by James Hunt
The next swallow of liquor burned slightly less than the first, and she opened her fist, exposing the paper in her palm. She pushed it around with her thumb then set the bottle down and flattened the paper on her leg. Her sister’s handwriting was messy, and the hundreds of tiny folds had crinkled the letters, distorting the words, but Cooper already knew the name written on the paper before she opened it. Henry Miller.
The name sloshed back and forth in Cooper’s mind like the whiskey she twirled in the bottle. She closed her eyes and repeated the name over and over to herself, skipping like a lyric on a broken record. When she opened her eyes she looked to the binder and felt the whiskey’s taunt, and her pulse quickened.
Cooper took another swig and set the bottle down then reached for the binder, the dust on the back side smearing across her lap. When she flipped open the first page a picture of a man in his late thirties stared back at her. Caucasian, six feet, two hundred pounds, brown hair and green eyes. Last known address was listed along with work and medical history. At the very bottom was a date twenty years ago, listing the man as deceased. And next to the date was the name Henry Miller.
Cooper reached for the bottle, pressing it to her lips, this time chugging a few gulps before stopping. When she looked back down at the picture she grimaced. The hate she’d kept at bay since college boiled back up to the surface. She flung the binder from her lap, and it skipped across the floor. She jumped from the couch and paced the room, her breathing accelerated, and her knuckles flashed white around the whiskey bottle’s neck.
The picture glared back at her, and she kicked it away, knocking the binder over, which rid herself of Miller’s face. She took another swig of whiskey and felt the booze douse the flames of anger. She sat back down on the couch, her face buried in her palm, and rocked back and forth.
It didn’t matter how many times she tried talking about it or the number of hours she spent in therapy, she couldn’t break through the wall that kept her from the emotional growth she knew she lacked because of that man’s decision. She never told Beth she knew who their father was because she didn’t want to talk about it. He left. He died. He didn’t care. And the world spun round and round along with the room as she drained the rest of the whiskey.
Chapter 7
Sweat and heat were all Cooper felt on the floor of her living room. Her head pounded, and she moaned as she rolled from her stomach to her back. Her mouth was dry and tasted like something had died inside; her lips were like sandpaper. She kicked her leg and knocked the empty whiskey bottle, where it rolled across the floor.
Through the cracks of the blinds, the morning sun framed a square of light, and Cooper squinted from the brightness. She pushed herself to her hands and knees and crawled back onto the couch, where she collapsed onto the cushions, her energy expelled. Every muscle in her body screamed the same harmony of irritation, even though the most strenuous activity she’d done was breathe. A growing pressure tightened her head like a vice.
After a few minutes gathering her strength on the couch, she stumbled to the kitchen and filled a glass full of water from the faucet then chugged. Water dribbled down the sides of her mouth, wetting the front of her shirt as it rolled down her throat. She opened the fridge but then quickly slammed it shut at the stench of whatever had expired inside. Her pocket buzzed, and she answered, not recognizing the number. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me.”
Cooper hunched over on the counter and pressed her forehead onto the cool countertops. “Who is this?”
“It’s Hart. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
Cooper lifted her head. “What time is it?” She glanced over to the clock on the microwave, and it flashed zeros, still erased from the power outage the day before.
“It’s almost eleven. Listen, I heard back from the lab.”
“Shit!” Cooper sprinted to the bathroom and nearly dropped the phone as she splashed water on her face. She glared at her reflection in the mirror and the bags under her eyes told the story of the long night and empty liquor bottle. She sniffed the collar of her two-day old shirt and flared her nostrils at the stench. The clothes were wrinkled dirtied from her night on the floor, and her hair had surrendered any semblance of order.
“Cooper, are you there?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” She furrowed her brow, the wrinkle lines on her forehead creasing against one another as she tried to squeeze the fog and dizziness from her mind. “What’d the lab say?”
“Well, for starters, we finally got a hit on our Jane Doe. Her name is Irene Marsh. Late twenties, worked as a waitress for a diner in downtown, and no, it’s not the same diner Wurstshed ran to. Her boyfriend had reported her missing a week ago, around the same time that Kate Wurstshed’s coworker reported her missing. The rape kit on Marsh came back negative, with no salvageable DNA on the body. But Kate Wurstshed’s tests came back positive, and the techs managed to retrieve a strain of DNA from the rape kit.”
“Was it Marks?”
“No. Whatever he was running from wasn’t because he raped Kate Wurstshed.”
“Is he still at the precinct?”
“Yeah, but we’ll only be able to keep him for another hour before he’s released. The captain wants to cut him loose since the tests came back negative. His parole officer is here waiting to see him. Once he gets turned over to them it’s their problem. But that’s not the strangest thing that’s happened today. I called Wurstshed’s employer this morning and it turns out that she was let go six months ago. Nobody I spoke with at the job has had any contact with her since she was fired.”
“But Hall said someone from her employer filed the missing persons.”
“Yeah, I know. I ran the name through the DMV, but it was a phony. No matches. All the information they provided was bogus. Whoever it was didn’t work with Kate. You want me to go and swing by her place to have a chat?”
“No.” Cooper shut her eyes, forcing back the wave of pressure that threatened to cut the thin thread of coherent thought she was managing to string together. “You go and check on our warrant for the bank account that purchased the security system at the storage facility. I’ll go and speak with Kate. Keep me updated on what you find.”
“Will do. Oh, and before I forget, one of the lab techs said you requested a rundown of some residue you found in the empty storage unit. That came back as well, and it turns out they were shavings from a crayon.”
“What?”
“Yeah, a red Crayola crayon, to be more specific. Anyway, that was all they could tell me.”
“All right. Thanks.” Cooper ended the call and gripped the sides of the sink. She took a few slow breaths and shook her head, the bits of water flinging off her cheeks. She jumped in the shower quickly, washing off the grime from the past two days. Once clean, she felt the hangover loosen its grip. She dressed, chugged another glass of water, then headed out the door with her hair still wet.
Cooper kept the lights and sirens off on the way over, focusing all of her energy and what remained of her broken mental capacity to stay in her lane. She reached into the glove box and pulled out a bag of chips. She tore it open and inhaled it before the red light she was stopped at turned green.
Despite the water, shower, and licking the crumbs from the chip bag, when Cooper arrived at Kate Wurstshed’s house she still felt as though she’d been run over by a car, twice. She caught her hands shaking when she unhooked her seat belt and paused before getting out. She took a few deep breaths, flexing her hand into a fist until it steadied.
Kate’s house was a modest townhome in one of the nicer suburbs of Baltimore that had yet to be hit by the foreclosure epidemic. It wasn’t rich but had a low crime rate, something every citizen hoped to have the opportunity to afford.
A short white picket fence lined the front yard’s perimeter, which was overgrown with grass. Cooper lingered at the gate, noticing there was no car in the driveway. Before she made it to the front door, she checked the side
s of the house, looking for any other exits, but found none. Cooper rang the doorbell and waited, focusing most of her attention on trying to stand upright. “Mrs. Wurstshed! It’s Detective Cooper.”
Another minute passed, and she rang the doorbell again. She pressed her face against the front window, trying to get a look inside. With the blinds drawn she couldn’t see anything. She went to reach for the handle once more, and when she smacked the door with her palm it pushed open. She froze, watching the door swing inside. “Mrs. Wurstshed?” But the only answer was the creaking door hinges as she stepped inside.
The living room was still and quiet. The air had a stale quality that accompanied a home that hadn’t been occupied. Cooper looked around, checking for anything out of place, but with the television and computer still inside, it looked as though nothing was stolen. She un-holstered her pistol and scanned the room. “Baltimore Police Department!” She paused, listening for any movement, but nothing answered.
Cooper kept her pistol aimed and checked the dining room, kitchen, and utility room, all empty. All that remained was a long hallway on the east side of the house. It connected from the living room, and when Cooper looked down the narrow corridor she saw three doors. The first two doors were halfway down the hall and positioned directly across from each other on the left and right. The third door was all the way at the end of the hall. All of them were shut.
Cooper checked behind her, making sure no one else had followed her inside, then slowly made her way down the hall, pistol aimed in front of her and her arms and shoulders locked tight. She felt her hands grow slick with sweat, and she blamed her heightened pulse on the whiskey still working its way out of her system. She stopped just short of the two doors in the middle of the hallway, looking down under the cracks for any light or movement, but everything remained still. She reached for the door knob with her left hand. She curved her fingers around the bronze knob then shoved it open quickly.
A ragged-looking woman with a pistol in her hand stared back at her, and Cooper nearly shot the mirror image of herself above the bathroom sink. Her heart pounded faster, and she swallowed spit as dry as sand. She flicked on the lights, exposing the drawn bath curtain that protected the tub. Two steps forward, and she was practically in the tub herself. The brief reprieve of anxiety vanished as she reached for the bath curtain, again keeping one hand on the pistol. She drew in a breath and yanked the curtain back. But all that stared back at her was the soap scum that circled the drain.
Cooper rested her head back on the wall, her weapon lowered. The stink of sweat squeezed through her pores, the toxins from the alcohol working their way out of her body. She focused on her breathing, slowing her heart rate, and turned her attention to the door across from the bathroom. She moved to the bathroom doorway where she lingered and listened, waiting for anyone in the house to grow impatient.
After a few minutes, she finally ventured back out into the hallway, her left hand reaching for the door. She tested the handle to check if it was locked, but the knob offered no resistance. Her line of sight fell to the bottom crack to check for any moving shadows, but all was still. Her muscles tensed and she burst through the door, staring down the sights to a neatly made bed.
The room was small, with just enough space for the bed, dresser, and nightstand. The curtain was opened, and sunlight shone through the window. Cooper moved silently over the carpet, her eyes fixed on the closed closet doors. She slid them open, pushing aside dresses and blouses, finding nothing but forgotten fashion trends. She circled the bed then flattened herself to the floor and checked underneath, but there were only more boxes.
Before she stepped back out into the hallway Cooper took a second to let the room’s atmosphere sink in. The light pinks of the sheets and bedspread, the stuffed animals stacked in the corner, all of it suggested a young girl’s room, and not the woman she interviewed the day before.
A picture rested on the nightstand, encased in a silver, rose-studded frame, which caught her eye. The picture was taken outside on a sunny day in a park somewhere. The woman was Kate Wurstshed, but the man she was with had his face scratched out beyond recognition.
Cooper tightened her grip on the frame, and her fingertips flushed white. She stepped out in the hallway once more, her movements more deliberate. She moved quickly, her footsteps silent as she approached the door at the end of the hallway.
She paused when she reached it, noticing the flicker of a light that escaped underneath the crack of the door. She pressed her ear to the side of the doorframe and listened, keeping her breath still, but heard nothing. She reached for the handle, the bronze knob unlocked like the other two. Her heart rate spiked as she felt the click of the lock’s mechanism.
When the door opened it revealed a staircase. A fluorescent glow of the flickering light at the bottom of the stairs flashed sporadically. Cooper aimed her pistol down the steps, waiting for any movement, but all she saw was the broken light that flashed with the consistency of a strobe light.
On her first step the stair groaned loudly, and Cooper cursed under her breath. The flickering light agitated the pounding of her head, but she managed to keep a straight line on the way down and kept the pistol in her hands steady, though she felt the desire for her body to tremble.
Every step revealed more of the basement underneath. At first she saw nothing but the bare concrete of the floor, but when she neared the bottom and turned the corner, the tip of her pistol lowered. “Jesus Christ.”
A twin mattress bare of any sheets was pushed up against the side of the far wall, and a waste bucket sat in the corner. The flickering light was that of a battery-powered lantern. But it was the wall opposite the bed that drew the majority of her attention. She walked to it slowly, her eyes growing wider with every step.
Writing, in what looked like red crayon, covered the wall from floor to ceiling. Most of the scribbles were so small she couldn’t read it until she was only inches away. Everything was written in the form of letters, all of them beginning with “My love,” “Lover,” or “My betrothed.” Cooper reached out her hand and ran her finger along gritty texture the crayon left behind.
Cooper stepped back, taking in all of the groupings of letters on the wall, but the flickering light made them hard to see. What few snippets she managed to read suggested graphic content between two lovers, and a violent obsession. She reached for her phone, dialing dispatch. After two rings she received an answer. “This is Detective Cooper. I’m—”
The pressure that gripped Cooper’s throat choked the words from her lips. She dropped the pistol and instinctively grabbed the hands wrapped around her throat. She was flung violently from side to side, and she struggled to free herself from the vice-like grip squeezing the life from her. The assailant slammed her head against the wall, and Cooper felt a hot burst of warm liquid spout from the point of impact then trickle down her forehead. Her knees buckled, and she dropped to the floor, her assailant falling with her, straddling her waist and pinning her down.
The blurred face of Kate Wurstshed flashed in time with the flickering light. She snarled, her eyes wild with bloodlust. “You shouldn’t have come here, Detective. This wasn’t something you should have seen.” She tightened her grip on Cooper’s throat, and the flashes of lights were suddenly replaced with black spots that grew with every strobe. “You’re not as smart as he thought you were.”
Cooper reached for Kate’s left wrist, and with what strength she had left, twisted it from her neck, which relieved the building pressure in her head, and Kate yelped in pain. She took advantage of the momentum and bucked her hips, flinging Kate off and rolling the two of them across the basement floor. She felt the hard smack of concrete against her knees, elbows, and skull, but Cooper didn’t let up.
On the last rotation across the basement floor Cooper pinned Kate down. “Enough!” Kate thrashed and kicked, and the night of whiskey combined with the morning that lacked food and water weakened her enough for Kate to overpower her
.
Cooper landed on her right shoulder, and the room spun. She scrambled to her hands and knees, the floor shifting uneasily as she searched for Kate in the flashing strobe of the lamp. She blinked repeatedly and heard the thump of feet against the staircase. Cooper reached for the gun and sprinted up the steps, wheezing with every breath.
Her vision cleared in the hallway, but Kate was nowhere in sight. She kept the pistol aimed, her joints stiff from the fight, and a limp hindered her gait. The bedroom and bathroom doors were open, and she paused before passing, checking both before heading to the living room. She hugged the wall, peering around the corner.
A gunshot fired, and Cooper ducked back behind cover, the bullet thumping into the drywall. Cooper stayed low and jumped from the corner, finger on the trigger, but holding her fire once she saw Kate had fled to the front yard.
Tires squealed, and Cooper took chase, bursting from the front door, the sight of her pistol aimed at Kate’s taillight. She holstered her weapon and sprinted to the car. She reached for the radio and floored the accelerator, flipping on the sirens and lights. “This is Detective Cooper. I am in pursuit of a red Volkswagen sedan. Suspect is Kate Wurstshed. She is armed and currently headed west toward Interstate 17. Requesting air support and backup.” Cooper jerked the wheel hard left, blowing past a stop sign and triggering a pedestrian to jump out of her path.
“Copy that, Detective. We have units heading your way.”
Two streets later Cooper had the back of the sedan in her sight. Kate swerved across lanes, blew through traffic lights, and had already sideswiped a number of vehicles on the road, nearly crashing both times. Cooper kept tight in her chase, traffic parting from her presence.
