk remained stone faced, knowing what was coming. “He gave me an address. Real nice house. The guy was nice, too. At first.” She stopped, as if that were enough. But Furyk needed to hear the whole thing.

  “Felicia.” She wasn’t surprised that he knew her name. “Felicia, tell me what happened.”

  The defiant teenager returned. “He gave me booze, and a pill in it, I think. I said no a couple of times after that, that I didn’t want to touch him or do those other things. But he didn’t stop. It hurt.” Now she glared at Furyk, who was just another man who was going to tell her what to do. “I saw Dr. Wick the next day and he acted like it was totally okay. Except he wasn’t as nice as before. He was kinda mean. And he gave me another address. The house was bigger. And the man was meaner.”

  Felicia pulled down the shirt on her right shoulder, pale skin ringed with red where the wet line of the collar had irritated the skin. Lower down, midway between clavicle and breast, was an angry circular welt. It was the size of a nickel. Or the lit end of a cigar.

  “The next night I came here and killed Dr. Wick.”

  Furyk sensed someone behind him. He turned and watched a tear stream down Merrill’s face as she stood in the doorway. She had been staring at the girl’s lips, as though trying to read them hoping they would say something different from the words coming out of her mouth. Her gaze slowly shifted to Furyk and she gave him a wan smile as her knees collapsed and she sank to the cold floor.

  Furyk was half off the stool to try to catch her before he registered the image that appeared behind Merrill as she fell to the ground. An arm extended, a small, ugly pistol aiming into the room and then the sharp sound of a bullet exploding out of the barrel.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Cordoza tried the front door and appreciated that it was unlocked. He edged around the house, equally appreciative of the enormous windows on three sides that gave him a decent view into the main rooms on the first floor. Walking into a house unannounced was fine. Not knowing exactly who was on the other side of the door was stupid.

  He thought he’d hit the jackpot when he got to the smaller of two windows into the kitchen. The girl from the picture was sitting on a bar stool, facing toward Cordoza. A man’s back was slightly off the straight line between the window and the girl. Cordoza moved slowly, knowing the glare from the mid-horizon sun behind him would obscure him from view but not wanting a sudden movement to catch anyone’s eye. Hugging the outside wall, moist from dew, he put his badge away and firmed his grip on the Beretta. He already knew the Wick woman was in the living room, slumped in a chair. He didn’t have instructions on her, but he wasn’t about to leave any witnesses. The only problem was the guy. And then it wasn’t a problem as the man shifted and his profile was visible – Cordoza smiled, a crooked grin that scared rather than charmed. He’d just won the lottery. The man with his back to the window, talking to the girl, was Furyk. The Beretta held six bullets. That was plenty.

  He slipped back around the house to the front door. Putting heavy pressure on the handle as he twisted to keep the noise of the latch turning to a modest creak, he pushed in the door. The chair he’d seen the woman huddled in was not in the part of the living he could see from the front hall, nor was the entrance to the kitchen where he would fire the first shots. The woman he would quickly and silently club, leaving Furyk no time to react. He strode across the ten feet of foyer, shoes making a slight squeaking sound on the marble floor. Entering the living room and turning right toward the chair, the gun held butt forward for an easy strike, he simultaneously saw the chair was empty and that the woman was now
standing in the doorway of the kitchen just beyond. She had pushed the swinging door inward and held it open, as she stood immobile and listened to a conversation between Furyk and the girl. Cordoza moved quietly toward her, his steps now silent as they crossed the living room carpet. He caught the last two sentences from the girl in the kitchen as he flipped the gun so the grip was in his hand. It would take good timing, but nothing too difficult. One bullet in the woman, or maybe a hard push to get her out of the way, and then an immediate turn to the right to put two, maybe three into Furyk. Then the girl. She’d be easy, maybe not even requiring the gun.

  Cordoza instinctively decided on a bullet to Merrill’s head. It would collapse her quickly and her falling body would distract Furyk as much as the gunshot. He’d have a clear target. Too bad he’d have to put Furyk down quickly. It would be much more satisfying to take his time. Maybe he’d get lucky and Furyk would just be wounded. He could finish him off more leisurely.

  Gun raised level with Merrill’s head, Cordoza got another two steps closer to minimize the delay between the first shot at her and the next couple inside the kitchen. His finger gently tightened on the trigger so there was only an eighth of an inch left to press. One step away now, and he pulled the trigger the last bit of distance just as Merrill dropped to the floor just before the gun fired. Eyes unwaveringly straight ahead, he reflexively refocused to the new unintended target half a dozen feet further in the same line of site. It was the girl. Peripherally, he caught the movement to his right as Furyk came toward the falling woman but Cordoza’s attention was on the sudden spurt of blood that shot from the arterial vein in the young girl whose throat he had just shot. She brought her hands up to her neck, disbelief on her face, but Cordoza didn’t see her grasping at the torn flesh and pumping blood. He had already begun to step over Merrill’s body and turn the gun toward Furyk.