Proof

by Jordyn Redwood

  “We’ll wait outside for a few minutes.”

  Nathan followed Brett out and down the hall a few steps until they weren’t in view of the window.

  “What do you think?” Nathan asked.

  Brett paced a small circle before him, his hazel eyes wide in speculation. “I still think Anderson could be a suspect. Other than that, you didn’t get very far. We’re definitely going to have to spend time tracking down those locks. We need to get someone with SMC security, reviewing tapes and seeing how they track access in and out of that department … and med room.”

  “Each of the other victims is going to need additional interviewing. We have to get going on a detailed questionnaire to determine where they’re crossing each other’s paths and this assailant’s.”

  Brett nodded but stopped, mouth gaping as the elevator doors opened and their chief of police stepped out. He clamped his jaw closed, groaning outwardly, rustling up his short, brown curls with several sweeps of his fist.

  Nathan stepped forward and offered his hand. “Chief Anson, what brings you here tonight?”

  “Nothing good, I’m afraid. Brett, I need to talk to Nathan. Is there something you can be doing?”

  The surprise in Brett’s eyes pushed his receding hairline back another few inches. It was an unusual request. He stammered without forming words.

  Nathan tapped Brett’s shoulder with the side of his fist. “I need you to walk Lilly through the attack, forward and back. She released her ER records, so I’ve read through the doctor’s report. See what else you can pull from her. She may be more comfortable with you for that portion anyway.”

  Brett nodded. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Nathan called after him.

  The chief motioned Nathan into a small vending area. Nathan took a seat around a small circular table centered in the room. Anson busied himself at the coffeemaker, withdrawing two Styrofoam cups from a nearby metal sleeve and setting them near the half-filled coffeepot. Nathan sat silent, thumbing through his notes, not really reading.

  Chief Anson was a distinguished man in the department, a veteran of nearly thirty years and chief for the last ten. Most men spoke of him with respect, and those who didn’t were chastised. He was taller than Nathan by a few inches and had salt-and-pepper hair with chocolate-brown eyes that had the ability to draw information out of even the most reluctant witnesses.

  “Cream or sugar?”

  “I’ve had my quota for the day.” Nathan tossed his notebook onto the table.

  “How’s the interview going?” Anson took a seat and faced Nathan, blowing the steam from his cup.

  “We haven’t gotten very far. It’s going to take time.”

  Anson took a sip and set his cup down. “We got the judge to issue an order for the examination of Dr. Anderson’s chest. He doesn’t have the tattoo. We’ve let him go.”

  “Brett will be disappointed. Are you going to tail the fine doctor?”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary. He’s come up with an alibi.”

  “Really? He didn’t have one when I interviewed him.”

  “Well, it’s of the mistress sort. He was cheating on his wife and didn’t know how to firm up his alibi without disclosing the affair.”

  “All this seems like something you could have had the shift sergeant give me over the phone.”

  Anson took another sip, swilling the liquid around before he swallowed.

  “The crime lab van was involved in an accident.” Anson rocked the Styrofoam against the table; the faint squeaks fired Nathan’s nerves.

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Simms and Warner were able to crawl out before the thing caught fire.”

  “That’s good. I still don’t get why this takes a personal visit from the chief.”

  “No, you’re right. It’s what was in the van that I wanted to tell you about in person.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Earlier today, they’d been at SMC collecting DNA samples from Torrence Campbell’s baby. The evidence was destroyed in the fire.”

  “Send someone back for another sample.”

  “It’s too late.” He stilled his cup. “They’ve both been cremated.”

  “Great.”

  “On top of that, there’s good evidence they were intentionally run off the road.”

  Nathan rubbed two fingers against his temple hoping the counter pressure would ease his building headache. “Just like Torrence.”

  Chapter 11

  September 18

  LILLY SLID THE key into the last deadbolt, her fingers pressed hard against the cool metal to keep them still. The first lock was easy. At the second, her heart began to have frequent skipped beats as the adrenaline released into her veins. Kadin’s breath was warm against her neck, his body inches behind hers on the landing, maybe to prevent the retreat that her heart pleaded for. Dana brought up the rear, standing on the staircase. Lilly released the lock and pushed the door open. As the warm air flowed out, her back ached from the memory of falling through the coffee table. She took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of cinnamon, to displace the stench of her rapist that still lingered in her memory.

  Kadin stepped around her and placed her small overnight case inside the door. “Do you want me to look around for you?”

  “I have to go first. It’s the only way I’ll be able to live here.”

  He stepped aside, and she entered with tentative steps. Her glass table had been replaced with a mahogany stand. She neared it, smoothing her palm over the intricate wood design.

  “Do you like it?” Dana asked from behind.

  “It’s the one I was thinking about getting several months ago. You remembered.”

  “Of course. That’s just the first surprise.”

  Dana took her hand and began leading her to the staircase. Lilly resisted her gentle pull.

  “Are you sure you still want to live here, Lilly?” Kadin asked.

  “We’ve been over this,” Lilly said, her voice firm.

  “It doesn’t mean you can’t change your mind,” Dana offered, swinging Lilly’s hand in small circles, her brown eyes pools of sympathy.

  “I’m not changing my mind.”

  Dana paused, glancing Kadin’s way. Lilly sensed the conversation playing between them was one of silent reluctance. She knew they wanted to be supportive. She didn’t know how far she could stretch them.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” Lilly offered, stepping in that direction.

  Dana led her slowly, stopping before the master bedroom. Lilly nudged her to the side and walked through the threshold in several quick steps until she was in the middle of the room. Foreign colors swam before her, and she wavered as her vision faltered.

  Kadin placed a firm hand under her elbow. She steadied herself and stepped away from him, taking in the new features. Surprise overwhelmed her as the details took form. She spun like a young girl.

  “Do you like it?” Dana asked with a girlish lilt to her voice.

  Lilly stopped, memorizing every niche. The room was bright and airy. A light sage green was interrupted midway down the wall by white wainscoting. Her mission-style bed had been replaced with a white, four-post canopy with layers upon layers of plush pillows in rose and lilac.

  “How did you do this?”

  “Kadin helped.”

  She looked down. The floor was now a rich hardwood, replacing the shag chocolate brown from before.

  “It’s a heated floor,” Kadin said.

  Lilly’s heart swelled with gratitude. “This is why you forced me to stay with Dana for two weeks?”

  They nodded at her conspiratorially.

  “We didn’t know how long we could keep you believing that it was a problem with the locksmith,” Kadin said.

  “I don’t know how I will ever repay you.”

  “It’s not necessary, Lilly,” Dana said. “We did it because we love you and we want you to fe
el comfortable in this space again.”

  “It’s everything I wanted. I mean, Dana, you remembered every single detail. All those times I tortured you with those decorating magazines, you were actually paying attention.”

  “You did bore me to death, but I was taking notes.” Dana hugged her.

  “No one would believe you would want something like this,” Kadin said. “It’s so different from your personality.”

  Lilly envisioned her old childhood bedroom. The boyish bed picked up off the street with faded Snoopy sheets. A white chipped dresser. The cement floor exposed through threadbare green shag carpet that would chill her feet like ice cubes dropped on the floor. “It’s the hidden child I never got to be.”

  Chapter 12

  September 20

  NATHAN ROUNDED THE front of Brett’s silver Highlander and waited, tapping his foot to the haunted rock ballad he’d heard on the radio that morning as it played endless loops in his mind. It echoed the anxiety he felt at his forthcoming interview with Celia Ramirez. The glare prohibited easy vision of his partner, who remained inside finishing a phone call. Turning, Nathan surveyed the business before him. Several stalls had cars up on platform jacks. The smell of grease permeated the air even at a distance. Rapid fire drills drowned out the peaceful exterior of the day.

  “Ready to go?” Brett asked. It seemed to Nathan that his partner had snuck up on him.

  “Are you? What’s going on?”

  “My ex—up to her pleasantries again. You would keep your mouth shut … say, if she popped up missing. Right?”

  “What would I know about it?”

  “Mr. Honest to a fault. You couldn’t help yourself but look into it.”

  “Probably true. Let’s say we go find Celia. You review her questionnaire?”

  Brett opened the manila folder, pointing at the sea of bright yellow, green, and orange. “I see your OCD is in high gear. What’s this highlighting mean? Looks like a bowl of Lucky Charms.”

  Nathan plucked it from his fingers as they walked toward the garage.

  “Yellow is for similarities, a likely point where the victims crossed paths, with each other or with the assailant.”

  A high-pitched ringing sounded like someone had pulled a station for the fire alarm. “What?” Brett yelled, stopping near the main garage.

  Nathan shook his head, plugging an index finger into one ear as they entered the office.

  Brett approached the front counter. “We’re here to speak with Celia Ramirez.”

  The receptionist stood and motioned to two metal folding chairs on either side of a water cooler. “Have a seat, and I’ll get her for you.”

  Nathan began flipping through the pages again. The heavy banging was muffled in this area. Only when the glass door opened between the garage and the office did the barrage intensify.

  “Are you gentlemen waiting for me?”

  Nathan looked up. Her file picture had not prepared him. Tall, with perfectly styled chestnut hair, a suggestive twinkle in her eyes at her power over men.

  “Celia Ramirez?”

  “That’s me.”

  Nathan stood, extending his hand. He grinned to himself at wanting to push up onto his tiptoes to regain the height advantage.

  “You’re somewhat different than I expected,” Nathan stammered, grasping her hand within his. If he were blindfolded, he would have thought the handshake was a man’s. Her grip was strong, but her fingers were thin and soft and the palm of her hand callus free.

  “What were you expecting?”

  “A grease monkey in denim overalls,” Brett chimed in, offering his hand as well.

  “How do you keep your shirt so white?” Nathan asked.

  “That would be the function of those denim overalls,” she said. Her pink lips formed a bemused smile. “Let’s discuss matters in my office.” An outstretched, toned arm indicated the direction.

  They followed her, like two puppies after fresh milk. She motioned to the floral loveseat that sat in front of her light, pine desk. Nathan sat first. Brett checked over his clothing before taking his place. The cushions caved inward and they sank into one another, shoulders and thighs touching.

  “I’ll just stand if you don’t mind,” Brett relayed, taking his usual lean against the nearest wall, tipping a picture off level.

  “Thanks for meeting with us this morning.” Nathan spread her file open on the vacant cushion.

  “I’m surprised to see you. After all, it’s been nine months since my attack.” Celia leaned on one corner of the desk.

  “There have been some new developments in your case. I’m not sure how much I can expand on at this point in time, but your cooperation is fully appreciated.”

  “I’ve already spent quite a bit of time with another detective and that tedious questionnaire. I’m not sure what else I can do.”

  “I understand. I know it’s difficult giving up your time, and reliving these events can be anxiety provoking …”

  “I’m doing well, but thanks for your concern.”

  “Very well. I’ll get to the point at hand. Mostly, I’m curious about your job here. Do you own the business?” Nathan asked, continuing to arrange papers, shuffling through photographs.

  “I do now. My father recently passed, and he left it to me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. How long have you worked here?”

  “You could say all my life, at least from the point where I could identify a tool correctly and be his runner while he worked.”

  “It was him who taught you?”

  “I wouldn’t say formal instruction, but on-the-job training can go a long way.”

  Nathan squared the edges of the photos together. The images captured Celia hours after her attack, bruised and beaten. One open laceration to her left cheek had required stitches. He studied her face for a few seconds, the scar faint under her makeup. Her calmness was odd in light of the photos in plain view. Most victims wept.

  “What kind of records do you keep as far as service to the vehicles is concerned?”

  “We’ve tightened down quite a bit. License plate, make and model, current mileage, service rendered, payment received.”

  “What about a copy of their driver’s license?”

  “Yes, but only in the last year.”

  “Your business is relatively close to SMC. Do a lot of physicians bring their cars here for service?”

  “A fair number. I don’t make it a point to inquire about people’s work. So unless they bring it up, I wouldn’t know.”

  “You must be familiar with makes and models.”

  “Obviously.” She was calm, almost stoic.

  “At the time of your attack, there was a pink Escalade parked a couple of blocks from your house. One of your neighbors stated he’d never seen it before and hadn’t seen it after. Any of those come through here?”

  Celia walked behind her desk and took a seat in her plush leather chair. Rolling forward, she pivoted her computer screen away from them. “I don’t remember a car like that personally.” She tapped briefly on the keyboard. “There is one in the database. It’s relatively new. Brought in for some minor body damage.”

  “What was the date?”

  It was the first instance where a frown drew her lips into a slight pout; her confidence cracked slightly. “January 4 of this year.”

  “That was the day after your attack. We’ll check for hit-and-runs in your area around that time.”

  She nodded, continuing to scan the information. “I don’t think it’s related. It was an older woman who brought the vehicle in, Meryl Stipman. Nevada tags and driver’s license.”

  “That’s a long way from Colorado. May I see your copy?”

  Celia pivoted the screen. “Is it the same vehicle?”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have a plate number for the car in your vicinity at the time of the attack. We’ll probably give this lady a ring, though. Do you mind if I show you a few pictures?” Nathan asked, finishi
ng up his note and pulling the small stack of photos from the pile.

  “Not at all.”

  Nathan stepped forward, placing them in a neat horizontal row aligned with the grid on her desk planner. “Do you recognize any of these women?”

  “I’ve seen her,” Celia tapped the photo of Torrence Campbell. “Her story’s been on the news a lot.”

  “Anyone else?”

  She shook her head and pushed the photos back toward Nathan. He gathered them up and placed them back in a small manila envelope.

  Brett pushed away from the wall. “I’m curious about something.”

  Celia brushed a stray hair from her eye. “What would that be?”

  “You seem so put together. Managing a business. Answering our questions without much difficulty. Are you really okay, or is this just a front?”

  Nathan took a step backward, closer to Brett’s position, preventing him from closing the distance, unsure how much leeway he wanted to give him.

  “It did happen quite a long time ago.” Celia pushed away from the desk.

  “It was only nine months. Most victims feel like it was yesterday.”

  “I’ve been through a lot of therapy.”

  “Still seems odd to me.”

  “Are you accusing me of something?” Celia folded her arms, her eyes narrowed.

  “Brett …” Nathan warned.

  “Not at all. Just most victims we visit, no matter how long ago the attack was, are still somewhat tearful … maybe pensive.”

  Celia shrugged. “I’ve been taking an experimental drug that’s helping … let’s say soften the emotional impact of my attack.”

  “This would be of the legal kind?” Brett pushed.

  “Yes, of course. It’s part of a new treatment protocol to lessen the effects of PTSD.”

  “Post-traumatic stress? I haven’t heard of any drug like that.” Nathan reached for his notes.

  “All I know is it’s helped me a great deal.”

  Nathan interrupted. “I’d be interested in talking to your physician about that treatment. We wouldn’t ask about your specific case.”

  “Sure. Let me get you one of his cards. Maybe you’d want a few extra for those other women in the photos.”