by Harper Kim
Pickering raised his brow, but got smart for once and kept quiet.
“So we don’t know what the vic was doing. But do we know what the janitor was doing?”
“Cleaning.”
“Funny.”
“I’m serious. He works year-round. The school wants him to keep the area maintained even when school’s not in session.”
“Ah, a cheap look-out.”
“You got it. Makes sure he notifies the district if there’s any hint of vandalism or foul play so it gets taken care of lickety-split. Image is important in this close-knit community.”
“Isn’t it always?”
Up ahead lay the vic, pale and lifeless, fully clothed, lying spread-eagle amidst a sea of poppies. The poppies were not yet opened to the sun and rested in nodding, dewy-green drupes. And hovering over the body was Eve, buzzing with focused excitement.
Eve gave a slight wave to acknowledge our presence, obviously needing a moment before she answered any questions. At thirty years of age, Dr. Eve Darling was also one of the youngest on the team, and as such, one of my closest friends. I didn’t have many close friends. Pickering and Eve were as close as I got to that moniker, and even then I thought of it more as an “on-duty” friendship; sometimes they bickered in half-jest over who was a better friend to whom, but I always steered clear of that debate. Sometimes they roused up the team and went out for beers after their shift ended, but I steered clear of that one, too.
Eve was five-two, short and petite with an elfin face the color of powder, framed by a short crop of sable brown hair and enormous, deep-set brown eyes. Always with a cheery disposition, Eve came to work with a go-get-‘em attitude and left each shift feeling fulfilled and satisfied. She loved her job nearly as much as her two Golden Retrievers, Toki and Lulu, her husband, and shopping—in that order. Anyone who spent much time with Eve could see she loved her husband very much, but in her heart’s core the dogs always came first.
It was Eve’s love of shopping that started our friendship (she noticed my Giove perforated ankle boots in brown leather) and convinced me to purchase my leather jacket.
Today Eve was sporting dark grey jeggings, black camisole, cream blazer, and colorblock ballet flats. Even with the billowy white ME coat and green booties covering her ensemble, how Eve kept her outfits free of dirt, grass stains, blood and brains for an entire shift was beyond me.
Peering over Eve’s hunched petite frame, I noticed that the vic was far too young and far too pretty to be dead. Wondering if the vic went to this school, I turned and asked Pickering.
“We’re already checking the school’s directory against a photo of the vic. The principal is prepping for the impending media circus and should be rolling in within the next half hour. He may recognize her.”
Nodding, I carefully walked around the body to get a better visual of the vic’s face and noticed both eyes were closed. “Did anyone close the girl’s eyes? Or move the body?”
“No, she was like that when the janitor found her. As for what was found on or beside her, there was a notebook filled with poems and short stories. Looks like the girl was aspiring to be a young Dickinson or Plath. With her ending here, maybe it was a touch more toward Plath.”
I stared, unimpressed.
“Sorry, bad joke. Also a thin blanket was laid on top of her. We already bagged both objects and got them sent over to the lab for trace, but unfortunately the sprinklers had been on for twenty minutes before she was found.”
“Yeah, I noticed the wet grass and soil before I came over here.” Frowning, I said, “The way she is positioned…this doesn’t look like a random killing. Perhaps not even an intentional one. Maybe there is some killer’s remorse at play here. You think the UNSUB was a loving relative? Like the mother?”
Pickering shrugged. “Considering we don’t have much to go on, that’d be a good place to start.”
“When we ID the girl we’ll stop by her house and check out the family before they have a chance to dot their i’s and cross their t’s. Hopefully there are still some useful hairs or prints that can be salvaged. You said there was a cell. What about a purse, keys, jewelry, car?”
“Nada. Just the cell and notebook.”
“Hmm.” Why would a girl have her cell and notebook but no keys or wallet? “That would mean the vic probably lived in this area and walked here. No wallet means she either wasn’t thinking about traveling far, wasn’t buying anything, or she was robbed.”
“Alright Detectives, I’m ready for you.” Eve looked up.
“Thanks for holding off on the body removal.”
Eve shrugged her shoulders. “What are friends for? Sean doesn’t seem to understand that.” Before Pickering could argue, she continued, “I’m just wrapping things up here, but from everything I’ve looked at so far, there is only one thing I wanted to show you. Look at this.” Eve tilted the girl’s neck to the side so I could see the deep purple bruising at the base of the neck.
“What caused that?”
“Best guess? I’d say pressure point strike.”
“Like acupuncture?”
“More like martial arts.”
“Huh. Is that what killed her?”
“Seems to be COD. There’s no other apparent bruising or point of injury anywhere else on the body, but we need to wait for the autopsy to be sure.” Eve stood up and rolled the kinks out of her back and shoulders. “Once the team finishes with the pictures, we’ll wrap her up and take her back to the lab so I can do a more thorough inspection.”
“I guess we’ll be heading to the dungeon later today then.”
Eve grinned. “You’re the only one that calls my lab a dungeon.”
I shrugged. “Maybe not to your face. It’s cold, dank, and dark. Dead bodies are frozen and locked up in refrigerated lockers and the minute you step into your office it smells like formalin and death. It’s a dungeon. What else can you call it?”
“My home away from home.”
“I know the feeling. Anyways, do you think you can get to her by this afternoon?”
“I have to check in with Sammy but I think I’m clear to make this girl my priority for the day.”
“Great. If we aren’t available, just start without us. But call if there’s any sign of rape or recent sexual activity, although by the looks of it, it doesn’t seem like her clothes have been touched except in movement.”
“I already did a cursory check. I’d probably rule out that motive.” Eve’s critical eye looked me over and frowned. “Hey, you don’t look so good. You okay?”
I grimaced and let out a dry laugh. “Thanks. I appreciate the observation.”
“No really. You need to take better care of yourself before you become an Old Hag. Remember, Vaseline works miracles.”
“Right now I’m just worried about the vic and why she’s not out enjoying her summer break. Then I’ll worry about my face.”
Eve smiled wryly. “Suit yourself. I’ll be sure to remind you again about the importance of sunblock and foundation once the case is over. Just remember, there’s always another case, but you only have one face.” Eve quickly turned back to find a crime scene tech to bag the body before I could retort.
Eve’s dedication, discerning insight, and borderline-OCD tendencies might explain why we quickly became friends, but it was Eve’s mothering spirit and keen sense of judgment as to when to pry and when not to that had cemented our friendship.
Motioning to Pickering, I moved along the taped path back to the side of the service road. Pickering turned and followed, still mumbling about that second cup of coffee.
I crouched to scan the dirt garden path and the asphalt walk leading up to it. “All the footprints have been smudged, possibly by the body when the UNSUB dragged it over. But why would he go through all the trouble to kill her, drag her a few feet away, leave her in the prettiest location, carefully position her and close her eyes, and cover her in a blanket? It doesn’t make sense.”
“You�
��re jumping way ahead in assuming this is the primary, kid. But no, it doesn’t.” Pickering looked up at the sound of his name in the distance. A uniform was coming out of the school’s brick building, motioning him to come over. “I’ll be right back.”
I nodded and returned my attention to the dirt walk. “What were you doing on school grounds? Were you meeting someone? Was it an accident? Did you know the person? Did you see it coming? Did you feel pain?” There were so many questions and not enough evidence to run with.
As the bagged body was being eased into the ME’s van, Pickering came running (yup, there was definitely some extra pudge in the midsection).
“Got an ID. Name is Holmes, Loral. Seventeen. Graduating senior here at Patrick Henry. Graduated just last week. Lives a couple blocks from here. Mom’s name is Holmes, Tess. Dad is an unknown but stepdad is a Holmes, Brett.”
“You said stepdad is Brett Holmes?”
“Ky are you okay? You seem a little pale.”
No, it couldn’t be…could it?
“Uh Sean, do me a favor and check if that’s the name he was born with.”
“Why? Do you know something you’re not telling me?”
“Just do it. I’m going off of a hunch. Specifically, check to see if he took the wife’s last name. Let’s go check out the house.”
After checking the records, it turned out that my “hunch” was right, and Holmes, Brett was indeed Ficks, Brett. The man from my past, the man I was looking for, and the man whose stepdaughter was murdered were all one in the same. He’s been living in San Carlos this entire time? Why is the universe so cruel?
Frustrated, I rise from the sofa, grab the Windex and dust rag from under the sink and start wiping the windows. Years ago Halmoni joked that I had some deformed gene that made me a clean freak. I took it as a complement back then, mainly because Gramps had always praised me for keeping my room neat and tidy. But now I wonder if my need for order and cleanliness springs from my obsessive need for control, to wipe away any and all uncertainty.
As I wipe away the scant coating of dust accumulated on the window panes from the past thirty or so hours, I feel the weight of the day condense and crystalize into a ponderous, pervading precipitate. My muscles ache and my skin is waxy with sweat, dirt, and grime. Behind the rag I swipe frenetically to and fro across the squeaky-clean window, the reflection looking back is of a worn, discouraged woman. Deeper still into the looking glass is a scared, unwanted little girl.
In a grown woman there is no poison more potent than discouragement; in a young girl there is no pain so deep as being unwanted. And in both, the ego can protect or hinder, depending.
Flashbacks of when I was young, shy, and filled with curiosity flood my mind. Mixed in is Brett’s aged yet handsome face, confused and horrified with the news of his dead stepdaughter. Past and present merge in my thoughts every time I close my eyes or make a feeble attempt to relax.
Ever since the first time I laid eyes on Brett, I felt the pitter-patter of my heart. It was a secret crush, the innocent kind that little girls have when a cute boy shares his cookies or tags her out on the playground during a game of freeze tag. Not even Leila knew my secret. Not even I knew its extent.
It was in the second grade when Leila and I became inseparable. We shared a common interest making sand-cakes in the playground during recess, and sometimes when Leila invited me over to play in the tree house after school, Brett would be there in the yard with his friends or inside, lounging on the couch watching a game.
He was thirteen at the time I first met him, and he wasn’t like the other boys I knew at school. He was different, older, sweeter, and very handsome. His blue eyes twinkled when he looked at me and he was unbelievably nice. He never berated me about being an immature girl, about being gawky or poor. And he always said “hi” and smiled when he saw me. I misread the signs. My longing, burning a hole in my chest.
That day in the tree house, the day of the blood-oath, when Leila asked me if I had any secrets, I wanted to tell her—scream it—but I bit my tongue instead. I convinced myself that it wasn’t a good enough secret to share. But truthfully, I was embarrassed and worried that if Leila found out about my secret crush, our friendship would dissolve and we would no longer be blood-sisters.
When I was seven, there was nothing I wanted more than to be a part of Leila’s life. When I was seven, her friendship meant more to me than my first love. What I didn’t realize at the time was that our blood-sister days were already numbered.
I was young and easily susceptible to stories, promises, and images, so the video Leila turned on during that warm spring day—her secret—etched into my porous mind. At first the movie seemed boring, poorly made, showing a young girl with dark hair and dark almond-shaped eyes dressed in a red and black plaid skirt and white collared shirt that buttoned all the way up. The girl was wearing her school uniform, or at least that’s what it looked like to me.
Then the scene changed.
The way the girl moved made me blush, and when the girl parted her mouth and legs, I felt a strange heat build down below. I squirmed in my seat as if I had to pee, but I knew it couldn’t be that because I had gone to the bathroom when I arrived. I was fascinated and couldn’t pry my eyes away from the screen.
All too quickly an older man walked into the scene. All he did was watch. He watched the girl undress. Her skin was white, milky and shiny. The girl moved her hips and walked toward a large bed with red rose petals strewn over the covers. She looked young, but her eyes were all-knowing and old as if she’d seen and done many things that I could never know. The girl slithered onto the bed and started playing with the petals and then with herself. She was very creative. Watching made me embarrassed and ashamed but I also remembered feeling a twinge of jealousy.
Before I could find out how the movie ended, Leila shrieked and ejected the tape. Leila’s cheeks were also tinted pink. “Gross! I can’t believe my brother. He’s so disgusting.” She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Boys. I can’t believe they like things like this.”
The tape was never brought up again. The secret was safely locked away in that tree house. I don’t remember what we ended up doing after the video was cut short. I couldn’t get the pictures out of my head; they were scored in my brain. All I thought about was: Does Brett like that kind of stuff? Is that the kind of girl he dreams about? What does the tape mean to him?
My silly little crush escalated to obsession sometime between my eleventh birthday and my twelfth. Realizing that Brett was about to graduate high school and leave Walnut for good helped clarify my feelings.
Ever since I experienced the first signs of womanhood—getting my period and the beginnings of what I hoped would one day blossom into large, luscious breasts (like the ones the girl in the video sported)—my mom nagged me time and time again not to waste my potential worrying about boys, and that there would be plenty of time for that in college and beyond. After all, it was during college when people found love and got married; not before. If Brett left Walnut before knowing my true feelings for him, it would be too late. He’d find someone else; someone that wasn’t Kylie Kang.
Pausing—the saturated rag crumpled in my fist, the blue-tinted solution dripping streaks down the window and pooling on the sill—I wonder what the hell I am doing. I have to snap out of it. I am allowing the past to meddle with my present. I am no longer the confused seven-year-old or the love-stricken eleven-year-old that looked to poorly filmed videos for answers to life’s mysteries. I am a homicide detective who finds answers to those tough questions and brings peace and closure to those alive and dead.
Annoyed at the drying streaks the cleaner left on the window, I spray on another layer and start over with a fresh rag, making sure to sop up all the pooled excess on the sill. With the job done, I finally look out beyond my own reflection to the panorama outside. White lights flicker from apartment windows across the city. Families enjoying dinner with loved ones, individuals watching televisio
n, couples entertaining guests, parents tucking their restless children into bed. Lovers strolling two-by-two on the sidewalk below, getting in and out of taxis. The occasional band of guys-night-out or gaggle of girls-night-out weeknight debutantes hooting and hollering as they move the party elsewhere. People laughing, throwing chance to the wind, living.
When did my life become so dull? Only twenty-eight and I feel life passing me by.
Deciding the place is too quiet, I turn on the television. I need a distraction from my loud thoughts. Oblivious to the channel, I move to the kitchen and start scrubbing the white-tiled countertops.
The phone rings.
My hair has come partially undone and wisps of hair fly wildly across my face. I blow a puff of air in disgust and agitation. “Ugh, what now?” I hate being interrupted when I am on a mind-clearing cleaning spree.
Setting the sponge in the sink, I unglove my hands and pick up the phone on its fourth ring. “Kang,” I announce crisply.
“Ky?”
My heart sinks at the sound of Leila’s wavering voice. I close my eyes as if they are made of lead. “Leila. Sorry I haven’t called. I didn’t—”
“What’s going on Ky?” I realize by the strain in her voice that Leila already heard the news. Of course she did. Pickering and I visited the Holmes residence earlier that day, leaving five hours from the time we departed and the time of this call for Leila or her parents to find out. But this isn’t the way I hoped to break the news that her long lost brother has been found.
“How did you find out?”
“Daddy called. Told me his lawyer’s kid knew the girl.”
“Knew the vic? Who’s the kid?
“Do you think I care? Ky, tell me what’s going on? First I ask you to locate my brother and now…now this? Murder? You think he could murder someone?” Anger rises in her voice, followed by hysteria.
“Leila, calm down. No one’s saying Brett murdered anyone…it’s just…” It’s just that the police are pointing fingers and Brett is their number one suspect, but it isn’t like I am in the position of disclosing that kind of confidential information right now. I am the freaking lead detective for fuck’s sake. “Leila, he’s the stepfather and—”
