by Baxter Clare
A picture forms in Frank's mind and she quickly commits it to paper. Noah, Gail, even her drink is forgotten as Frank immerses herself into the world of Ladeenia and Trevor Pryce. She will be a long time leaving them.
Chapter 9
When Frank walks into Gail's apartment, Gail swivels from her computer and removes her glasses. She says hello and offers her lips to Frank. Frank kisses her cheek, calculating how soon she can get back to her murder books.
"What came up?" Gail asks.
"A cold case, actually."
"You stood me up for a cold case?"
"It's not just any case. It's one Noah's been working on for years. I've been meaning to get to it and finally opened it this afternoon. Once I started looking I got on a roll and couldn't stop. I needed to see it all at once, just like a fresh scene."
Gail bites her lower lip.
"It's important," Frank insists. "A brother and a sister, six and nine. Jamie and Leslie were about six when Noah caught the case. It hit him hard. I'd just gotten promoted and couldn't help him with it." Frank hefts a shoulder.
"I see. So you're helping him now."
"Something like that."
"Isn't that kind of like closing the barn door after the horse is out?"
"Meaning what?"
"Never mind."
Gail turns back to the computer screen, but Frank justifies, "It's still an open case. The parents moved up the coast but No still keeps in contact with them ..." She trails off, realizing her mistake. "He worked it off and on when he could, but he couldn't get anywhere with it. Maybe I can see it with fresh eyes. See something he couldn't. In fact, would you look at this for me?"
Frank digs through her briefcase, producing an anterior autopsy photo of Ladeenia Pryce's body.
"Look at this blanching. My first thought was she'd been moved before lividity set, but see how it's only on the torso and a little on the upper thighs?"
Despite her indifference, professional curiosity makes Gail peek at the photo.
Frank explains, "I'm thinking she was on her back but that there was something on top of her. A weight that caused the anterior blanching, because look at this." Replacing the picture with a close-up, she points to the extensive pallor along the girl's backside. "Do you think that could account for such a pattern?"
"It could."
She shows Gail another photograph. "This is the brother. I'm thinking the perp put him on top of her. Laid them face to face. See the blanching on her chest? And on her hip and thigh? Maybe that's where his legs draped over hers. Think that'd fit?"
Looking more closely at Frank now than the picture, Gail says, "Sure."
She turns back to her computer and Frank packs up the photographs. She heads to the kitchen for a beer. Sipping it at the sink, deciding what to do with the rest of the night, she's surprised when Gail joins her.
"Baby, I know this is a hard time for you. And it's hard watching you go through this. I wish there was something I could do, but I can't. I feel like most of the time you don't even want me around. I know you've got to do your own thing, but I hate being so completely shut out."
"You're not shut out. I'm here, aren't I?"
"Are you?"
Because Frank doesn't like the answer to that question she takes an offensive tack. "Look. I'm sorry I'm not dealing with this the way you'd like me to. Maybe—"
"Oh, don't you dare put this on me, Frank. Don't even think about it. How you deal with this is your business and I'm trying to give you the latitude to do that, but you've got to understand how frustrating it is watching you cope by drinking and working to excess. We don't talk about anything more significant than the weather, and when I push for something more you get sarcastic and combative. I'm trying to be patient, but I don't feel like you're making any effort to deal with this."
Frank clamps her jaws together. Her fingers whiten around the bottle but Frank is contained. "Let me see if I understand this. I'm the one who goes to work in the building I've shared with him for fourteen years. I'm the one who passes his empty desk every day. I'm the one who spends half my time thinking of things I have to tell him, and the other half remembering I can't. I'm the one who's there for his fucking widow and his fucking kids, but I'm not making any effort to deal with it? Did I get that right?"
Gail argues, "Staring down his memory is not the same as grieving him. You're ignoring your feelings around Noah just like you ignored Maggie. You can't brush this all under the carpet and expect it to disappear. Didn't you learn anything sitting in Clay's office? You have to talk about these things, Frank. You have to feel them to make them go away, not just bury them under piles of empties!"
Frank shouts back, "I don't want to feel anything, Gail. Get it? And I don't want to talk about it. I'm not indulging in all this namby-pamby, touchy-feely, get-it-all-out-on-the-table bullshit. Not right now. And the bottom line is, all that Doctor Phil shit just gets you a bigger heartache. It's a waste of fucking time. I will deal with this in my own way, in my own time, and it if you can't handle that, then I will be more than happy to stay the fuck away."
With marvelous restraint Frank tips her bottle into the sink and stalks to the front door. Gail follows.
"Oh, let me guess! This is the part where you storm out like you always do when we argue. Why don't you stay and finish this? Just this one time."
"It's finished."
"No, it's not. You're just running from me, too. When are you going to face life, Frank? You can't take off like a big bird every time we have a fight. For such a big, tough cop you have a remarkably wide yellow streak."
"Oh, nice," Frank throws over her shoulder. "Now we've resorted to name-calling."
"If the shoe fits..."
Wheeling, Frank demands, "Gail, why are you making a hard situation even harder? What the hell do you want from me? Blood?"
"I want you. The real you. Not this cold, awful shell you've become. I want the Frank who laughs and talks and hurts and yes, bleeds. The real Frank. Not this morose, withdrawn carcass you drag home every night."
"Maybe that's all I can give you right now."
Frank watches Gail make the effort to say, "Okay. I know that. I just miss the real Frank. I get impatient waiting for her to come back. I miss her."
Frank fixes her eyes on Gail's, considering her options. Gail's probably right. She usually is about this sort of thing. Frank knows her emotions are overriding her intellect and she despises her lack of control. She can swallow her pride and let go of the argument, or stay mad and justify her stance. But Frank is too tired to stay mad. Her fight drains away and she concedes, "It might be a while, Gay."
"I know. You're going to do it your way. It's just so frustrating not being able to help."
Frank understands. She feels that way with Tracey, wishing she could carry the hurt for her. For the kids, too. Gail holds her arms open and Frank steps into them. Into the doc's hair, she murmurs, "Been a long day. What say we hit the hay?"
And though Frank sleeps close to Gail, she remains distant.
Chapter 10
Her office door is closed and the knock surprises her. She weighs the sound of the appeal and guesses Jill is on the other side.
"Yeah?"
The red-haired detective pops her head in. "Is this a bad time?"
"No. Come in."
Frank watches Jill approach her desk. She seems hesitant. Lifting a handful of papers she says, "The sixty-day on Fuentes."
"Fuentes?"
"The domestic battery? We're trying to find her boyfriend?"
"Right." Frank remembers. She glances through Jill's late report, asks a couple questions. They discuss another case and the comp time Jill wants to take. "Anything else?" Frank asks.
Jill's hesitancy returns. She's an opinionated, determined woman and this timidity is intriguing.
"Spit it out," Frank encourages.
"Well, um, we were just, I mean I was, wondering, how, um, how you're doing and stuff. We know, I know,
how close you were to No and it's, well, it's not easy."
Jesus, Frank explodes in her head, won’t anyone give this a fucking rest? Lacing her fingers in front of her mouth, she rests her chin in her thumbs, surmising, "So the boys sent you in to do the dirty work."
"We're just worried, is all."
"What's the consensus out there?"
"What consensus?"
"Do you think I'm gonna go postal and spray the squad room with a shotgun, or just eat my gun and make a helluva mess on the bedroom wall?"
"Nobody thinks that," Jill flares, her timidity vanishing. "It's just that you haven't been on any of the call-outs lately. That's not like you. And your door's closed all the time and you barely talk to anyone, except at brief. We're just concerned."
"Well, you don't need to be. All you need to do—and you can pass this on to the boys—is mind your own business and do your jobs. If you spent more time worrying about your sixty-days than me, you might be able to get them in on time."
Jill's lips purse up and she glares.
"Anything else?" Frank repeats.
Jill shakes her head, slamming Frank's door when she leaves.
"Christ, what a cabal," Frank speaks into her fingers. Talking to herself is another recently acquired habit that Frank's beginning to notice.
She leans back with a rushing sigh, wishing everyone would disappear into a black hole and take their goddamned concern with them. She knows Jill meant well, and knows she shouldn't have shot the messenger. She'll admit things have changed around the squad room. She seems to have closed her door literally as well as metaphorically and can't get it open again. Isn't even trying. She doesn't care that she's locked it behind her and she wishes no one else did either.
And again her temper's gotten the better of her. Now she'll have to apologize to Jill, make nice to the squad. Frank's job is to maintain morale even though her own is lower than piss in a gutter. She sighs again, unable to get enough air.
Frank pulls herself out of her chair. Jill is on the phone. Frank lays a hand on her shoulder, points to her office. Jill nods and joins her a few minutes later.
"Do you want the door open or closed?"
"Open. Sit down." She waits until her detective is perched on the vinyl office chair. "Jill, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you. I guess I'm not dealing with this the way everybody would like me to. But I am dealing with it. And you're right. It is hard. But I don't want you guys worrying. If you have concerns about the way I'm running things, tell me. I'll listen. It's just going to take some time to readjust, that's all. We've taken a lot of punches lately, but we'll bounce back. We always do, right?"
There she is, Stoic the Magnificent again.
"Yeah," Jill agrees. "It's just that we care a—"
"Look. I know," Frank interrupts. "But don't worry. That's my job. Everything's gonna be okay."
Jill nods and Frank dismisses her gently. She returns to the work on her desk, satisfied she's extinguished another fire. Frank's been pushing so much of it lately she's starting to believe her own hype.
Chapter 11
Something else the squad's probably noticed—after having spent her career practically living at Figueroa, Frank's been leaving the station promptly at quitting time. Too many ghosts wander the halls. Nor does she want to be at Gail's. There she has to pretend too hard. Pretend everything's okay, pretend she's fine. She is, of course, just not the way Gail and anyone else with half an opinion would like her to be.
Her house is empty and it echoes, but there at least Frank can spread the Pryce case across the dining room table and get lost in their world. Grim as it is, she prefers it to her own. She likes long stretches of time with the case and a full bottle of Black Label. Even on the nights she has to go to Gail's, if she leaves at two and traffic is fair, she can manage a solid four or five hours on the case.
Frank's tired at end-of-watch today; too tired to think well, but drink in hand she reaches for the binders anyway.
"Light reading," she tells herself.
Ladeenia Pryce was killed on her way to a friend's house. The friend, Cassie Bertram, lived in a duplex three blocks away. She never got to Cassie's house. Her friend called Mrs. Pryce to ask when Ladeenia was coming. Mrs. Pryce told Cassie that Ladeenia had already left. And Trevor went with her. Mrs. Pryce told Cassie to have Ladeenia turn around and come right home when she did get there—Ladeenia had fooled around getting over there and now it was almost suppertime. That was at 4:30 pm.
At 5:30, Mrs. Pryce called Cassie to tell her daughter to get her butt home, but Ladeenia still hadn't arrived at her friend's house. That was when Mrs. Pryce started to get scared. Ladeenia was a good girl. Her daddy spoiled her a little but she minded well. Mrs. Pryce hoped she'd been sidetracked by another friend. Maybe that little Guatemalan girl that lived down Gage, or some children at the playground. Ladeenia was a friendly girl, and responsible. She took good care of Trevor. She wouldn't do anything foolish if he was with her.
Mrs. Pryce planned on giving Ladeenia a good hiding when she got home. Teach that girl to tell her mama where she was and to be home when she was supposed to be. By 8:30, Mrs. Pryce was panicking. Her husband called the Figueroa station. Adults and older teens had to have been gone for at least twenty-four hours before they were officially considered missing. It was different for a six- and nine-year-old in the middle of winter, four hours after sundown. The desk sergeant told Mr. Pryce to come down and file a report. He did so and his description of the kids was read at the next roll call. Not that it mattered. The autopsy reports would later conclude that Ladeenia and Trevor were dead by then.
At 1:12 the following afternoon a hysterical woman called the station. One of her laying hens had come up missing and she'd been searching the nearby vacant lot. She didn't find her chicken, but she did find Ladeenia and Trevor.
The suits were called, and just the luck of the draw, Frank and Noah were up. But Frank was in Ventura, stuck in a weekend empowerment seminar, so Noah fielded the call alone. He didn't leave the scene until well after dark, long after the coroner's wagon had taken the bodies away, long after the SID techs had finished bagging and tagging, long after every last picture had been snapped and every diagram sketched. Noah had walked into the darkened squad room as Frank was walking out. They'd turned the lights on and she sat and listened to him, promising to help as soon as she could. "As soon as she could" wasn't soon enough and Noah worked the case alone.
Frank reads Noah's interviews with Mr. and Mrs. Pryce. She reads the interviews with their other children. While she reads an interview with one of Ladeenia's friends, Frank refills her tumbler. She drinks and reads, making occasional notes until the alarm on her watch tells her it's time to go to Gail's. A stone sinks in her chest. With effort, she closes the binder.
Chapter 12
A contentious lieutenant's meeting on Thursday goes well past dinnertime. Frank returns to the office for her things. The squad room is quiet, her cops long gone. It's not so bad at night. Not so many memories, no interruptions. Frank finds the stale Camels in her desk drawer. She fires one up and sinks into her chair. The smoke makes her dizzy but she drags it in anyway. She savors the weight in her chest. It displaces all the other ones. She spits tobacco off her lip and when the cigarette burns to within a half an inch of her fingers, she pinches it out between thumb and forefinger. It's a residual reflex from a two-pack-a-day habit. Now it hurts like hell because she has no calluses. Frank smells burnt skin and a fleeting, rigored grin slices her face.
If she could see herself in a mirror, she might see glimpses of the scum she's spent a lifetime trying to put away: the fourteen-year-old who raped his grandmother with a serving spoon; the father who admitted to daily intercourse with his four- and six-year-olds because that's what he had kids for; the mother who giggled when she shocked her infant with a stripped electrical cord then beat the baby because it cried; the old man who suffocated his wife of fifty-two years because he was tired of wipin
g her bedridden ass and changing her soiled sheets; the ten-year-old who shot her grandmother because she wouldn't let her stay up to watch Survivor.
But there's no mirror in the room. Frank lights another cigarette, carrying on with the illusion that she's human. She sucks smoke in and mouths it toward the ceiling in fat doughnuts. She feels nothing. Absolutely nothing, and that's the way she wants it.
The Pryce kids whisper to her like smack whispers to a junkie. Frank swings her feet to the floor and opens the thick books. She spends her night in the mind of a man who binds a boy's wrists, hands and mouth with duct tape, them makes him watch and listen while he rapes the boy's sister, front and back, then chokes her to death. Frank spends her night in the head of a man like that and feels nothing.
It's almost one in the morning before she thinks to look at a clock. She crashes on the couch and is thickheaded the next day. She leaves work promptly at two. At home, she changes into shorts and starts working out. She's contemplating dinner, and a couple beers, when Bobby calls.
"We got a kid shot while he was waiting for the bus, and there are reporters everywhere."
"Sure there are. Kids get shot in South Central every day but this one's a story because it's four o'clock on a slow news day. I'll be there as soon I can."
Frank hangs up and gets back into the suit she took off less than an hour ago. She repacks her pockets and belt. The holster gets cinched back under her arm.
"Christ, I do not need this," she mutters, slamming the front door behind her.
Traffic is excruciating and she bangs the dashboard, more in time with frustration than the hip-hop booming from her abused speakers. News vans and police cars are still clogging the scene when she arrives. The paramedics are long gone, but the coroner's people have beaten her to the site. It's a routine cap and they've already released the body. An SID technician is collecting a through-and-through in a scrawl of blood beside the boy. A man weeps behind the tape, encircled by anguished faces trying to comfort him. His nightmare is just beginning, but for Frank the scene is comfortably routine.
