Devil's Cradle

by Drew Avera

  She paused on the other end of the line before answering my request. "You have two hours, don't make me regret this."

  "I won't," I said enthusiastically. "Thanks, Doc."

  "Uh huh, I'll believe your appreciation when you walk through my door in two hours," she hung up the phone with a slight slam, noticeably pissed off about my need to change my appointment on her already fully booked schedule. I felt a tinge of guilt, but if things went the way I thought they were going to then I would never need to walk through that door ever again.

  I pulled out the newspaper clipping and read the headline once again as I stopped at the red light that just changed. "Convicted Murderer Moved to Local Ward" The Chicago Tribune had posted the article deep into the recesses of their pages, hidden by sports scores and editorials about the legitimacy of the claims that our new Secretary of Defense had once been convicted of espionage.

  I wasn't sure why the state would move Letum to a local hospital after what had happened. I just hoped that security in that particular wing was light enough for me to sneak in undetected. I didn't think I had it in me to argue my way into seeing him otherwise. I felt bad having to lie to everyone about what was going on in my mind lately, but it was necessary. It seemed that every word I spoke was scripted. I was more surprised that no one had called me on it by now.

  The hospital was several miles out of the way, but if he wasn't there, or if I couldn't carry through with my plan then I would at least be able to make my appointment on time. I had to think positively. Cason Letum will be dead within the hour, permanently.

  I pulled my car off of the highway and headed east. Only seven more blocks and I would be there. The large building had been added to several times over the last eighty years. It was now state run instead of being privately run. This allowed them to house prisoners who were too fragile to live in the hardship of a normal penitentiary. Maybe if I would have stabbed deeper then it would already have been over, I thought as I pulled the car into an empty parking spot.

  I sat in my car for a few moments and checked my makeup in the mirror. The dyed hair changed my appearance fairly well and the nursing scrubs that I had purchased at the thrift store made me look like a seasoned employee of the hospital. Even the fake ID badge looked legit as I clipped it to the pocket. 19 Jun 2017

  The tension in my shoulders increased as the stress and dread of the daily routine began to catch up with me. I couldn't help but feel as though all I had ever wanted since joining the department was all for nothing. There was no joy in investigating homicides, it was a thankless job with more bureaucratic red tape than anyone could possibly imagine. I couldn't even count on both hands how many prolific killers were out on the street due to some kind of infraction on the department's side. Either evidence was collected on personal property without a warrant or some other kind of bullshit got in the way of seeking and administering justice.

  I'm not saying that the job was without any good moments, we caught a lot of bad people, but more times than not I felt like a competitive fisherman, catch and release, catch and release. It was enough to drive you crazy.

  I sat at my desk and compiled all of the case evidence on the most recent Jane Doe homicide, the poor girls face had been removed with a box cutter and we were waiting on dental records and DNA samples in hopes of finding out who she was. The unfortunate thing was that she too was of Hispanic descent and with the influx of illegal aliens into our country it was iffy if those kinds of records even existed. The thought brought another knot into my stomach. I was not keen on burying an unknown child, and worse, allowing a crazy son of a bitch child murderer to be on the loose. I pounded the keys on my keyboard as the aggravation of it all spun me up. I could feel my heart rate increase, and I knew what was coming, a panic attack.

  These were another reason to dread the drudgery of day to day rigmarole. My panic attacks had started about six months into my job in homicide. They were brief, yet scary as hell, and brought back images of Cason Letum tying me to a chair, or running the shiny blade along my neck and collar bone, the feel of his hot breath falling upon the back of my neck. I jerked out of the scene with a convulsion and knocked over my room temperature coffee. "Dammit," I said as the contents of the cup poured out onto my desk and lap.

  "Long day?" Stewart asked in his usual condescending way. It was kind of cute how he taunted people in a sort of sing song way, though this was not that amusing since it was directed at me.

  "You could say that," I said as I dabbed at the liquid mess with a few wads of tissue that I pulled out of my purse. He looked on with a slight smirk, before disappearing briefly from sight only to return with a roll of paper towels.

  "Here you go, I think these were designed for Sam's messes," he said coyly as he handed the roll to me.

  "I don't think that's enough for all of my messes," I shot back. "But they will do for now." I smiled up at him. He had the kind of personality that a woman could really grab a hold of. To say that

  I was at least remotely interested in a romantic relationship with him was an understatement, but alas he was taken by a mutual friend, Beverly. Beverly worked in the fraud department and we had bounced into her while tracking a possible lead on a murder suspect. She had helped us track the killer by following the money as it moved accounts, and when it was all done and over she had captured Stewart's heart as well. I was blindsided; I thought he knew how I felt. I was wrong.

  Nothing two years of harboring a secret won't cure... or not cure, depending on your take on the matter.

  "How's the search going for Jane Doe?"

  "Still waiting on dental records," I said as an email icon popped up on my screen. The sound of ruffling papers accompanied the icon and I jumped back in my seat to see what it was. "Here we go; it's from the medical examiner."

  I clicked open the email and scrolled down past the case and evidence numbers that headlined each email like this. I followed down to the matches department and my heart sank as I read "No Matches Found" along the line that should have told me the victim's name.

  "Oh, I hate to see that, Sam," Stewart said without any hint of comedic insinuation. He might not take life seriously, but he took the job seriously. He had a similar experience with loss as I had; only it was his grandfather who had been gunned down by a thug for a lottery ticket. Unbelievably the jury found the culprit not guilty since the gun accidentally went off. It was one of those bizarre moments where you have to ask, “What the hell is wrong with society?”

  "I guess there's nothing more I can do to identify the girl unless someone comes forward and files a missing persons report. The database is clean for girls that fit this one’s description.

  I closed the email and logged off the computer. "It has been a long day. I think I'm gonna head home now."

  Stewart looked down at me with those perfect eyes and that chiseled jaw, I swallowed hard as I fought back the desire to mention how much I liked him, or loved him, or whatever. Shut up, Sam! He said, "Have a good night," that was it. He turned and walked away towards his own desk, towards his own little corner of the world without me. It was just as well, I didn't have time for relationships, I had a killer to find, a killer to end before someone else fell victim to his evil deeds. Someone like her, my mind drifted from the Jane Doe to my sister Sarah. I have to do this for Sarah, I thought to myself as I picked up my purse and headed for the elevator. Better luck tomorrow, I hoped.

  13 Aug 2021

  "I hate myself for feeling afflicted," I said with my arms wrapped loosely around my body. The cool air of the room made evident by the goose bumps that tickled my flesh and the cool sting of the air I breathed as it entered my nostrils. I had sat dormant in the room for so long that I had lost track of time, encapsulated in my own thoughts and nothing more, it had taken a while for me to register the fact that the psychiatrist had spoken to me.

  "Why is that, do you suppose?" she asked, not as condescending as before. I felt the hint of curiosity in her voice, but s
he was curious in a non-concerned manner. This was nothing more than another head case facing a trial for the horrific thing she had done; never mind what had been done to her.

  "It's the nightmares," I said as I tried to close off the area of my mind where images of that night were easily triggered. I did not have any desire to revisit that night. My mind knew it, my heart knew it too.

  "Tell me more about them. The dreams, I mean," she said.

  I thought for a moment, not about the dreams per say, but whether or not I really wanted to open up to her. I clinched my arms tighter around my body, willing the warmth of my blood into my appendages that this damned jump suit did nothing to protect. Orange was not as warm of a color as you would assume.

  "I wake up from them; the scenario plays in my head over and over again. I can feel the blade run against my flesh and slice it with next to no effort on his part. I can smell his hot breath fall onto my cheek as he brings his face down to watch my own as he licks the blood from the blade. With every beat of my heart I know what is about to happen, but he milks the situation for all it's worth. He lingers next to me as I'm drowning in fear, I know what's about to happen the whole time, and he just grins ear to ear. It's like watching the Devil when he smiles," I cut off, choking back a sob. I had no desire to share this with this stranger. The bitch knew nothing about me, yet she judged me behind her own walls she has built up. I could sense it, I could see it if I squinted enough through the tears developing along my lower eyelids.

  "What happens next?" she asked with anticipation. Of course she would, she lived for this stuff. Why else would anyone want to talk about other people's problems? Unless of course they fed from the drama like some kind of sick vampire, taking in the crazy and feeding from it in a scribbling frenzy. She was probably drawing a picture on her clipboard, I thought to myself. There was no way that many notes can be taken on what little information I had divulged.

  "He moves away from me and steps over to a table," I stopped again, this was the part that waked me up at night and kept me from finding sleep most of the time.

  "Please continue, Samantha. I know it's hard, but you need to say it."

  "He steps over to the table and I see Sarah tied to it. My sister is there and she's still alive," tears fell like rain as I shuddered from the mental image that was ravaging my mind. I brought the Kleenex I had clinched in my hand to my eyes to dab them dry, but it was a useless tool for the job. "He says something."

  "What does he say?"

  "He says, 'thank you for leading me to her'."

  The psychiatrist jotted down more notes before speaking again. "Thank you for sharing this with me," she said. "It is evident to me that you have suffered greatly with the loss of your sister and that kind of trauma can damage even the strongest person. The nightmares could be a result of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Given the situation you previously described with your family and your own afflictions, I feel that this is the best diagnosis that I can give at this time."

  "What does that mean?" I asked, skeptical.

  "It means that you're not crazy, Samantha. It means that what you did was your way of self-defense. I am recommending you for bail, and to lower the charges to aggravated assault."

  "Why?"

  "Because this is not a black and white case; there is a lot of hurt that he caused you, and it registered in your mind in much the same way that someone who has spent ten years in captivity before finally fighting to free themselves would react. You feel disconnected to the perpetrator. You feel empty inside because of your loss. These are all things that we can work through with time, but I can assure you, my professional opinion is that you are not a murderer. You are a victim."

  I was shocked by her words to the point I could not breathe. I sat there and looked at her long and hard, trying to find the rug that was about to be pulled out from under me. She met my gaze, stoically looking from her seat with perfectly manicured hands folded upon her lap. This was the closest thing to a friend I had experienced in this place over the last two months. This was the closest thing to hope I had felt as well. 15 Dec 2019

  It’s been a few years since I’ve spoken to him, but like most relationships that withstand the fires of time, I was able to step easily back into his life. Captain James Wilson was retiring after twenty-six years of faithful service. I only worked in the police department for five years and hardly any of it was under his command, but I could see his leadership reflected in my supervisors.

  My feet groaned as I walked in the stiff dress shoes of my uniform. This was only the second or third time I’ve had to wear them, but at least it wasn’t for a funeral this time. There were tons of balloons and flower arrangements strewn around St. Paul’s Catholic Church. It wasn’t the usual place for such a ceremony, but Jim had found religion suited him shortly after we met. I didn’t know if I had anything to do with him finding faith in God or not; I truly didn’t think about it much, at least not until recently with his impending retirement.

  “Sam!” Jim called my name as he stood behind a floral wreath trying to avoid the crowd as best he could. Typical Jim.

  “Congratulations on your retirement, Sir,” I said. I caught myself before my ankle rolled in these uncomfortable ass shoes.

  He chuckled and spoke. “Cut the ‘sir’ crap, Sam. I’m just plain ol’ Jim now, ready to live the sweet life in my backyard sleeping on a hammock and drinking cold beer.” His eyes lit up as he pondered life after the force. It brought a smile to my face too.

  “Well, Jim, I hope I get an invite to your idea of peace and relaxation sometime.” It was hard being friends with a superior officer. I never wanted the other policemen to hold it against me. I never wanted Jim to give me special privileges because of what happened. I didn’t want to be pitied.

  “Of course; I’ll save a six pack with your name on it!”

  I grinned as I reminded myself why I was searching for him in the first place. “Jim, I really want to thank you for being my friend.”

  He stopped chuckling when he heard the serious tone of my voice. “Sam, it’s an honor being your friend. There’s no need to thank me for that.”

  “I know, but you saved me. I want you know you made a difference in my life. You deserve to know how much that means to me.” I wiped a tear from my eye as he stepped close to me and wrapped his arms around me. I could smell peppermint in his pocket. It had been his crutch when he stopped smoking a few years ago. Anytime I smelled it I thought of him.

  “You saved me too, Sam. I won’t let the horror of that night paint our relationship though. It’s the woman you’ve become that I’m most proud of.” He ran his hand along my face and lifted my eyes to meet his. “Don’t let it define you.”

  “I…” I took a deep breath and tried to collect my thoughts as the sound of the gathered crowd swept the air around us. When I looked back in his eyes I saw something different. There was something wrong. “Jim, are you okay?”

  He didn’t answer, but his grip on my shoulder tightened slightly and I realized he was in distress.

  “Someone, call for help!” I yelled as I helped Jim lie down on the floor. He gripped my arm and pulled me close to him as his breathing became a heavy burden on his body.

  “Sam,” he choked my name out in a hoarse whisper.

  I leaned closer so I could hear him against the chaos forming in the room. “What is it?”

  His grip tightened, almost hurting me, but I knew he wasn’t trying to. “I’m sorry,” he said in an exhale. His head fell back as his strength left him and a moment later his life.

  “Jim! Jim!” I cried. I held his hand in my own as some off duty paramedics surrounded him to try and resuscitate. One of the men pulled me back from Jim’s body and I knew by his distant stare it was too late. Once again a life had been torn away from me. Fate was a bitch. I choked back sobs as they administered CPR and pumped his chest over and over. His body shifted as they did so, but his life did not return.

  I knew better
than to expect anything else. For the first time in seven years I had someone else to grieve, but all I felt was empty. I looked around the church and passed the décor for the retirement ceremony. There were poinsettias and candles under the windows as well as banners proclaiming the birth of Christ. One of the most important people in my life just died before my eyes and all I could focus on in this moment was that it was ten days until Christmas. Ten damned days. 22 Jun 2017

  A chime from my desktop alerted me to a new email, but it would have to wait as I pieced all the evidence from the Jane Doe case into a manila file folder. Each gory picture of the girl with her face and fingertips lacerated from her body was placed inside along with the coroner’s report. I picked up the police report from the responding officer and read over it again, it was at least the twentieth time I had done so.

  “On the early morning shift of June 16, 2017 I responded to an emergency call from an anonymous tip. The dispatcher said the call originated from a pay phone outside of a Wal-Mart on South Stewart Avenue. The body was located a block away behind the Burger King near the dumpsters. I was the first to respond and I found the body appearing to be untouched. I radioed in as a first responder and began taping off the area. Two officers reported in less than five minutes later and helped barricade the crime scene.

  “I helped handle the lighting as the forensics team took pictures of the body and the coroner conducted his preliminary review of the victim. It appeared the victim had been slain at another location and was brought to the current location after she stopped bleeding. Her face had been cut off as were the pads of her fingertips. We were able to detect abrasions where rope or wire might have been used to tie her to a chair or some other surface.

  “The victim appeared to be Latina, but I’m not one-hundred percent sure of that. Samples were taken from the body by the forensics investigator and the body was bagged for transfer. No other evidence was collected at the scene.”

  Sergeant Nathan McShane’s report coincided with the other reports from the officers who were also on scene. It was baffling that a killer would go to such lengths to risk being caught while moving the body. I knew in my line of work it was next to impossible to understand exactly how these killers’ minds worked. It was hit or miss, and all we could do was follow the blood trail and hope to catch the bastard before another innocent life was taken.