Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  “So what you’re sayin’ is we could be right?” Ben questioned.

  “Perhaps.” There was an almost audible shrug in her voice. “Can you tell me about the disposition of her remains? How was she when she was found?”

  “Wrapped in a plastic drop cloth and dumped in the woods.”

  “Was she dumped, or was she placed?”

  “I dunno. I guess she coulda been placed.”

  “You see, that is a factor as well. Was she clothed? Were there any personal items with her? How carefully was she wrapped in the plastic? Was she well hidden or likely to be found? Was this done haphazardly or was there reverence shown for her remains? Each of these things goes toward forming a picture of the person responsible.”

  “So now you’re sayin’ we’re probably wrong?”

  “No, Benjamin, what I am saying is that there are several other factors which must be weighed in order to reach a truly viable conclusion. As it stands now, the best I can say is that your theory is a definite maybe.”

  “Okay,” he huffed out a breath. “I guess that’s better’n a definite no. I appreciate the help, Sis. See ya’ tonight at the house?”

  “Of course. Is Rowan still there?”

  “I’m here,” I spoke up.

  “Good. Would it be possible for me to speak with you for a moment?”

  The tenor in her voice left no question that she wanted the conversation to be a private one. Ben picked up the receiver and handed it to me as the phone automatically disengaged the speaker then motioned for Charlee to follow him out.

  “We’ll be back at my desk,” he told me, pointing in the appropriate direction.

  I gave him a quick nod then waited for the door to shut before pressing the handset to my ear.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  I had actually considered for a moment the mental laundry list of items I wanted to speak with Helen about but quickly decided that this was neither the time nor the place. Besides, she had asked to talk to me, not the other way around.

  “I simply wanted to see how you were doing,” she returned.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Well, I was until right now,” I said. “Do I have a reason not to be?”

  “Only you can answer that, Rowan. When you left after our last session you were still dealing with some very serious issues. I am concerned that those issues may be at the very root of what is compelling you to become so entrenched in this investigation.”

  “I think my compulsion is actually a bit more otherworldly,” I offered, not entirely sure where she was headed.

  Something didn’t seem quite right, but I couldn’t pin it down. I wasn’t sure if it was her words or maybe just the clinical way in which she presented them. All I could say for sure was that she didn’t sound like the same Helen Storm who had just been speaking to us moments ago.

  “While I do not doubt that fact in the least, I also do not want you to lose sight of the here and now. You should not allow your strength to become your vulnerability.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “For you, that remains to be seen, Rowan, and will be based solely on the decisions you make.”

  “Is there something that I’m missing here, Helen?” I had no idea what she was talking about. “Pardon me for saying so, but you don’t sound quite like yourself.”

  “You are my patient and I am simply expressing my concern for your well being, Rowan.”

  It was my turn to ask, “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I am sure.”

  “Well, I have to be honest. I’m not so certain that I’m understanding what you mean.”

  “You will,” she stated without emotion. “Though it may sound cliché, simply bear in mind that one should sometimes follow the road less traveled.”

  “Okay.” I paused for an awkward moment, not knowing what I should say. “So anything else?”

  “No. We will talk about it more during our next session.”

  “Okay,” I said again and physically shrugged out of reflex. “Did you need to speak with Ben?”

  “No,” she returned. “Just tell him that I am looking forward to this evening. Bye.”

  I barely managed to get my own parting words out before the line disconnected at her end, leaving me to feel thoroughly confused by the entire conversation.

  * * * * *

  “Everything okay?” Ben asked me once I’d rejoined him at his desk.

  “Yeah, I think so. Where’s Charlee?”

  “She got called back down ta’ Vice. Ya’ sure everything’s okay?”

  “Yeah, everything’s fine. So what happens now that my theory might be a non-theory?”

  “Depends. We still don’t have a suspect, whether your theory is right or not.”

  “But the connection with Paige Lawson could lead to something, couldn’t it?”

  “Possible connection,” he corrected me. “I’ll admit, a very strong possibility, yeah, but we don’t have a smokin’ gun.”

  “Maybe not, but there’s definitely something there.”

  “Like I told ya’, I’m not sayin’ there isn’t.”

  “Good, because I know I’m right about this.”

  “You’re just fuckin’ dyin’ to say it, aren’t ya?”

  “Say what?”

  “I told ya’ so.”

  “Yeah, maybe a little.”

  “Well, you might wanna wait until we’ve got more ta’ go on. Who knows, we…”

  For the second time in the past hour, the phone on his desk demanded attention and brought our conversation to an unceremonious halt.

  “Homicide, Storm.” My friend answered the device with an annoyed clip in his voice, but then his tone quickly changed. “Oh, hey, what’s up?”

  Since he was now focused on the caller I began to drift. Instead of paying attention to his “uh-huhs” and “yeahs,” I was concentrating instead on a blank spot occupying the wall across the room. My brain was still reeling a bit as I tried to figure out the strange conversation I’d just had with Helen Storm. It was when he stopped grunting into the phone that the silence prompted me to look up and find him staring at me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know if I’d call ya’ wrong, but ya’ sure as hell ain’t right, Svengali.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That was Chuck on the phone. Apparently the reason she got called back down ta’ Vice was because one of the rape victims showed up ta’ tell her somethin’ she suddenly remembered.”

  He just continued to stare at me then after a moment began to shake his head.

  “What?”

  “Jeezus…Guess I gotta say it. Accordin’ ta’ Chuck, this woman remembers somethin’ about a prom dress.”

  Even with my attention being less than par, it only took a split second for me to make the connection. I nodded and asked, “So can I say ‘I told you so’ now?”

  “Shut up.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “So are you going to talk to her?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Ben nodded. “McLaughlin said we could meet in one of the interview rooms down there.”

  “Mind if I tag along?”

  “I don’t, but she might. I actually wouldn’t mind havin’ ya’ where I can keep an eye on ya’, but you need to remember this woman was raped. She might not be all that keen on a coupl’a men descendin’ on ‘er all of a sudden.”

  What my friend said made perfect sense. What didn’t make sense was the fact that I hadn’t considered that fact from the very beginning myself. Normally, I was far more sensitive to the feelings of those around me, and the circumstances arising from a situation like this should have been painfully obvious. At this particular moment, however, I seemed to be oblivious to the concept of empathy.

  My brain had pretty much been a jigsaw puzzle for the past two months, but instead of drawing closer to completion each day, entropy had been taking its toll. In
some ways it even felt like a cosmic basket of kittens had been stealing pieces here and there when I wasn’t looking.

  Now, for a change, the forces of nature seemed to be acting in my favor. The smothering cocoon that had been spun around me by those wanting to keep me safe was giving way, whether they were ready for it to do so or not. Vindication was just around the corner, and the very fact that it was so close imbued me with confidence.

  Things were finally starting to come together, and I was determined that I would not be left out. I wasn’t about to miss any chance I had of regaining my stability. I wanted my life back, and something told me that an important piece of it was in the possession of this victim.

  “Okay, so what about those one way mirror things?” I suggested.

  “I wanna ask ‘er questions, not spy on ‘er,” my friend told me as he gathered up his notebook and shrugged on his jacket. “And the idea of me keepin’ an eye on ya’ kinda falls apart if you can see me but I can’t see you. Know what I mean?”

  “So you’re serious about that.”

  “Did’ya’ think I wasn’t?” He shook his head. “Look, ya’ can come downstairs with me. Hell, short of kickin’ ya’ out or throwin’ ya’ in holding, I doubt I can stop ya’. But, remember, this woman is a victim as well as a witness and you’re not a cop, so if she doesn’t want ya’ in there, I’m gonna set ya’ outside the door with a uniform or somethin’. Got it?”

  I nodded. “Of course.”

  We were already on the move, me at an almost jog to keep up with my friend’s normal long-legged pace. He rummaged around in his pockets and withdrew a tin of breath mints, offering them to me after popping one in his own mouth.

  “You need one, smokey,” he said. “Trust me.”

  I took his advice, and then he snapped the lid shut and stuffed them back into his pocket.

  “You gonna call Felicity and tell ‘er you’re down here?” he asked as he jerked open a stairwell door and motioned me through.

  I took a quick glance at my watch. It was almost 10:30. The Santa Brigade, as they liked to call themselves, would be right in the middle of entertaining a group of kids at the moment. If everything were following the intended schedule, they would be heading out for the next stop in about an hour.

  “She’s got a full schedule, but she should have a bit of a break around eleven-thirty so they can all grab lunch,” I told him. “I’ll probably call her then.”

  “Don’t forget to check with ‘er about tonight.”

  “Will do. So if we’re able to make it, what should we bring?”

  “Just yourselves.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, it’s not a big deal and we’ll have plenty. Hell, we always have too much. Although, ya’know, if ya’ happen ta’ think about it, Allison wanted the recipe for that beef tenderloin you guys served the other night.”

  His request reminded me that we had completely forgotten to tell everyone what they had actually eaten for the Yule feast. I thought about continuing to guard the secret, especially since Felicity wasn’t here to see his reaction, but I was just going to have to apologize to her for that. I needed the laugh right now.

  “Ummm, that wasn’t beef,” I said as we started down the stairs.

  “Really? It didn’t taste like pork,” he said.

  “That’s because it wasn’t pork either.”

  “Well, it sure as hell wasn’t chicken. I know that much.”

  “You are correct.”

  “Well if it wasn’t beef, pork, or chicken then what the hell was it?”

  “Actually, it was ostrich.”

  My friend slowed his pace, almost stopping as he gave me a long look, one eyebrow raised questioningly. “Ostrich. You mean like the big-ass-stickin’-its-head-in-the-sand-bird? You mean, that kinda ostrich?”

  “Actually,” I offered, “they don’t really stick their heads in the sand, they just lay them against the ground.”

  “Ostrich?” he repeated, ignoring the bit of trivia.

  “Yeah,” I nodded as we rounded a landing and picked up the pace once again, “ostrich.”

  “Jeez, white man.”

  “Didn’t you like it?” I asked.

  “I had seconds, didn’t I?”

  “And thirds as I recall, so what’s the problem?”

  “I ate a fuckin’ ostrich, that’s the problem.”

  * * * * *

  I hung back as Ben conferred with Detective McLaughlin at the doorway to the interview room and then after a moment waved me over.

  “Okay, this woman was raped about two weeks ago, and she’s still pretty skittish. Right now she’s okay with you bein’ here,” he told me in a stern whisper. “But here’s the rules—you’re just an observer. Let us handle it, and if ya’ get some kinda hinky Twilight Zone thing goin’ on, gimme some kinda sign so I can get ya’ outta there.”

  “Like what?”

  “I dunno, anything. Better yet, just don’t go off into never-never land on me and we won’t hafta worry about it.”

  “I’ll try,” I said. “That’s all I can do.”

  “Yeah, well try really fuckin’ hard, okay? I don’t need ta’ be worryin’ about ya’ goin’ off the deep end and spookin’ a witness too.”

  Charlee pulled the door wide to allow entry, and we were greeted with a thick haze of blue-white smoke that hung in languid ribbons on the already stale air. A thin shiver arced down my spine, and I knew instantly that I was on the correct path.

  “Miz Hodges,” Charlee said as she shut the door behind us, “this is Detective Storm and Mister Gant. Detective Storm is the officer I was telling you about. Gentlemen, this is Miranda Hodges.”

  The woman seated at the table in the small conference room fit the victim profile perfectly—early twenties, very petite, very blonde, and very pretty.

  She was also very nervous.

  There was a noticeable tremble in her hand as she brought a cigarette to her lips and inhaled deeply. A half empty pack was on the table in front of her along with a disposable lighter, and the ashtray was filled with better than a half-dozen butts. I stole a glance at my watch. They hadn’t been in here for very long.

  “Hi,” she said in a meek voice then stubbed out the remaining inch of the burning tobacco, only to immediately light another.

  My own craving for nicotine re-awakened, and I wanted desperately to sit down and join her in the chain smoking frenzy but decided that I’d better not. Ben shot me a glance and I nodded perceptibly. I’d been telling him all along that my return to smoking had to be due to the outside influence of a victim. I had simply thought that I was channeling the vice of a dead victim, not a living one. But here was Miranda Hodges, cigarette in hand, and there was no denying the possible correlation. Maybe I was wrong, but I doubted it. The timeline and the intensity of the habit fit.

  I smiled inwardly for a moment. Score another one for me. If things kept falling into place this quickly, I just might get the gift of my sanity for Christmas.

  “Good morning, Miz Hodges,” Ben greeted the young woman as we ventured into the room.

  “Detective McLaughlin told me that you work with Homicide,” Miranda ventured.

  “That’s right,” he answered.

  She looked past Ben and locked her eyes on mine. “Are you with Homicide too, Detective Gant?”

  “Mister Gant is a consultant,” Ben told her, answering before I could open my mouth and heavily stressing the Mister. “He’s helping us with another case, and I thought his input might be valuable here. But if you’re uncomfortable…” he allowed the comment to hang, unfinished.

  “No,” she shook her head. “No, it’s fine. What kind of consultant?”

  “Umm…”

  “Latent memory analysis and dream interpretation,” I interjected, plucking something impressive sounding out of the air since Ben seemed at a momentary loss. I knew full well that I was stepping outside the boundaries that he’d set, but I wasn’t going to miss this op
portunity.

  I’d been allowing everyone else to guide me for far too long. I had come to the conclusion that it was my turn to drive.

  “So like a psychiatrist then,” she said.

  “Not exactly,” I told her with a shrug and then nodded as I moved closer to the table. “But something similar I suppose.”

  “I’m not crazy,” she immediately announced.

  “No one thinks you’re crazy, Miz Hodges,” Charlee told her.

  I could feel Ben’s stare burning a large hole in my back. I was going to be in deep trouble with him when this was all over, but I knew he wouldn’t make a scene. Not in here, and not as long as things remained on an even keel anyway. Still, the only way I was going to redeem myself in the least was if I could make some progress, so I continued.

  “Not at all,” I echoed. “I’m just here to help you with your memory, but if you’d rather I leave, I’ll certainly understand.”

  She sat quietly for a long stretch before finally answering, “I’m not so sure I want to remember.”

  “That’s perfectly normal,” I offered calmly, pressing my voice into a soothing monotone. “But eventually we always do. Perhaps not everything, but enough to fill in at least some of the blanks.”

  Her eyes were fixed with mine, and she gave me a nervous smile before looking down at the table. She was outwardly displaying a tenuous amount of confidence in my presence here, and I accepted it for what it was worth. I fought back my own desire to rush headlong into a series of questions and ushered it into the background. I couldn’t afford to betray her trust, nor did I want to.

  “I have plenty of those.” She let out a forced laugh. “Blanks I mean.”

  “Rohypnol does that,” Charlee told her. “That’s one of the reasons it’s called the date rape drug.”

  I continued to watch the young woman, not placing any demands on the situation but keeping my attention focused directly on her. Engaging in a simple exercise, I allowed my breathing to grow more and more shallow as I drew air slowly in through my nose and let it escape from my mouth in a quiet stream.