Broken (The Raiford Chronicles #3 Book 1)

by Janet Taylor-Perry

  Raif started after his daughter, but Patrick caught his father's eye with a shake of his head. He mouthed, "I've got her, Dad," and went to find his younger sister.

  Raif took a deep breath and held up a glass of merlot. "To my strong, beautiful, whimsical unicorn—Chris."

  Glasses tinkled as everyone remembered a person they loved. Raif drifted to the fringe of the crowd. Dupree Parks sat down at the piano in the sunroom and said, "My mother-in-law accepted me with open arms. I had been a street thug, and I'm a different race. But she saw the man I'd become. Above all else, Christine Milovich Gautier was a lady. Mom, this is for you." He sang The Commodores' "Three Times a Lady."

  Raif's voice, not as melodic as Dupree's as a professional R & B recording artist, picked up the tune on the second stanza. When Raif's voice broke, Dupree took over although his heart was breaking too.

  Raif walked out the French doors of the brightly painted yellow-and-white sunroom onto his patio into the rain. Ray followed him closely. "Raif," Ray said, putting his hand on his twin's shoulder.

  Through sobs, Raif said, "I can't wait until tomorrow. I'm angry now. I'm crying now. I'm broken now.” He squeezed the wine glass he held, toppling the top as the stem broke. Merlot mixed with blood dribbled down Raif’s hand as Ray grabbed the broken glass to keep it from shattering on the cobblestones at their feet.

  Raif continued to speak, oblivious to the cut in his palm. “I want to know who shot my wife in the head in front of my daughter from a football field away and simply disappeared. Why, for God's sake? Ray, I'm telling you right now: Chris was just the beginning of something very ugly, very evil."

  He fell into his brother's open arms.

  4

  Left for Dead

  September 2, 2028

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Neely Rivers was frustrated with the slump in business. The rising crime rate in the area made even seasoned residents, let alone tourists, reluctant to wander far off the main drag. The few clients she had these days came as repeat customers or because word of mouth had told them she was the best. She had hoped Labor Day weekend would bring the last-minute college crowd.

  She was about to close for the day when the ding at the door made her jump. The prospect of a patron excited her, but when she saw her potential customers, she became apprehensive. Five young skin-heads entered.

  "May I help you?" she asked from behind the service counter.

  "Yeah," said one of the young men. "We'd all like to get 'MOM' tattooed on our arms."

  "Really?" asked Neely with a furrowed brow.

  "Yes," replied the boy whose face looked as if he never needed to shave and his eyes of palest blue made him appear angelic.

  "That's a hundred fifty dollars per person. I'd like to see the money up front."

  "Not a problem." Each young man pulled out three new, crisp fifty-dollar bills.

  Although the rest of the lot looked rougher than the one doing the talking, the thought of seven hundred fifty dollars in a couple of hours at the most brought Neely around the counter toward the chair where she would ink a design as simple as they were requesting. "Did you have any particular style in mind? And I'll need to see some I.D. The law tells me I have to make sure you're all old enough to get tattoos."

  "Yeah," said the apparent leader of the group as he grabbed Neely's wrist. When she started to scream, he belted her in the mouth. One of the other members of the group locked the dead bolt while another flicked off the neon "OPEN" sign and a third turned off the lights.

  Hardly more than a boy, the skin-head, who held Neely firmly, and one of the others dragged her behind the counter. Every time she tried to scream, one of them punched her. They pinned her hands and feet. One of them straddled her and tore off her jeans and panties. He ripped off her blouse and bra.

  Neely struggled fiercely. The man pressed his hand to her throat and snarled in a voice that had barely changed, "Stop fighting, bitch! Just shut up and enjoy your last fuck!"

  Surgical gloves? Did they have those on when they came in? How did I not notice? Neely's mind raced. The maniac is actually putting on a condom. Then, he was inside her. He finished and traded places with another. Five times, over and over, they violated her. Surely, they're done. Then, the kicking started.

  Drifting to semi-consciousness, she heard glass shatter and paper ripping. I don't dare move. Maybe they'll leave ran through her mind.

  The young voice said in a panicky way, "What are you doing?"

  A more mature voice replied, "You're supposed to kill the bitch."

  "She's dead. I strangled her."

  Hold your breath, girl. The boy knows he didn't kill me. He doesn't want to.

  "Then she won't feel this, but I'm making sure she's dead." An evil laugh bubbled out of the older man. "Not the first time."

  Suddenly, something plunged inside her. The ripping, sawing, burning was excruciating. Not sure if the temperature dropped or if she were dying, she became cold.

  Neely knew no more.

  Sometime later, Neely opened her eyes. Everything hurt. She could hardly move, and she could still feel hands around her throat and strangely smell the faint cologne the boy had worn. Dark Obsession. If she had not hurt, she would have snorted at the irony.

  She lay in something wet. My own blood. Rolling her head to the side, she saw the old-fashioned princess phone. Dragging herself toward it, she hung up and then lifted the receiver and dialed 9-1-1.

  The operator answered, "Nine-one-one. State your emergency."

  Neely barely whispered, "Help me."

  "Ma'am, can you tell me where you are?"

  "Timeless Tattoos."

  "Ma'am, are you injured?"

  "Yes."

  "Ma'am, I'm tracing your call. Help is on the way."

  Fifteen minutes later, fire rescue and police crashed through the door. The first cop inside took in the situation. The tattoo equipment strewn all over the floor. Glass display cases shattered and the catalogues ripped apart. He gave a nod at the sound of groaning.

  The paramedics found Neely behind the service counter still clutching the phone. She lay in a pool of blood. The paramedics started dual I.V.'s and transported her as fast as possible to the hospital, radioing ahead that both a general surgeon and a gynecologist would be needed.

  "One tough babe," the officer noted looking at the bloody trail where Neely had forced herself to move.

  Once in the emergency room, there was no question this woman jumped to the top of the triage. The ER doctor barked orders. "Get a type and cross-match and get the blood to the O.R.!"

  The surgeon that had been called ran her through a CT-scan and reviewed the results in real time. Because it was obvious she had been raped, the gynecologist who rushed in gathered a basic rape kit. She growled, "Although with the loss of blood from the vagina, any evidence is probably already degraded. Bastard."

  The surgeon read the CT scan. "Obvious injuries: broken jaw; bruised larynx; six broken ribs; ruptured spleen." He cut his eyes to the gynecologist.

  The woman shook her head. "Don't want to think the worst. Let's get her to surgery." They shipped Neely Rivers to surgery. There was no time to waste.

  Neely slowly opened her eyes. A strange face greeted her, but the voice was kind. "Don't be afraid, Miss Rivers. I'm FBI Agent Steve Journey. You're in the hospital. You've been in surgery. Let me get your doctor."

  A short time passed before another man entered. "I'm Doctor Henri. How are you feeling?"

  Did he really ask that? Oh, just dandy. Her eyes drooped and she forced them open. Aloud she said, "How bad?" Her voice sounded raspy and her throat hurt, but her mid-section hurt worse. She could hardly breathe.

  "You have six broken ribs, your larynx is bruised, you have a concussion, your jaw is broken and wired together, so you'll be all liquid diet for a while."

  "Uh-huh," she grunted sensing he was hem-hawing. "They raped me. What else?" She had to swallow back the bile rising in her throa
t.

  "They used a long shard of glass. There was severe damage to your cervix."

  "Define severe."

  Henri released a compunctious sigh. "Bad enough that it is no longer competent to stay intact during pregnancy. We can do a procedure called cerclage if and when you want to try to have a child, but the damage is so extensive that the likelihood of ever being able to carry a child to term is very low. Actually…"

  "I can't have children?"

  "Most likely not without a miracle. You see, there was also a small perforation to the uterus. We did repair it, just to give you a chance."

  She squeezed her eyes to hold back tears. Too much at one time, doc. Maybe your delivery will get better with age. Let's hope.

  The doctor cleared his throat. "Your vaginal wall also has numerous lacerations. Scarring might cause you to experience pain during sex."

  "Sex? Who'd want me? I might never want to again."

  "I'll have the counselor meet with you later today. I hate to ask, but an FBI agent is still waiting."

  "Send him in. I want these bastards caught."

  "One more question. Is there anyone we can call for you?"

  "Colleen DuPin. Lives next door. Voodoo You Do."

  "Okay. I'll have someone call her."

  Neely opened her eyes and could make out sun shining through the drawn blinds. I thought I heard Colleen's voice.

  "Hello," said the voice from much earlier.

  She groaned.

  The agent placed a device in her hand. "Doc said push the button for pain meds."

  "Was Colleen here?" She pressed the dispenser.

  "Older, black lady?"

  "Mmm."

  "Yes, for a long time. I sent her home."

  "K. If you waited so long, this must be really bad."

  "You're the thirteenth victim of such an attack. The other twelve women are dead. I suppose you're lucky."

  "Don't feel too lucky," Neely squeaked through wired-together teeth.

  "I'm sure you don't, but you're alive. Can you tell me anything about who attacked you?"

  "Five skin-heads." She drifted off and started awake again. Journey had retaken his seat, but jumped to his feet the second the woman spoke. Twenty minutes seemed only seconds to her. "They shaid they wanted 'MOM' tattoosh, and they had cash." Her eyes closed again and tears seeped from beneath her lashes. "How shtupid could I have been?"

  "You weren't stupid. You were trying to conduct business. Is there anything else?"

  "Sho tired."

  "I know. I'll come back tomorrow. It's almost nightfall again." Agent Journey started to leave.

  "Wait!" called Neely barely above a whisper.

  "Yes?"

  "Firsht one had an ugly double-headed sherpent tattoo on his chesht over hish heart. Shaw the headsh above the edge of hish tank top." She dozed and jumped again. "Oh," she groaned and pressed the pain medicine pump. "He shmelled like Dark Obshession."

  He arched an eyebrow. "Thank you." He breathed a sigh of relief. "That's the first lead we've had. We're gonna do everything we can to find them."

  "Thanksh." She was so groggy, her words continued to come out slurred. "They actually ushed condomsh. Can you believe they came prepared?"

  "It's been the same in all the cases. There has been no physical evidence. Maybe when you're more coherent, you can describe them better."

  "I'll try. I want them punished."

  "I'm sure."

  "He had pale blue eyesh—sho young. Shame color as their rubber glovesh."

  "Blue eyes. Rubber gloves. Big leads." He patted her hand and turned to leave again.

  "Didn't want to kill me, but the other one did. Shaid not firsht time."

  "Excuse me?" He came back to the bed one more time.

  "Young one told another he shtrangled me, but he knew I wash alive. Felt my neck after he took hish handsh off my throat."

  "Remorse? Hesitation?" He grunted. "Maybe a different crew, but same leader. You say one was really young?"

  "Mmm. Voice cracked."

  "Maybe some kind of gang initiation. You really are giving me more than we've had."

  "One more thing. Everything wash shaved, even pubesh and underarmsh."

  "No semen, no hair—no DNA." We found no trace of sweat or saliva. Too damned clean. "At least you remember the gloves too. You rest now. I'll see you tomorrow."

  Agent Journey would never return, but Neely did her best to describe her attackers, though she could only recall one with any certainty. She sketched the part of the tattoo she had seen, as well as a pair of eyes that haunted her. Neely might have been broken and left for dead, but she refused to curl up and die.

  5

  Fallen Angels

  With Chris Gautier's untimely death, Brian Baker assumed the role as lead detective. He had every detective and some patrol officers reviewing Chris's old cases for possible suspects. Officer Parker Reynolds volunteered his off time, and Police Chief Raiford Reynolds left the comfort of his office to lend a hand.

  Chris had not even been on duty when she had been killed. She and Trista had been shopping at the strip mall. Since Trista was learning to drive, Chris had given her the car keys. Trista unlocked the driver's door, and Chris dropped on the other side of the car.

  The milling shoppers near the Gautier car had fallen behind the nearest cover at the loud sound, not sure what they had heard. Only one shot had been fired. No one else had been hit. Chris had obviously been the sole target. Baker believed it had to be related to an old case.

  The only thing her teenage daughter could recall was seeing her mother fall and the air being extremely cold for June in the Deep South. Baker read over the statements and shivered. "Shit." He called his boss.

  Ray answered with trepidation. "What now?"

  "Did you read this part about cold air?"

  Rubbing his head as a migraine crept up, Ray said, "Are you suggesting some form of spiritual warfare?"

  "Hey, it was freezing when we took Latrice down, and it was like ice in court with Mia."

  "Yeah. I'm sort of tired of any demon Latrice might have unleashed."

  "Me too, but it's weird again."

  "Let's meet at the crime scene."

  Ray and Brian met and went over everything again.

  The investigation followed the trajectory of the bullet to an office building more than a hundred yards from the parking lot. The slug, which had passed through Chris's brain and had been recovered from the car in front of hers, was a .223 and had to have been fired from either a hunting rifle or a sniper rifle. The caliber was general use for hunters, military snipers and police sharpshooters in close quarters. Ray noted, "That old veteran you talked to, knows his stuff. A .308 could have penetrated glass, maybe hit someone else. Not likely with the .223. Makes me think even more the person is one of us or military. The guy's target was specific. Hunters probably wouldn't worry about a ricochet. A .308 would be their choice."

  Baker groaned, "These days with the new strict laws promoted by the late great Robert LaFontaine, even hunters have to register their rifles. A .308 would be even harder to trace."

  Ray agreed. "I'm loath to believe a fellow law enforcer or a military person could be responsible. Of course, the weapon could have been obtained illegally or have been in circulation before the strict laws were enacted."

  "Let's not forget Latrice was retired military," Baker grunted. "Veteran status hardly negates culpability."

  "I can never forget." Ray rubbed his middle where his reminding scars remained.

  In Baton Rouge, FBI Agent Patrick Swift had a team investigating a string of high profile art thefts. Thirteen paintings in various state capitals had been stolen with the latest in Baton Rouge. Patrick waited for his team to convene. Looking at his watch, he realized he had about fifteen minutes to spare before everyone was expected back from a short break. He dialed his friend in Eau Boueuse.

  "Raiford Gautier," came the answer.

  "Hey, it's Patrick
. I just wanted to check on you."

  "Hanging in there. I've started a new project. And I have too much bullshit going on with the company not to stay focused."

  "Keep busy. Chris would want you to move on with life. As soon as I put this case to rest in Baton Rouge, I'll run down. Maybe we can hit a few golf balls."

  "Okay. I could use a friend."

  "You have Ray."

  "True, but he's not objective."

  Patrick laughed. "I'm not either. Gotta go. My team's arriving."

  "Okay, gang, settle down," Patrick Swift said to his special team. "We've been jetting all over the country: Phoenix, Little Rock, Sacramento, Denver, Jackson, Atlanta, Albany, Oklahoma City, Columbia, Salt Lake City, Richmond, Boston, now here—Baton Rouge. All state capitals, but this one feels off. What's different? What's the same?"

  A young black woman raised her hand.

  "It's not school, Beil," Patrick said with a smile.

  "Yes, sir. Well, all the art pieces belonged to minorities."

  "A racist connection?"

  She shrugged.

  Pursing his lips, Patrick nodded. "Could be. But what's odd?"

  An older agent fidgeted. "I'm not superstitious, but number thirteen is the only state capital hit that isn't an FBI field office. All the others have been."

  "Excellent," Patrick mumbled. "So—we have a thief or thieves, maybe being paid by a racist collector who for some reason wanted to lure us to Louisiana. Thirteen?" He scratched his curly coppery head. "You know, it's creepy because I worked the Latrice Descartes case here when her thirteenth victim was her undoing. I just got off the phone with her thirteenth intended male vic. He's a good friend. This just gives me the willies."

  After concluding with his team the thief or thieves were being paid by a collector, the team left the local police precinct for dinner. Outside as they nonchalantly discussed where to eat, Swift dropped in his tracks, and a crack. The other agents quickly drew their weapons and found cover, but no other shot was fired. Swift was dead less than two months after Detective Christine Gautier.