Everyone Was Left Behind

by Steve Armstrong

  “I guess so.”

  “Because that’s how life feels to me. Some days, I just get this feeling of despair over what we lost and what we’ll never get back, and I don’t even want to get out of bed.” Hope touched the photo of the three girls in the park. “In those moments, I can’t just think about Jesus and have happy thoughts. Maybe I lack faith, but maybe they lack honesty. Maybe they’re too afraid to talk about what they really feel.”

  “I think the part I don’t get is why this matters so much to you. What if they do admit that it’s hard? What does that change for you?”

  “I don’t know. Somehow, I think it would make me feel freer—like it’s okay to be disappointed sometimes. Like those days I can’t get out of bed are normal. Like Jesus is okay with me, even if my faith isn’t as strong as it should be, that He still loves me and will lead me through.”

  The more her sister spoke, the more Charity began to tear up. When Hope finished, Charity reached her arms around her sister. Hope accepted the embrace and returned it in equal measure.

  “And I want you to know that it’s okay to feel that way, too,” Hope whispered in Charity’s ear. “Because I think it is okay. Jesus knows about all of your weakness, all of your shortcomings. So don’t be afraid of them. Don’t be afraid to admit them. We shouldn’t have to feel guilty for hurting or doubting.”

  Charity pulled back from her sister and nodded. The high school girl felt the same things as her sister and needed the freedom to acknowledge how shadowy her thoughts about God became at times. But Hope’s words—intended to illuminate Charity’s mind—failed to dispel the darkness inside her.

  “When are you coming back?” Charity asked. “I don’t want to not see you anymore. I’ve already lost one sister.”

  Hope smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t stay away too long. I can’t lose you, either. When the dust settles from this whole thing, I’ll come back and we’ll see if we can’t start again.”

  Hope stroked her sister’s hair before leaving the room. She looked back. “You know, I think you should leave this door open more.”

  Charity frowned. “Mom wouldn’t like that.”

  “I know,” Hope said. “But I think it would be good for her.”

  She grabbed her bags, which she had deposited in the hallway, and walked downstairs. Charity followed her out to the car. After Hope loaded her luggage into the tan car, she turned to her sister once more.

  “Bye, Charity.”

  “Bye, Hope.” Charity looked deep into her sister’s eyes, so similar to her own. They were a bit older and had seen things Charity hadn’t. For all the pain Hope carried, Charity envied her vision.

  Hope boarded her car and started the ignition. The sisters waved goodbye and Hope left. Charity walked up to the second floor and stopped in front of Faith’s room. She opened the door fully before retiring to her own bed.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Did you find anything to back up Elizabeth Wilcox’s story that she may have texted Watkins in her sleep?”

  Seitzer and Harrison were on their way back to the police station after wrapping up the search at Jason Watkins’ apartment. Harrison had been researching ‘sleep-texting’ on the way back.

  “Well, from what I read, it does seem possible. It’s an example of a parasomnia, which includes sleepwalking, sleep talking, and even more complex behaviors, like sleep sex.” Harrison faltered just a bit over the last word, nearly drawing a smile from Seitzer. “They can also be side effects from medication, including sleeping aids.”

  “Hmm, interesting. From what you saw, could someone send coherent texts as a response to someone else’s text?”

  Harrison scrolled through his phone. “I haven’t found that exact scenario. There’s an article on CNN about it. Most of the messages people send in their sleep seem like random, jumbled gibberish. Although, there is a woman in the comment section who claims to receive coherent texts from her daughter that make it seem like they’re having a conversation. So I guess it’s possible, if not probable.”

  “She did seem really confused about it, so maybe it makes sense.”

  “With all due respect to Elizabeth Wilcox, does it even matter to us if she sent them on purpose or not? I mean, either way, she’s basically admitting to sending the texts.”

  Seitzer considered the question for a moment as he paused at a stop light. “If Jason Watkins pulled the trigger, then I think her sending those messages in an altered state gives her some distance from the crime.”

  “Maybe she’s plotting her defense,” Harrison suggested.

  “Maybe.”

  Seitzer thought that he and Harrison were done for the night. After conducting two exhaustive searches, he was ready to sleep. But as they neared the station, his phone rang.

  “Detective, it’s Tom Pawlaski, Ray Browning’s landlord.”

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “You told me to call if he came back. Well, he just got in.”

  “Thank you. We’ll be right over.” Seitzer ended the call and maneuvered his car in the opposite direction. “You up for checking on Ray Browning?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  A few minutes later, the detectives arrived at Ray Browning’s residence. Tom Pawlaski hustled out the front door as soon as they pulled up to the curb.

  “You just missed him. I swear not one minute after I called you guys, he high-tailed it out of here.”

  “Did he drive?”

  “No, he was running. He doesn’t have a car. It was like someone tipped him off that I called you.”

  “Which way?” Seitzer asked.

  Pawlaski pointed to the right.

  “What was he wearing?” Harrison asked.

  “His uniform—a black hoodie. What else?”

  “Let’s go.” Harrison and Seitzer jumped back into the car and headed in the direction Browning had fled. After about ten minutes of driving around town and seeing no sign of their suspect anywhere, the detectives drove back to Browning’s apartment.

  Pawlaski opened up front the door when they arrived. “Did you find him?”

  Seitzer shook his head.

  The landlord placed his hands on the top of his head. “You’re telling me he’s on the loose?”

  “Hold on, sir. We have no evidence that Ray Browning committed any kind of crime,” Harrison reminded him.

  “Then why did he run away from you?”

  “He ran before we even arrived on the scene. That means he had no idea we were coming. Unless you said something that might have tipped him off or made him suspicious. Did you?” Seitzer asked.

  “No. I never even spoke to him. Just saw him out the window.” Pawlaski gasped. “Maybe he saw me watching. Do you think he saw me? He might come after—”

  “Mr. Pawlaski, maybe he needed to come home to pick something up before he headed back again. There are a hundred different explanations that could explain his behavior tonight without making him a criminal.”

  The older man snapped his fingers. “I know. I could let you into his apartment so you can have a look around.”

  Seitzer shook his head. “We need a warrant to search Browning’s apartment.”

  “Even though I own it?”

  “Yes. Unless we had some kind of extenuating circumstance, like an emergency.”

  “So maybe this search is off the books. Come on Detective, I would feel much better if you at least took a look at his place. I have a bad feeling about this guy.”

  Harrison and Seitzer exchanged glances. The elder detective could tell his partner did not feel comfortable entering Browning’s residence without a warrant. Seitzer didn’t feel comfortable, either; any evidence they found would be inadmissible. However, Seitzer welcomed the opportunity to gain a little more insight into a man many had speculated about, but few actually knew.

  “Alright, sir, if it would make you feel better, we’ll take a quick look.”

  “Thank you, Detective. Let me go get my
keys. I’ll meet you downstairs in a few minutes.” Pawlaski left the doorway to retrieve the keys.

  “What are you doing?” Harrison asked after the Landlord disappeared into his house. “You know we can’t go down there without a search warrant.”

  “Of course, I know that—I told Pawlaski that. Think of it as a window into the soul of a troubled man. Maybe we’ll find something that will further point us in his direction, or eliminate him as a suspect.”

  “And what kind of evidence would that be?”

  “I don’t know. You never know until you look.”

  The detectives waited for Tom Pawlaski in front of Ray Browning’s door. After a few moments, the man came down, dressed in a light spring jacket and sandals. He fumbled with his keys before finally locating the right one and opening the door. He went first and flicked on the light switch.

  “He’s neat,” Seitzer said, surveying the basement apartment. The kitchen lay off to the right and a larger open space that probably combined the living room and dining room stood directly in front of them. Harrison remained back while Seitzer began perusing various table tops, including a desk and small, dining table. Seitzer went so far as to pull the desk drawers open, but only for a quick glance.

  “Well, I don’t see any plans to blow up town hall anywhere,” Seitzer said. Harrison had joined his partner in the search, though the younger detective was more halfhearted about his effort.

  “That’s the thing—you never know until it’s too late, right?” Pawlaski said. “That’s why I figured you guys should look, even if this isn’t exactly legal.”

  Seitzer navigated his way back to the bedroom. Before he arrived at his destination, he saw the bathroom. Remembering Reverend Oakley’s description of Browning with and without meds, Seitzer decided to check the medicine cabinet. Amidst a sparse collection of antacids, aspirin and cough medicine sat the telltale brown pill bottle. The detective grabbed the bottle and read the label.

  “Hey Harrison, come here,” he called. The younger detective sauntered into the room a moment later. “Can you look up what Clozaril does?”

  “It’s an antipsychotic, primarily used to treat schizophrenia,” Harrison said with absolute certainty as if the information was at the top of his mind.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “I heard it somewhere, probably from Julia,” Harrison said, looking away.

  Harrison’s findings coincided with Reverend Oakley’s testimony. The date on the bottle was from six months ago. Seitzer twisted open the childproof cap. The bottle was more than half filled with round tablets.

  “It looks like Browning stopped taking his meds sometime in the last six months,” Seitzer said.

  “That doesn’t seem good,” Harrison replied.

  Seitzer placed the medication back where he found it and moved onto the bedroom. He searched the most common places people usually stashed guns—the closet, night stands, and dresser—but found nothing. Browning didn’t have a handgun registered to his name, but that didn’t mean anything. Neither did the fact that Seitzer couldn’t locate any firearms in the apartment. Without a warrant and conducting a more exhaustive search, the detective doubted he would learn anything else valuable. But knowing that Browning was off his meds was useful information.

  The detectives rendezvoused in the living room, where Pawlaski stood vigil. “Find anything?”

  “No, not really,” Seitzer said. Pawlaski was anxious enough already without knowing Browning suffered from schizophrenia and had stopped taking his medication.

  “So you can’t arrest him?”

  “He hasn’t done anything wrong, so no, I can’t arrest him.”

  “I knew he was going to murder us in our sleep.”

  “Mr. Pawlaski, if he comes back tonight, give me a call. I’ll come right over,” Seitzer offered. Though he understood the man’s fear, the detective couldn’t offer him anything better. The available evidence did not necessitate a stake out. In his opinion, Jason Watkins seemed more likely to have pulled the trigger, anyway. “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Seitzer added.

  He and Harrison left through the front door. As they departed and Pawlaski locked the door behind them, the landlord said, “I will defend myself and my home, Detectives. You can be sure of that.”

  Seitzer turned back to face the man. “Do you own a gun?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What kind of gun?”

  “A .357.”

  Seitzer arched his eyebrow. “And when was the last time you used it?”

  Pawlaski remained silent as he tried to remember the answer. “A month or two ago, when I cleaned it; why?”

  “Can I see it?” Seitzer asked.

  “Why? It’s legal. I have a permit for it.”

  “I’m not going to take it, sir. I’d just like to see it.”

  Pawlaski seized onto his next paranoid thought. “Do you think he took it?” The older man bolted up his front steps and barreled into his house, leaving the door wide open behind him. Harrison and Seitzer followed. They arrived in time to see Pawlaski scramble up his stairs and into his bedroom. They could hear the man’s wife say something, but couldn’t make out the words. Two minutes later, Pawlaski returned, his gait more relaxed and the weapon in his hands.

  “Here it is. Why did you want to see it?” Pawlaski held out the gun to Seitzer. The detective acknowledged the gun without touching it.

  “Where do you keep it?” Seitzer asked.

  “I have it locked in a safe in my bedroom closet, behind my clothes. But I think I might be keeping it by my bed tonight.”

  “Sir, just rest easy. I’m sure you’ll be fine. And if Browning shows up tonight, just give me a call.”

  The landlord nodded.

  “Have a good night, sir.”

  The detectives left the man to stew in his paranoia. Seitzer suspected it would be a long night for Pawlaski and probably himself as well because he expected to receive a call from the frightened man at some point before morning.

  “Just because Ray Browning is schizophrenic doesn’t mean he’s homicidal,” Harrison said, halfway back on their way to the station.

  “I don’t think I ever said it did,” Seitzer said.

  “You know, schizophrenia probably makes someone more dangerous to themselves,” Harrison said.

  “Do you have experience with people with schizophrenia?” Seitzer asked.

  “My sister,” Harrison replied.

  “The one in the picture?”

  “Yes. She killed herself.” Harrison uttered the words so evenly that Seitzer found himself at a loss for words. “We couldn’t help her. I guess no one could.”

  “I’m sorry,” Seitzer finally managed to say. His primary conversational skills equipped him to deconstruct situations and break down information, not to sympathize. Harrison’s sister had been absent in later family photos, but Seitzer never guessed she was dead. The two remained quiet until they reached the station.

  “I think we should go back to Stevenson Industries tomorrow and see if Jack Walton can tell us anything more about Ray Browning. Maybe we can see the video from their interview,” Seitzer said.

  Harrison looked thoughtful. “How are we going to ask about Browning without giving away that Felicia Monroe gave us the information about him to begin with?”

  “Don’t worry about that, I’ll handle it. Since I’m not affiliated with any all-knowing, all-powerful deity, I can lie,” Seitzer said. He intended for the remark to lighten the tone after Harrison’s revelation about his sister. But after the words came out of his mouth, Seitzer feared he sounded like he was mocking Harrison and Christians again.

  “Okay,” Harrison said with no discernible reaction to his partner’s comment. “I’ll let you handle it.”

  Despite Seitzer’s assurance that he would navigate the interview with Jack Walton without giving away Felicia’s involvement, the detective did worry. Something about Stevenson Industries and its quest to discover s
upernatural sources of energy unnerved him enough that he called the journalist that night.

  “Hi, Dan. To what do I owe the pleasure of this conversation?”

  “I wanted to give you a heads up that I have to go to Stevenson Industries tomorrow to ask about Ray Browning.”

  “And why did you feel the need to let me in on your plans? You don’t usually consult with me before you do something. Though, of course, if you wanted to start doing that, I’m sure I’d be a tremendous asset to you—even more so than I am now.”

  “I wanted you to know in case they make the connection that we got this information from you. Their security guard obviously knows we talked to you. I’ll do everything I can to leave you out of this, but I can’t help what conclusions they might draw on their own.”

  Felicia didn’t respond to Seitzer’s sober warning at first. When she did, her tone retained its natural facetiousness.

  “Oh, Dan, what do you think they’re going to do to me if they do think I gave you the tip? Kill me, toss me in a trunk, and then dump my body in the nearest suitable body of water? They’d probably just warn me about talking to the police, or at worst, fire me. In which case, I would have to find some other side gig to fund my trips to the French Riviera and my designer drug habit.”

  When Seitzer didn’t laugh, Felicity amended her previous comment. “I’m kidding. The French Riviera isn’t really my scene. I’m more of a Caribbean kind of girl.”

  “Go ahead, keep joking about this. But there’s something about this whole thing that I don’t like. Just be careful.”

  “Your concern for me is touching, Dan. If you keep calling me like this, I’m going to think you have a crush on me.”

  “Goodnight, Ms. Monroe.”

  “Don’t you want to lie in bed and talk to each other until we fall asleep?”

  Seitzer pressed the end button. He would fall asleep like he always did, entertaining an alternating mixture of bitterness and longing interspersed amongst his various case related suspicions, until he finally drifted off.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  A phone call in the middle of the night did wake Seitzer up, though not from the person he expected.