by Harper Kim
Hesitating, she placed one hand on the brass doorknob. Her other hand gripped the hem of her nightshirt. Pressing an ear against the door’s glossy painted surface, she confirmed the silence and turned the knob. Ever so quietly she poked her tiny head inside.
Cringing at the acrid smell and disarray of the room, her eyes bugged wide at what she saw: her mother, sprawled out on the king sized bed, naked. Her skin looked dull and clammy in the dim light. The curtains were skewed, empty bottles were strewn beside her maple wood bureau, and a few drawers were thrown haphazardly onto the carpeted floor. One bottle wasn’t entirely empty; the carpet was a few shades darker beneath the bottle top. The digital clock that once perched on the bedside table was now hanging by the cord in midair, the display flickering teasingly as the plug slowly slipped loose.
Plugging her nose with the hand used to turn the doorknob, she inched her way closer to the bed. Her mommy’s arm hung limp over the edge, her nails still held the perfect pink polish (which oddly enough brought Tory some comfort), and her rouged lips parted open with only a semblance of breathing.
Frightened at the thought her mommy was also gone like Loral was gone, Tory shook her mommy’s limp hand with the perfectly manicured pink polish vigorously until she heard a faint groan. Relief flooded over Tory’s shivering body when her mommy stirred and let out a belch that on any normal day would make Tory crinkle her nose and giggle in secret. Today was different. Today Tory relished the vile smell of rancid potatoes fermented in vodka and scotch.
Climbing on top of the oversized bed, Tory snuggled in, with her head under her mommy’s flopped breast and her tiny feet tucked beneath the disarrayed covers. She draped one of her mommy’s limp arms over her body and fell asleep to the rhythm of her mommy’s beating heart.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
1:45 A.M.
IT WAS A QUARTER TO TWO IN THE MORNING. The air was crisp and still. Looking up at the dark shadowed house with its blue-shingled roof he felt a false sense of calm and a wave of strength. I can get through this, Brett mused. He was no longer the seventeen-year-old boy, naïve and hiding behind his father’s golden fist. He was a man, with a wife and kids. And if the interrogation room and Loral’s death had taught him anything, it was to snap out of it, grow the fuck up, and move the fuck on.
Seeing Ky again brought back a flood of emotions and memories, which he wasn’t at all ready or pleased to deal with. But the hours pacing in a ten-by-ten locked room forced him to process Ky and everything else that followed.
Memories of the afternoon in his childhood room, at a time when he seemed invincible—the instant when Ky was on top of him, with her heart and body exposed—a mix of compounding feelings and urges exploded. How could he explain those feelings out loud? She was just a kid, his kid sister’s best friend. The girl who was so innocent, with a quick smile that lit up her face. She was pretty, sure. Interesting, funny, and kind. Until that moment, he never considered her more than another kid sister. But then, in that instant when he felt her quivering soft skin, heard the break in her breath, and felt her soft dark hair skim his face, something inside him changed.
Repulsed and angered by his sudden rush of despicable thoughts, he hid from them. Buried deep, the thoughts burned and cut away—piece by piece—his reputation, his life. When his best friend, Scott stopped over to visit the day after, and cunningly unveiled picture after scandalous picture of the private moment Brett and Ky shared—taken from one of the disposable Kodaks placed on the outdoor tables for special candid camera moments—Brett experienced an internal collision. He could not hide from something and face it at the same time.
“I thought you’d want a memento,” Scott chortled. At this, Brett pinned his now former best friend against the wall with a forearm chokehold, grabbed the photos, tore them into confetti-sized bits, and left. He said nothing. The bits were left sprinkled across the beige carpet of Brett’s room, and Scott was left gasping beside them.
One minute he was cracking jokes and laughing with his friends during his graduation party—a time when their lives were just starting—and the next he burned his relationship with his best friend, lost the trust of his family, and ultimately lost himself. After that day, Brett Ficks was dead and gone. Straddling between living and dying was Brett Holmes.
Wishing he had been the one to take up some nasty habit like smoking cigarettes or drinking to oblivion or frequenting Tijuana brothels, Brett muttered a string of choice words, took a deep breath, and walked into his house. The stale and sour smell, the cluttered rooms, the Unfaithful Bitch. Dust twinkled in the air with each puff of breath. Toys were sprawled out in sections—dolls in one pile, paper and crafts in another, blocks and Legos stacked up on the coffee table, and books piled high on the sofa—in an organized chaos of kid’s clutter.
Heat bloomed on his scruffy cheeks as he kicked shoes out of the way, mostly his wife’s. Storming up the stairs into the bedroom they shared, he reeled back on his heels when he saw his little girl tucked in beside his passed out wife—who was naked and sprawled out on their bed. Empty bottles littered the carpet. The room was trashed, and smelled dank and dirty like the inside of a motel room that charged by the hour.
Desperately wishing he could turn back time and erase the moment when things all went so wrong, he bent over and carefully separated his little girl from his pitiful wife. Their skin was glued together by a thin film of sweat, and when Brett pulled his resting Tory from his wife’s sweat-soaked body, Tess stirred awake. Bleary-eyed and with a pounding headache, she winced. The blurry shape standing before her turned away and was heading for the door.
“Brett? Is that you?”
She was up now, confused and unfocused, caught in a balancing act between keeping herself on two feet and off of the floor. She was still unaware of the fact that hours ago her six-year-old daughter witnessed her fall into a drunken stupor, stark naked and utterly pathetic.
Hidden in the door’s shadow was a silhouette of man holding child. Brett didn’t turn, but paused long enough for Tess to question if her husband was really in the room or if it was a figment of her imagination. Her mouth was coated in a thick slimy substance that made her choke each time she attempted to swallow. Bile burned her throat. She blinked, trying desperately to focus and clear the fog that hovered over her blue irises.
His neck muscles tensed into long, thick cords and his voice quivered as he tried to speak.
“Go back to sleep.” He paused. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
Tess watched her husband slip away into the darkness, away from her. Shivering, she tumbled to the floor and inhaled deep sobs as she cried herself back to sleep. Tess realized she might have just lost her only chance at real happiness.
What happened to you, Loral…why did you leave that night? Was it because you were angry with me? Is it my fault? Are you blaming me, too?
Brett tiptoed into the girls’ room so he wouldn’t wake Bella. Staring wistfully at the empty bed with its creamy blue sheets and white duvet perfectly made in the far corner, Brett prayed Loral didn’t suffer and was in a better place. Brett tucked his little girl into her Dora the Explorer purple sheets and kissed the top of her salty forehead.
Stirring awake, Tory held onto Brett’s hand and mumbled, “Don’t go, Daddy. Please—”
Chapter Twenty-Four:
Saturday June 30, 2012
1:50 A.M.
Detective Kylie Kang:
Back at my desk, I collapse in my chair and put my head in my hands. All I want to do is scream, punch, kick, and run until I can’t run anymore and then sleep in my bed for days. But I know my days of catharsis and restful sleep are far to come. Miles to go before I sleep.
The fluorescent lights are too bright and cast the room of overworked and underslept officers in an unfavorable light. A fresh batch of double-strength coffee wafts through the room, indicating the unofficial second-wind of the night shift. Just the smell gets my wires buzzing.
“You s
till here, Kang? Go home. Get some rest. Looks like you need it.”
Lifting my head, I open one eye and see Malone standing over me with a worried expression. Besides his tired eyes, he looks clean, pressed and refined in his black suit.
“Do you always have to look like that, Lieutenant?”
“Like what?”
“Like you don’t ever need sleep. Like you put on a fresh suit every hour. Argh, maybe you could move a foot or two away so people don’t start comparing us.” I turn my face back into my hands.
Smirking, he takes a step back. “Thanks for the complement.”
“Mmm hmm.”
He clears his throat. “I think you should go home and take a few days to recoup.”
I look up, concerned, and stare at him for a minute before speaking. “You want me off the case.”
“It’s not that, it’s just I think that with your past—”
“Past?” I groan. Scanning the few officers left in the room, I notice that most make an attempt to look away, but there are a few that aren’t as courteous. “Great. Just great. One stupid mistake at eleven and it’s going to ruin my career and my sanity?” How much does everyone know? How much did Brett spill? It sure doesn’t take long for word to travel. I’ll have to ask Pickering about it, once I can brave facing him. He must be pissed at me.
“I don’t know about your sanity but your career is fine…for now.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Leaning in, he lowers his voice. “Ky, I’m just saying you need to go home. Take care of yourself. And return once you’re refreshed and ready to work.”
“How long do you suggest I take? A day? A week? For as long as I live?”
“Be serious. You should be grateful the department is giving you the chance to rest. If I were you I’d take it.”
“But on another case. When I return from my restful hiatus all glowing, you want me off this case.”
“Come on Detective. You know I would have demanded you off the case if I found out earlier. Isn’t that why you failed to tell me about your connection to Brett Holmes?”
Miffed, and still slightly in denial, I say, “I thought seventeen years separation would be enough time to warrant being considered strangers.”
“But he affects you. Admit it. Even Pickering could see that.”
“Pickering! That prick—shit!”
“Don’t get mad at Pickering. He did the right thing confiding in me. He cares about you, and so do I. So…Pickering will take over as lead from now on.”
Grumbling, I say, “I understand. Sir.”
“Look Ky, I’m not judging you. Your past and personal life is yours and yours alone. You’re a great detective. About that, I have no doubt. But as long as Brett is a suspect, you need to stay off the case.”
“I stayed out of the interrogation room, didn’t I?” He gives me a warning eye and I wave it off understandingly. “Sorry I didn’t come to you about it sooner. I just…well, never mind.” I jerk my thumb back at the group of hacking monkeys eavesdropping from a few desks away and say, “How long before these jerks stop harassing me about it?”
“No one’s harassing you.”
I raise a brow. “Sure, Lieutenant. The new title fogging your common sense? You forgot what it’s like over on this side of the line?”
Ignoring the comment, Declan eyes the yellow Post-it on the blank computer screen and picks it up. “Ask me what?”
“Huh? Oh,” I shake my head, “It’s nothing. Had to do with the case…I had some questions I wanted to run by you.”
“All right.”
“I thought I was off the case.”
“Come on, Ky. If you have something relevant, spill.”
Taking a deep breath to clear my head, I focus on my notes. “I was looking over old cases trying to find a match to the killer’s MO. Nothing good really popped up in the database, so I was wondering if you remember an old case or maybe your grandfather does? I know he’s retired, but last I heard, he was still clear in the head.”
“Off the top of my head, I don’t remember any case that fits, but sure, I’ll ask Granddad if he remembers anything. He’ll like to hear from me and about the case. He’s getting restless being retired. There’s only so many books and so much golf he can take in a given day. Doesn’t sit too well for him.”
“Yeah, I can’t imagine it would. He was a great chief.”
“And an even better detective.”
Running on a treadmill set at 7.5 mph isn’t how I assumed I’d be spending my free time. But after being cut from the case and humiliated—in front of the more chauvinistic members of my team, no less, who never need a reason to pester me—running is the only thing I can think of doing.
Running away was my first thought, actually. Alas, running in place on the treadmill will have to suffice. I can still pretend to run away. At this thought, I bump the speed up to 8.0 and turn up the volume on my iPod.
After being sent home, I stepped into my apartment, took a twenty minute hot shower, went to bed, and spent a few hours tossing and turning, eyes wide open, brooding. Frustrated, I jumped up and dressed in a sports tank and yoga pants, tied my thick hair into a ponytail and took the elevator down to the gym to work off my aggression.
Passing the second mile, I can feel my calves seizing up, so I slow down. It has been a while since I was able to set aside some time for a decent workout. My body is now feeling the consequences.
When tears start building behind my eyes I again crank up the speed and sweat it out. Pushing through the pain, I manage another three miles before fatigue gets the better of me. I stagger off the treadmill and flop onto the gym mats lining the mirrored back wall.
I am the only one working out this early. Only one of the three fluorescent light banks is on, the one in the front of the room above the flat screen TV. The TV is set to Headline News. Here, in the dim shadows, I just want to pass out and lie forever, but the chill from my hour-old sweat only allows me to rest for a mere five minutes before I drag myself back upstairs to my apartment on the third floor.
Feeling mildly rejuvenated but mostly exhausted, I don’t even recognize my landline ringing until I am out of the shower. The answering machine kicks on and when I hear Malone’s rock steady voice I am brutally reminded of everything I was trying so hard to forget: the case.
Frustrated, my voice comes out sharp and irritated as I pick up the receiver, cutting Malone’s message off mid-sentence. “What?”
“You know, I was so close to coming by and making sure you were okay, but now I see that your little feel-sorry-for-me act was a bone you decided to throw out. Hoping one of the big burly men in the office would bite, eh? Well, congratulations—you got me.”
“Oh save it. I’m tired, okay? I just ran for the first time in months and was about to pass out for a day or two when you called.”
“Well, I called because of the favor you asked me before you left.”
My ears perk up, cop mode stepping in for the sexually frustrated victim mode I was rigorously nursing. “You found something?”
“Actually, my granddad did. He remembered the case quite vividly. He never forgot it. The instant I brought up the killer’s MO he recalled it. He said every cop has that one case that makes them question the law and life and this was that case for him. He said the boy was remarkably stupid for trying to save his girlfriend and although unconventional, he got the job done and my granddad was proud of him.”
“Who was the kid and what did he do?”
“The kid’s name was Neil Wilcox. As far as what he did, well he saved his girlfriend’s life.”
The puzzle pieces start to click into place. “Using our UNSUB’s MO.”
“Yes.”
Chapter Twenty-Five:
Flashback to:
Friday, May 18, 1979
10:30 P.M.
LIEUTENANT GEORGE MALONE was a large man with steel-colored eyes, flat and judgmental. By the book, extra starc
hed creases, bullshit meter perennially set to stun. He wore his badge like a medal of honor and performed his interrogations like a clean shave with a new blade. Family, friends, co-workers, victims, and lookyloos alike damn well listened when Lieutenant Malone spoke, and they damn well answered when he asked a question. Sometimes, after even casual conversations with the man, people would walk away dumbstruck by the amount of information he managed to squeeze out of them. He cut to the chase, was able to spot an inconsistency if there ever was one, and could read a crime scene like the back of his hand.
Check that. Bullshit meter perennially set to fucking fry.
It was another Friday night in homicide. Malone was the ranking officer on-duty that particular evening, with 23 of his 45 years spent serving the badge and no end in sight. He arrived at the reported location of a nine-one-one distress call, pausing to gulp the last of his coffee and crumple the paper cup before stepping out of his squad car. Possible 187, according to dispatch.
The perimeter was already cordoned off by a strip of yellow police tape. A couple of rookie cops were standing guard at the entrance. Their faces flushed red and cooled blue as the roof lights of the squad cars turned slow arcs in the dirt drive in front of them. The door to one of the squad cars hung wide open, the radio squelching out dispatch codes and commands into the darkness. An ambulance pulled up next to the coroner’s van.
Slouched and haggard from the double shifts they were pulling, the officers’ inability to stop yawning exposed their youth. But once they spotted the Lieutenant they each grew a steel rod in their back. Malone merely gave them a look and their yawning ceased, their eyes bugged and rolled and goggled to regain focus.
Malone removed his hefty Mag-Lite—a sturdy new toy the force was adopting, putting his old Kel-Lite to shame—and made a general loop around the outer perimeter, noting if there were any unusual disturbances.
Nothing out of the ordinary, he mused. The run-down property looked more like an abandoned dump site than a house, but that was to be expected in this area. Wrong side of the tracks.
