by Laurel Dewey
Chris moved closer, tilting his head in an awkward manner. “I need you—”
“Get away from me.” Jane pulled her body away from him.
“Jane! I’m not kidding!” Chris yelled in a desperate tone. Jane spun around and continued down the stairs to the basement where the evidence room was located. Chris leaned over the railing. “Jane! We can make it right!”
Jane swung open the basement door and entered the huge evidence entry area. There was always that smell down there. Jane figured you could be blindfolded and when you got to the basement, you’d know it by the odor of over one million pieces of evidence—all crammed into metal shelves and waiting to be called up to solve a crime. Bloodied baseball bats used to bash in a husband’s head lay next to carefully sealed plastic K-Paks bags of cocaine, marijuana and meth.
Ron Dickson, one of the evidence technicians, stood behind a metal security grating, signing out one of the detectives from burglary. The place was unusually still and silent. Ron wasn’t the kind of fellow Jane would have talked to outside the office. Maybe it was because Ron was very obviously a Pentecostal Christian. Or perhaps it was because he always had a smile on his face and something positive to share with Jane. He’d brag about one of his three kids winning a league soccer tournament or that he collected more money than anyone else at Headquarters for D.A.R.E., a group he held in high esteem. Jane wondered at times how he made it through life so trusting and somewhat gullible. He worked amongst the blood and the drugs and the obscene photographs and he somehow remained cheerful. When Jane finally asked him one day how he did it, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “It’s a God thing!”
Jane leaned against the door and took a long drag on her cigarette. She figured that Chris had headed back upstairs or out to the double homicide. The detective from burglary walked to the elevator and disappeared behind the large steel doors.
“Detective Perry?” said Ron, his cheerful voice bringing Jane out of her slight daze. “I sure don’t mind if you smoke but if they find you down here with that cigarette, I’ll be in a world of trouble.” He pulled out a large coffee can with a handmade note taped across it that read “PUT YOUR BUTT IN HERE.” Jane reluctantly sidled over to Ron and took one last long drag before plopping it into the can. Ron was wearing a perfectly pressed pair of chinos to go along with his perfectly pressed navy polo shirt. On the shirt was a discreet button that said, “D.A.R.E. to keep kids off DRUGS.” Jane imagined Ron’s ivory-skinned wife dutifully pressing his pants and shirts, affixing either his D.A.R.E. or “Proud Soccer Parent” button onto his shirt and sending him off to work with a gentle kiss. When Jane was around Ron, she always felt very loud, very crude and very lost. “I’m sure I’m not the first to say this, but welcome back!” Ron said with an honest smile.
Jane tried her best to twist her lips into what could pass for a smile. “Thanks, Ron.” She dropped her leather satchel against the counter. When Ron spoke to you, he always looked you straight in the eye, no jittery shifting back and forth. It was a sign to Jane that he was honest and speaking from the heart.
“Are you feeling alright, Detective Perry?”
Jane could have said a million smart-ass answers, but between feeling the need to censor her vocabulary with him and still stinging from Weyler’s suspension, she decided to settle on the truth. “No, Ron. I’m not feeling alright.”
“Is it your hand? If it is, my wife makes an herbal salve that works wonders.”
“The hand’s fine. I just have a lot on my mind.”
Ron hesitated. “I hope you don’t think I’m too forward but when I heard about what happened to you and Detective Crawley and that poor family, I asked our faith circle to include you in their prayers. My wife and I also prayed for you.”
Jane leaned on the steel counter and turned to Ron. “What did you ask for?”
“We prayed that you would be protected, and for God to give you direction.”
Jane’s eyes trailed off to the side. “You think God heard your prayers?”
“Yes, ma’am. And I know in my heart He will give you the answers you need very soon.” Ron placed the palm of his hand over Jane’s bandaged hand. “He works in mysterious ways, Detective Perry.” Jane stood still, taken aback by Ron’s bold gesture. His clear, blue eyes seemed to look right through her. It might have been the end result of her five-day drinking binge but she felt as though Ron knew things about her that she buried long ago. The elevator doors opened and two detectives from assault emerged, chatting loudly and carrying bags of evidence. “Excuse me,” Ron said, gently withdrawing his hand and attending to the detectives.
Jane grabbed her leather satchel and moved aside. Her head spun with various forms of strategy that would convince Weyler to put her back on the board without having to endure hours of psych counseling. This kind of deep thinking required tobacco, however. She headed back into the stairwell and lit up a cigarette. Leaning on the railing, she lost herself in thought. Jane heard the big steel door open from the lobby entrance and the patronizing voice of Martha Durrett. It was hard for Jane to concentrate on her thoughts while Martha was chattering. The 47-year-old worked for the Department of Social Services and was a constant thorn in Jane’s side. Part of it was Martha’s voice, a strident and annoying one. It was hard enough to stomach her voice when one was feeling normal but it was especially brutal with a hangover. Martha had a habit of clipping her words with the precision of a sharp knife as she moved through the world as though she owned it.
“Come along, dear,” Jane heard Martha say in that ever-condescending tone. “It’s just two quick flights up. Come, come!” Jane shook her head in disgust at Martha’s schoolteacher manner. She didn’t know who she was talking to but she felt sorry for them. The stream of smoke from her cigarette drifted up from the basement. Like a human smoke alarm, it didn’t take Martha long to blare. “Is someone there?” Martha leaned over the railing. Silence. “I say, is someone down there?” Martha sounded more agitated. Silence. “Wait right here,” Martha said to her hushed companion. Jane heard the sound of Martha’s sensible rubber soled shoes scuffing across the floor and tramping down the stairs until she lit on the landing above where Jane stood. “Ah-hah!” Martha dug her fists into her wide hips and drew herself up to her full five-foot frame. She looked down at Jane with a scowl and a chiding “Tch, tch, tch” with her tongue. “Detective Perry. You know smoking is forbidden inside all Denver County and City buildings! Put that awful thing out before you set off the sprinklers!”
Jane leaned back against the wall, took a long, exaggerated drag off her cigarette and let the smoke slowly curl from her lips in a continuous ribbon. “You know, Martha, standing there like you are in that light, I can’t decide whether you look more like Napoleon or Hitler. Either way, fuck off!”
Martha quickly looked up the stairs and then bounded halfway down toward Jane. “Detective Perry!” Martha said in a hushed tone, “curb your language! I have a young child up there!”
“Does she realize what a complete asshole you are?” “Detective Perry! I will not say it again! Please refrain from—” Martha’s attention was drawn upward as the child peered over the railing, her brown hair hanging softly in midair. Jane looked up at the girl and moved away from the wall to get a better view. “Emily,” Martha chided. “Step back. I’ll be right there.”
Emily Lawrence started to retreat when Jane spoke up. “Hey, Emily! Don’t listen to her! Run like hell and don’t look back!”
Emily stared at Jane in stunned fascination. Martha grabbed Jane by her elbow and brusquely took her aside, out of Emily’s view. “Detective Perry, you are very much out of line!”
Jane replied in the same clipped manner. “Get your hand off me, Martha, or I’ll knock you on your—” Jane peered around Martha. Emily stood on the landing above her. In her left hand, she clutched onto her navy blue vinyl case that held the Starlight Starbright projector. Jane felt an unnerving jolt of recognition. There was something vaguely fam
iliar about the kid—strangely familiar.
“That’s it!” Martha announced. “I’m reporting you to your sergeant.” Martha spun on her sensible shoes and walked up several steps toward Emily. “You are foul-mouthed and inappropriate!” Martha exclaimed, speaking over her shoulder to Jane. But Jane didn’t hear a word of it; she was still trying to shake the odd feeling churning her gut. It was as if a memory suddenly surfaced without any lucid connection. “Come along, Emily!” Martha barked at Emily. Martha was halfway up the second set of stairs, issuing orders to Emily but the kid didn’t move. She stared undaunted at Jane.
Jane leaned against the wall. She wanted to say something to the child but . . . what? She figured a mild caveat might be appropriate. “Hey, kid,” Jane said in a half-whisper. “Don’t let her jerk you around.”
“Emily!” Martha beckoned from one flight above. “Come up here now!”
Emily stood for one more long second staring at Jane before she made her way back up the stairs and into Martha’s waiting hand.
Jane waited as the echoing clip-clop of Martha and Emily’s footsteps climbed the stairs. A dull sound of steel against steel penetrated the stairwell when Martha opened the door leading onto the third floor and let it slam shut. Standing in the sudden silence, she tried to contend with the elusive sense that something extraordinary was happening. She felt detached from her body but also filled with a palpable sensation that she knew more than she consciously realized. Given that she’d been blitzed on booze and blacked out many times over the last five days, she worried her current state might precede a complete breakdown. The thought of losing her mind forced the need of nicotine to suffocate the sharp edges. Jane took a long drag on her cigarette. The smoke caressed her throat and penetrated her lungs. She closed her eyes to drink in the sweet anesthesia. But suddenly, a disjointed series of stark images flashed in front of her. There was an outstretched Glock, a flash of blinding light and the genuine sensation that someone was desperately grabbing her right hand. Startled, Jane opened her eyes expecting to see someone holding on to her. But she stood alone.
“Shit,” Jane muttered under her breath. The walls closed in on her. She had to get out of the stairwell. Jane wanted more than anything to run upstairs, sit at her desk and focus . . . focus on anything mundane that would force the booze-induced images out of her head. Her ego quickly took hold when she remembered her suspension. Jane wasn’t about to go upstairs and negotiate with Weyler. A psych counsel now might prove her worst fears. She would do what she always did: bury the trauma and move forward. If she talked to Weyler, she had to be tactful. However, tact was not something Jane had mastered in her 35 years. Tact, as she was fond of saying, was for people who didn’t have the balls to speak the truth. She grabbed her leather satchel, pinched what was left of her cigarette between her lips and plodded up the stairs with purpose. Jane had no idea what she was going to say to Weyler but she figured the right words would spill out at the precise moment. She was so deep in thought as she climbed the steps toward the third floor door that she didn’t hear the loud voice of a woman yelling on the other side of the door. She flicked her cigarette butt to the floor, smashed it with the toe of her boot and swung open the door.
The grating pitch of the Mexican woman she’d seen earlier in the elevator with the scared little girl greeted her. The woman held on to her daughter with one hand and used the other to gesture excitedly toward several of the detectives from Assault. She spoke rapidly and hysterically in Spanish, adding a sentence here and there in English. “You don’t know!” screamed the woman, during an interlude of English. “He hurt my baby! My baby girl!!!”
As determined as Jane was to get to Weyler’s office, she couldn’t help but take in the scene. Down the hall, twenty feet away, stood Martha, her hand tightly clasped around Emily’s wrist. Several detectives and police personnel poked their heads out of their offices. Even Weyler looked outside his office door to catch the action.
Jane started to move around the woman when out of the corner of her eye, she saw two officers escorting a slightly built Mexican man in his mid-twenties down the hallway. He wore a stained T-shirt, baggy tan pants and sported endless tattoos that flowed from his wrist to his neck. Even though he was cuffed from behind, he walked with an arrogant, cocksure swagger and held his head high.
Jane was about two feet from the screaming woman and in direct line with the approaching suspect when it happened. The woman caught sight of the fellow and, in one desperate stroke, withdrew a Glock from a passing patrol officer’s holster and pointed it at the Mexican suspect in cuffs. “No!” the woman screamed as she stood firm, both hands clasped around the gun and holding it outstretched toward the suspect.
Jane turned toward the woman and took a quick step back, within arm’s reach of the weapon. Every officer on the floor reached for their firearm. Martha pulled Emily down onto the carpet and shielded the child’s head with her body.
Weyler moved forward into the hallway and yelled toward the officers, “Stand down! Stand down!” Everyone took a step back except for Jane. Her eyes were locked onto the woman, who by now was shaking and choking back tears. As strong as the woman was trying to look, every fiber of her being was seized in terror. Jane carefully took her eyes off the woman and slid her glance toward the suspect who was frozen between the two officers not more than fifteen feet away. “Ma’am?” said Weyler quietly, his voice cutting through the tension. “Put down the gun.”
“No!” she screamed in her thick accent. “You don’t know what he did to my baby! No father should do those things to his little girl!”
The suspect smirked, sticking his chin defiantly in the air. “You lying bitch!”
The woman moved her finger onto the trigger. Everyone in the hallway stiffened. “I don’t lie!” the woman screamed as her daughter buried her head in her mother’s hip. “You broke her! She’s just a baby!”
“Ma’am, please,” Weyler insisted. “Put down the gun. Let’s talk about this.”
“No talk!” the woman yelled defiantly, her eyes burning holes toward the suspect. Jane drew her attention back to the woman and stepped toward her. The woman kept her eyes forward. “Don’t you try nothing!” she screamed at Jane.
“I’m not gonna do anything,” Jane said, an eerie calm to her voice. “I’m on your side.”
“Don’t you play no game with me!”
“I am not playing games. I’m serious. I want to help you.”
“How you help me?”
“Well, for starters, you’ve never shot a gun before, have you?”
“No,” the woman said, her throat choked with emotion.
“That’s okay,” Jane said offhandedly. “You’ve got the right idea. You just don’t have the right control. I need to move closer so I can give you some pointers, okay?”
“Don’t you try nothing!” the woman yelled.
“I’m not gonna stop you,” Jane said, almost insulted. “You want to do this right, or do you want to make a mess? Relax.” Jane slid her body next to the woman so that she could see down the barrel of the extended pistol. “You gotta stop shaking. Take a good, deep breath.” The woman drew in her lungs. “Now, let it out slowly,” Jane counseled. The woman followed suit, letting out a long stream of air. “Good. You’re not shaking as much. Okay, there’s several ways you can do this.” Jane directed her attention toward the suspect. “You can aim for his head,” Jane gently placed her index finger under the woman’s wrists and slightly moved the gun sight in line with the suspect’s forehead. “That’d be a sweet shot. However, we’re about fifteen feet away and even the best cop could miss. Your second option is to bring the gun down here.” Jane gently directed the woman’s aim to the suspect’s groin. “That’s a tempting shot. You hit the mark dead on and he never hurts anyone else like that again. But, tempting as it is, we’re still fifteen feet away and there’s a good chance you’ll miss. So there’s option three.” Jane directed the pistol at the suspect’s chest.
“That’s what we call a ‘center punch’ and it always works. You fire a magnum plug right there and you solve your problem in less than a second.” Jane turned to the woman. “I’d go with option three if I were you.”
The woman thought for a second, then nodded. “Okay,” she said calmly.
“Now, before you plug him, I need to know if you have a safe place for your daughter to stay.”
The woman furrowed her eyebrows as if irritated by the question. “What?”
“Is there a safe place for the kid to live? A family member you trust? Preferably not one on his side of the family. A sister? A brother?”
“She live with me!”
“Well, of course, I’ll do everything I can in court to make that happen.”
“What you saying?” The woman started shaking.
“Relax! It’s going to be okay. It’s just that after you kill the son-of-a-bitch, I’m going to have to arrest you and take your daughter away from you.”
The woman started to cry. “What? You can’t! She need me.”
“I know. But that’s why I need to know about a trusted family member who can look after her—”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. Conservatively, probably six months to ten years.”
“Ten years!”
“I’m just throwing out numbers. I don’t know for sure. Hey, I don’t make these rules. If it were up to me, I’d say shoot the asshole and I’d buy you dinner. But I’m not in charge. So, again, have you got anyone you can trust with your kid?”
The woman started shaking violently and sobbing. “No! I can’t let her be away from me. She need me now!”
Jane let out a long breath of air coupled with a sigh. “Well then . . . you better not shoot the bastard. It’ll just get too complicated.”
For the first time, the woman took her eyes off the suspect and looked at Jane, tears streaming down her face. They stared at each other for what seemed like eternity until Jane moved closer to the woman’s ear and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
