Protector

by Laurel Dewey

  Emily continued to observe the scene, still unsure what to think. Jane replaced the plastic baggie, locked the cabinet and secured the key back into its taped spot. Emily decided it was time to “wake up” and let out a fake yawn. Jane turned around just as Emily opened her eyes.

  “Hi,” Emily said.

  “Hi,” Jane replied. The two stared at each other amidst an awkward silence. “What are you doing?” Emily asked with care.

  “Just looking around.”

  “Oh.” Emily was not convinced.

  “You awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need to ask you a question.” Jane sat on the couch as Emily worked her way up. “I know you’re a very observant kid. This is going to sound odd, but did you ever catch your dad or your mother sniffing something up their nose?”

  “Sniffing . . . Like smelling, you mean?” Emily said, not quite grasping the idea.

  “No . . . like snorting. Maybe off a plate or the top of their hand?”

  “You mean cocaine?”

  Jane stopped for a second. “Yeah . . . You know what that is?”

  “Sure. I’ve seen it.”

  “Where?”

  “On TV.”

  “TV? What kind of shows did your folks let you watch?” Jane said, a slight indignant tone creeping into her voice.

  “I’ve seen Cops a bunch of times. People are always getting in trouble for having cocaine on that show. But they’re always from Florida and California.”

  “Is that right? No one from Denver, Colorado?”

  “No. They only showed the cops in Denver a couple times and that was just all about people getting drunk and driving their cars into trees and one park bench.”

  “I see. So, the only place you’ve ever seen cocaine is on Cops?”

  “Yeah. But only when they’re in Florida and California.”

  “Right. Denver just has the drunks. Okay.” Jane stood up, rifling through her jacket in search of a cigarette.

  “Are you gonna ask me if my dad was a drunk?”

  Jane lit her cigarette. “No.”

  “Oh.” Emily glanced at the liquor cabinet, then back to Jane. “’Cause if you were going to ask me that, I’d say yes.”

  “That’s not important to me.” Jane moved toward the kitchen. “What do you usually eat for breakfast?”

  “I think that’s why Mommy took me on that camping trip. She wanted to get away. He got really drunk a lot this year.”

  “It’s not important, Emily,” Jane said succinctly.

  “But it was important. Every time they fought, Mommy would always say something about how daddy was drinking too much and making bad . . .” Emily searched for the word. “Decisions . . .” She turned her head to the side and furrowed her brow. “Hey . . . you know what?” It was as if a lightbulb started to go from dim to bright. “Mommy and Daddy were fighting that night. I was in my room and I heard their voices get louder.” Emily looked at Jane. “Is that when I went in the closet?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  As quickly as Emily’s memory wrapped around that moment in time, it abruptly ended.

  Jane managed to whip up a mediocre breakfast of scrambled eggs and half-burnt toast. Instead of her usual no frills coffee, she had to settle for the Sumatra Blend from Starbucks. Emily poked at her breakfast with her fork, arranging the eggs in little piles across her plate.

  “Stop playing with your food,” Jane admonished. “If you don’t want to eat it, there’s always cold pizza.”

  “For breakfast? No, thanks. I’ll eat this. It’s just not how Mommy makes it—”

  “Well, that’s because I’m not Mommy!” Jane brusquely got up from the table and washed off her plate. Her teeth clenched. What she wouldn’t give for a taste of whiskey. Her sudden sobriety was playing havoc with her senses. Lights were brighter, sounds were more intrusive and time seemed to drag.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Emily said softly.

  “You didn’t hurt my feelings,” Jane said abruptly.

  “Then how come you’re mad?”

  Jane turned to Emily. “Look, kid, it’s too damn early in the morning for this. You done with your food?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, go upstairs and get dressed.”

  Emily slid off the kitchen chair and headed toward the stairs via the kitchen hallway route. Jane stood at the sink in a half-daze. Suddenly, the sound of her cell phone pierced the silence. She tossed her cigarette into the sink and followed the annoying chirp-chirp ring to her jacket pocket that lay over the living room couch.

  “Yeah?” Jane answered the phone.

  “Jane, it’s me,” said Sergeant Weyler. “Can you talk freely?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  “No memories?”

  “Not unless you count ‘Mommy and Daddy were fighting. ’ ”

  “Fighting about what?”

  “Who the fuck knows?”

  “It could be important. Ask her more about it.”

  “People fight. So what?” Jane wandered over toward the staircase where the desk stood. She wove looping patterns into the surface with her finger.

  “We have to start making connections, Jane. Maybe they were fighting about drugs. I know you think that cocaine was a dead lead—”

  “This has nothing to do with coke!” Jane said, guarding her voice so Emily couldn’t hear. “I asked the kid point blank. The only coke she’s ever seen is on Cops.”

  “What cops?”

  “The television show? Well, it’s not on PBS, so of course, you’ve never seen it.”

  “What makes you think Emily would be aware of her parents doing coke?”

  “Kids know things. They may not tell their friends about it but they know things. They see things. Any guy who traffics in the amount of coke that was left behind that night would be sloppy as shit. This kid doesn’t miss one damn thing. She watches you and I mean, she watches you fucking constantly! There’s no way her parents could hide a coke habit that stretched into late night deals that turned sour.” Jane ran her hand over the top of the desk that held the cubby holes. “Look, none of it makes any sense. It’s like I told you. The whole crime scene was misleading. Whoever did this was smart and cunning. They made sure that it looked like something it wasn’t.” Just then, her finger hit one of the hidden buttons on the desk and a side drawer popped open. “Shit!”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s this desk.” Jane opened the drawer and looked inside. It was empty, save for an eraser. “Boss, there’s nothing this kid can give us. Call her aunt and uncle and—”

  “We made an arrest last night in LoDo,” Weyler quickly interjected.

  “What arrest?”

  “There might be a connection to the Lawrence murders. The perp was arrested for public drunkenness and pissing on the sidewalk. When PD searched him during booking, they found an item on his person that sent up a red flag.”

  “What item?”

  “A silver cigarette case with the inscription ‘Wedding Blessings. David & Patricia Lawrence.’ I paged Chris and told him to come back from Dillon. He’s been talking to the guy for the past half hour. I want you to come down and check out this guy. Chris thinks this could go somewhere. I’ll call Martha and tell her to watch Emily while you’re gone. Have one of the cars bring you over.”

  Weyler hung up. The whole thing felt wrong to Jane. But she couldn’t back up her gut feeling with practical analysis and so she was stuck. Jane felt two eyes staring at her and looked up the staircase. There Emily sat on the top step in her denim jumper with the straps undone. “How long have you been sitting there?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s nothing.” Jane started up the stairs toward Emily. “I have to go see my boss for a little bit. But your good buddy Martha is going to hang with you.”

  “When are you comi
ng back?” Emily sounded anxious.

  “Couple hours probably. Your straps are all twisted around.”

  “I know. I can’t button them.”

  “Stand up.” Emily complied as Jane tried to untwist the child’s straps. The tiny flashlight that Martha had fastened on the jumper was the root of the problem. “You want to keep this thing on here?” Jane said, poking at the flashlight.

  “I probably should. She’ll wonder what happened to it if I don’t.”

  Jane continued to unwrap the cotton strap from the flashlight. “Stupid flashlight,” Jane mumbled under her breath. “I’m surprised Martha didn’t ask you to talk in code to her so I couldn’t understand your conversations!”

  “Code?”

  “Yeah. Cops do it all the time between each other when they don’t want perps knowing what they’re saying.” Emily placed her hand on the railing and gently rubbed her hand up and down the wood. Slowly, she became transfixed with the movement until she zoned out. Jane caught a glimpse of Emily. “Hey!” Emily did not respond.

  “Emily!”

  Emily looked up, still in a half-daze. “Mommy and Daddy were fighting. Then somebody else showed up . . .”

  “Somebody else?”

  “I listened through the door.” Emily was silent for a second. “There was an accident!” she recalled, with a tinge of fear.

  “Accident?”

  “That’s what the man said. He walked over there,” Emily pointed toward the kitchen, “and into the kitchen.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I heard the kitchen door close up in my room,” Emily replied in a slight trance. The child fell deeper into the memory. “It was quiet. But when he came out of the kitchen, the yelling started. And then . . . I don’t know . . . everything’s dark.” There was a loud thump-thump on the front door. Emily jumped and grabbed hold of Jane.

  “Emily?”

  The voice outside belonged to Martha Durrett. She had obviously received the call from Weyler and was wasting no time coming to the child’s aid.

  “Can I go with you?” Emily said, still hanging on to Jane’s shirtsleeve. “I promise I won’t say a word!”

  “Emily, you can’t come with me. Why don’t you pull out that ‘Think’ game. That psycho-babble shit is right up Martha’s alley!”

  Thump-thump-thump! This time the knocking on the front door was louder. “Emily!” Martha’s voice was deeply concerned. “Please come to the door!”

  Jane turned to Emily. “I’ll be back in a couple hours.” “Okay,” Emily said, discouraged.

  Jane started down the stairs then turned back to Emily. “Hey! What’s rule number three?”

  “Don’t go outside unless you say so,” Emily replied softly.

  “Don’t you ever forget that.”

  Chapter 13

  Saturday traffic around DH was usually insignificant. However, since this was Memorial Day Weekend, the parks were full of families and various roads were closed off to accommodate the street festivals. The patrol officer and Jane pulled into the DH underground parking structure almost a half hour after Weyler had given her the news about a possible suspect in the Lawrence murder. In her mind, that had given Chris a full hour to screw around with the subject in the interrogation room.

  The third floor of DH was like a ghost town when Jane got off the elevator. She made her way down the hallway to the first interrogation room and knocked on the opposite observation room door. Weyler opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

  “So, what’s going down?” Jane said apprehensively.

  “The guy’s pretty incoherent,” Weyler said to the point.

  “Are you talking about Chris or the perp ?” Jane said, taking a jab at Chris.

  “You know, I’m aware that things are not working for the two of you on a personal level, but he’s still your partner.”

  “We need to discuss that. When the dust settles on this case, I’m putting in for a new partner. It’s a trust issue, boss. He’s gone paranoid on me.”

  “That’s a strong word, Jane.”

  “You don’t know what he did last night—”

  Chris’ voice exploded in anger toward the suspect in the interrogation room.

  “Fill me in afterward,” Weyler said.

  Weyler and Jane walked into the narrow, claustrophobic observation room with the two-way mirror. Chris stood with his back to the mirror, leaning over the table and jabbing his thick finger toward the suspect. As for the suspect, he looked as if he hadn’t seen a bath since the ’80s. His long, salt-and-pepper hair was pasted together with grease, dried chewing gum, leaves, strips of newspaper and anything else that he happened to roll into while sleeping in the alleys. He was Caucasian—at least, he appeared to be a Caucasian. Between the dense grime and his suntan, he could have passed for Mexican. His shredded clothes hung over his bony body. He wore only one shoe that was two sizes too big and secured on his foot with layers of duct tape. The chest pocket on his shirt was torn off. The only other pockets were in his pants and they, too, were full of holes. Jane noted every single detail in less than thirty seconds. “Is this a joke?” Jane said, facing the two-way mirror.

  “Chris seems to think he’s worth pursuing. The guy’s had plenty of time to dry out but he’s still not making much sense,” Weyler said.

  Chris moved away from the table and Jane caught a glimpse of the silver cigarette holder on the table—the supposed link to the Lawrence murder.

  “Was the cigarette case stuck up his ass?” Jane asked Weyler.

  “How’s that?”

  “I’m just curious since there isn’t a pocket on this guy that would hold a Kleenex, let along a heavy, silver cigarette container.”

  Weyler opened a small manila file folder and searched the pages. “The PD report shows that the container was found ‘near his person.’ ”

  “So he found it in a dumpster or on the side of the road. It doesn’t tie him to anything. The person or persons who did this murder are smart, clever and cunning. Tell me how this guy fits that description?”

  “You’re holding back from me!” Chris yelled, angling his body over the suspect.

  “Hey, dude, I don’t know what you want me to say,” the suspect replied, his bloodshot eyes widening in fear.

  “How about the fucking truth!” Chris screamed back. Jane noticed that Chris’ shirt wasn’t tucked in on one side and his tie was askew. He looked unkempt—a result she surmised from being abruptly pulled away from his vacation at Lake Dillon and having to throw on the same attire he was wearing the night before.

  The suspect looked at Chris as if he was trying to make an association. “Hey, dude, you look familiar. You were in my high school, right?”

  “Stop fucking around!” Chris yelled, slamming his fist on the table. He grabbed the cigarette holder and held it up. “Where did you get this cigarette case?”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Don’t lie to me! A little girl saw you. She was hiding in the shadows watching you take a knife and rip her parents to death!”

  The suspect’s face fell in sorrow. “A little girl saw that? God, that’s awful.”

  “You were so out of it. It’s obvious. You forgot the coke, but like an idiot, you took this little trinket instead. But their fucking names are written on it!”

  “I didn’t take that thing. Somebody gave it to me—”

  “You expect me to believe that someone gave you a silver cigarette case!”

  “Yeah, dude. This guy just gave it to me last night. Hey, man, I gotta get outta here. I gotta go to Atlanta. I’m catchin’ the dream weaver train.”

  Jane turned to Weyler. “How much more of this do we need to watch?” She walked out of the narrow room and stood nervously in the hallway. Weyler followed and pounded his fist three times on the interrogation room door to alert Chris. Chris emerged, flushed in the face and reeking of body odor.

  “What is it?” Chris asked Weyler, almost out of breath.<
br />
  “Let him go.”

  “Boss, the guy’s got a piece of property on him from the scene! We can’t kick him!” Chris stole a glance toward Jane. “Goddamnit, Jane! Don’t fuck this up for me!”

  “I’m not fucking it up for you! You’re doing a fine job all by yourself!”

  “He’s got crime scene property on him, Jane!” Chris yelled.

  “And I’m wearing Eddie Bauer pants! That doesn’t make me his cousin!” Jane replied.

  “Alright, you two!” Weyler said loudly. “Chris, let him walk.”

  “Yeah,” Jane interjected. “He’s gotta get up early and go to work at NASA!”

  “My God!” Weyler said in an angry tone, “you’re like two belligerent children! Chris, I know you want to solve this case. I know you want to make the department look good. But you’re shadowboxing with ghosts in there.”

  “Then explain how he got the cigarette case! Maybe this asshole hangs with the guys who did it. There could be a viable link here, boss!”

  “He couldn’t find the fucking hole in a donut!” Jane said, under her breath.

  “Kick him out of here, Chris,” Weyler said, turning toward his office.

  “Boss!” Chris urged. “You’re worried about the possibility of that kid being stalked! Well, who’s to say he’s not the guy that tips off the stalker?”

  Jane’s ears perked up. This was the first time she had it confirmed that Emily was in physical danger. She turned to Weyler, “So she is being stalked?”