by Stevan Mena
"Is she okay?" Jack asked the blur racing past him.
Laura opened the bathroom door. The shower was running, steam filling the room. The mirror was shattered, shards of broken glass littered the sink and floor. The striped blue plastic shower curtain was drawn.
"Rebecca!" Laura threw back the curtain, taking a few rings off the rail with it.
Rebecca was curled up in the corner of the tub, half naked. There was blood mixing with the water. Laura traced the bleeding up to Rebecca's hand.
"What did you do?" Laura cried.
Jack stood in the doorway. "Can I help?"
Laura held Rebecca's bleeding hand under the water. "Why did you break the mirror?"
"I don't want to go to any more doctors."
"Come on, stand up." Laura helped Rebecca stand. She reached over and turned off the water, then grabbed a hanging towel and briskly dried off her trembling daughter.
"I'm not crazy," Rebecca said, as Laura wrapped one towel around her body, then grabbed a smaller one to wrap around her bleeding hand.
"No one said you were crazy." Laura pressed the makeshift bandage tightly. "It's not that bad, hold still. What were you thinking?"
"I heard you talking," Rebecca said, looking past Laura at Jack standing in the doorway, watching them through the steam.
Laura looked over her shoulder at Jack, then turned to Rebecca. "No, that's not what we were talking about."
"I don't want to go to any more doctors," Rebecca spoke softly, but defiantly.
"Detective Ridge was just asking for our help."
Rebecca pulled her hand away. The look on her changed, a darkness suddenly consumed her.
"No one helped me," Rebecca muttered, staring right at Jack.
"Rebecca?" Laura asked, again wondering who had just traded places in there with her daughter.
"No one helped me! No one helped me!" Rebecca shouted. Laura threw her arms around her, trying to comfort her. It only incensed Rebecca more. Rebecca shrieked, "Don't touch me!"
Jack took a step inside. "Laura, can I help?"
"Maybe you should go. I need to be alone with her. I'm sorry." Jack respectfully stepped backwards through the wafting clouds of steam and closed the door.
He moved down the hall, passing Rebecca's bedroom. He stopped to peer inside, briefly admiring her artwork. A portrait of a little girl caught his eye. The girl was smiling, a simple smile, the detail miraculous. The serenity of the child's expression in the picture contrasted the wrenching shrieks coming from the bathroom. It prodded him to keep moving.
As Jack walked downstairs, he heard Rebecca's voice change, the same way it had done on the tape. "Nadie me ayudó!" he heard her shout. She repeated it over and over. Jack knew enough Spanish to translate: No one helped me.
Jack felt as if the words were directed at him personally, verbal daggers in his spine. As he neared the front door, he wondered if Angelina was screaming the same thing at that very moment.
He exited the house, letting the silence of the night air wash over him. Not too many things stressed Jack out, but he was shaken. He exhaled, watching his breath form clouds in the cold night.
He made his way towards his car, the frozen grass crunching beneath his shoes. He looked back at the house, two silhouettes struggling behind the upstairs blind. This wasn't finished. Laura wanted the truth as much as he did.
Jack opened his car door, steadying himself as he eased his body into the seat, the pain especially harsh tonight. He wasn't sure if the discomfort he was feeling was from illness or guilt, but it ached in his shoulders, ribs, and heart. He shut the door and dropped his head back against the headrest.
"…Christ."
He closed his eyes, trying to meditate the pain away. He turned his head left and right, shifting his body to find a comfortable position until the pain subsided. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at Rebecca's sketchbook on the passenger seat. He reached for it and flipped through a few drawings. There was a sketch of what looked like an angel hovering over a small sleeping child. The jagged lines made it appear rushed, but its entirety was exquisitely detailed and brilliant. Jack ran his fingers along the drawing, tracing the outline. It wasn't just her talent that he found incomprehensible, it was the depth of her expression, the layers of substance within each of her renderings. Her talent was unquestionable, but it was the inspiration behind the hands that moved him, the breadth of her spirit. Her drawings reflected experience, understanding, maturity.
Jack closed the book. He knew his next move.
CHAPTER 34
The hallways of Monroe’s College For the Arts were lined with brand new tile and brick. Sculpted archways connected each intersecting hallway. It smelled new, Jack figured it must have been recently renovated, the school having been around for generations.
What Jack found it curiously devoid of was — art. Nothing hanging on the walls. Nothing to say this was a building for creative types, no examples of their work. Maybe that was more for elementary schools, something for the parents to admire during meet the teacher night. This was a respected establishment of cultured artists who didn't need to hang their masterpieces along hallway walls. Jack searched for room 17.
He stopped and asked a student, who pointed back the way he came. He had passed it.
Jack entered a classroom with a dozen work stations, each with an unfinished sculpture sitting on top. The room itself was filled with all types of artwork — abstract, modern, classical — all demonstrating various degrees of skill. Some clearly didn't belong, others were quite good.
A teacher was replacing paper on painting easels. Her brown hair was up in a tight bun, though a few rogue curls had broken loose around the temples. Jack guessed her age at about 35-36. Another teacher was washing paintbrushes at the sink in the back of the room. He had on a very worn striped flannel shirt that was stained with paint and clay. Jack pegged him at about 10 years older.
Class had just filed out, Jack would have to move quick or they'd have the perfect excuse to cut short his visit when the next group arrived.
"It's never too late to discover your talent," she said to him, smiling, pulling paper through and latching it on each station at a hurried pace.
"I'm not a student," Jack said with a foolish grin.
"I know. In order to take my class you have to be accepted. The trials are rigorous and if you possessed the talent, youd've known…already."
"You were about to say long ago?" Jack said. She stammered a moment. "It's okay, I have no ego left to bruise," he said with a grin. Once she realized she was off the hook, she smiled back.
"How can I help you?"
"Helen Strauss?"
She nodded. "Mmm, that's me."
"Detective Jack Ridge." Jack flashed his badge and her smile turned upside down. Jack saw the other teacher approaching, surely curious as to the nature of his visit. "I'd like to ask you a few questions about a former student of yours. Carmen Muniz?" Helen nodded, understanding now why he was there.
"Carmen…" she said, full of sorrow.
"You're the detective who found her. I've seen your face on TV," the other teacher joined in. Jack stood waiting for an introduction. The teacher reached out his hand. "Oh, Michael Ketcher."
Jack shook his hand, it was coarse with pottery dust. "So you've heard."
"Yes," Helen said.
"You both knew her?"
"One of the best students we've ever had," Helen said, turning to Michael for corroboration. He was quick to reciprocate with emphatic nods of agreement.
"Oh jeez, without a doubt; we see so many students each year," Michael said, "but few as naturally gifted as Carmen. That painting there on the wall is hers." Michael pointed over Jack's shoulder.
Jack about-faced to see a stunning portrait of the Virgin Mary hanging on the back wall of the classroom. So lifelike, it was as if you could reach in and touch her. It captivated Jack. He himself had only seen this level of artistic talent once before. Did that
verify Leonard's hypothesis? Or simply demonstrate that he occupied a very small corner of the world and needed to get out more.
"Some of her work still hangs in the gallery downstairs," Helen said to the back of Jack's head.
Jack turned and exchanged glances between the two.
"Do either of you remember anything bothering Carmen before she disappeared? Was she having problems with another student?"
"I can't say," Helen said. Jack waited patiently for her to elaborate. "Well, it was so long ago."
"Carmen was always engrossed with her work," Michael said. "She often stayed late after class. I don't think things were too happy at home for her."
"In what way?"
"Just an assumption." Michael shrugged.
"I see, but otherwise, she wasn't a troubled student?"
"Not when she was in here, she wasn't," Helen said. She drifted past them towards Carmen's painting, standing before it reverently. Jack joined her and they admired it side by side. Michael leaned on a desk behind them.
"All that talent, gone forever…" Helen said.
Maybe, Jack thought. But that was way too long a conversation.
The hallway began filling up with noise; a wave of students was approaching. The first few entered the classroom, talking loudly, as if outdoors. They were followed by two more, then three more, and soon the class was full and buzzing.
"Well, I appreciate your time. Both of you."
"Of course," Helen said.
"Anything we can do to help, please," Michael said. Jack turned to leave — got a few steps — then swiveled back around.
"Oh…one more thing." Jack opened his briefcase and took out Rebecca's sketch pad. Helen and Michael gathered around, curiously.
"I have a friend whose daughter is also an aspiring artist herself. Would you mind taking a look at these?"
"Not at all," Helen said. She turned the book so both she and Michael could see. They flipped through a few of Rebecca's drawings, each one eliciting the response Jack was expecting.
"They're exquisite," Helen said.
"What school does she attend?" Michael asked. Jack paused for dramatic effect.
"Eastbrook Elementary."
Helen looked up at Jack, her mouth open. The noise in the classroom was getting very loud, lots of chatter and paper rustling, Helen had to raise her voice, "A child did these?"
Jack nodded. Helen and Michael flipped through a few more pictures with a look of shocked disbelief. Jack watched their expressions change with each page. "Have you ever seen work like this from a child that age?"
"How old did you say she was?" Michael asked.
"Nine."
"I've read about it, never actually met one with this kind of talent so young," Helen said. "The attention to detail… incredible."
"So you'd say it's very unusual for a child this age to be able to do this kind of work?"
"She's a once in a lifetime talent," Helen said. Once in a lifetime… Once in a lifetime. Her words echoed repeatedly in Jack's brain.
"We'd love to meet her," Michael said.
"I'll see what I can do," Jack said, but that's precisely what he wanted — a third party opinion. He put the book back in his case and tried to serpentine between students to get to the door. He paused to take one more glance at Carmen's painting.
Once in a lifetime…
A great amount of Carmen's art was religious in nature, Jack recalled, remembering the words Rebecca spoke: Santa Maria Madre de Dios. Find Jesus. Find Jesus…
CHAPTER 35
Jack put his wipers on the fast setting, but they only smudged the rain in arched streaks. He hunched over the wheel, pressing his nose to the glass, trying to find a piece of windshield he could see through. The interior was all misted up, so he used his sleeve to wipe clean a small patch.
He pulled up to the church on 17th and Connecticut Ave. The building was situated just a few feet from the busy road, with no parking lot except for a small driveway where the church bus parks to unload passengers. Jack circled the building to find a spot. On his second go round, he lucked out; a small minivan's headlights went on. Jack put his signal on and waited for it to pull out. He held up the traffic in one direction and soon a car behind him blared its horn. Jack flicked a switch and a blue light spun to life on his dashboard, shutting the impatient driver right up.
The minivan pulled out — a little fast — probably out of fear of Jack's show of authority. Jack parked and sat a moment, waiting for his legs to fill with enough energy to get out and make the trek inside. He was compelled to remove his gun from its holster and place it in his glove compartment. He looked around to make sure no one was watching. He just didn't feel right about bringing a loaded weapon into church.
He looked out his driver's side window at the rain dripping down the glass. It reminded him of tears. His thoughts drifted back to that terrible night. How the rain was cold and heavy, just like tonight. He'd come outside to his car — he could no longer bear to sit inside that awful waiting room. He sat and watched the rain cascade down the window, just like now. He could still remember the smell of the hospital hallways. A chemical smell, some sort of cleaning solution or disinfectant. Whatever it was, its nauseating odor had made him angry and desperate. It was a constant reminder that he was in a place of life and death, blood and medicine. In there he had no control, forced to sit idle, helpless. Jack was a man of action — the waiting was toxic for him. He had to get out, get some air.
He remembered how hard it was to finally get up the courage to open the car door and go back inside. He feared the awful news awaiting him, news that would change his life forever. Soon he would know how those other people felt, the families he'd comforted. The ones he'd watched crumple in agony to the floor. The kind of pain no words can soothe. You simply have to step back and let them grieve. He wondered how he would react. Would he fall away? Weep openly, make a scene? Opening that car door was the hardest thing he'd ever done.
He recalled taking the news calmly. He didn't scream. He cried, but not enough to turn heads or make others uncomfortable. He took it like a man, internalizing the pain.
Maybe it would have been better if he had let it all out. Instead, he simmered slowly over the years, letting the anger and hurt eat away at his insides until it was no longer just keeping him sad and miserable. It was killing him. Soon it would consume him completely and, in a shallow self pitying way, he looked forward to death's absolution. But did it have to be like this?
It was too late for him. But there was still time left to do something good for someone else. It was that noble idea that flexed the muscles in his hand. Jack opened the car door and stepped out into the rain.
He flipped up his collar and headed for the entrance, stepping over a deep puddle that barred his path along the sidewalk. He crept around it onto the mushy grass, which sounded like squished applesauce beneath his shoes. A few drops penetrated his collar and dripped down his bare neck, through his undershirt, down his back. He shuddered, vibrating his lips like a sputtering motor, brbrbrbrbr.
He climbed the steps and pressed the door — only to collapse into wood, face first. He leaned back and pulled it open like you're supposed to, hoping no one saw his gaffe.
Inside, the church vestibule was quiet. He gently eased the door closed behind him, muting the sound of the driving rain. It was so quiet, Jack could hear his own breathing. He wasn't a regular churchgoer. Though baptized and put through the motions growing up, it never took. He respected all religions — he'd never take either side of the argument — but he never found a place for it. And his profession only served to drive the notion of a benevolent God from his beliefs. Still, he respected a person's right to worship.
He stepped gingerly, not remembering all the protocols for being inside a house of worship. Especially one in session — which it was, judging by the serene music emanating from the congregation area.
He opened the door to the nave quietly, not wanting to call att
ention to himself. No one turned around. A funeral was being held, a priest performed a sermon. Most of the mourners were Latino. Jack took a seat in the back and waited.
He looked around at the proceedings with a dour expression. How long before he would be here? Would anyone show up? Sure, he'd get the classic policeman's sendoff. But not the lavish kind reserved for those taken in the line of duty. His immediate station would probably attend, if only out of respect.
What about loved ones? Family and friends? Jack could be quite the chore to be around. Any family he stayed in touch with merely tolerated him. He understood why. So his passing would simply be a procedure, a chore that had to get done, like cleaning up the dishes after a meal. That last thought amused him in a macabre way.
He envisioned his casket filled with ice and beer. They could pay their respects and grab a cold one on their way out. At least everyone would have a good time.
Mourners slowly walked past the closed casket, paying their respects. Jack knew who was in there. That was the reason he came. He searched the crowd for her — and there she was – Hester Muniz; draped in black, head down, sobbing on the shoulder of the man sitting next to her. This was Carmen's funeral, 10 years belated. Jack listened to the priest's sermon:
"In our terrible grief, we thank you Lord for bringing closure to Carmen's family. We take comfort in knowing that Carmen now sits beside your only son Jesus in Heaven. Jesus cradles her in his arms and she feels no more pain."
The priest stepped down from the pulpit and placed his hand on Hester's shoulder. She looked up at him reverently, kissing the side of his hand. He whispered some words of comfort to her, then turned to acknowledge the man she was holding on to. Jack could see now he was a young man, 22 maybe. Dressed in full military uniform.
As the mourners exited quietly, a few noticed Jack sitting there, a puzzled look on their faces as they passed him by.
