Aftermath

by Rachel Trautmiller

  She handed the passes over. “So, you’d know if a student was having issues? With other students, faculty members or counselors?”

  Sam’s gaze flicked to the paper in his hand. Then back up to them as if he didn’t trust they’d stay put. “We don’t have many issues here. The students come from good homes, are academically challenged and have plenty of opportunity to excel in extracurricular activities.”

  “Paige Jurik was suspended a little over six months ago.” Robinson crossed his arms over his chest, his face a blank canvas. “What do you know about it?”

  Sam slapped their passes against the palm of his free hand. “This isn’t a search warrant. And we don’t give out information about our students, current or former, to just anyone.”

  Robinson stilled. His hands clenched. And then he was a flurry of movement as he pulled his badge from his belt clip. Exposed his SIG in the process. Then shoved the material as close to the other man’s face as he could without actually touching him.

  Not as if he were scared of the ramifications if he did, but like he didn’t want to soil his skin by doing so.

  “I assume you can still read, but just in case you can’t.” He tapped the metal surface with his middle finger. “Federal Bureau of Investigation. One call, and I’ll have about six different warrants. I imagine at least one will be personal, Richardson.”

  Sam didn’t move.

  “That’s some minimum wage job—that’s how you phrased it, right? I don’t give a crap about the fact that you think there aren’t issues here. Or that the kids come from good homes and are challenged mentally and physically. None of that means squat when they’re faced with real danger.”

  Crime didn’t occur only in the ghettos. It was everywhere. Didn’t care about gender, race or age.

  Sam wet his lips. Batted the badge away from his face. “I’m not intimidated.”

  Robinson stared at the other man as if he were the biggest waste of space he’d ever seen. Tucked his badge away. “Or you just don’t care for the welfare of your students, despite the circumstances. And that would make a person wonder why you even became a teacher in the first place. Maybe a little easy prey?”

  The paper in Sam’s hand crumpled in his now closed fist. He had to understand what noncompliance implicated in their world.

  “That sounds an awful lot like slander.” The words were harsh.

  “It sounds like a conversation where you prove your words are true.”

  The math teacher crossed his arms over his chest and continued to eye Robinson. “We have a zero tolerance policy. Accusations were flung between Paige and another student. Paige broke the other girl’s nose with the first punch. She hasn’t been a student here since her suspension.”

  “And that’s not at all alarming.” Amanda bit back the verbal whiplash tearing through her system.

  Sam’s gaze lit on her as if she were nothing more than scum stuck on his shoe. “If I kept track of every student that transferred from this school, I’d need more hours in a day.”

  “It never occurred to you to check into the situation?” Amanda started shoving Ariana’s things into the bag she’d brought along. Couldn’t stand to look at Sam one more minute. Or think about Camelia Jurik’s pleas for help.

  The group shot caught her eye again. Made her wish she’d paid more attention to who all these kids were to Ariana. The only two she recognized were the boy and girl standing on either side of Robinson’s niece. Both Kate and Hunter had an arm slung over her shoulders.

  A crude drawing, she hadn’t noticed at first glance, depicted male genitalia awfully close to Ariana’s smiling mouth. A pair of lopsided breasts were penciled over her Nike t-shirt, the boy’s hand elongated to cover the cartoon area. As if a near-inkless pen had been used, the shapes were more imprint than actual color.

  Robinson said something to Sam. Words she couldn’t concentrate on.

  There, in the background, taller than most of the boys, stood Paige Jurik. A failed smile as if she weren’t quite sure why she’d been selected for this photograph.

  The same drawing covered almost shell-shocked features.

  ___

  NOISE CAME FROM the woman sitting one seat to the left of Beth.

  A horrific and gut-wrenching scrape of pen against paper. It reverberated against the NCCIW dayroom like a forgotten echo in a horror flick. And every hard-pressed pass burrowed the ball-point further into the next page.

  The girl—somewhere in her early twenties, if her fine bone structure and wrinkle-free face could be trusted—brought the utensil up, followed the same straight line. Another nails on chalkboard screech filled the silence around them.

  It made every fine hair on Beth’s body raise in self-awareness.

  Soon the young woman might find herself on the other side of the pad and halfway through the table. Her gaze shot upward, dark, glazed and unfocused. It pierced through Beth as if this entire moment were a figment of her imagination.

  A string of dark gibberish came from her mouth as if she were a toddler talking in harsh, too-fast tones.

  Across from them, the old woman tisked as if the girl were her granddaughter. Her gray hair was in a neat bun. Back always ram-rod straight. Manners in place. Perhaps it was the only thing she had left after twenty years on death row.

  The other two women in the room occupied the table next to them, eyes glued to the TV hung in the corner. Beth liked to think of them as Thing One and Thing Two due to their wild hair and senseless chatter.

  The antiquated PC, in the corner, was stored behind plexiglas, the keyboard and mouse fixed to the desktop. The machine was slower than a Sunday driver in rush hour traffic, but free for once. If she requested her ten minutes, could she put them to good use?

  Another strand of nonsense shot from beside Beth, filled with a heavy dose of cursing. Then the girl stood and paced toward the CO’s standing on either side of the entrance. The one closest watched her like an alligator sizing its prey. In the far corner, the second officer continued to monitor Beth and the old woman.

  And, from experience, she knew the tall, female CO at the back of the room, a thick wannabe linebacker-type, always had a keen eye on their five person group.

  On the randomized occasion they were all together.

  To her left, the girl paced back and forth. One wall to another. Smart enough to stay as far from the door as possible, so nobody mistook her actions for an escape attempt.

  It would equal instant taser to the chest or beat down with a baton. And, really, who would give two figs about a death row inmate going down?

  No one.

  Beth didn’t expect the outcome to be any other way, but not everyone shared her views.

  The justice system had made a grave error sentencing the young woman to death row. Her actions during their daily free time—a ridiculous word to use in a prison setting—bespoke mental illness at its core.

  An institution had to be better suited to her needs.

  Repeated actions. Glazed eyes. Dark, under-the-breath mumbling. As far as Beth could tell, the girl had never even tried to have a normal conversation with anyone.

  Neither have you.

  Of course, if Beth had killed more kids than she had fingers and toes...

  Not kids. Infants. A nanny who’d cut near-term babies from their mother’s wombs. And left both mother and child to die.

  Something crawled up Beth’s esophagus and tried to gain a choke hold. She resisted shaking her head and covering her ears. She didn’t care. Didn’t want to know. Usually avoided the whispers shared amongst the other women.

  Instead of discussing topics best left alone, she’d manage to travel in her mind to another time. A warm beach. Bustling city surrounded by people. In the warm arms of a man. Administering lifesaving techniques to those in need.

  Instead of joining in on the gossip, or filling the burning need for human interaction, she’d chosen silence. Listened deeper than words went. A skill she’d picked up
in her youth.

  Often doing one task while her mind concentrated on something entirely different. Dishes while straining for snippets of adult conversation, in which her future was directly involved. Homework and a hasty snack amidst the jittery sense that the front door might burst open any second and she wouldn’t be prepared for what lay beyond.

  Cold and calculating. Detached and dispassionate. Or the chilling and less frequent, interest. Where would it lead? Hopes built for nothing.

  The solid rap of knuckles, on her table, had her heart launching into her throat at speeds well beyond any a human body should withstand.

  As if he’d been present for hours, Dexter stood at the edge of the table, proving she’d lost her ability to send her facilities in two different directions.

  Curiosity didn’t kill the cat. Its twin, complacency, had.

  Beth resisted the urge to stand as if she were a puppet on tight strings. Stamped down the high-anxiety steam-rolling through her body. Instead, she raised her gaze to his, no easy feat with his height and her prone position.

  A blank expression left little for interpretation. The firm line of pressed lips brought out the scar at the corner. From this angle, it looked more jagged than she’d originally thought. Something sewn together in a hurry.

  As if he’d had more pressing wounds.

  “Hello, Chaplin Knight.” The old woman pasted a smile on her face as if they were all at a church social.

  Dexter nodded. “Mrs. Vera. Mrs. Markel.”

  Beth rolled her eyes. Blew out a discreet breath. Were they in some sort of historical novel? Next he’d be bowing and asking one of them for a carriage ride in the flippin’ park. And, why did he always insist on formality? Why not shout out cell block numbers like everyone else?

  Mrs. Vera beamed up at him. She folded her hands on the table. A flick of color caught Beth’s notice as the other woman adjusted.

  What the...

  “Mrs. Markel, you’ve got visitors scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

  Shock filtered through her. The words were rare.

  She started to shake her head. Color peaked out, again, from Mrs. Vera’s fingers. The clear blue, of the standard prison-issued toothbrushes, contrasted with her pale skin.

  The end had been filed to a sharp point and was pressed against her wrist, tight enough it might leave an imprint. Her eyes were centered on Dexter, a gleam that counteracted every prim bone in her old body.

  While he remained focused on Beth. His lips moved, but she couldn’t make out the words. The tips of two fingers rested on the table.

  Thing One and Thing Two, behind him, stole furtive glances as if they knew something was up.

  Which could mean nothing. Those two had never made a secret about how they’d like to ruffle the Chaplin’s feathers and get they’re rocks off.

  Beth swallowed back the foul taste in her mouth. She knew better than anyone how far careful words could go in producing vital smoke screens.

  Did they all have weapons fashioned out of everyday items? Even if they managed to overpower the three men and one woman in this room, they wouldn’t get far. Escape was impossible. Running was futile.

  She’d done it. Lived through it. Come out the looser on her fifteenth birthday.

  The girl still paced. Was she a distraction?

  “There’s no other option.” Dexter’s voice filtered in, deep and smooth.

  Mrs. Vera shifted. Sent a wink in Beth’s direction.

  No.

  Her heart hammered like the drums at a heavy metal concert. Adrenaline pumped through her veins in jittery waves. Hadn’t felt the rush in such a long time, it made her dizzy.

  And her stomach swirl.

  One well-placed hit and he’d go down. Would it be life-threatening? Possibly. Either way, he might be incapacitated for at least a few moments. At least one of the CO’s would come to his aid. Leaving the remaining two outnumbered by inmates.

  She sucked her bottom lip inward. Wet it with the tip of her tongue. This wasn’t her deal. Whatever happened would happen.

  The sentiment wouldn’t cover the screaming voice in her head. Or the gentle urging coming from a place she couldn’t identify.

  It didn’t mean anything. And the air trapped in her lungs? Normal.

  The old woman’s fist rose, the blue dagger in Beth’s line of sight. A creepy smile lifted one corner of the older woman’s lips.

  The CO’s didn’t move. Didn’t seem to sense the sudden shift in the air around them. Why didn’t they do something?

  Mrs. Vera’s arm headed toward Dexter in a downward thrust—aim headed straight for the spot Thing One and Thing Two dreamed of using in sweaty, naked situations.

  Beth flung herself across the smooth surface of the table. Dexter hopped away from them, his back toward the door. She grabbed Mrs. Vera’s wrist.

  The weapon was clearly visible as Beth’s weight threw the older woman off balance. They hit the floor with a solid crunch. Pain flashed across Mrs. Vera’s face, but she didn’t release the weapon. Gripped it harder.

  A whirl of activity fluttered around them. Beth kept her focus on the older woman, who jabbed the weapon up toward her face. Missed by a football field. Tried again.

  Beth twisted her arm so the pointy end was aimed at the floor. Her vision narrowed to the woman beneath her. “Drop it.”

  “So you can use it?” The words grazed past clenched teeth. A bit of spittle punched through. Sweat appeared on her upper lip. That pristine bun was a mess of wild hair beneath her head. “Go to Hell.”

  Beth twisted farther, the bones groaning against the strain. A little further and...

  “Stop.” The command made everything inside Beth still. And the tunnel vision disappear. It brought the entire room in focus. One CO stood near them, baton raised. The other two had the other three inmates in cuffs and against the outer walls.

  “Let her go, Markel.”

  Beth didn’t move or release the other woman. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t until Mrs. Vera no longer had the shank in her possession.

  Couldn’t trust the old woman wouldn’t still try to get her fix of gore.

  As if he understood that, Dexter knelt next to them, his movements slow and sure. A chorus of objections fluttered nearby, indiscernible. One warm hand circled both of their wrists in a firm hold, while the other tugged the device from the old lady’s grip.

  “Get up slowly, Markel, hands on your head. You.” He pointed a stern finger at Mrs. Vera. “Don’t move.”

  Beth hazarded a glance at Dexter as she did as he asked.

  His face wasn’t blank anymore. Shock resided in its place. Not the kind that bespoke a flabbergasting, unforeseen situation, but honest stupefaction. As if he would never untangle the biggest, most mysterious knot to ever land in his way.

  And all of it was aimed at Beth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  LILLY AND ROBINSON had been outside the one bedroom door, in Amanda’s apartment, for the better part of two hours. First pacing in front of it, each of them going in opposite directions as if they were on some sort of security detail.

  Amanda had stood nearby for the first twenty minutes. Listened to calming pleas for Ariana to come out turn to demands that she do so. And then threats to break the door. At some point Lilly had sat down beside it and rested her head in her hands. Robinson had long since given up trying to unlock a door his niece had jammed from the other side.

  Like the resourceful kid she was. And all because they’d wanted to get to the bottom of the picture they’d found in her locker. To figure out what was going on.

  Instead of the slow approach Amanda would have used, both brother and sister had started asking the teen rapid-fire questions. Thinking with their panicked parent-like brains. Acting out of fear and shock. And anger neither had kept out of sight.

  All while anxiety crept into Ariana’s stance with every second.

  What if the things that had happened to Paige Jurik hadn’t been an isolate
d event? Hadn’t been the truth played out by a curious or promiscuous young girl, but something darker. Something that wasn’t over. And Ariana had stumbled into it.

  Nobody wanted to think of their daughter or niece doing things no young woman had any business starting with someone...

  How had Camelia Jurik put it?

  Best left to a married, loving and committed relationship. Not just the married aspect, but all three combined. And there’d been conviction behind her words. Not the judgmental kind. The type that left no doubt on where she stood.

  Or what she’d do to get her daughter back. The file the other woman handed over was full of notes. Whereabouts checked into. Names of teenagers she’d casually questioned about her daughter.

  Amanda scanned the names and dates as she moved from the kitchen to the living room and sat on the couch. Right next to Robinson and the same irritated look he’d kept in place since they’d left the school.

  She couldn’t blame him. And still hadn’t figured out the best way to help. Not with more questions than answers.

  Sam had been as open as a triple locked diary. And then class had ended, the hallways crammed full of students. The shuttered expression on Robinson’s face, as he scanned each kid, hadn’t been lost on her. Had he wanted to line them up and question them one by one?

  She had.

  The legalities there were innumerous. If questioning occurred on school grounds, they’d need a plan to head off angry parents and pray for a judge who wouldn’t throw any evidence gathered, out of court.

  And willing teenagers.

  Captain Dentzen was never going to condone the resources. It had nothing to do with homicide. And, from his perspective, no direct correlation to what they were working on.

  Any way she viewed it, looking into Paige’s disappearance was a direct violation of his specific rules. No Jonas. No Paige. Plain and simple.

  For someone else, maybe.

  A shampoo commercial flashed across the muted TV. And then the news was back with the same loop they’d been reporting all week. Almost as if they were in Bethany Markel death countdown.