The Bird

by Willow Rose

  “It’s bad,” Weasel said. “I have close to no experience with this type of thing, but you do. We need all your Miami-experience now. Show me what you’ve got.”

  I nodded and followed her into the house. It was located on a canal leading to the Banana River, like most of the houses on the back side of the island. The house had a big pebble-coated pool area with two waterfalls, a slide, and a spa overlooking the river. The perfect setting for Florida living, the real estate ad would say. With the huge palm trees, it looked like true paradise. Until you stepped inside.

  The inside was pure hell.

  It was a long time since I had been on a murder scene, but the Weasel was right. I was the only one with lots of experience in this field. I spent eight years in downtown Miami, covering Overtown, the worst neighborhood in the town, as part of the homicide unit. My specialty was the killer’s psychology. I was a big deal back then. But when I met Arianna and she became pregnant with the twins, I was done. It was suddenly too dangerous. We left Miami to get away from it. We moved to Cocoa Beach, where my parents lived, to be closer to my family and to get away from murder.

  Now, it had followed me here. It made me feel awful. I hated to see the town’s innocence go like this.

  My colleagues from the Cocoa Beach Police Department greeted me with nods as we walked through the living room, overlooking the yard with the pool. I knew all of them. They seemed a little confused. For most of them, it was a first. Officer Joel Hall looked pale.

  “Joel was first man here,” Weasel said.

  “How are you doing, Joel?” I asked.

  “Been better.”

  “So, tell me what happened.”

  Joel sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  “We got a call from the boy. He told us his mother had been killed. He found her finger…well, the dog had it in his mouth. He didn’t dare to go upstairs. He called 911 immediately. I was on patrol close by, so I drove down here.”

  “So, what did you find?”

  “The boy and the dog were waiting outside the house. He was hysterical, kept telling me his parents were dead. Then, he showed me the finger. I tried to calm him down and tell him I would go look and to stay outside. I walked up and found the mother…” Joel sniffled again. He took in a deep breath.

  “Take your time, Joel,” I said, and put my hand on his shoulder. Joel finally caved in and broke down.

  “You better see it with your own eyes,” Weasel said. “But brace yourself.”

  I followed her up the stairs of the house, where the medical examiners were already taking samples.

  “The kid said his parents were dead. What about the dad?” I asked. “You only said one homicide.”

  “The dad’s fine. But, hear this,” Weasel said. “He claims he was asleep the entire time. He’s been taken to the hospital to see a doctor. He kept claiming he felt dizzy and had blurred vision. I had to have a doctor look at him before we talk to him. The boy is with him. Didn’t want to leave his side. The dog is there too. Jim and Marty took them there. I don’t want him to run. He’s our main suspect so far.”

  We walked down the hallway till we reached the bedroom. “Brace yourself,” Weasel repeated, right before we walked inside.

  I sucked in my breath. Then I froze.

  “It looks like he was dismembering her,” Weasel said. “He cut off all the fingers on her right hand, one by one, then continued on to the toes on her foot.”

  I felt disgusted by the sight. I held a hand to cover my mouth, not because it smelled, but because I always became sick to my stomach when facing a dead body. Especially one that was mutilated. I never got used to it. I kneeled next to the woman lying on the floor. I examined her face and eyes, lifted her eyelids, then looked closely at her body.

  “There’s hardly any blood. No bruises either,” I said. “I say she was strangled first, then he did the dismembering. My guess is he was disturbed. He was about to cut her into bits and pieces, but he stopped. “I sniffed the body and looked at the Weasel, who seemed disgusted by my motion. “The kill might have happened in the shower. She has been washed recently. Maybe he drowned her.”

  I walked into the bathroom and approached the tub. I ran a finger along the sides. “Look.” I showed her my finger. “There’s still water on the sides. It’s been used recently.”

  “So, you think she was killed in the bathtub? Strangulation, you say? But there are no marks on her neck or throat?”

  “Look at her eyes. Petechiae. Tiny red spots due to ruptured capillaries. They are a signature injury of strangulation. She has them under the eyelids. He didn’t use his hands. He was being gentle.”

  Weasel looked appalled. “Gentle? How can you say he was gentle? He cut off her fingers?”

  “Yes, but look how methodical he was. All the parts are intact. Not a bruise on any of them. Not a drop of blood. They are all placed neatly next to one another. It’s a declaration of love.”

  Weasel looked confused. She grumbled. “I don’t see much love in any of all this, that’s for sure. All I see is a dead woman, who someone tried to chop up. And now I want you to find out who did it.”

  I chuckled. “So, the dad tells us he was sleeping?” I asked.

  Weasel shrugged. “Apparently, he was drunk last night. They had friends over. It got a little heavy, according to the neighbors. Loud music and loud voices. But that isn’t new with these people.”

  “On a Sunday night in a nice neighborhood like this?” I asked, surprised.

  “Apparently.”

  “It’s a big house. Right on the river. Snug Harbor is one of the most expensive neighborhoods around here. What do the parents do for a living?”

  “Nothing, I’ve been told. They live off the family’s money. The deceased’s father was a very famous writer. He died ten years ago. The kids have been living off of the inheritance and the royalties for years since.”

  “Anyone I know, the writer?”

  “Probably,” she said. “A local hero around here. John Platt.”

  “John Platt?” I said. “I’ve certainly heard of him. I didn’t know he used to live around here. Wasn’t he the guy who wrote all those thriller-novels that were made into movies later on?”

  “Yes, that was him. He has sold more than 100 million books worldwide. His books are still topping the bestseller lists.”

  “Didn’t he recently publish a new book or something?”

  Weasel nodded. “They found an old unpublished manuscript of his on his computer, which they published. I never understood how those things work, but I figure they think, if he wrote it, then it’s worth a lot of money even if he trashed it.”

  I stared at the dead halfway-dismembered body on the floor, then back at the Weasel.

  I sighed. “I guess we better talk to this heavily sleeping dad first.”

  7

  January 2015

  “Who was that guy you talked to last night?”

  Joe walked into the kitchen. Shannon was cutting up oranges to make juice. She sensed he was right behind her, but she didn’t turn to look at him. Last night was still in her head. The humming noise of the voices, the music, the laughter. Her head was hurting from a little too much alcohol. His question made everything inside of her freeze.

  “Who do you mean?” she asked. “I talked to a lot of people. That was kind of the idea with the party after my concert. For me to meet with the press and important people in the business. That’s the way it always is. You know how it goes. It’s a big part of my job.”

  He put his hand on her shoulder. A shiver ran up her spine. She closed her eyes.

  Not now. Please not now.

  “Look at me when you’re talking to me,” he said.

  She took in a deep breath, then put on a smile; the same smile she used when the press asked her to pose for pictures, the same smile she put on for her manager, her record label, and her friends when they asked her about the bruises on her back, followed by the sentence:


  “Just me being clumsy again.”

  Shannon turned and looked at Joe. His eyes were black with fury. Her body shrunk and her smile froze.

  “I saw the way you were looking at that guy. Don’t you think I saw that?” Joe asked. “You know what I think? I think you like going to these parties they throw in your honor. I think you enjoy all the men staring at you, wishing you were theirs, wanting to fuck your brains out. I see it in their eyes and I see it in yours as well. You like it.”

  It was always the same. Joe couldn’t stand the fact that Shannon was the famous one…that she was the one everyone wanted to talk to, and after a party like the one yesterday, he always lost his temper with her. Because he felt left out, because there was no one looking at him, talking to him, asking him questions with interest. He hated the fact that Shannon was the one with a career, when all he had ever dreamt of was to be singing in sold out stadiums like she did.

  They had started out together. Each with just a guitar under their arm, working small clubs and bars in Texas, then later they moved on to Nashville, where country musicians were made. They played the streets together, and then got small gigs in bars, and later small concert venues around town. But when a record label contacted them one day after a concert, they were only interested in her. They only wanted Shannon King. Since then, Joe had been living in the shadow of his wife, and that didn’t become him well. For years, she had made excuses for him, telling herself he was going through a rough time; he was just hurting because he wasn’t going anywhere with his music. The only thing Joe had going for him right now was the fact that he was stronger than Shannon.

  But as the years had passed, it was getting harder and harder for her to come up with new excuses, new explanations. Especially now that they had a child together. A little girl who was beginning to ask questions.

  “Joe…I…I don’t know what you’re talking about. I talked to a lot of people last night. I’m tired and now I really want to get some breakfast.”

  “Did you just take a tone with me. Did ya’? Am I so insignificant in your life that you don’t even talk to me with respect, huh? You don’t even look at me when we’re at your precious after party. Nobody cares about me. Everyone just wants to talk to the biiig star, Shannon King,” he said, mocking her.

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Am I? Did you even think about me once last night? Did you? I left at eleven-thirty. You never even noticed. You never even texted me and asked where I was.”

  Shannon blushed. He was right. She hadn’t thought about him even once. She had been busy answering questions from the press and talking about her tour. Everyone had been pulling at her; there simply was no time to think about him. Why couldn’t he understand that?

  “I thought so,” Joe said. Then, he slapped her.

  Shannon went stumbling backward against the massive granite counter. She hurt her back in the fall. Shannon whimpered, then got up on her feet again with much effort. Her cheek burned like hell. A little blood ran from the corner of her mouth. She wiped it off.

  Careful what you say, Shannon. Careful not to upset him further. Remember what happened last time. He’s not well. He is hurting. Careful not to hurt him any more.

  But she knew it was too late. She knew once he crossed that line into that area where all thinking ceased to exist, it was too late. She could appeal to his sensitivity as much as she wanted to. She could try and explain herself and tell him she was sorry, but it didn’t help. If anything, it only made everything worse.

  His eyes were bulging and his jaws clenched. His right eye had that tick in it that only showed when he was angry.

  You got to get out of here.

  “Joe, please, I…”

  A fist throbbed through the air and smashed into her face.

  Quick. Run for the phone.

  She could see it. It was on the breakfast bar. She would have to spring for it. Shannon jumped to the side and managed to avoid his next fist, then slipped on the small rug on the kitchen floor, got back up in a hurry, and rushed to reach out for the phone.

  Call 911. Call the police.

  Her legs were in the air and she wasn’t running anymore. He had grabbed her by the hair, and now he was pulling her backwards. He yanked her towards him, and she screamed in pain, cursing her long blonde hair that she used to love so much…that the world loved and put on magazine covers.

  “You cheating lying bitch!” he screamed, while pulling her across the floor.

  He lifted her up, then threw her against the kitchen counter. It blew out the air from her lungs. She couldn’t scream anymore. She was panting for air and wheezing for him to stop. She was bleeding from her nose. Joe came closer, then leaned over her and, with his hand, he corrected his hair. His precious hair that had always meant so much to him, that he was always fixing and touching to make sure it was perfect, which it ironically never was.

  “No one disrespects me. Do you hear me? Especially not you. You’re a nobody. Do you understand? You would be nothing if it wasn’t for me,” he yelled, then lifted his clenched fist one more time. When it smashed into Shannon’s face again and again, she finally let herself drift into a darkness so deep she couldn’t feel anything anymore.

  8

  January 2015

  “Hi there. Ben, is it?” I asked.

  The boy was sitting next to his dad in the hospital bed, the dog sleeping by his feet.

  “He won’t leave his dad’s side,” Marty said.

  Ben looked up at me with fear in his eyes. “It’s okay, Ben,” I said, and kneeled in front of him. “We can talk here.”

  “I know you,” Ben said. “You’re Austin and Abigail’s dad.”

  “That’s right. And you’re in their class. I remember you. Say, weren’t you supposed to be at the zoo today?”

  Ben nodded with a sad expression.

  “Well, there’ll be other times,” I said. I paused while Ben looked at his father, who was sleeping.

  “He’s completely out cold,” Marty said. “He was complaining that he couldn’t control his arms and legs, had spots before his eyes, and he felt dizzy and nauseated. Guess it was really heavy last night.”

  I looked at the very pale dad. “Or maybe it was something else,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  I looked closer at the dad.

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Only a few words. When I asked about last night, he kept saying he didn’t remember what happened, that he didn’t know where he was. He kept asking me what time it was. Even after I had just told him.”

  “Hm.”

  “What?” Marty asked.

  “Did they run his blood work?” I asked.

  “No. I told them it wasn’t necessary. He was just hung over. The doctor looked at him quickly and agreed. We agreed to let him to sleep it off. He seemed like he was still drunk when he talked to us.”

  “Is my dad sick, Mr. Ryder?” Ben asked.

  I looked at the boy and smiled. “No, son, but I am afraid your dad has been poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” Marty asked. “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Dizziness, confusion, blurry vision, difficulty talking, nausea, difficulty controlling your movements all are symptoms of Rohypnol poisoning. Must have been ingested to have this big of an affect. Especially with alcohol.”

  “Roofied?” Marty laughed. “Who on earth in their right mind would give a grown man a rape drug?”

  “Someone who wanted to kill him and his wife,” I said.

  I walked into the hallway and found a nurse and asked her to make sure they tested Brandon Bennett for the drug in his blood. Then, I called the medical examiner and told them to check the wife’s blood as well. Afterwards, I returned to talk to Ben.

  “So, Ben, I know this is a difficult time for you, but I would be really happy if you could help me out by talking a little about last night. Can you help me out here?”

  Ben wiped his eyes
and looked at me. His face was swollen from crying. Then he nodded. I opened my arms. “Come here, buddy. You look like you could use a good bear hug.”

  Ben hesitated, then looked at his dad, who was still out cold, before he finally gave in and let me hug him. I held him in my arms, the way I held my own children when they were sad. The boy finally cried.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered. “Your dad will be fine.”

  My words felt vague compared to what the little boy had seen this morning, how his world had been shaken up. His dad was probably going to be fine, but he would never see his mother again, and the real question was whether the boy would ever be fine again?

  He wept in my arms for a few minutes, then pulled away and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Do you promise to catch the guy that killed my mother?” he asked.

  I sighed. “I can promise I’ll do my best. How about that?”

  Ben thought about it for a little while, then nodded with a sniffle.

  “Okay. What do you want to know?” he asked.

  “Who came to your house last night? I heard your parents had guests. Who were they?”

  9

  April 1984

  Tim took Annie down to the lake behind campus, where they sat down. The grass was moist from the sprinklers. Annie felt self-conscious with the way Tim stared at her. It was a hot night out. The cicadas were singing; Annie was sweating in her small dress. Her skin felt clammy.

  Tim finally broke the silence.

  “Has anyone ever told you how incredibly beautiful you are?”

  Annie’s head was spinning from her drink. The night was intoxicating, the sounds, the smell, the moist air hugging her. She shook her head. Her eyes stared at the grass. She felt her cheeks blushing.

  “No.”

  “Really?” Tim said. “I find that very hard to believe.”