by Stevan Mena
That got her attention.
"About a girl? About something bad happening?" Rebecca turned inward, like a child when you ask to see the cut on their finger and they clench their fist into a ball of marble.
"Do you think you're having these dreams because of something you saw on TV?" Jack said in his best nice guy voice. No response. "Okay… Well-"
"How do you know I have nightmares? Did my mother tell you?" She caught Jack off guard, he didn't want to say yes or no, and he certainly didn't want to reveal it was her psychiatrist who sold her out, especially after promising Leonard at least an attempt at discretion.
"I appreciate you taking the time out of class to come and talk with me, Rebecca."
She shrugged. "We were doing fractions."
They both stood up. "You like math?"
"Not really." Rebecca pushed her chair in like they're taught to do.
"Why not?"
"The teacher yelled at me."
"She did? What for?"
"Correcting her."
Jack smiled and opened the door. Even though the conversation was pretty one-sided and uneventful, his gut told him he would see her again.
Aaron Phillips was waiting just outside. He slapped his hands together with a glad that's over smack. "Well, all set then?"
The sun had broken through, children outside at recess played ball and tag; screaming, laughing, calling each other names.
Jack watched them through the breezeway window, enjoying the sound of children's laughter and happiness. A profound longing and emptiness welled up inside, but not enough to sour the moment.
Jack was halfway down the hallway when he realized he had made a wrong turn. He doubled back and caught a glimpse of Rebecca walking back to class. A young boy passed her by, making an effort to bump shoulders with her, hoping to knock her off balance. Rebecca went backwards with a wince, but didn't fall. The boy laughed it up as he skipped down the hallway in Jack's direction. Jack thought about sticking his leg out to trip the little bastard.
CHAPTER 12
It was that transition just after dawn, light gradually replacing darkness. Jack squinted, his eyes still adjusting to the new morning light. He wanted to get to the Ann Arbor precinct early. He found he got more cooperation from people at the start of their shift rather than after their daily routine had engulfed them. Frost covered the ground, the wet conditions making the roads slippery.
On the seat beside him was Leonard's file on Rebecca. He couldn't subscribe to the idea that someone could witness something as horrific as murder and not be able to recall details from the experience. But that didn't mean he wasn't intrigued, especially after meeting her. He'd heard of instances where a person's mind chose to bury traumatic thoughts and memories it couldn't process; he'd done that himself. Part of his job dealt with people who suffered from momentary lapses in reason. Husbands who'd strangled their wives in a fit of jealous rage, then later couldn't recall doing it, denying it even happened. Shit, there were mornings he awoke still holding onto a bottle of beer, unable to remember how he got into bed.
He passed the faded green sign for Ann Arbor and took the exit.
Jack stood in Sheriff Miller's brown wood paneled office, flipping through the contents of a murder report. It was extensively detailed and annotated. Every crime scene photograph had a cross reference of where it was taken, by whom, during what time of day. Jack read the name on the cover, Lisa Delgado. He stood up and spread the documents across the top of the desk.
Sheriff Miller stood in the corner of the room sipping coffee from a giant #1 Dad mug. His kids had painted it for him - 14 years ago. He was completely bald with a wrinkle in his forehead that ran vertically up into his crown, making his head look like a cracked egg.
"Illegal, no family, 'least none that have come forward yet," Sheriff Miller said. "No missing person report was ever filed. Probably scared."
Jack sifted through picture after picture of grizzly crime scene stills. They'd found her body just days after it was disposed of. The carnage in the photographs was fresh, Jack could almost smell the stench of blood and decaying flesh, something he never got used to.
"A runner found her along the side of the road; not even an attempt to conceal the remains. Just left for the elements, stripped naked, no prints, fibers, nothing. The skull was smashed, teeth removed. She was a Jane Doe for a few weeks."
"How long ago?"
"Four years? Cause of death was asphyxiation. Stabbed first, but purposely cut where it wouldn't be lethal. So she'd suffer."
Jack started to write it all down when the sheriff interrupted him. "It's all in the report. I'm not offering any insight the coroner hasn't already made in his notes." Jack put his pen away and started stacking pages of the report.
"Anything unusual or… different in his report?" Jack asked.
"Did find indentations along the bones of her hands and feet. Some kind of sharp wire that cut deeper the harder she pulled. Torturous scumbag. The damage occurred over a period of time, erosive, like when you leave an animal in a cage too long."
"Held over a period of time," Jack said.
"What? Oh yes, that was his assertion too."
Jack searched the report, finding pictures that corroborated the sheriff's account.
"Anything else you can tell me?"
The sheriff took another sip of his coffee and smacked his lips. "A witness saw her climb into a tan car, not sure the model. Claimed she didn't get a good look at the driver."
"Her statement in here?"
"Just the reporting officer's transcript, she refused to file an official one. Afraid we might put her on the next bus to El Salvador."
Jack found several photos of Lisa, posed pictures with good lighting.
"These look like modeling photographs."
Sheriff Miller nodded. "Pretty girl. You say you got four similar cases on your ledger?"
"Three," Jack said, "Angelina Rosa's body hasn't been found. No denying there's a pattern here." Jack closed the folder and looked around the room. "You got a copy machine I can use?"
The morning traffic heading back to Lansing was stop and go. Jack cursed himself for not using the men's room before hitting the road.
He tried to distract himself from his full bladder by processing the information he'd just received. He grabbed a small personal voice recorder from his glove compartment to collect some quick thoughts. His best judgment came with his initial gut reaction, before things became fragmented by theories and alternate scenarios.
He pressed record, pausing a moment to gather his thoughts while his other hand kept the wheel steady.
"Held captive over an extended period of time. Possibly for sexual gratification. Body stripped clean, no trace evidence of any kind. No attempt to conceal the body. Victim was last seen getting into a tan late model car, no struggle. According to the witness, she opened the passenger door herself. Possibly knew her attacker. Pretty. All of them. Preying on vanity, a ruse maybe."
Jack squirmed, keeping an eye open for a clean looking gas station to pull over and relieve himself. He placed the recorder down next to Rebecca's file. He glanced at her name, written in black sharpie on the label. Curiosity was getting the better of him.
CHAPTER 13
"What did you say your name was?" Jennifer asked again, adjusting the phone.
"Robert, Jack's brother," the voice repeated. Jack has a brother? She held her palm over the receiver, debating how to respond. If Jennifer had mastered anything in life, it was the art of small talk. Give her 3 uninterrupted minutes, she'd know your whole life story. She was the one who always remembered the cake on someone's birthday. When you had issues at home, she demanded constant updates on your well being. It was her nature to pry — a trait she felt would make her a good detective someday.
Having known Jack for several years and only just now learning he had a brother seemed, well…impossible.
The caller must have been lying — maybe a reporter tryin
g to get an edge on the competition. The weird part was, this guy sounded a little like Jack, just without the raspy tone. She wondered what else Jack was keeping from her. Like that cough he claims is nothing but a dry throat.
At that moment, Jack wandered past her desk, his arms bursting with paperwork.
"Jack? You got a call on two. Says he's… your brother?"
"Tell him I'm dead," Jack said flatly, never breaking stride. He entered his office and closed the glass door.
Jennifer removed her hand from the receiver. "I'm sorry, he's dead." She looked back at Jack's office, confused. "Just now. You wanna leave a message?"
Jack tossed the case report he'd copied from Sheriff Miller's office onto his desk, dropping Rebecca's envelope on top of it. The cassette tape slipped out, Jack caught it before it fell to the floor. On one side was hand written simply: Rebecca, and a date.
He remembered seeing an old cassette player collecting dust around somewhere. He pulled open a few drawers, then checked a tall cabinet in the corner, finding it was buried under a pile of books and stationary supplies. He cleared some room on his desk with his arm, inserted the tape and pressed play.
There was no sound, so he raised the volume. A static hiss, followed by some commotion, the sound of a microphone rubbing on fabric. Then Leonard's voice reciting the date. Jack increased the volume more.
"October 21, session 6, subject's name Rebecca Lowell, 9 years old." Leonard's voice sounded tinny, but he enunciated his words clearly, very procedural-like.
"Initial observations: bright, articulate, but difficulty with social interaction. Suffers from persistent insomnia, stomach ailments, blackouts. Having trouble procuring the source of her distress, so far unresponsive to open dialogue & session Q&A."
Jack fast forwarded the tape a bit.
"I believe the problem is being obscured by a defensive subconscious. Ruled out possibility of parental abuse, however the query is not completely off the table. I'll attempt to probe deeper, possibly regress into early stages of development."
Jack pressed fast forward again, growing impatient. "That's good, just relax," Leonard said, the recording acoustics had changed a bit. Jack could hear another person in the room, breathing. It was high pitched. Rebecca.
"Listen to the rhythm of my voice. I want you to count backwards from 10-" Jack hit fast forward once more. Time was precious but he was willing to give Leonard one more chance to impress him with something. He pressed play.
"When you were a little girl, what was your favorite doll?" There was a slight pause, followed by Rebecca's answer, slow and groggy.
"Mimmy."
"I want you to think about Mimmy, think about the first time you saw her. Think back. Can you see her? Hold her?"
"Yes."
"How old are you?"
"…Three."
"Are you happy here?"
"Yes," Rebecca's voice was soft, lispy.
"Now, let's move to the time you were most frightened." Leonard's voice took on a very serious tone, making Rebecca's breathing quicken. "Remember, they're just memories, you're safe with me."
There was a long beat of silence. Jack checked to make sure the machine was working.
"Rebecca?"
"I'm cold," she answered, her voice suddenly deeper, shaking. "I hear a train. It's loud."
"Tell me more of what you see," Leonard sounded energized.
"The river. There's a willow tree. It's all black. Burned. It's falling into the water." Rebecca's breathing grew rapid, her words sharp, the way someone gets when they want to stop talking about something, anxious to change the subject. Leonard employed his calming voice to try and soothe her.
"You're safe with me, Rebecca. I'm by your side. I won't let anyone hurt you. Please, tell me what else you see."
"I'm scared," she said, sniffling.
"What are you scared of? Is someone there with you?"
"Yes."
"Is it your father?"
"No," she said in a hushed whisper.
Leonard mimicked her, whispering back, "Your mother?"
Rebecca didn't answer. Jack's eyes watched the wheels of the tape recorder spin around and around, his interest piqued.
"What happened here, Rebecca? What frightened you-"
Another long silence. Then:
"She's hurt."
"Who? Who's hurt, Rebecca?"
"She's not breathing!"
"Who's hurt, Rebecca? What does she look like?"
"P…pretty. Black hair. There's blood. I see blood."
"Whose blood? Can you describe her?"
"I don't want to look!"
"Please Rebecca, nothing can hurt you, you're safe with me. Do you know her?"
"She has no clothes on." Rebecca began to hyperventilate.
"Stay calm."
"She can't breathe! She can't breathe! Stop it!"
"Rebecca, who are you shouting at?"
"I want to go home!" Rebecca sobbed.
"They're just images, memories, let my voice guide you, protect you."
"No, she's not dead, don't!" Jack could hear Rebecca kicking and flailing about, Leonard struggling to calm her. "No, please, no! Stop!"
"Who is harming the girl, Rebecca? Can you see a face?" Leonard's responses started to sound desperate, he was losing control, and had to shout above Rebecca's shrieking.
"Please don't!" Rebecca started choking. There was a violent crash, like something was knocked off a table and shattered. Leonard's voice got very close to the mic, distorted: "Rebecca, it's okay, you're safe, you're safe!"
Jack anxiously hung on every word, the hair on his neck stood straight.
"Help. Help!" Rebecca was making herself hoarse.
"Concentrate on my voice Rebecca!" Leonard's voice trembled. "On the count of three, I'm going to bring you out. One, two—"
Rebecca let out a blood curdling SHRIEK.
Jack smacked the stop button.
His office fell silent. He'd unknowingly been grasping the arms of his chair so tightly his nails dug right through the fabric. He unclenched his fists — then the rest of his body, with one loud, long exhale.
He looked over his shoulder at his office door, wondering if anyone had overheard the chaos on that tape. There was no group of people pooled in his doorway — as he half expected there to be.
He could hear his own breathing, feel his heart racing. It was like listening to someone actually being murdered. Something only a real killer would have been privy to. A person would have to be cold blooded to not be affected by it.
Jack rubbed the back of his neck, massaging it in thought. He stood up and reviewed a few of the details Rebecca provided before it all went bad:
Burnt tree, a river…the train.
Jack looked up at his map on the wall. He took a fresh blue thumbtack and pressed it home, right where the tracks of the local freight trains crossed the river, deep in a wooded industrial area.
Rebecca's case file included her home address and phone number. Jack had taken the time to look up where they lived, it was only a few miles from the area Rebecca had spoken of. Coincidence? Jack didn't dare get his hopes up. If there was an award for most cynical detective, Jack would be the odds on favorite. A glass half empty kind of guy. So it was with a full container of salt that Jack decided to pick up the phone and call Laura Lowell to ask if he could speak with her about her daughter.
Leonard would not approve, might even get hostile, but that was no longer his concern. A human life hung in the balance. Or, at the very least, the successful recovery of a body and closure for Carl Rosa. Perhaps even enough of a lead to catch a killer. But he was getting ahead of himself. First thing's first.
He dialed Laura's number. The phone rang several times, but no answer and no machine. Jack hung up and reached for his coat.
He walked down the hall to the Captain's office. Jack knew he'd gone to the well one too many times, but he had to try. He knocked before he entered. Captain Lafave looked up fro
m his paperwork; Jack was about to ask for something he wasn't going to say yes to, and by the defensive way Lafave leaned back in his chair, folding his arms in front of him, he was thinking the same thing.
"No," Lafave started, shaking his head.
"I want to do another sweep. Different area this time, down by the river. Near the tracks."
Lafave blinked. "Based on what?"
Shit. Think fast. "…Just a gut feeling." Harrington entered, not expecting to see Jack.
"I'm sorry, I'm not authorizing any more goose chases. As it is, they're cutting back on overtime, reducing shifts."
Harrington stood mute, not taking sides.
"What about outside volunteers, the community?" Jack said.
"Tough to rally the troops for these types," Harrington said. "They only come out for blondes."
Jack rolled his eyes, he knew Harrington didn't mean it and was just trying to lighten the mood. He turned back to Lafave, "Captain-"
"I'm sorry, Jack. Unless you have credible evidence to go on? Other than just your gut?"
Harrington made a hand gesture that simulated football uprights, waiting.
"No." Jack said. Harrington imitated the kick sailing wide of the uprights, the sound of a crowd groaning.
"Hey, do you work here?" Lafave shouted at Harrington.
"You wanted the report by three P.M., it's 2:59." Harrington placed a folder on Lafave's desk, tapped it with his index finger and exited the room.
Jack stared at Lafave until he was sure he'd conveyed his frustration, then followed Harrington out the door.
"Look, Jack, I have a lot of respect for you; you've earned it. If you really feel that strongly about this, I'll sign off on it. But it's the last time I'm putting my neck out for you."
Jack nodded his appreciation and closed the door quickly. He didn't want to give the captain any time to reconsider.
CHAPTER 14
Rebecca sat on the lawn, her bike upside down, examining the pedals. Sabotage for sure, she thought. She used a wrench to try and bend the chain guard back into shape, inserting it with precision between the wheel and the metal. Satisfied, she tightened the nut that holds the wheel in place, her nose wrinkled as her cheeks turned red from the effort.
