by Emily Ford
CHAPTER THREE: ROSE WHITE
Back in his office several hours later, the Detective drops heavily into his desk chair and stares at his blank computer screen. The noisy precinct buzzes with phone calls and conversations, though thankfully, the glass walls of his office muffle most of the racket. He’s edgy from the morning’s events and waiting to hear back from Johnny on the hotel’s video surveillance and witness interviews. The thought of a mass murderer in his city leaves him pensive and concerned. He’s deep in thought when a female officer interrupts his temporary moment of peace.
“Detective, I have someone here that would like to talk to you. Her name is Rose.”
A blonde woman in her late twenties timidly steps into the office and up to the Detective’s desk. She’s dressed conservatively in jeans and an oversized black hoodie sweatshirt. She clutches an oversized cloth handbag, her eyes darting around nervously.
“Hello, Rose,” he says, offering her a hand to shake. “I’m Detective Jenkins. Please sit down.” He searches for a pen on his desk but can’t locate one. He mutters under his breath.
Sensing his frustration, Rose hesitates to sit. “Is this a bad time? I can come back.”
“No, no, please. It’s as good a time as any. It’s just been a busy morning,” he answers. “Have a seat, please.”
“Thank you,” she says quietly. She sits rigidly in the hard wooden chair and immediately begins fidgeting.
“What can I do for you today?” the Detective asks kindly, sensing her distress.
Rose glances around the office, then behind her, making sure no one else can hear her. She takes a deep breath and reluctantly meets the Detective’s inquisitive gaze with dark green eyes. “I just left my husband. I recently moved here and, he’s not here but…” Her face flushes and she stops.
“It’s okay. Take your time,” he says.
“Thank you.” She breathes deeply and then gives a wan smile, clutching her handbag tighter. “He always told me he’d kill me if I left him. So… I left him, and now… now I’m afraid that he’s coming after me.”
“Okay. Well, Ms. White, I’m sorry to hear that but I can promise you that I give cases like yours the highest priority, okay? We’re here to do whatever it takes to keep you safe.” He opens his desk drawer and pulls out his notepad and finds a pen. “Has he made any recent direct threats on you?”
“Um… no, I don’t think he knows I’m here. He’s from New York. That’s where I lived with him. I just got to New Orleans a few weeks ago.”
“Okay. So, no direct threats. Do you have any reason to believe he’s in New Orleans? Has he tried to contact you in any way?”
She shakes her head. “No, he hasn’t. I haven’t talked to him since I left.”
“Did he know you were leaving him?”
“No. I left in the middle of the day, when he was working.”
“Did he physically abuse you?”
She shakes her head again. Her expression is a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. “No, he never physically hit me or anything… but it was… everything else.”
The Detective sighs and sits back in his chair. “Okay, I’m afraid there’s not much I can do. If he’s not in contact with you, and he’s not threatening you, then I can’t really do anything for you, I have nothing to go on.”
Rose looks down at her hands and tries to relax the iron grip she has on her handbag. “But what if he comes after me?”
“Well, then I can help you.” Sometimes the limitations of the law disturbed him. The girl is obviously afraid, but legally his hands are tied unless there are direct threats or physical abuse.
“But what if it’s too late?”
“Ms. White, I’m sorry, but the only thing I can really do is to take down his name, and his last known address, and basically sit on it. If you find out that he’s in town, or if he makes contact with you, then you let me know, okay?”
“Okay,” she says sadly.
“You know, in the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt for you to get some counseling and maybe even learn some self-defense, just in case. You’re alone in a new place. I take it you have no family here?”
“Not here,” she answers.
“Then I recommend you take some extra precautions. Be careful of where you go, especially at night. Maybe take a few self-defense classes, I tell all the women in my family to do that. It never hurts to have those skills just in case something ever happens. And it might even help you feel better. It doesn’t mean something will happen, just that you can be better prepared in case it does. All right?”
“Yes.”
“All right then. What is your husband’s name?”
“Can I just write it all down?”
“Sure, go ahead,” he says as he slides the notepad across the desk to her. She writes down a name and address, and her own cell phone number. “Funny, you don’t sound like you’re from Brooklyn,” he says.
“I’m not. I met him and moved there, and…” She drifts off as her thoughts stray and her mouth slides into a frown.
Sensing her inner turmoil, the Detective softens. “Look, maybe you could talk to someone, a counselor, or a Psychiatrist, about your situation. It might help you.”
“I don’t know if it would,” she says.
“There’s a doctor that works with our department. He’s counselled a lot of domestic violence victims.” He opens his messy desk drawer and shuffles through loose papers, then pulls out a business card. He hands it to her. “Doctor Vance. In fact he has a secondary office in this building. I can check to see if he’s in today, if you feel like talking to him. You’re not obligated, of course, but would you at least consider it?”
Rose accepts the card and nods. “I guess I could talk to him.”
The Detective pages the female officer that brought Rose into his office and instructs her call the Psychiatrist’s office. The doctor is in and has an immediate opening for Rose.
“Well, there we go, he can get you right in. Officer Barnes here will escort you to his office.”
Rose stands and returns the female officer’s warm smile.
“Be careful, Ms. White. Stay safe and let me know if anything new develops. All right?”
“Yes, okay. Thank you,” she says.
They shake hands and Officer Barnes walks her through the precinct to the Psychiatrist’s office.
The Detective watches as the young woman leaves his office. He can’t help but wonder if there is a connection between the day’s events. The dead men on Canal Street are from Brooklyn. So is this young woman, who seems scared for her life. Is this a coincidence, or something more?
“Jim,” he calls to the closest officer typing away at a desk.
“Yeah, boss,” the officer answers. He stops typing and enters the Detective’s office.
“I need you to get me some info on someone from out of town.” He scribbles Rose’s information down, then tears out the page of the notepad that she had written on and hands it to the officer.
The officer reads the names and address. “Yes, sir, I’ll check it out.”
Moments later, Johnny arrives at the precinct and walks into the Detective’s office, who raises an eyebrow as soon as he sees him.
“What the hell – why are you back so soon? Did you get my surveillance?”
Johnny shakes his head. “There isn’t any.”
“What do you mean? Where is it?”
“The cameras at the Marriott aren’t operational. They’ve been down for several days. I contacted the surrounding businesses. Several have already responded that their surveillance is either not running or didn’t catch anything.”
“Christ,” he groans. “Why the hell would all those cameras be down at the same time?”
“I don’t know. It’s either suspicious or extremely inconvenient. But we’ve still got officers checking around for witnesses.”
The Detective raps his fingers on his desktop, thinking. “I want to know if the cameras being down in th
e Marriott and around it was a fluke coincidence, or if it was purposeful.”
“According to the hotel’s manager it’s an electronic issue. “
“I don’t accept that. I want to know the cause of the issue, when they went down, who has access to them. Get under their fingernails on this one, John.”
Johnny nods. “I’m on it.”
