Perfect Trust argi-3

by M. R. Sellars

Ben quickly looked around for a place to dispose of the drinks he was carrying. Finding none, he shoved the cups of coffee into the hands of a uniformed officer who was walking past, giving no explanation other than a muttered, “Here. Merry Christmas.”

  His attention remained focused on Charlee, and I could almost feel the surge of adrenalin that kicked into him as he ramped up to her level. We were already hurrying through the sex crimes squad room as he spoke, “Get the CSU on the horn now. Tell ‘em ya’ need an evidence team at this woman’s residence immediately if not sooner. We need ta’ hit this before anyone can screw with the scene.”

  “Already done,” she answered as we jogged.

  “Did they tell ya’ who’s runnin it?”

  “No.”

  “Call ‘em back and tell ‘em ya’ want Murv. I don’t care if they hafta drag his ass outta the shower or what. We want the best on this, and I’d almost swear that guy could lift a print off a fuckin’ puddle of water if he had to.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’ll go check in upstairs and let ‘em know what’s up, then we’ll meet you out back. I’ll drive.”

  “See you in ten,” she told us as she peeled off toward her desk.

  “Make it five,” Ben called after her.

  I had to break into a near run to keep up with my friend as he hooked around the desks and shouldered open the door leading to the stairs.

  “Why are we in such a rush,” I asked, following him through into the stairwell but lagging behind as he took the stairs two at a time.

  “Because I wanna get ya’ together with the victim while everything’s still fresh,” he said.

  “This is kind of an about-face. I thought you were still a bit leery about all that.”

  “Oh, I am,” he called down. “I’m just taking my turn.”

  “What?”

  “My turn,” he repeated, his voice starting to fade in the distance as it echoed from the concrete walls. “You said it was my turn ta’ trust ya’ for a change. Well, I’m gonna trust ya’ ta’ figure out who the sick asshole is that’s doin’ this.”

  He had already disappeared from view, and I could hear the creak of the door slowly closing behind him. I forged on, and finally topping the first flight of stairs, I rounded the landing and started up the next set, only to halt dead in my tracks.

  Seated on the top stair was a blonde in her early twenties, clad in a cheerleader’s uniform. Her arms were crossed, and she was leaning forward with them resting on her knees. The toes of her unnaturally white sneakers pointed slightly in toward one another, and she was staring at me quizzically.

  After a brief interval of motionlessness, her mouth began to move. A short measure later, completely out of sync with her lips, words began glancing from the walls with a phase-shifted quality that I’d come to expect from the earthly manifestations of spirits.

  I’m dead, She’s dead.

  D-E-A-D, dead.

  She’s dead, I’m dead.

  D-E-A-D, dead.

  Her head bobbed back and forth in time with the ditty as she spoke, making the lack of synchronization between the movement of her mouth and the words just that much more disconcerting. Her eyes remained locked with mine, unblinking, and I could do nothing more than return the stare.

  The past two days of quiet had lulled me into a sense of complacency where such ethereal visits were concerned, and her sudden appearance here took me by surprise, especially since I was used to hearing the dead, not necessarily seeing them. At least not while I was awake.

  I simply stood there, unsure of what to say.

  She continued the piece of morose poetry, picking up the disharmonious pace as she went.

  Rowan, Rowan, he’s our man!

  If he can’t do it, nobody can!

  She’s dead, I’m dead, what to do?

  Find the killer, we’re counting on you!

  Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe,

  Catch the killer, don’t let him go.

  Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe,

  Make him suffer, don’t you know.

  If he screams, well we don’t care,

  If he cries, then we’ll be there.

  We want him to hurt, and to be afraid.

  We want him to die in this bed he’s made.

  Now go catch the killer,

  We’ll make him pay.

  And pay, and pay,

  And pay, and pay,

  And pay, and pay, and pay, and pay, and pay…

  The vengeance laced words continued to echo inside my head as they faded in concert with the rapidly dissolving image of Debbie Schaeffer. I felt a hard knot in my stomach and nausea gripped me. This wasn’t good at all.

  Debbie had literally taken over my body once before, and even though I was in better shape now than I had been that night, if I wasn’t careful she could do it again. The last thing I needed was for her to use me to commit murder-even if the victim was a killer himself. There’s no way in the world I’d ever be able to convince a jury that my physical body had been possessed by the spirit of a dead cheerleader with a hunger for revenge. No, this was worse than not good. This was just plain bad.

  I’m not sure how much time I spent standing there contemplating this fresh threat, but it couldn’t have been long. I started with a violent jerk as the door at the top of the landing bumped open with a heavy thud and Ben stuck his head through the opening.

  “Hey, Rowan,” my friend called down to me. “You comin’ or what?”

  *****

  The doors leading from the ambulance bay slid open before us to reveal something resembling an all-day-long progressive holiday celebration in halting swing. The on-again, off-again nature of the work here was managing to consistently interfere and prevent the festivities from ever making it to the status of a full-blown party.

  As we entered, for the second time this week the antiseptic atmosphere of an emergency room assaulted me full force; but at least this time I wasn’t a patient. The sweet smells of cookies and candies mingled with the savory aromas of cheese and cold-cut trays on the cool air. They were in turn undercut with the sharp fumes of isopropyl alcohol and other medicinal preparations. The entire melange was bound together by the peculiar plastic odor of adhesive bandages.

  Fortunately, it didn’t appear to be too terribly busy at the moment-yet another calm before the storm considering that, statistically, holidays bring out the worst in some people. Still, even with the lull, the staff wasn’t exactly twiddling their thumbs either. The nurse behind the desk was involved in paperwork, presumably from a recent admission. Here and there, others could be seen taking care of various tasks or simply snatching a cookie from one of the many plates.

  The young woman tending the desk had made an effort to offset the plainness of her scrubs, having adorned herself with a holiday bow in her hair and an electronic reindeer pin above her name badge. As we approached, the LED in the plastic novelty’s nose was flashing wildly, and the circuitry embedded within was belting out a medley of holiday tunes comprised entirely of a series of slightly off-key electronic tones.

  “Can I help you?” she asked cheerfully as she looked up, obviously noticing that no one in our trio appeared to require immediate medical attention.

  “City Police,” Charlee told her as she flashed her badge. “I’m Detective McLaughlin; this is Detective Storm and Mister Gant. I received a call from a Doctor Kennedy a little while ago.”

  “Yes.” The nurse nodded, her smile fading. “The rape. He said to expect you. Treatment room four.” She stood and leaned slightly across the counter then motioned with one hand. “Down this corridor, left at the end, through the double doors, and it will be about halfway down on the left.”

  “Thanks,” McLaughlin told her.

  We rounded the corner of the admitting desk and headed down the hallway with Charlee in the lead. Ben reigned in his extra long stride and put a hand on my arm to hold me back as well, allowing us to fall a few paces behind her.

 
“I haven’t had a chance ta’ talk ta’ Chuck about the hocus-pocus stuff,” he half whispered to me. “Not ta’ mention that this victim is comin’ right off the incident, and she hasn’t had time ta’ come ta’ terms with it.”

  “I understand,” I replied.

  “Really, Row,” he admonished. “Don’t go in there slingin’ fairy dust or whatever right outta the box. We gotta feel out the situation first.”

  “Okay, Ben,” I reiterated, “I’ve got it. I’m sorry about what I did back at the station and I won’t do it here. I promise.”

  “Okay, I just gotta be sure,” he told me as he rummaged in his pockets again.

  “What? Do I need another breath mint?” I queried, noticing his preoccupation with the task.

  “Prob’ly,” he huffed flatly. “You hot-boxed four cigarettes between gettin’ to the van and gettin’ in here.”

  “Yeah, well, blame it on Miranda Hodges. Besides, I seem to recall seeing a Fuente Chateau clenched between your teeth, my friend.”

  “Yeah, but I was just chewin’ on it. Actually, I wanted ta’ give you somethin’ else.” He finally withdrew his fist from his pocket and held it out to me. “Here.”

  I extended my palm, and he dropped a wad of small paper packets into it. “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Salt,” he answered matter-of-factly. “I stole ‘em outta the break room before we left.”

  “What do you want me to do with them?”

  “Hey, you’re the Witch, you tell me. Felicity seemed ta’ think it was pretty important ta’ have salt the other night. I’m just tryin’ ta’ help.”

  “She was doing something a bit different than what I’m about to do.”

  “Yeah, well it’s all the same in my book,” he returned. “Besides, I haven’t seen Felicity go off the deep end yet, so maybe ya’ oughta try it her way.”

  I was going to object again, but we were almost to the door of the treatment room, and I really didn’t have time to explain the difference between Magickal workings and psychic abilities to him.

  Of course, the real truth was that in my case they were probably closer to one another than I wanted to believe. On top of that, he was most likely correct in his assessment. Given my current state, a little caution might very well go a long way. Especially since I now had an ethereal vigilante cheerleader threatening to use me as a weapon to exact her vengeance.

  I almost had to laugh at that thought. The entire concept sounded like a bad fifties sci-fi/horror movie- I Was A Killer Teenage Zombie Cheerleader, or something equally ridiculous. Unfortunately, I was playing the starring role in the production and it was all far too real.

  I stuffed the handful of salt packets into my coat pocket and kept my mouth shut.

  CHAPTER 21

  Charlee stepped back out of the treatment room, already shaking her head. Ben and I had waited outside so as not to overload the victim. With what she’d been through, she definitely didn’t need us coming at her full force without some kind of warning.

  “Unless he’s breaking his pattern, this isn’t our boy,” she told us as the door shut behind her.

  “You sure?” Ben asked.

  “No welt from a stun gun that they can find, and the bruising on her neck is from hands.” She motioned to her own neck with a gripping posture as an example. “Looks like she was choked. Turns out that after talking to her, she’s in an ongoing abusive relationship with a boyfriend.”

  “I hate that shit,” Ben muttered. “Someone needs ta’ kick ‘is ass.”

  “Tell me about it,” she returned.

  “What about the Roofies?”

  “They don’t have the blood test back yet, but I’m betting it will be negative.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because here’s the real kicker-this isn’t the first time she’s been in.”

  “The abuse?”

  “Overdose.” McLaughlin shook her head. “She’s an addict. More tracks than Union Station.”

  “Don’t tell me.” Ben shook his head. “Last time she scored was Saturday night.”

  Charlee laid one index finger against the side of her nose and simply pointed at him with the other.

  “So what the hell’d they call ya’ for?”

  “She’s blonde…”

  “…and petite, and doctors ain’t cops.” Ben finished the diatribe for her while nodding his head then slapped his open palm against the tiled wall and leaned into it. “Shit! Hodges bolts and now this is a dead end. We can’t catch a fuckin’ break!”

  His voice echoed down the corridor directly behind the fading sound of his hand impacting the tile. He was still riding the adrenalin rush that had hyped him up less than half an hour ago, and the disappointment at this turn of events seemed to ravage his features as he huffed out a disgusted sigh.

  And right there was a shining example of the portrait I had in my mind. Benjamin Storm, supercop-protector of the innocent.

  “I’m right there with you, Storm,” McLaughlin told him, showing mild surprise at his outburst. “But you gotta stop taking it so personally.”

  “Yeah, well tell that ta’ Debbie Schaeffer’s parents,” he said. “It’s Christmas freakin’ Eve, and what’s left of their daughter is spendin’ it in a body bag over on Clark Avenue. Merry fuckin’ ho, ho, ho.”

  “You can’t change that,” I offered to my friend.

  “No,” he admitted, “I can’t change it, but I can give ‘em this asshole as a gift. At least that’d be somethin’.”

  “We don’t even know for sure if it’s the same guy,” Charlee said.

  “Maybe not, but it’s the best lead I’ve got at the moment.”

  “Then let’s follow it,” I interjected, my voice flat.

  “How?” he shot back.

  “There are other victims,” I offered. “We talk to them.”

  “Jeez, white man, like I just said it’s freakin’ Christmas Eve!”

  “Yes it is,” I acknowledged. “But you’re the one who wants to give Debbie Schaeffer’s parents this guy as a gift. By my calculations you’ve only got about twelve shopping hours left.”

  “Yeah, well I’m thinkin’ it’s gonna be a disappointin’ holiday for all of us.”

  I looked over at Charlee. “You said there have been eight rapes reported so far?”

  “Yeah,” she nodded.

  “Do you have all the victim’s numbers?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got their numbers.” She gave me a nod then looked at Ben. “He’s right. It’s worth a try, Storm.”

  “Maybe,” he huffed, “but I’m not gonna hold my breath.”

  “Okay.” I shot my glance between them. “Rule out Miranda Hodges and that leaves seven. At least one of them has got to be willing to talk to us.”

  McLaughlin cocked her head to the door of the treatment room. “This one wants to file a report, not that I think she’ll follow through. Anyway, let me get someone down here to take care of this, and we’ll start making calls.”

  “I guess I’d better call the crime scene guys and cancel,” Ben added. “Did they end up gettin’ Murv?”

  “Afraid so.” McLaughlin nodded.

  “Afraid so? That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Yeah, they called him in off of a vacation day.”

  Ben puffed his cheeks out and let the breath go with a slow hiss. “Well, guess I’d better stop by the smoke shop on the way home. I’m gonna owe ‘im some cigars for this one.”

  “It’s Christmas Eve. Remember?” I said. “Any decent smoke shop is going to be closed by the time you get a chance to run by.”

  “Crap. Well, guess I’ll hafta do it Wednesday.”

  “Look at the bright side,” I told him. “Maybe you can get them on sale.”

  Thirty minutes and five no-answers later our luck began to turn. The woman in the treatment room was giving her statement, the CSU call had been cancelled, and a young woman named Heather Burke answered her phone and said yes.

 
*****

  “Sorry about the mess,” the woman apologized while shifting a basket of clothing from a chair and onto the floor beside it. “I wasn’t really expecting company today.”

  “No problem, Miz Burke,” Charlee told her. “We really appreciate you talking to us. Especially with it being Christmas Eve and all.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” She shrugged. “I don’t have any family left, and I’m taking a bit of a hiatus from the dating scene if you get my drift.”

  Heather Burke was a perfect example of the quintessential “perky blonde.” Large, bright eyes peering out from a soft face framed by a feathery shag of yellow hair. Five foot four, slim, and blessed with what some would call “eyeball measurements.” She was literally a textbook victim for this particular predator. Looking at her, I couldn’t help but think she bore a close resemblance to my wife, except of course for the hair.

  She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that sported a faded but still readable iron-on transfer which announced, “Don’t let the hair fool you, I belong to MENSA.”

  “Nice shirt,” I observed, thinking to myself that she even had Felicity’s headstrong attitude.

  “You like it?” she asked rhetorically, looking down at the lettering then back at me. “Made it myself. It tends to stop the blonde jokes cold.”

  “I can imagine.” I nodded.

  “Have a seat.” She motioned to us. “Can I get anyone anything? I’ve got coffee on. Soda? Water?”

  We all declined the offer, and she simply shrugged then dropped herself onto the couch and crossed her legs in something close to a relaxed lotus position. “I’m not sure what I’m going to be able to tell you,” she began, shaking her head. “It’s been three weeks and I haven’t really remembered anything yet.” She directed her attention to Charlee. “I mean, other than what I originally told you at the hospital.”

  “I understand,” McLaughlin told her with a nod. “That’s actually why Mister Gant is here with us. Like I said on the phone, we’d like to try some things to help jog your memory.”

  Heather wrinkled her face in concentration, lifting one eyebrow and cocking her head to the side as she muttered, “Gant… Gant… Wait… Now I remember…” She focused her gaze directly on me. “I thought I recognized the name. You’re the Witch, aren’t you?”