The Sleeping Girls

by James Hunt

  When she arrived at the apartment building, she was glad to find that the news crews were gone, at least for now, and she was able to walk through the front door instead of sneaking around the back.

  But while the news crews had vanished, the inquiries from her neighbors had not. When she reached the floor for her apartment and stepped off the elevator, Susan was greeted with her neighbors who were coming home from work.

  Most of them did a double take when they saw her, either surprised that she had come back, or surprised that she wasn’t in handcuffs for what happened at her apartment.

  But the people were either too tired, too busy, or too frightened to really ask her about what happened, and Susan kept her head down all the way to her apartment, the crime scene tape still crossed over her door to prevent anyone from the building’s maintenance team from entering without permission.

  If Susan hadn’t been told that the apartment was okay, then she wouldn’t have been here. She tore down the crime scene tape and entered her apartment.

  Even though Susan had owned the place for eighteen months, the area had never really felt like home to her. It was like it was a waystation or a rest point between stops, and now that the entire place had been combed through by the state’s forensic crime team, it was like the place was no longer hers. If it ever had been.

  The living room dark save for the light that streamed through the blinds of the window. The broken light created lines on the floor and highlighted the boot prints that covered the faux-wooden planks.

  Aside from the few crime scenes that Susan had visited for the killer's case, she hadn’t been involved in being on scene at other locations very often. But seeing the aftermath of what it was really like after a team of officers stormed through your home, it was a very sobering experience.

  Because even though this place had never felt like a home, the fact that there were so many people combing through her life made her feel violated in a way that she never expected. People she didn’t know had seen what her life was like away from the job. The crime that had affected Susan here in her apartment had been part of her civilian life.

  Susan made a mental note to clean the apartment, unable to put it off now that the place had been dirtied from top to bottom with fingerprint dust and the dirty shoes of police officers and forensic teams. She walked into her bedroom, and then stopped when she saw the bed.

  The sheets had been removed, taken up to the crime lab to search for any more fibers that the killer might have left behind.

  From the doorway, Susan could still see the indentations from where Allie’s had been placed. She filled in the outline until every detail was recounted. She saw the floral print dress that exposed her shins which were bruised from her time as a prostitute. She remembered the way that her hair had been brushed, and her eyes had been closed.

  Susan finally broke her staring contest with the bed and walked to the bathroom, disrobing as she headed for the shower. She needed to clear her head, get in a better mindset so she could start combing through the records of the case back at the precinct.

  Even after she was clean, Susan let the hot water run until the entire bathroom hung heavy with steam. It lingered in the air, and the heavy moisture made breathing easier than the cold, dry air outside.

  Susan shut her eyes and stood directly beneath the spigot, her brown hair flat against her head like a helmet. She hugged herself, her fingers finding the bruises and the scars from her work on the streets. Even now, after all of the drugs, all of the fighting, all of the sleepless nights, Susan could still remember nearly every detail of the life she had lived that brought her here.

  A hard childhood had led to rough teenage years, which had led to a hard life that had sharpened her into the point of a knife that hurt the people around her even when she didn’t want to, including herself.

  Susan ran her fingertips over the needle marks in her arm and wondered how much longer she would be able to hold out before the monster of addiction reared its ugly head. Even now, relaxed in the shower, trying to wash away the past few days and cleanse her body and mind, she could feel the monster lurking in the darkness, just waiting for Susan to walk close enough for it to reach her.

  Her time undercover had brought her toward that darkness more times than she wanted to admit, and each time that she stepped toward the edge and faced the monster, she lost a little piece of herself. Small enough for no one else to notice, but large enough for her to see that it had gone.

  It was like that monster just nibbled on her, taking piece after piece. But every time the beast took something from her, it became easier to walk to the darkness. And while Susan had been able to justify those trips to the night in the name of stopping bad guys, she knew that one day she would step into that darkness and she would not return.

  The monster would swallow her whole like it had so many others. People stronger than she had succumbed to its power, and Susan knew that she wasn’t as strong as she portrayed herself to be. It was all a carefully-crafted and practiced role and one that she was beginning to forget how to play.

  Susan turned off the water and then stepped out of the shower, standing in the lingering warmth that the steam provided. Naked, she walked to the mirror and wiped away the condensation that had fogged the glass.

  Staring at herself now, she realized how young she looked and how different her life had become ever since she started on this road. She never would have expected to last as long as she did, she never expected to become a cop, let alone a narcotics officer. But this was the road that she set herself down, and she intended to stay on it for as long as she possibly could.

  Out of the bathroom, the bed once again caught her eye, but she quickly looked away and opened her dresser drawers, some of the fingerprint dust smudging her clean fingers. The whole place was going to need a good scrub after what the forensics team had done to it.

  Susan dressed, grabbing the only pair of new slacks and blouse that she owned, and then donned the blazer she wore the day before. It still smelled a little funny from the hospital, but she was able to cover it up with a little bit of perfume. She didn’t usually like to wear it because the guys tended to make fun of her at the office, but she figured that a little ribbing was better than smelling like a hospital all day long.

  Susan grabbed her badge and the gun and then headed toward the door. The shower had cleared her mind and boosted her energy. She thought about what Charlie had told her, about looking back through what she had already seen with fresh eyes. It was a good idea, and Susan intended not to waste any more time.

  But with her hand on the door, Susan stopped, remembering the paraphernalia in her other clothes. She returned to the bedroom and removed the needles and what remained of the speedball. She stared at it, knowing that it had taken over too much of her life, taken too much of her mind. It needed to end.

  She bagged up what was left and made a mental note to dispose of it properly before she had the urge to use again.

  When Susan returned to the precinct, she found the building surrounded by the horde of news vans parked along the road.

  Susan looked to see if there was any path that she could take to avoid walking through the cameras, but the only way into the station was through the sharks circling the water, and the longer she put it off, the worse it would be.

  Susan snuck along the news blockade’s front side, snaking around to the side and hoping that the others wouldn’t pick up on her trying to head toward the building, but her path was suddenly blocked when one of the reporters noticed her badge. And when one shark smelled blood, the scent quickly traveled through the rest of the group.

  “Officer? Excuse me, Officer, do you have any comment on the case?” The woman followed her with a microphone and a cameraman. “Do you have a suspect in custody? How many other girls have died?”

  Similar questions were repeated to Susan as she moved closer to the door, her pace significantly slowed. But she plowed forward, batting away the
questions with a stoic gaze. They weren’t going to get anything about the case. Not from her. The leeches would have to go searching for blood somewhere else.

  When Susan entered the precinct, she was greeted with a few friendly hellos, and more than one or two surprised expressions, including Lieutenant Williams.

  “Q,” Williams said. “Didn’t want to take the day off?”

  “I’m good,” Susan answered.

  “All right.” Williams returned to his office, and Susan found her desk and the files that Palmer and Winterguard had said they would give her.

  Susan still planned on searching through the database to see if any recent overdoses had been mislabeled. She knew that the sheer number of ODs had caused some MEs to rush through the autopsy to help ease the burden of their workload. She just wanted to make sure that she wasn’t missing anything.

  Susan started with the murder book that had been put together, detailing everything they knew about the case to date.

  The first section of the book was the chronological timeline that had been put together for the murders, which had been compiled into one book since it was believed they were done by the same man.

  Katy Matthews was last seen alive three nights ago, leaving a party with her boyfriend, who they later confirmed was innocent after they peeled his prints off him, along with his alibi that had him hanging out with other friends during the time that Katy was abducted and killed.

  Somewhere between midnight and three o’clock in the morning, Katy was murdered, and then at some time before six o’clock in the morning, her body was placed in the home of her parents where she was found by her father just before dawn.

  Susan examined the notes from the ME’s office again, recalling in her mind the way that the examiner had run through the details, noting the lack of trauma on the victim.

  Finished with Katy Matthews, Susan moved on to the Ginny Burtz case, again finding that the last persons to see her alive were at Box Town, where they believed the girl was blazingly taken with witnesses around and blood was found at the scene of the abduction with no matches in the DNA database for previous offenders.

  Again, the body was found after less than eight hours after the time of abduction before the girl was returned to her home. Susan scanned the ME’s note for this one as well, which she hadn’t been a part of, and there were no signs of trauma or sexual abuse.

  Hesitant, but knowing that she couldn’t put it off any further, Susan opened up Allie’s ME report and read.

  But unlike the previous two girls, the ME who examined Allie’s body had found some signs of trauma on her palms. Most likely from striking something repeatedly with the palm of her hand.

  Based off of the killer’s pace, it was likely that he already had his next victim picked out. And with no idea who might be the next victim, Susan followed Charlie’s advice and looked to previously marked overdoses in the past few years to see if she could find any correlation with the work of their killer.

  Susan had initially tried to narrow the search field to anything pertinent to their three victims, but nothing about dresses yielded anything useful.

  It was difficult going through the files. All of the faces shared the blank-eyed stare of death. They were people who had given up and crawled into their boxes and ditches after sticking needles in their arm. She looked, but she was still no closer to finding any similarities.

  Susan pushed back from the desk and rubbed her eyes. She checked the different cups of coffee until she found an empty one that wasn’t crumpled, and then stretched her back and shoulders as she walked over to the coffee pot.

  With a fresh cup of caffeine, Susan returned to searching the database and used all of that uncertainty and uneasiness flowing through her veins as fuel for her search.

  It was another hour before anything caught Susan’s eye, and she was moving so quickly through the files that she nearly missed it.

  The victim was young, female, and from the photographs of the deceased before she died, was very pretty, but it was the beauty of the innocence of a child before the girl realized how dark and cruel the world could become.

  Susan scrolled down to the ME’s notes, which cataloged the scars that covered the girl's body. What was interesting was the amount of drugs that were found in the girl’s bloodwork. The ME noted it was ten times the standard lethal dosage. And there was something else.

  The ME said the dress that the girl was wearing looked newer, homemade, and had a floral print. There was a picture of a dress. It wasn’t the same dress, but it was close. But because the girl was found in the summertime, they didn’t think anything of it.

  Susan knew that it was their guy’s handiwork. She downloaded the file and then printed the copies so she could add the notes to the murder book.

  Susan looked at the name of the victim and then did a quick search, and she found a man with the same last name along with the same last known address of the victim. It matched the same name as the individual who signed the death certificate. It must have been the girl’s father.

  Lost in thought, Susan didn’t notice the sergeant walk up to her until he spoke up.

  “You’re the girl who stopped those kiddie rapists.”

  While Susan had never enjoyed being called “girl” or “kid” or “short stack” by any of the more senior officers of the department, there was something about the desk sergeant that made her think of a loving grandfather. Though he probably appreciated that sentiment as much as she did being called girl.

  “Me and a few others,” Susan said.

  The old desk sergeant held out a large, weathered hand and gripped Susan’s hand firmly as the pair shook. “You did good work, Officer.”

  It was silly, but a sense of pride rushed through her at the old man’s words. She didn’t know why it made her feel that way, but it did.

  “Thanks, Sarge.” Susan tapped her knuckles on the desk, and then spun back around. “Hey, who’s command tonight?”

  “Lieutenant Balker.”

  “If you see him, let him know I checked out a cruiser.”

  “Will do,” Sarge said, flashing a thumbs up. “Stay safe out there.”

  Susan reciprocated the thumbs up and then smiled as she walked back to her desk, shutting down her computer. She had the address of the deceased’s family and wanted to ask them a few questions about their daughter.

  37

  Pulling up to the house was like a case of déjà vu. The neighborhood was so similar to the others that Susan had visited. And just like her previous visits, she experienced a sick dread that spread through her body like a disease.

  Susan parked on the street outside of the house, and before she even made it up the drive, the front door opened and a man stepped out.

  “Can I help you?”

  From the driver’s license photo that Susan saw earlier, she pegged the man as Rick Hathaway, the father of Sarah Hathaway, who Susan believed was the killer’s first victim. The man had short cropped brown hair that was starting to grey on the sides and stooped shoulders that rounded forward, giving him a strong look, though his arms and legs were skinny. He wore a jacket, jeans, and work boots. The beard that covered his face was thick and ungroomed. Susan pegged him as a fisherman, which she further confirmed when she moved closer to him and smelled the sea on his clothes.

  “Mr. Hathaway, I’m Officer Susan Quinton with Seattle PD,” Susan extended her hand, and it lingered in the open air between them for a moment before the man finally shook it. “I was hoping I could come inside and ask you a few questions.”

  Hathaway gave Susan a look up and down, and then looked past her to the police vehicle that was parked on the street. “You have identification on you?”

  Susan showed him the badge.

  “And what’s this about?” Hathaway asked.

  Susan wasn’t sure how the father would react to questions about his dead daughter. She was getting the feeling from him that he wasn’t in the mood to talk, and she was hop
ing to get inside where there would be a higher probability that he would speak to her.

  But with the father refusing to back down, Susan knew that she was going to have to play her cards regardless. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about your daughter Sarah.”

  Hathaway’s expression slackened, and the color disappeared from his cheeks. “What about her?”

  Susan gestured to the still-open door. “Do you think we could talk inside?” She shivered to help sell the point home. “I’ve never done well in the cold.”

  Hathaway remained stoic but then finally walked toward the door. He made no motion for Susan to follow, but she did so anyway. She found the inside of the house to be just as cold as outside even after Hathaway shut the door behind her.

  “Thanks,” Susan said, remaining in the foyer as she got a good look at the rest of the house.

  It was an open floor plan, the only doors at the back of the house, which she suspected were the bedrooms and bathrooms. The living room and kitchen bled into one another, and the furniture that decorated the inside of the apartment was old, dusty, and faded. It looked like furniture from the seventies with its yellows, greens, and browns. Susan never understood the fashion of the seventies. She couldn’t imagine it looked good even when it was new.

  “You’re in the wrong place if you can’t stand the cold.” Hathaway walked past her and to the kitchen stove where there was a boiling pot of water. He dumped some spaghetti noodles in it and then stirred a skillet that had some sauce simmering. “What do you want to know about Sarah?” He kept his focus on the stove and stirring his dinner.

  Susan got a good look at the place as he walked over, and she was able to recognize a bachelor pad when she saw one. “Can you tell me when Sarah ran away from home?”

  Hathaway wiped his upper lip and nodded. “It was three months before she died. March thirtieth. It was a Wednesday.”