Cries in the Night

by Debra Webb

  The child in this photograph clearly was not dead. Her eyes were not only open but the picture had caught her arms in motion as if she’d reached for something or someone.

  “You’re sure this is similar to the one you saw at the hospital’s morgue. Look carefully. I need you to be absolutely certain.”

  She studied the hacked off Polaroid for a long while. “Well, the gown she’s wearing is the same.” She shook her head. “I won’t ever forget that. It’s one of those hospital gowns they use in the pediatric ward.” She inclined her head and regarded the photo again. “The stainless steel table looks the same too, but I can’t be sure about that since so much of the background has been cut away.” She handed back the evidence bag and stared up at him with a haunted look. “Where did this picture come from? How could she be alive in this one and dead in one almost exactly like it? I don’t understand.”

  “Ms. Grider,” Ryan said carefully, “I can’t give you any answers right now. I would appreciate it if you would call me if you remember anything at all that has happened relevant to this case since you arrived back in Memphis.” He handed her his card. “My cell number’s on there. Call me anytime, day or night.”

  “Momma!”

  Ryan’s attention snapped toward the doorway on the other side of the room that led into the interior of the home. A toddler, perhaps a year or so old, came stumbling into the living room, her arms outstretched.

  Beaming a smile, Rita Grider reached for the child. “Mommy’s here,” she cooed.

  “This is your child,” Ryan said, startled for the second time today. Bill hadn’t mentioned the friend having a child about the same age as Melany’s. But it made sense, he supposed, since Mel hadn’t had any I.D. with her when the accident occurred, the cops had run the vehicle’s plates and assumed she was the owner, Rita Grider, who, as it were, had a daughter.

  Rita nodded. “Yes. Her name’s Chloe. Say hi to Mr. Braxton, Chloe.” The child snuggled against her mother’s neck, attempting to hide her face from the stranger. “She’s the reason I recognize the hospital gown. Chloe was a patient there when she was just an infant.”

  He filed the information away for later analysis, then glanced at her left hand. Before he could ask, she said, “No, I’m not married. I’m a single parent, just like Mel.” Her pleasant expression turned grim. “And Chloe’s father couldn’t be counted on, either, just like Katlin’s.”

  “Well.” Ryan swallowed at the hard lump forming in his throat. “Thank you for your assistance, Ms. Grider. I’m sure we’ll have more questions.” He blinked once, twice. There were other, personal questions he wanted to ask. But she was Melany’s friend. She likely wouldn’t answer them. And if he were smart, he wouldn’t ask. He’d simply go.

  “Mr. Braxton.” She stopped him as he opened the door.

  He met that deep brown gaze again, noting the haunted look had returned. “Yes?”

  “Is there any chance that Katlin’s still alive?” Tears glimmered on her lashes. “Did I do something wrong? I was devastated…I wasn’t thinking straight, but they told me she was dead.” She shook her head as the emotion she could not restrain slid down her cheeks. “They said that Mel was going to die, too. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

  Ryan squeezed his fingers into fists to prevent himself from reaching out to her and giving her a reassuring pat. He had to keep his distance. It was the only way. He couldn’t focus on missing and dead children and get close to the people involved. He simply couldn’t. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Rita.” He used her first name, offering at least that small reassurance. “You did exactly what Mel would have done had the circumstances been reversed.”

  She nodded and swiped at her tears with the back of her hand. “I keep telling myself that.” Her baby made a distressed sound. Her mother’s anxiety frightened her. “But then I think about what I could have done differently. I should have insisted on seeing the body…on touching her.”

  He couldn’t hold out any longer. He reached out, squeezed her arm. “We’ll figure this thing out. Remember to call me if you think of anything.”

  She nodded and he left.

  He barely noticed the unrelenting rain as he crossed the street and climbed into his rental. Dropping behind the wheel, he turned the ignition and scrubbed the dampness from his face.

  He stared at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Rain. It was only the rain.

  Ryan Braxton hadn’t cried since he was a kid and his beloved dog had been hit by a car. He’d witnessed too much as an adult. He wasn’t capable of that kind of emotion any longer.

  Just another reason Mel had left him.

  * * *

  THE RAIN had finally stopped.

  Melany pushed open the car door and climbed out of Bill’s rental. She kept her gaze carefully directed away from the cemetery. Don’t look, a voice whispered. Her stomach clenched violently. Don’t look.

  Bill waited a few feet away, determined not to allow her to enter the crime scene without his being right next to her. She appreciated that more than he could possibly know.

  She’d managed scarcely four hours of sleep last night even with the sleeping pill. The only thing, she decided, the medication had done was leave her with a hangover and a bad case of the shakes.

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” Bill asked again. Concern telegraphed from every grim line of his face.

  He didn’t want her here. If it were up to him, she’d be at home in bed, under heavy sedation, until this case was solved. But she couldn’t do that. She had to be a part of the investigation. Had to see that every single clue…every possibility was considered to the fullest extent.

  “You know the answer to that,” she said patiently, knowing he wouldn’t give up. The man was just as stubborn as she was. The FBI hammered that trait into those who weren’t so genetically inclined. Persistence Pays Off was the Bureau’s guiding principle.

  Bill shrugged half-heartedly. “Let’s do this, then.”

  He led the way across the lawn that bordered the parking area behind the massive funeral home and separated it from the encroaching forest that looked wholly out of place this close to the city. Mel couldn’t help wondering why Garland Hanes would have chosen such a place to die. Why not at home or some place less eerie? She supposed it took a certain breed to work with the dead on this level. It wasn’t about hope or justice or even vengeance. It was about taking care of final, necessary details. She shivered again.

  At the edge of the woods Bill hesitated once more. He indicated the battalion of trees that stood at attention along the edge of the meticulously cared for landscape. “About a hundred yards this way. A couple teenagers found him just before dusk last evening. They’d stolen some beer from their fathers and decided to hide it in the woods for the weekend.” He made a sound that could have been a laugh. “Damn fool kids, tracked all over the scene before they rushed back home to call the cops. They’d left the beer on the ground, otherwise their parents might never have known what they were up to.”

  Mel nodded. “Lead the way.” She knew he was stalling. And she didn’t understand the big deal. The body had already been removed from the scene. Besides, it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen more than her share of corpses. Something was up. He was hiding something from her.

  A sudden blast of chilled wind slapped her in the face, taking her to a higher state of attention, adding an edge to her sleep-deprived thoughts. Hugging her double-breasted wool jacket a little closer around her, she entered the shadowy wooded area that flanked the funeral home’s property to the right and the rear, setting it apart from the middle-class homes that lay beyond. The cemetery where she’d been taken into custody sprawled on the left of the property. A tall, decorative wrought-iron fence surrounded it, kept intruders out after dark. Unless they were determined like she had been. She’d simply climbed over.

  Forcing those memories away, she focused on moving forward, through the damp foliage. The air was heavy with th
e clean scent of rain and a dank woodsy smell. Decaying leaves smushed under her feet. Straight ahead she could see the yellow tape that cordoned off the scene.

  Mel stilled for a moment, her mind whirling with emotion, memories, images—some real, some imagined. She didn’t want to think of her daughter in these woods. What had Hanes been doing out here? Bill hadn’t given her many details regarding the scene or what the police suspected. He’d assured her that Ryan didn’t suspect any sort of child predator in Katlin’s case. He leaned more toward the malpractice scenario, which meant her child was most likely dead, in his opinion. But Mel would not think that way.

  Bill had moved several yards ahead when he realized she wasn’t following him anymore. “You okay?” he called back to her.

  She nodded and pushed forward, praying for the numbness she’d felt for days. But it was suddenly missing, replaced by so many conflicting emotions her mind couldn’t settle on just one. She wanted to burrow into this case, to find the truth. But the victimized side of her, the part of her that was woman, mother, could scarcely keep those more fragile emotions at bay. Where was her baby?

  When she reached the designated crime scene perimeter Bill lifted the tape slightly so that she could join him on the other side. “Watch your step,” he warned unnecessarily.

  “Stop treating me like a civilian,” she chastised without taking her gaze from the evidence markers.

  “You are a civilian,” he countered.

  She glanced at him, noting that he, too, was reviewing the markers. “I’ll never be a real civilian again.” Their gazes met briefly and she saw the understanding in his eyes. There was no way a mere human who’d seen what she’d seen in her former line of work could ever go back to the true innocence of civilian life. Not possible.

  Bill popped a piece of chewable Nicorette into his mouth and pointed to a large maple tree in the center of the cordoned off area. “He was in a sitting position there. The gun was in his right hand, a bottle of bourbon in the left.” He chewed, then explained, “I’m trying to quit.”

  She nodded, knowing he was only trying to distract her with the mundane.

  He cleared his throat. “Let’s take a closer look.”

  Feeling a little like a participant in an out-of-body experience, Mel took those final few steps, then eased into a crouch and surveyed the base of the tree as well as the leaf- and twig-ridden ground around it. Bill tapped her shoulder and she glanced up to see a pair of latex gloves in his hand.

  “Thanks.” Though she hadn’t actually planned to touch anything, she tugged on the protective wear just in case. The techs had no doubt already scoured the place…any evidence already discovered and bagged. But then, one never knew what another set of eyes would find. That’s why hard-assed investigators never took the chance, always took a second look and came prepared.

  “Look here.” Bill pointed with one gloved finger. Mel shifted slightly to peer at the area he indicated. “Someone stood over here—less than five feet away—and surveyed his handiwork.”

  The partial impression of a shoe imprint in a small muddy spot of earth where the leaves had blown away or otherwise shifted had already been plastered for evidence. The gray, crumbly residue the tech had left behind looked stark against the rust and browns of the forest floor.

  Mel turned back to the tree. “Where’s the blood?” The brain matter, she didn’t add. If the victim had shot himself in the head, trace evidence would have sprayed for some distance beyond his position.

  “No blood, no nothing, except what was on the vic’s clothing.”

  She pushed to her feet, her investigator’s sense jolting hard. “Then he didn’t die here.”

  “Bingo.” Bill rocked back on his heels. “He was posed. Our guy stood back and took one last look before leaving the scene. Probably never realized he’d stepped backward into the one patch of bare, muddy ground for a dozen yards in either direction.”

  Inspecting the shoe print more closely, she noted, “It’s only a partial. Doesn’t look like sneaker tread. Any chance it’ll help?”

  Bill shrugged. “You never know. Any sort of indentation or irregularity could be significant. I doubt if it’s enough to speculate on height and weight.”

  Cases had hinged on less.

  Moving cautiously so as not to disturb anything unnecessarily, Mel slowly covered the entire scene. The forensics techs had marked the position of the body and the shoe print. Those were the only two evidence markers. “No sign of the slug or was it still in the vic’s brain?” She turned back to Bill. “Did you take a look at the guy?” A shudder quaked through her as she thought of the man who had touched her daughter. Her lips clamped together to hold back the moan of agony welling in her throat. She was glad he was dead. The thought came out of nowhere and she immediately felt guilty for having thought it. That wasn’t fair…she couldn’t be sure what part he’d played. Shaking off the distraction, she forced her attention to Bill.

  “Yeah, I took a look. The bullet went clean through, but they won’t find it here. The shirt he wore was splattered but there was no blood trail on the fabric. My guess would be that he died in a reclining position, flat on his back or face-down, maybe. Not upright. I don’t need an M.E. to tell me that.”

  He was right about one thing. No way the man had died here. She couldn’t help scanning the area once more for some sign that her child had been here. Her stomach twisted with the anguish that, even when she tried to focus on the task of analyzing a crime scene, wouldn’t completely be ignored.

  What did you do with my child? she wanted to scream.

  But no one would answer. Garland Hanes was dead. He was the man who’d signed for Katlin at the hospital. Had taken her away in the funeral home’s hearse. Had buried an empty coffin in a shallow grave without a vault.

  She closed her eyes and tried to block the gruesome pictures. Please, God, she prayed, don’t let him have hurt my baby.

  “I think it’s going to rain again.”

  Mel’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Ryan’s voice. Their gazes locked across the short distance that spanned between them. How had he sneaked up on her like that? He was like a damned cat, soundless. Only not the domestic kind…the untamed, predatory sort who could pounce on you in an instant.

  Bill looked up at the patch of blue-black sky that peeked between the towering trees. He made an agreeable sound. “I believe you’re right, Braxton.”

  “I’d like to stop by the E.R. this morning,” Ryan said to Mel. “I checked and Dr. Wilcox is on duty.”

  Before she could answer, Bill said, “I need to get back to the morgue and see if they have a prelim report on Hanes. The medical examiner said he’d put a rush on it.”

  For a moment, Mel wasn’t sure what to do. She didn’t want to be alone with Ryan, but she also didn’t want to miss anything he might discover while interviewing Dr. Wilcox. “You should go with us,” she said pointedly to Bill. The one time she had talked to Wilcox since her release from the hospital he’d been sympathetic but skeptical of her sanity. The tranquilizers he’d prescribed had helped, she had to admit, but his closed attitude had not.

  “You know the drill, Mel.” This from Ryan. That blue gaze narrowed on hers when she turned back to him. “We can accomplish more by going in different directions. If you’d prefer to go with Bill, that’s fine by me.”

  No contest there. Someone at that hospital had to know what really happened. “I want to be in on the interviews at the hospital,” she told him flatly. “So let’s not waste any more time discussing it.”

  “I’ll check in with you two later.” Bill didn’t bother waiting for a response from either one of them. He, better than anyone else, knew the tension would only escalate, if anything. He headed back in the direction of the parking lot.

  Mel didn’t see the point in waiting for a response, either, but when she would have moved past Ryan, he stopped her with a hand on her arm. She waited for him to say whatever was on his mind, but she kep
t her gaze trained front and forward, childishly refusing to look at him.

  “There are questions I’m going to need to ask that you may not want to hear the answers to.”

  His voice was soft. The deep timbre echoed through her, making her shiver with something other than cold or dread. How could he still do that to her? Mel dragged in a deep breath and summoned her anti-Braxton resolve. “Like you said, Braxton, I know the drill.” She looked at him then, with all the ferocity she could marshal. “Now let’s stop wasting time. You’re not my protector, you’re an investigator on this case. This isn’t personal, don’t try to make it that way.”

  For a mini-eternity he simply looked into her eyes, that relentless stare never wavering. “This isn’t personal. I’d say the same thing to any family member of a victim. This isn’t about you and me and the past. It’s about here and now and a missing child. The fact that the child is yours isn’t my concern.”

  If he hadn’t been touching her she could have believed him without reservation. That Braxton stare…the chill he knew how to turn on in his voice. It was all there: cool, objective, to the point. But those long fingers had tightened around her arm, generating an undeniable heat all the way to her bones. That subtle move, however unconscious, gave away what those eyes, that face, would not.

  This was definitely personal.

  For her.

  And for him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Every muscle rigid, Melany stood next to the nurse’s desk in Memphis General’s E.R. She tired to block the smell of pain and fear…the sounds of worry and anguish. She closed her eyes against it, but with the loss of visual stimuli, her other senses only clutched harder at the environment.

  Investigator mode kicked in and immediately conjured the sights, sounds and smells from that night just over one week ago. Though she’d been unconscious when she arrived at the E.R., she could easily imagine how it would have been.

  The paramedics would have wheeled her into a trauma room…the doctor and nurses slipped quickly into their well-choreographed dance of life and death.