Her pubis was shaved, something Danny never did. So at least there was that to give me hope.
I turned away.
"Well?" said Mickey Saperstein, the senior homicide detective of the two dicks working that case. He was a gnome-like creature with the hairline of a gorilla. Dressed in a frayed blue suit and walking like a knuckle-dragger, the image was complete. He was a gorilla, at least figuratively, and God help those who fell under his thumb.
His eye turned up to me as he waited.
"Well?" I said. "Well, I don't know."
"I don't think it's her, Michael," said Marcel. Ever the optimist, maybe.
"She's wearing your wife's sock. You already confirmed that for us."
"Yes, and she has a mole just like my wife's. But that shouldn't equal confirmation. Aren't we really waiting for the dental results?"
Saperstein nodded glumly.
"We are. Dental will likely rule her in or out."
He was clearly disappointed that I hadn't called out a bingo. Maybe "disappointed" is the wrong word. Maybe he was more like frustrated, angry at the time he was putting in on yet another unclaimed body. His lot as a homicide detective.
"Come here," he said to me, waving me to the feet of the corpse. "Look at this tiny flower just below the ankle."
I looked. A tiny green rose was tattooed just below the interior ankle bone.
Then it hit me with a rush. The blond man with the tattoo on the back of his hand. Had it been a rose? It had been green.
"She hates tattoos," I said. "This rules her out."
Saperstein's face fell.
"So we're stuck with another Jane Doe," he said to his partner, a young black man who wore gold spectacles and a starched fawn shirt with a foulard necktie. His suit was the same color as his shirt. He was a homicide detective and he was hoping, with his partner, that I would identify this dead woman as my wife so that he and Saperstein could close yet another file and move along.
But it wasn't going to happen. The poor dead woman wasn't Danny.
The rose tattoo ruled her out definitively, as far as I was concerned.
"Tell you what, counselor," said Saperstein. "There's another piece of this we're needing to talk to you about."
"Michael," said Marcel, "I think you've answered enough questions. Let's leave this dog-and-pony show to the dicks. Ready now?"
He was pulling at my elbow. But I was twisting in the wind like any husband whose wife had gone missing. I couldn't just walk away and leave it alone. Talk about stupid self-lawyering: I wanted to stay and say my piece and set the record straight. Prisons are filled with people who felt this same compulsion and hung around long enough to act it out. Marcel tugged even harder at my arm. This time I moved off with him.
"Come on, Michael. This only gets worse from here," he whispered to me.
I relented, giving up on the compulsion to clear my name. We began moving to the exit door of the autopsy room.
"Michael!" Saperstein called after me. "We aren't finished here!"
Disgusted, I turned my back on Saperstein. Legally, I didn't have to stay around and listen to it. Nor was I required to give a statement and Saperstein must have known he had lost me because he didn't follow.
Marcel guided me back to the parking lot where, of course, it was snowing again.
The wind whipped around my body and pierced my topcoat. My nose lining immediately froze and pale shafts of frozen breath passed between us as we expressed how ridiculously cold the air was coming off the lake.
We should have known better. Or at least I should have.
The real cold was coming up inside of me and had nothing to do with outside air temperature or the fact it was snowing that night.
The real cold was a hand wrapping around my heart and squeezing. My name had been associated with a dead body inside that building we were driving away from. A connection had been dredged up between us by the detectives yet inside with her.
What was her body telling them? That I had been there when she died? That I had killed her? It was my guilt over Danny and I knew that. It's like you can't silence a corpse, not once the police have it. It will talk and sing with all alacrity like it never did in life. That was how I was feeling about Danny, that in a way I had murdered her. Quenched her spirit. Killed her love.
"Give me the keys, I'm driving," Marcel said.
I handed over the keys without complaint. My mind was swirling with all of this as we drove off into the night.
Marcel said nothing as we rolled along. Then we pulled through an Arby's so he could grab a roast beef sandwich. I didn't want anything; he paid for his sandwich and off we drove with Marcel peeling back the foil on his sandwich. Munching and swallowing a mouthful of dead cow he looked over at me.
"Well?" he asked.
"You're not thinking they're serious about implicating me, are you?"
"Aren't they always serious? A defense lawyer's head mounted on the wall is better than two rhinos and a silverback."
I looked out the window. It was snowing even harder now, blowing sideways and curling back up in the street lights’ blue light.
"Great," I said. "Can we go now? Or can you not chew and drive at the same time?"
"Touchy, aren't we?"
"Very," I said. "I'm very touchy right now."
20
Michael
I saw a video of ISIS beheading a man. This was a year ago. It left me stunned. Stunned because the head kept trying to speak even when it was barely attached. The mouth kept trying to open. The eyes were imploring. "Please spare me," said the head. But the man in the black shroud didn't spare him. He seized the man's head by the hair and held it aloft. He swore death to his enemies. I've never watched another video like that. Who would?
Marcel was waiting for me at home. His look was grim and his movements heavy. The kids were still with their grandparents and I was just as glad because Marcel had my attention one hundred percent.
"Jana sent me a video," I told him before I had my overcoat hung up.
"A video? What of?"
"You better watch it. My laptop's on my office desk."
We hurried into my office and took our places at my desk. We were side by side in the two visitors' chairs, the laptop between us, the top open and the screen showing Yosemite's Half-Dome. A small video file was off to one side.
"Ready?" I asked him.
"Ready."
"Let me warn you. I'm ready to murder this guy."
I clicked the video and the first frame came up.
An empty wooden chair was displayed. Nothing else except the backdrop was a map of the world someone had glued to the wall. Which meant nothing to me. Not at first.
Then there was movement off to the left and suddenly the screen filled with a picture of Danny, shackled around the waist and wrists. A figure came up behind her as it forced her to sit on the chair. He was standing behind her and he smiled. It was Jana Emerich, looking ten years older than the last time I had seen him. But my eye didn't stop there. I immediately looked back at Danny.
She was nude. Completely nude. And her eyes were shut. She sat there in the chair, her hands cuffed in front of her, eyes shut, and occasionally would ripple under a shiver rising across her body. One thing I'll never forget is the look on her face: an indelible look of shame. I wanted to reach out and touch her, take her in my arms and tell her she had no reason to be ashamed, that she was in the clutches of a monster and what he had done with her—was doing with her—wasn't even about her. It was about something else. Which quickly came into focus for us.
"Michael and Marcel. Welcome to my studio. Danny and I have been amusing ourselves in here while the camera warmed up. What about you, Danny? Are you still warm?"
He peered around and down into her face. Still she didn't open her eyes. But she shook her head and kept shaking it: No.
"Your wife is still a tasty little thing, Michael. I'm sure you agree. They say that flesh sours with time, but not our Dan
ny's. She's fresh as ever. And succulent."
I rose out of my chair and turned away. But Marcel tugged at my shirt sleeve and pulled me back down beside him.
"You need to see this again," he said gently. "We'll watch together."
When I turned back, Jana had produced a knife—though you couldn't really call it a knife as it was much longer than most knives I'd ever seen. You would almost have to call it a machete. He drew a finger along the cutting edge and held it up for the camera. The blade had easily cut into the ball of the finger. He sucked the finger for several seconds, then looked up again. Now he placed the blade against Danny's throat, the razor edge against her soft flesh.
"Now all I need to do, Michael and Marcel, is draw this blade across Danny's throat. And guess what if I do that? My child custody case is solved because there's no longer a mother. Of course there's no longer a father, either, because I would go back to prison. So instead, let's make a deal. Let's trade Danny for Mikey. Short and sweet. Danny and I are going to give you seven days to make this trade. Seven days because Danny convinced me you would need seven days. Oh, how she convinced me! I still haven't gotten over it. Today is Sunday. You have until twelve-oh-one next Sunday morning. At that time, Danny will be gone. Your upside is you win the custody case. Your downside is you lose the other custody case. The custody of Danny. Your wife for the son that's not even yours? Sound fair, Michael? Ta-ta."
The video clicked off.
For several moments Marcel and I were frozen in front of the screen. Hardly breathing, unmoving. I felt as if I even breathed it would somehow end Danny's life. There was so much to do if Jana was to be satisfied; the trouble being, I wasn't about to do any of it. That little boy was mine and that was that. Would I let my wife die before I would give up my son? Truth be told, I wasn't giving up Mikey to anyone. The rest of it was what it was and I was going to do what I could. But Mikey stayed with me.
Marcel reached and clasped me on the neck.
"You okay?" he said softly.
"What do you think?" I said. "Of course I'm not okay. I'm dying and there's nothing I can do about it. I already know that. I'm helpless."
Marcel nodded. "It looks that way. But let's at least talk about it, okay?"
I stood up. I needed a drink and I never drink.
But that night, I did. Three fingers of the scotch whiskey we keep for guests. Three fingers in the bottom of a water glass. And I didn't sip. It went down in three swallows. Then I threw my head back and tears came to my eyes.
I shoved the bottle back into my desk drawer where I keep it locked and away from the kids.
"That help?" Marcel asked.
I shook my head. "What do you think?"
"I think I would be doing the same thing."
There were tears in my eyes. I'm sure Marcel saw them. I don't cry that often—and never do I cry around other men. But just then, all rules were off. All social norms no longer applied. The tears came and I put my head down on my desk.
She was dead. She would have that terrible animal cut her head off, probably in front of a camera. Maybe not. But I knew it would be videoed because Jana would put it on the Web. She was dead because I would never give up our little boy. Danny herself would never allow that.
Slowly I collected myself. There's a deep inner reserve in all of us. I reached way down and found mine.
"So," I said. "What's our plan?"
"There will be a plan," Marcel promised. "I swear by God Almighty there will be a plan."
We looked at each other, both afraid to say much more. Whatever we came up with, it had to be right. We were only going to get one chance. If even that.
"Where is he?" I asked.
Marcel looked away and pursed his lips. Then he turned back. "He's somewhere in Chicago."
"How do we know that?"
"Because his son is here. He wants that son and wants us to bring Mikey to him. He'll be around for that. After—if he murders Danny—he'll be gone. Forever, I'm sure."
"So what do we know about where he might be?"
"Well, for openers, there's a world map behind him."
"That rules out just about everyone I know," I said, because actually it did. Not many people keep maps around anymore, what with MapQuest and Google Earth and all the Internet services that can literally put you on the ground anyplace in the world in seconds.
"So," wondered Marcel, "is the map decorative? Or is it used by someone? We need an analysis of this video. We need up-close analysis of everything on there."
"Which means we need forensic services."
"Which means FBI," Marcel said. "I don't like FBI, but I truly believe this is going to take a massive effort. A thousand men over seven days versus two men over seven days? It's a no-brainer. Do you show them tomorrow when they arrive for their shifts or do I?”
Did we really want the FBI? What if Jana became aware they were after him? Would he just kill her and run? How would he find out? Oh, he'd find out. Someone in the Bureau would leak the story and it would be all over the news. The woman who was trying to prevent this poor father from seeing his kid, she was being held to make a trade. And he would learn of it and who knew what that might make him do? I wasn't willing to risk that.
"For now, let's be still and think. We need to just understand what a guy like Jana Emerich is going to do when he needs to hide a living, talking human being. Where does he put her?"
"Where? For openers, someplace soundproof."
"So we need to check with suppliers of soundproofing materials. That's your task. What else?"
"He needs food for her. And a toilet."
"That rules in every dwelling in Cook County. Let's think of something else."
"Where do we start?"
"We take our phones out and start making calls."
"To who?"
He gave me a hard look and shook his head.
"Unless you've got a better idea, we call everyone we know and then we start calling hospitals, morgues, police stations, sheriffs—the whole nine yards."
"You call females. I'll call males."
"I'm already dialing."
Part II
After
21
Danny
Three Months After Danny’s Disappearance
The hospital is cheery. Roses on the wall, stencil trellises of what must be bougainvillea, sunny blue skies with children dancing across freshly mown grass—what’s not to like here? They’ve really gone out of their way to make us feel peaceful and cozy.
I think there was an automobile accident when I was trying to get away from Jana. I think I stole a car and they chased me and there was a wreck.
Here's what I've pieced together about it.
The old VW I was driving didn't have side airbags and that made all the difference.
When the oncoming car veered into my lane, I gasped and jerked the wheel hard to the left. I had immediately regretted what I had done because I realized, in that instant, that I wouldn't be able to recover from the sudden veer in time to avoid going over the side. My car snapped through the guardrail like it was pasta. It rolled counter-clockwise. On the first overturn, my head slammed against the window. This head-to-window impact repeated five times more as the car continued rolling over and over down the ravine. Had there been side airbags the concussive force of my head hitting the window might have been avoided altogether. But as the VW turned and crashed, turned and crashed, there was no cushion and the impact caused my brain to start swelling with the first blow.
The other driver smiled as my VW disappeared off the road. He pulled over and ran to the guardrail where my little car went through and peered down into the ravine. At the bottom, the VW lay on its side, its front wheel still spinning. The trick had worked again; there would be food tonight. He made his way over the edge of the road before oncoming cars saw anything, and began skidding down the ravine on the seat of his jeans. The guardrail was clearly breached but no passing vehicles stopped. It was a curve a
long the river bluffs and no one was even able to slow and pull over had they been so inclined. There simply was no shoulder on either side of the road.
The driver climbed down to the VW as it lay on its side, making popping and moaning noises like some beast laid low and dying from a fatal lung shot. The man eased around and came even with the left front driver's side, exposed to the brilliance of the early afternoon sun. He leaned forward and peered inside the driver's window. Well, I had been wearing a seatbelt. It held me in a bundle as if I were a climber who had slipped from a sheer rock face. I was dangling. But that's where any metaphor ends, because in my case the face was smashed and bloody to the extent that my features were unidentifiable. My bottommost leg was contorted beyond the physically possible and the driver knew it would be months before I would ever walk again—if I even survived.
But where was the point of the exercise? Simple, they ran me off the road to kill me. But the stars were aligned otherwise and I lived.
The driver looked beyond me to the new floor of the cab—the right passenger side. There, pasted against the shattered glass, was what he was after: my purse. It was a tan canvas affair with two large wooden hoops for handles and a gold clasp between.
He raised the driver's door and it caught and held upright, bisecting the blue sky above. He worked his body inside the cab, ahead of me and my seatbelt, and let himself inch downward until he could touch the purse with his fingertips. Maintaining his balance just above his knees where they protruded back behind the driver's window, he was able to seize the purse and rock back and up and out of the cab all in one flow. Then he was standing beside the VW, purse in hand, checking his wrists and arms for blood marks. There were plenty, as I was pumping blood from my face and from my chest. My right arm was caught behind my back and the right shoulder appeared separated and was also bleeding. With all the blood being spilled, he estimated I would be dead in less than one hour. Time enough for him to be far down the road.
Voices In The Walls: A Psychological Thriller (Michael Gresham Series) Page 9
