Forbidden Birth

by William Rubin

  Both were empty. The beds were still made. I spent a minute or so in each room playing crazed dad, looking under the bed, in the closet and drawers, hoping to find my children hidden away.

  Nothing.

  I ran down the plush-white-carpeted hallway, past photos of the four of us at a picnic at Untermeyer Park and others of an afternoon of croquet at Dad’s house. I threw open the door to the master bedroom, praying Michelle would shriek.

  There was silence.

  Our room, like the kids’, was untouched. Pristine.

  Over the next few minutes I reined my emotions in as the scared, concerned father and husband melted away and the cold-hearted, logical detective in me took over. I called around to Dad and Michelle’s friends. I left messages and heard the same speech numerous times: “Sorry, Chris, I don’t know where Michelle and the kids are. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  My phone rang. It was Dad. “Everything okay, Chris?” he said excitedly. “I was in the shower when you called.”

  “It’s about Michelle and the kids.…”

  “You want to speak with them?”

  “Huh…who?”

  “The kids. I’m just getting Christine up.”

  “Thank God they’re all right.” I felt like such an idiot for not considering the possibility everyone stayed at Dad’s. I hadn’t even tried to call him from LA before I raced back here like a lunatic. “Sounds pretty silly, but I didn’t see anyone here and I got worried. Dad, can you put Michelle on?”

  “She’s not here. She dropped the kids off yesterday and called back last night to ask if a sleepover would be all right, said she was running late with errands and had a bunch more to do today. Where are you? Didn’t she tell you?”

  “I’m at the house, just got back from LA. Michelle’s not here, though the minivan is. The bed hasn’t been slept in or the shower used and none of her friends know where she is.”

  “That’s strange. Not like Michelle at all.”

  “I’m gonna try her cell again. You okay with the kids a few more hours?”

  “Sure, Chris, do what you have to do.”

  “I’ll update you later. Bye.”

  I speed dialed Michelle and got voice mail again. Michelle had been acting strange at times since the attack, but this was unprecedented. Had she taken off? Was she abducted? A million scenarios raced through my mind.

  §

  The CSU combed through the house. Kennedy brought them in as a favor to me. Later we’d explain why a Peekskill missing-persons case required the NYPD. For now we just needed answers.

  Two officers worked on the minivan, dusting for prints and collecting fibers. Three other CSU’s were canvassing the house and had been for the last hour.

  “We’ll find her, Chris,” Kennedy said solemnly and with determination as he stared straight ahead at the house.

  I shook my head, disgusted at the turn of events. I had done what I needed to, responding to the crime scene in LA. Nobody could have foreseen this. Kennedy’s gaze shifted to me. “Don’t beat yourself up, Chris. There’s nothing you could have done differently. And besides, the murders in LA have turned up what we’ve been looking for: fresh leads on Durand.”

  “Yeah, and all I needed to do was turn Michelle over to him to get those leads.”

  “You really think Durand did this?”

  “He must have. There’s Michelle’s clothes on the first two LA victims and the taunting note from him on the third. But how’d he get back here in time to kidnap Michelle after the last murder? Does he have someone working with him now?”

  Kennedy put his hand on my shoulder. “We’re gonna get her back, Chris. Whatever it takes, we’ll get Michelle back.”

  I looked directly into Kennedy’s eyes, wanting desperately to believe him, to believe in the power of his words. “I hope you’re right, my friend” I said limply.

  Chapter 87

  The moment CSU finished, I jumped in the minivan and headed over to Dad’s. My world was crashing down all around me, again. I needed some unconditional love from him and the kids to help me keep it together and relieve the stress. I was traveling south on Route 9A, the Welcher Avenue exit just ahead, when the call from Kennedy came in.

  “We got prints back on the house and minivan. One of them matches those at the warehouse where you were shot at.”

  “Great, Kev. That was fast. I’m surprised that case and this one are connected.”

  “You’re going to be even more surprised now, Chris…. The print also matches Michelle’s. Her prints, along with the kids’, are on file with the Greenburgh Police Department.”

  “What?! How can that be? And how does Greenburgh have prints?” I said, incredulous. I felt a stabbing pain in my chest that radiated to my left arm.

  “Last fall Michelle had photos and prints of herself and the kids taken at Hillside Park in Elmsford. It helps the police track kids who are abducted. Greenburgh PD sponsors the day every year, tying it into one of their child safety seat checks at the park.”

  The pain was building, like a vise now. I was gasping for breath. The timing on my latest attack couldn’t be worse. I forced the words out, “Got it…but how the hell…did Michelle’s prints show up at the warehouse? Makes no sense....”

  The pain was searing. I needed to pull over somewhere.

  “I know, but CSU triple checked. There’s no mistake,” Kennedy said warily. “You okay, bud? You don’t sound so good.”

  The road was going in and out of focus. I blinked hard to keep from smashing into something or someone. Had to steer towards the side of the road before I lost control. “I’m fine, man. Thanks.”

  Blackness followed.

  §

  When I came to, my clothes were soaked with sweat, and I had cuts on my right cheek and jaw and large patches of red around my right eye. My upper eye lid was swollen, making the vision in my right eye fuzzy. I turned my head an exaggerated amount to the right so I could see things out of my left eye.

  The front passenger’s side of the van was badly damaged from where I’d hit the guard rail, but the rest of the van seemed intact. The pain in my chest was all but gone.

  I scanned the area; fortunately, no one was around, but I knew state troopers would be here soon. I backed the van away from the guard rail and took off on 9A again and made an illegal U-turn to head north. I was in no shape to see the kids or Dad or answer anyone’s questions right now.

  The phone rang somewhere at my feet. I kicked around to try and find it, the van lurching and jerking as I came off and on the gas and brake. It was RJ.

  “Any new developments in the Durand case, redneck?” I said with false bravado.

  “’Fraid not, Yankee. How about on your end?”

  King and I had spoken just after I discovered Michelle was missing. All he needed now was an update. “This one will blow your mind. They found prints at our house and in Michelle’s minivan that matched the warehouse in Brooklyn.”

  “Great. Whose was it?”

  “Michelle’s.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Come again? Did you say it was Michelle’s?”

  “That’s right. Can you believe it?”

  “Honestly? No way, no how. Maybe it was planted.”

  “It could be, though I don’t know how they’d get Michelle’s prints to begin with. So there’s nothing new on your end?”

  “No, ’fraid not. Say, what database were Michelle’s prints in?”

  “A local one. Greenburgh PD had them from a ‘fingerprint the kids’ event they held last year. James, Christine, and Michelle had their prints taken and ID’s made up to assist in tracking the kids in case either was ever abducted. Never thought it would help in finding Michelle.

  You can contact Arnie Fertig at Greenburgh PD, 914-555-1287, to have a look at the prints. The ones from the warehouse are in IAFIS.”

  “Fertig at Greenburgh PD, you said? Gimme a minute, Chris.” RJ’s voice became faint as he
leaned away from the phone and barked orders. His pursuit of Durand, vis-à-vis Michelle had just become official FBI business again. About six minutes later he came back on the line. “It’s an uphill battle here with these dumbass local yokels, but I’ve got the Bureau on it. Don’t worry, Chris, we’ll find Michelle. I’ve also got a couple of agents from NYC going over to your pappy’s to assist with protecting the kiddies.”

  “Thanks, RJ. I know what a pain in the ass the bureaucracy is at the bureau. I appreciate you putting agents on my kids while I’m off hunting down Durand.”

  As I drove home, King and I spent the next fifteen minutes trying to figure out what Durand was up to. Did Michelle tie into the murders or was taking her just a way for Durand to torture us both? How had her prints appeared at the warehouse? Was it more Durand trickery or had Michelle somehow been drawn into all of this? She’d been acting strange since the attack. Maybe it was more than post-traumatic stress disorder we were dealing with here.

  Why had Durand’s MO changed? A careful and precise pregnant lady and baby killer before, he was now a sloppy and careless murderer of young, unattached women. Was he becoming impulsive and irrational, entering a phase that would soon lead to his arrest? Or was he carrying out the next steps in a master plan we had yet to figure out?

  We didn’t have any meaningful clues connecting the disparate crimes—until RJ was interrupted by one of the agents he had spoken to earlier.

  Their voices were muffled but clearer and louder than before. I could make out parts of the conversation.

  “What? You certain, boy?… Makes even less sense than before, now…. Shit. All right.”

  I yelled through the phone. “What’s going on, RJ? Any new evidence is good evidence as far as I’m concerned.”

  King returned to the phone. “Got a feeling you’re going to eat your words, boy.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The prints at the last murder scene out here—they’re Michelle’s too.”

  §

  My brain was a cross between the deep dark nothingness of space and the jumbled static of a TV on the fritz. Unable to process this latest development, I said nothing.

  “You still there, Chris?”

  In just above a whisper I replied, “Yeah, I’m here. Durand must have planted those prints too. Up until my trip to LA, I’d spent every day with Michelle. She hasn’t been anywhere near LA in the recent past.” Downtrodden, I continued. “It’s got to be a setup to get me out there again.” I paused, stalling for time to think. “Well, I’ll play along to see what he’s up to. I’m almost home. Let me get a quick shower and grab a change of clothes and wrap some things up with Kennedy. I’ll be on the first flight I can get out of LaGuardia.”

  “Will do. I’ll meet you at the airport. Call if you need anything.”

  I let the phone slip out of my hand and fall into my shirt pocket.

  We were both drained and badly in need of recharging, but there was no time for that now.

  §

  I took Peekskill’s South Street exit and a few twists and turns later pulled up next to the Firebird. As I was getting out of the van, Mozart’s “A Little Night Music” pierced the air around me. I had only assigned one person that ringtone—Michelle.

  “Chris, help me! He’s got me. I’m in…”

  “Where are you honey? Are you all right? Michelle?”

  “I’m not sure, I think I’m—” The phone went dead.

  “Michelle? Michelle!” I tried returning the call, but it wouldn’t go through, kicking over to voicemail instead.

  For the second time today I fumbled with my house keys, resisting the urge to kick the front door in instead. I was tired, strung tight, and struggling to think clearly. Was Michelle somewhere nearby? Should I stay local and scour the area? If so, did I trust the NYPD enough to help me? Or would the mole in the department mean the NYPD was more of a hindrance then a help to me?

  In the end, I decided to stick with my original plan, so I showered, dressed, and took off for the airport, this time in the Firebird. The call with Michelle was so short and inconclusive I had to just ignore it and plow ahead.

  As I headed through the Bronx towards LaGuardia, I tried to stay in the right lane as much as possible since I couldn’t see well out of that eye and traffic was heavy. As I got onto the Whitestone Bridge, I put in a call to Kennedy. He confirmed he had my back; despite Chief of Detectives Ray Petersen’s strong opposition, Kevin had taken over the warehouse case for me and he would be on guard against any more surprises while I was gone. King made good on his promise; the kids were tucked in at Dad’s for as long as they needed to be, FBI Agents watching over the three of them.

  As I took the exit for La Guardia, Kev’s words rung in my head. Despite the assurances, something about them was unsettling: “…don’t worry, Chris, I’ve got it all taken care of. Even the dirty cop investigation. Nobody knows what I’m up to with that. We’ll blindside him and Durand. Take care of yourself in LA…and happy hunting.”

  It was so hard with this investigation to know what the next move should be. I hoped Kennedy and I were doing the right thing. My gut told me many more lives—including Michelle’s—depended on us.

  Chapter 88

  Another day, another body missing and/or dead. That disturbing pattern was all too familiar to us. Overnight, LA time, Durand claimed another victim. Another “Any idea what I’m up to? Catch me if you can” murder. This time the victim was a young white male, murdered in the outskirts of LA. An aspiring actor and uninspiring waiter, he kept to himself while pulling shifts at Arnie Morton’s’ over on South Figueroa Street. Nobody RJ and his crew had interviewed, including two recent boyfriends, knew much about the man with the stage name John Adair. Not where he was from. Not if he had brothers or sisters or parents who were alive. Nothing.

  Murder victims’ bodies are usually cleared out quite soon after the CSU and ME finish their work at the scene. But we were making no progress on these Durand murders, so RJ requested the LAPD leave the scene intact a few hours longer for us, in the hopes we would make some kind of a breakthrough by analyzing the body at the scene.

  I crouched over the lifeless naked body, searching for answers. Why does the victim profile keep changing? Was there a link to Michelle aside from her prints once again appearing at the scene? Why was Durand playing head games with us, me in particular? Did it get him off or was I somehow part of his plan? That last thought was as scary as it was bizarre.

  The body was mutilated, just like the rest. Like the last few, the pattern of the mutilation kept changing. The left part of John Adair’s face was missing. The skin and muscles were gone, leaving an intact skull in their place. Adair looked like a gruesome comic book villain from my adolescence, a cross between Spawn and Two-Face. His right deltoid, right middle finger, and right leg from the knee down were also gone. Who knew what the hell Durand was up to?

  Still crouched over, I peered up at King. “Guy doesn’t ever seem to rest, huh?”

  King looked at me impassively as he reached into his sports jacket. The sound of his cell phone surprised us both, redirecting his hand. “King here,” he said with that perfect mixture of apathy and anger only the best in law enforcement can conjure up. “Un-huh. Yeah. Yeah. NO shit? Have it analyzed top to bottom, inside and out, before we get there. Ought to be by early this afternoon the latest. Good work. ”

  King pulled the evidence bag with the note in it out of his pocket while I looked at him with anticipation.

  “’Nother Durand job, just north of here. Take a look at this here note. It was propped up over pretty boy’s genitalia before you got here.”

  I looked over the note. It was identical in style and presentation to Durand’s earlier one:

  My, my, how the mighty have fallen! What is that saying? ‘They have ears but they do not hear, eyes, but they cannot see.’ Hope your other senses are working better, Detective. You’ll need them….

 
; Give my best to Michelle when—if—you see her again.

  Untruly Yours,

  Jean Louis Durand

  I handed the note back to King without comment.

  “Any details on the latest vic―”

  King’s phone interrupted us again with its Sweet Home Alabama ringtone. That melody is forever seared into my soul. A vivid reminder of one of the worst moments of my life.

  The call was from Kennedy. I’d forgotten to turn my phone back on after the flight.

  Michelle was dead.

  Chapter 89

  The Feds and the NYPD swarmed over and about the house with spotlights, spilling into the backyard where just a few hours earlier Michelle was strung out on the old hammock I had yet to pack away for the impending winter.

  I was a cauldron of conflicting emotions; immeasurable grief, anger, guilt, and remorse did battle, tearing me up inside.

  Kennedy had gone with me to identify Michelle's body at the morgue. There, I could see she had been mutilated like the first of Durand’s victims, her abdomen torn apart while the rest of her was left unscathed. Her face had the blank stare of death. Her telltale radiance, always a beacon in my life, was completely extinguished. Her soft, flowing hair crowned her beautiful face and had held a single red rose near her left ear when her body was discovered. An involuntary smile crossed my face when I noticed among her things, that Michelle had worn the pearl earrings I had gotten for her last birthday.

  At the crime scene, Michelle had also worn a tight white blouse and dark miniskirt. Her arms had been posed provocatively about her, one in an arc extending over her head, the other with the hand resting on her hip.