Gulping down my water to swallow some pills helps me keep my hangover at bay. I don’t even know if Victor remembers texting Frankie, but I’m glad he did. No way were we driving home. Well, I might have tried, but failed miserably. Sitting here in this room, I know life is good. I want to find the connection. I want to get this off my chest. Yet, in the same breath I don’t want to. I just want to walk away.
“You could you know.”
I’d know that voice anywhere. It’s the calm, soothing tone that always made the bad dreams go away. I wondered when my imagination would bring her back, but I’m not dreaming this time. Sleep deprivation must be taking its toll.
“It’s that among other things.” Turning around I see my mother in her youthful glory. I want to reach out and touch her, but let’s be honest - this isn’t real. I’m not dumb and lord knows I am not blind, but this isn’t real.
“Why are you here?”
“I don’t know. You talked to your grandfather growing up, why would I be any different.”
“Grandpa died when I was a kid.”
“And your imagination allowed you to talk to him. It’s not a bad thing, this is just how you deal with things. What did Frankie tell you? You create scenes in order to understand and decipher the problem.”
“Nightmares.”
“Well you do have those, and you should talk to her about them. This not so much, you are talking to me because you want to, not because I’m here. You could have picked your brother, Belinda, your father or grandmother. Whomever you felt would help you figure this out.’
“Crazy, yup I’m nuts.”
My mother’s body shakes as she erupts with laughter, a sound I have always loved.
“Jasmine Marie Steele, you are not crazy. You’re just not like everyone else. Stop being stubborn and just realize your imagination created me so you can figure this out.”
“During waking hours…”
“You’re stressed and haven’t been sleeping. Need I say more?”
“Point taken.”
My mother stares at the walls, at my web of disconnect. I can see the displeasure on her face, if she was alive I’m sure she’d be scolding me about something. Maybe the color of my string is wrong. Maybe I am missing what is right in front of my face. I truthfully don’t know. I’m seeing my mother in living color, so I don’t know if I am really a good judge of anything right now.
“You’ve done so much work here.”
“Yeah, but it isn’t enough.”
Her hand follows the green lines. Then they fall on a picture of Henry, Belinda and Chase. Her fingers tracing the outline like I’ve done so many times before.
“You still blame yourself?”
“No, been there done that. This isn’t about guilt.”
“Vengeance then.”
“Partially. It’s also my way of bringing someone to justice. You’re not supposed to make money off your crimes, yet Irving Garrison did and continues to do so.”
“So many people commit crimes every day. People make money off the backs of slaves everywhere. How can you save them all?”
“I can’t.”
“Then let this all go. It’s becoming an addiction for you to deal with this. Its disrupting sleep, bringing up nightmares you left behind months ago. Jasmine, you are beyond obsessed.”
“This is where I tell my mother, who is a figment of my insanity to just back off.”
“You know he’ll make a mistake, and then you catch him. Until then, live your life.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t. You simply exist in the majority of it. You have moments, but mostly you exist.”
Those words hit me in the chest, hard. They were the exact words I said to her almost every day towards the end of her life. I know people say you become your parents, but this is not something I want to be. I am just doing my job and my own second guessing is going to cause issues. Looking back up to her, I’m once again alone. The image having done it’s job of placing seeds of doubt in my already cluttered mind. The vibration of my cell phone pulls my attention.
“Steele.”
“I’m outside. We’ve got another body.” Will’s voice cuts through the tension in my soul. Hanging up the phone. I gather my thoughts before heading into the unknown.
***
Walking up the grassy knoll I’m brought back to my father talking about Kennedy and political conspiracies. I can just imagine him walking up to the yellow tape and damning authority. He never liked those in power. Unless it was my mother. Then he respected it. Never underestimate a woman who cleans your underwear or cooks your food. I learned that from my mom and Murder She Wrote reruns.
“What we got?”
I ask as my feet drag me to stand beside Victor near the coroner’s van. He looks up at me and for the first time that I’ve known him, he looks green. I’ve seen it before after a gallon of tequila and a pound of lemons and salt, but this looks different. My head begins to hurt at the prospect of what I’m about to face.
“Male, mid-fifties, Caucasian…”
“You’re very down to business today.” I throw at him, hoping he’ll take the lead and explain why he looks like shit.
“Yea, well. There’s not much for me to do here.”
“Cause of death?”
“Pretty clear.”
I’ve always considered Victor to be a well rounded, good looking dark-skinned male. I’d never date him because that would be like dating my brother. He’s part of my other family if you will and right now I see a man with disgust written on his face.
“Vic…”
“I took an oath when I became a doctor. Didn’t matter the position of the graduate from best in class to barely doctor, we all took the same oath with the same wording. In essence, we remember that we are treating human beings, not disorders or diseases. We help, not harm.”
I watch him fight for his words, slowly pulling them out of his mind one at a time. It’s a bit funny what he’s said though. I know firsthand, as long as you pass the classes-you’re a doctor. I sat in the emergency room once waiting on x-rays for my foot. Doctor came to me, told me my wrist was sprained and I could go home. He ignored my attempts to prove him wrong and discharged me. I guess regardless of oaths-people inevitably all cause harm.
“Everyone is capable…”
“Of being a bastard, I know that Jazz. But this… this was a brutalization of a man by someone with medical training.”
“Okay, so there’s an evil doc running around killing people. Doesn’t mean you need to take it personal. There’s bad cops, horrible aunts, and don’t get me started…”
“This isn’t about you dammit!” He punches the van and his eyes harden at me. I’ve never seen him like this before and frankly I never want to again. Either way, right now I want to smack him, but as an adult I won’t. Who am I kidding, as an adult I would punch him easily. As a friend, I will back off.
Turning to the crime scene, I duck under the tape as Victor calls after me. I have no patience for other people’s crap. I know I’m being a bitch right now, but it is what it is. Standing next to Will, his hand frantically writing notes down but I can’t read his scribble. His shorthand is worse than Chase trying to do common core math. Neither one makes any bit of sense.
“Victor say anything?”
“Male, Caucasian, mid-fifties and cause of death would be pretty clear once I saw the body.”
“He’s right.”
Will points over to the body and I get my first glimpse of the victim. It looks like a body, kind of. No blood trail leading up to him. Body dump then. No evidence nearby of a struggle, supporting the whole body dump thing. Seeing the body up close makes my stomach turn. I’ve seen a lot in my life, but this was something out of Hadley’s movies.
Walter Miller, eyes closed, lays on his back, arms out, palms to the sky. His glasses perched on his face as if he fell asleep reading. His skin pale. His hands and arms show no defensive wounds. All th
ings I’ve seen before. Kneeling down, I look at the damage before me and my coffee decides to make a second appearance.
Swallowing the acid back down, I snap on a pair of latex gloves. I need to see this. Call it morbid curiosity, call it inquisitive, call it whatever the hell you want. His shirt was cut down the center, and not like a great eighties cut off. This was done with a set of scissors or something similar, too clean a cut. The cut on the skin looks the same, clean, precise-perfect.
As a kid, you always put your hands into things. If there’s a cake, there are fingers swiping some icing. Mud pies, the garden, in the case of my brother once-dog poop. It’s natural that we always put out hands in things. It’s how we learn about texture and make a connection to whatever we’re touching. As adults, we know when to stick our hands in something and when not to. Right now, I really don’t want to, but the stupid in me wins out and I do.
Nothing. I feel nothing. Pulling my hand out suddenly, I fall on my ass. So much for the not washing jeans movement. Rest assured my ass is green and not with envy as I release my stomach full of coffee to the lawn beside me.
“At least you kept it away from the body. Two newbies splashed a bit too close.”
Looking up at Will I see him stronger than ever, calm, stomach still full from breakfast. Part of me wants to ask him how that’s possible. Maybe there’s a class you can take - ‘How Not to Puke at a Crime Scene 101’. Yet, I know why he’s okay. He’s seen men blown to pieces, men trying to hold their intestines in while waiting for help. He’s seen worse and I must look like a weak private to him right now.
Snapping my gloves off, I stand up and try to catch my bearings. If I don’t think about the fact that my mouth tastes like ass, I’ll be okay. Then again, how do I really know what ass taste like? And I succeed in making myself hurl whatever didn’t come out of my mouth before. I hear Will chuckling in the background. Damn him and his Marine genes.
“You done yet?”
Using my sleeve I wipe my mouth, the scrunch up my nose at the actions. Now, I’m gonna smell like bad puke all day. I need a shower and a new cup of coffee. Maybe a latte, I threw it up so the morning coffee calories from this morning don’t count. I can rationalize anything I want really.
“Jasmine, you done?”
“Yeah, just thinking.”
“They still count.”
“What?”
“Just because you threw up the majority of it, the stomach was already digesting.”
“And this is where I say stop reading my mind scary Marine man.”
“No witnesses in the area and no evidence of nibbling.”
“So he hasn’t been here long.”
“Not according to Victor, no.”
“Why the same park as Kaley?”
“This is a bit more secluded so they didn’t want him to be found quickly.”
“Yet, we did because…”
“Early morning jogger. Said she normally doesn’t take this path, but wanted to try something different.”
“Kaley was by the kids area, in the tree dividing the baseball field from the tiny humans.”
“Miller left in the wooded area that is rarely traveled.”
“Yea, but you and I both know we would have found the body eventually. It’s not like he’s buried or even folded up and disposed of. The man has no organs inside of him, I’m sure you could have disposed of him a different way. Why leave him here where he will be found at some point?”
“Comfort.”
The word sends chills down my spine. Comfort to me is hanging out on a really nice couch with Frankie and Chase watching a movie. Comfort is an amazing cup of coffee. Comfort is not a place to dump the bodies. Hell the whole point of killing people is to get away with it. This is not getting away with it. This is taunting the police to see whose ego is bigger.
“Chase plays lacrosse here.”
The words sound foreign to me. Small, empty, like when I spoke to my brother while he was slowly dying. Nothing had meaning. Grabbing my cell phone I call Frankie.
“Hey honey, what’s up?”
“I don’t want Chase going to any more lacrosse practices. Or games. Or play dates in the park. No more park. Nothing, I don’t care.”
“Okay,” she draws out slowly. She thinks I’m nuts. Considering I left my basement after seeing my mother who is long dead, I would question it myself. “Mind telling me why?” She asks simply.
“Murderer dumping ground.” I flatly reply. I can’t add emotion here, otherwise I will be dry heaving for the next couple of hours.
“Okay then. No park for the foreseeable future.”
“Thank you.” I disconnect the call before letting her ask me anything else. I know her well enough to expect a barrage of questions concerning this case. Anything from who is he to who did it. In other words, everything we all want to know and nothing I can answer. I wonder if I could sing ‘one of these things is not like the other’ and the information would magically appear. Man sometimes I wish I was young and didn’t have to deal with killers and their idiocy. Or psychotic behavior… then again, kids in high school are no better. I guess this is the lesser of two evils.
***
Florescent lights illuminate the small house. The wallpaper reminds me of the disco era when my mother thought my brother wanted to dress in vertical striped pants with bright shirt. He was four, he had an excuse. My father had a matching outfit, he should have known better.
Touching the plastic covered furniture, I can hear my mother yelling at my brother and me to stay out of the living room. A chain dividing us from the Promised Land where G.I. Joe and Care Bears could roam free. A place where holidays are held and a massive stereo unit with a record player and 8 track unit reside. I swallow the memory sized lump in my throat.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. I don’t need memories right now. “Just reminds me of my parent’s house before they renovated.” Trying to stay light, I feel detached. Like I am following this case, but it feels outside of me. Yet, in the basement, everything connects somehow.
“We’ve got people all over the house looking for anything about this case.”
“Tech already grabbed the laptop and headed back to the nerd cage.”
“It’s not so bad down there.”
“I know nothing about the cave except that is where my brain cells go to die. I don’t get it and I don’t care to. Point and shoot, remember?”
“Sounds like a personal problem.”
I walk past Will and head down the stairs into the basement. Leave it to movies, novels and other psychology books to insist the basement is the best place to house all the evidence. Between the dampness, dimly lit rooms and the smell, you think a criminal would want to take better care of their evidence.
Debris litters the floor, everything from old books to clipped floor tiles cover as far as the eye can see. This is why criminals like the basement so much. It’s away from prying eyes and people who don’t like it. Yet, to them, it’s where they can be who they are.
“I hide in the basement…” I mumble to myself. Am I like them? Is that what my nightmares are trying to tell me? I’m no better than those who hide little girls in basements? I punch the wall. Or more accurately, through the wall to William Miller’s secret hideaway.
“Will!”
He comes down the stairs, skipping every other step. I pull some more sheetrock out of the way and he peers inside. He starts to tap the wall and the sounds change oddly. He places his ear to the wall while I continue to work removing the obstacle.
“Would be faster if you helped me.”
He smiles and pushes the wall hard. It clicks and opens.
“Or you could do that. Have I mentioned how your military training makes me look bad?”
“No, but I’ll make sure to let them know.”
“Funny, really.”
I walk around him, my flashlight illuminating the obsession with Kaley Johnson and other young female s
tudents.
“He must have had cameras hidden everywhere.”
“There must be hundreds of photos here, how the hell did he not slip up?”
“Maybe he didn’t act on it.”
I turn and see Will standing over a makeshift sink with a few bottles lining the circumference. Picking one up, no labels but it smells of something hideous. In a split second, I gag and force my stomach to get its contents back.
“What the hell?”
“No idea, but this makes me wonder if he ever touched any of those girls.”
“He finally took a step into the darker side though. Kaley comes to him with a desperate plea for help.” I think out-loud.
“He can finally enjoy all his fantasies in her payment.” Will adds as it all seems to fall into place.
“Until he finds out she’s pregnant.”
“Destroys his illusion and he kills her.”
“Making her look like a beautiful doll for us to find.”
I dry heave again causing Will to take a step back. His arm points to the stairs and I can tell he wants to get rid of me. Can’t blame him, shoes are expensive.
“I’ll keep the techs working and make sure this gets a thorough once over. Go see if Victor is calm enough to share any findings.”
Afraid to open my mouth to say anything, I simply smile, turn and rush out of the basement. I swear I can feel my stomach fighting me with every step. That’s it, I need military training for my stomach. Leaving my DNA all over the place is really not professional.
***
I find myself back in Victor’s morgue hoping for more information. Anything had to be better than what we found at Miller’s house. Beyond just wanting to leave my lunch again, I wanted to hurt this man. If he wasn’t already dead I know I would want to put him in gen pop. Pedophiles don’t do well in the general population. Even criminals have a code of ethics, children are off limits.
Melting Steele Page 8
