36 Hours

by B. J. Woster

  “I knew that,” Wilson sighed and stepped into the elevator.

  “As soon as you make the radio call, meet me at the church.”

  Chapter 8

  Brooke was oddly grateful that Atlanta was in the middle of a cold snap, which wasn’t always the case in October. Still, if it had been the middle of a hot, humid summer night, she’d have suffered a heat stroke attempting to move the heavy refrigerator across the bare concrete flooring. She stopped shoving for a moment to check her progress and had to admit she was surprised. She was more than halfway to the window.

  The light filtering through the window told her daylight had arrived, which had her a little concerned. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been at it. She glanced at her watch and sucked in a breath of shock. It was already 7:30 a.m. She hadn’t made as much progress as she’d first assumed, and at the rate she was going, her time would be up before she even got the fridge beneath the window. According to Christian, she only had until 7:30 a.m. tomorrow in which to be rescued—or to rescue herself.

  That caused the anger to set in at the knowledge that she’d have accomplished more in the last several hours and been well on the way to escaping if she’d not shoved too hard on the fridge and tipped it over. It took all of her strength to re-right the appliance. At first, she thought her chances at escape had come to an end, and spent precious hours indulging in tears. Once the tears were spent, she wiped her eyes, smearing her washable mascara. She didn’t care about her appearance, but the mascara had gotten in her eyes when she wiped and she sighed in frustration, picking up the edge of her shirt to get the stinging goop out.

  The irritation from the mascara worked in concert with her circumstances to elevate her temper and she set about pushing, kicking, and shoving the Kenmore in anger, wasting even more precious time. Eventually, she decided to quit feeling sorry for herself and attempted to lift it back up.

  She strained her back and legs slightly in the effort when she hefted the bulky appliance. She managed to push it nearly upright, then quickly scooted beneath it, using her back and legs to right it the rest of the way. If that act of desperation hadn’t worked or if she’d slipped, the fridge would have crushed her and she wouldn’t have needed to worry over being killed by Christian or rescued—death would’ve happened by her own stupidity.

  She did succeed in getting the appliance upright however, and after losing more time regaining her breath, she started moving it again, inching it slowly toward her escape route.

  “Why did this freakin’ room have to be so big,” she muttered angrily. As she observed earlier, the room wasn’t really that sizable. Perhaps 15x15; however, in Brooke’s mind, it was three times that size. “The least he could have done was put the fridge right under the window,” she continued her tirade, “to give his victims a fighting chance. Who does he think he is, anyway? How dare he play games with other peoples’ lives?” Her foot slid on an oily patch and she slipped, banging her head on the fridge.

  “Son-of-a-bitch!” she screamed, more in frustration at her circumstances than at the actual slip, the pain from which was barely noticeable. She turned and sat, her back against the rusted back panel, and pulled her knees to her chest. She lay her head down on her arms and allowed herself yet another momentary pity party, but one she felt more than entitled to. After she’d exhausted her sorry-for-herself bout, she sniffed loudly, raised her head and swiped away at the tears.

  “I can’t give up. I’m not going to let him win. I made it this far, I can make it the rest of the way and still have time to climb out of the window, long before his imposed deadline. I have to.” She sniffed again and stood, careful to plant her feet on either side of the barely perceptible slick surface on which she’d slipped. With another heavy sigh, she leaned forward, placed her hands on the sides of the fridge again, and started the same monotonous back-and-forth.

  The banging of each movement was oddly rhythmic which triggered a song in Brooke’s head. Unfortunately, it happened to be ‘Oceans Breathe Salty’ by Modest Mouse. She stopped pushing for a moment in the hopes of shaking the song from the recesses of her brain, but it clung fast. With deliberate intent, she slowed the pushing of the fridge and started singing the Alphabet Song aloud, keeping perfect rhythm with the swaying of the refrigerator. She felt absurd singing the childish song at the top of her lungs, but anything was better than a song about death, which drove home her own dire circumstances.

  From a computer terminal, the man known as Christian Price watched Brooke’s attempts with a shake of his head and down-turned lips. He was thankful that she was making an effort and not just sitting back, waiting to die; however, he knew her attempts would prove futile and he sighed sadly. “Pray they find you, Brooke,” he whispered with a quick glance at his stopwatch. “Personally, I have hope this time. This Detective Hardwick seems more competent than cops in other cities.”

  He returned his gaze to the television, but there wasn’t any current reports on the APD’s progress.

  “Well, I think I have time for a Grand Slam at Denny’s. I don’t believe they’ll find her any time soon. Detective Hardwick is good but I’ve yet to encounter a detective that’s that good. If any were, women wouldn’t die.”

  Chapter 9

  “Detective Hardwick. May I have a word?” A young African American woman approached as Hardwick and Wilson exited the Bank of America Plaza.

  “Not now,” Hardwick snapped, as he noticed the camera operator trailing behind, who was apparently, a reporter.

  “Detective, I’m Cassandra Bouchard with Channel 5,” the woman called, scurrying along behind, “we’re live with our viewers and wondered if you have anything to tell them about a report that we received earlier. We’ve been alerted about an abduction and were told that you only have until 7:30 a.m. tomorrow morning to locate the victim. Are you close to finding Brooke Madison, or will this guy get away with another murder here in Atlanta, as he did with Sandra McIntyre?”

  Hardwick stopped walking abruptly and pivoted sharply, startling the diminutive female.

  “Are you ready to comment?” she asked, a bit smugly, placing the microphone beneath Hardwick’s nose. He wanted to snatch it from the woman and throw it across the street, but knew that would prove poor politics and he didn’t fancy being put on administrative leave. Not with a murderer on the loose. Instead, he took a deep breath and released it slowly.

  “It would appear that our perp has been in contact with the local media,” Hardwick said softly, his tone unpleasant.

  “He wanted to ensure that the public lit a fire beneath the Atlanta Police Department’s bottoms. He stated that, with a little help, we might just be able to save a woman’s life.”

  “Oh, I’m certain as can be that he appealed to the hearts of everyone at Channel 5.”

  “Will you find her, Detective?”

  “That’s our goal, as it always is,” Hardwick said and then turned to continue toward the church.

  “Well, we’ll be with you every step of the way,” the reporter stated, following again. When it looked as if Hardwick might complain, she added, “We won’t get in your way. After all, we all want this man caught and Brooke Madison freed.”

  As soon as Hardwick entered the church, the reporter faced the camera, “This is Cassandra Bouchard reporting live, currently outside All Saints’ Episcopal Church, here on Peachtree Street, where the APD’s Detective Hardwick is following up a lead on the kidnapping of Atlanta native, Brooke Madison. People are urged to remain vigilant and report anything, which may assist detectives in locating this missing woman. We’ll continue to monitor the situation and bring you updates, as they happen.”

  Hardwick wasn’t amused at having a reporter on his heels, and was fuming as he entered the church’s vestibule. Despite his anger, he had to admit that he may need to use them in this investigation, so holding his temper in check would be to his benefit.

  He spotted a door with ‘Bishop’s Office’ written on it, and h
eaded that way, his strides long and determined. He knocked sharply and turned the knob without waiting for an invitation to enter. It was locked, which made him even more irate. He wanted to ram his shoulder into it, just to let off steam. Instead, he started counting to ten repeatedly, breathing in and out of his nostrils.

  He was about to search the rest of the church, when he heard someone on the other side of the door, turning the knob.

  An aging African American man wearing a jogging suit exited, “What I can do for you?” he asked politely, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  “I’m sorry if I woke you, Bishop,” Hardwick stated, suddenly aware that he didn’t really expect to find the Bishop at the church at this hour of the morning, but here he was, and appeared to have slept in his office. Well, that couldn’t concern him at present. “I’m Detective Hardwick, APD,” he said tersely, showing the bishop his badge. “I’m investigating two murders that have occurred in the last week.”

  “Murders? Well that’s something new here in Atlanta,” the priest replied with a sarcastic tone that bespoke of too many years watching people in the neighborhood die—slain by ex-lovers, gang members, etc. “That explains the news reporter hounding you outside? When I saw the news van, I was about to turn on the T.V. to see what’s happening.”

  “Yeah, it’s definitely all over the news. Anyway, a man going by the name of Christian Price used this church to offer self-defense classes to women in the surrounding businesses,” he explained, handing the flyer to the bishop.

  “Yes, I am aware,” he stated and then his eyes grew wider, “Christian?” the bishop queried incredulous. “You think Christian was behind these heinous crimes?”

  “We don’t think it, we know it,” Hardwick replied harshly, rashly. “He used the self-defense class as a way of singling out his potential victims and now he’s given us a very narrow window in which to locate and save his latest victim, Brooke Madison.”

  “Brooke Madison,” the bishop said sadly. “She attended church here. A very sweet girl; however, I don’t know how I can be of help. I haven’t seen Christian in a few days.” The priest shook his head, “I’ve been at this church for nigh onto forty years and think I’ve seen everything, but just when I think I have, somebody throws shock in my face and knocks me for a loop. I never would have thought that that man would hurt a flea.”

  “Well, it appears he has and since you know him, I have a sketch artist on the way. I need you to provide a likeness for that news reporter outside. We will do everything we can to save Brooke, but we also need to catch the man you know as Christian Price before he does this to someone else. You can help us do that.”

  “I’ll certainly do what I can,” the bishop replied, nodding solemnly. “I’m sure you hear this a lot, but he doesn’t seem the sort to kill people. He was a new member to the congregation. Very helpful with the elderly ladies. Seemed a likeable fellow, so when he approached and said that he was trained in martial arts and would love to rent space in the basement to teach ladies to defend themselves…”

  “He paid the rent in cash, I assume?”

  “No, I actually didn’t charge him anything in the end, him doing the community a service and all.”

  “I know that it’s probably too much to ask, but you wouldn’t happen to have an address on file for this man, would you? Or just know where he lives, by chance?”

  The bishop shook his head, the frown on his face deepening, “Providing an address is completely optional by members of the congregation. Not a lot of people do nowadays. I guess they don’t want religious nuts knocking on their doors. Most religious visitations, unless requested, have been relegated to that of a nuisance solicitation. Sad times we live in.”

  “I figured it might be a long shot, but I had to ask,” Hardwick sighed. Just then, Wilson strolled in with another police officer following closely.

  “Bishop, this is our resident artist, Officer Mitchell. He’ll help you put together a likeness of Christian Price.”

  The bishop nodded and waved toward his office, “If you want to set your laptop up on my desk, Officer, I’ll join you in a moment.”

  “Sure thing,” Mitchell said, and moved past the bishop.

  “Oh, and Mitchell,” Hardwick called, “give that sketch to the reporter outside when it’s done and printed, okay? She is still outside, isn’t she, Wilson?”

  Wilson nodded.

  When the business with Mitchell concluded, Hardwick turned back to the priest, “Something else on your mind, Bishop?”

  “I’m not sure, but I just recollected something. Might be helpful, I don’t know,” the bishop said, rubbing his face.

  “I’ll take anything right now, Bishop,” Hardwick admitted.

  The bishop nodded, “I seem to recall that Price called me late last week, seemed deep in his cups. Ranting about how the police had let him down when his wife was murdered. He rambled on a bit, and then I asked if he needed me to call him a cab so he could get home safely from where he was at.”

  “And where was that?”

  “He said he was at The Tavern at Phipps Plaza.”

  “And did you call him a cab?”

  The bishop shook his head, “No, he said that I wasn’t to worry. He could walk home from there.”

  Hardwick nodded, suddenly feeling a surge of renewed energy flow through his body. Knowing a particular area in which a suspect might be located was similar to someone handing him a much-anticipated present for Christmas—in this case, that present was the potential of a speedy arrest. “Thank you, Bishop. You’ve been a great help.”

  The bishop walked toward his office and Hardwick rubbed the back of his neck, trying desperately to reduce the tension building in his muscles. Even though, the likelihood of arresting Price was getting closer each passing minute, until it actually happened, the tension would not diminish.

  Wilson seemed to know instinctively that Hardwick was thinking about hunting down the perp. “It wouldn’t be a good use of time to search the residential area around The Tavern, any more than searching every single warehouse in the Atlanta area, you know that, right? That area is enormous.”

  Hardwick nodded, “Yeah, that would seem to be an accurate assessment, with so many houses and too many apartment complexes; however, it’s currently the best lead we have for catching this guy and we’d be remiss to overlook it, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Not really. It would take days to do a complete sweep of the area, as you well know,” Wilson countered.

  “And by then, Brooke will be long dead, and he’ll have had plenty of opportunity to find another victim. Not being able to catch him now makes me want to ram my fist into something,” Hardwick snapped.

  “As long as it isn’t my face,” Wilson quipped, “Besides, we have every cop scouring the warehouses searching for our victim. It wouldn’t do any good to pull any of them to try a search of the apartments around The Tavern…”

  Hardwick sighed, “Yeah, it would be futile. We’ll distribute the drawing when it’s done. See if that presents any viable leads. We’ll postpone a search of Price for now, since I must concede that locating him can’t be our first priority. Not with so little time given to find the victim.”

  “So now where?” Wilson asked as they exited the church. A glance at his watch revealed the hour to be after 8 a.m. He didn’t like how fast time flew when a deadline was in place.

  Hardwick didn’t answer, rather headed to where the reporter was speaking to her camera operator, “Miss Bouchard?”

  Cassandra jumped and instinctively pointed to her camera operator to begin filming, but Detective Hardwick waved him away, “We don’t have anything for you, but we will in about half hour or so. We have an officer inside generating a sketch of the possible suspect. We want you to air his likeness during one of your live feeds. Can you do that?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s much appreciated. The more help we have in finding this guy, the more chance there is to prevent Broo
ke Madison’s death. It wouldn’t hurt to ask people to be on the lookout for him.”

  “Absolutely. So, where are you two going now? Do you have another lead to follow up on?”

  “Yes, but if you’ll stay here and wait for that likeness?”

  “I will.”

  “I admit to not being fond of news reporters,” Hardwick stated, “but this is one time where having you nearby may prove beneficial.”

  Cassandra grinned wryly, “Well, I never thought I’d ever hear you say that, Detective Hardwick, but it has certainly made my morning.”

  Hardwick smiled in reply and then waved at Wilson. They headed back to Hardwick’s car. “Recommendations?” Hardwick asked, cruising along Peachtree Street.

  “I feel we should go back to assisting with the search of the warehouses, to help the units on patrol right now, but I confess to feeling a bit small and uncertain that we can make a dent, but we aren’t likely to find Price first…” Wilson started with a sigh, then stopped.

  “Which is why we’re not doing this alone, remember?”

  “Yeah, I know. It just feels like it.”

  “Any way for you to pull up warehouse locations on my laptop?” Hardwick asked, pointing to beneath the passenger seat. “That way I don’t feel as if we’re just driving around blind.”

  Wilson reached beneath his seat and pulled out the case, “I don’t know if such a listing exists, but I agree to not wanting to drive around without a purpose. It would make me feel as if I were trying to climb a mountain with my hands tied behind my back.”

  “Definitely not a good feeling,” Hardwick concurred, “so, let’s see about making things a little easier by mapping out those warehouse locations then we won’t feel as if we’re running around directionless. Obviously, eliminate the primary locations that we started on last night. That was a jumping off point, but by no means proved a comprehensive search.”

  “Don’t you think the captain would have units patrolling other warehouse locations? We’re just as likely to overlap with other black and whites as to do any good.”