The Girl in the Darkness

by John Triptych

  “We ought to know the results of the DNA sampling in about twenty-four hours,” Addison said.

  Jeff crossed his arms while standing beside his sleeping ex-wife. “I guess it’s better she gets the news here then when it finally happens.”

  “Yeah,” Addison said. “Does she have someone who could be with her over the next few days, at least? She told me she had a sister up in New York.”

  “Her sister would be hard-pressed to come down here,” Jeff said. “I guess I’ll look into her for the time being.”

  “I know your firm is really busy right now, what with all the construction going on in DC.”

  “Government contracts are a bitch,” Jeff said. “But I can take some time off every now and then since I got my top guys working it.”

  “I noticed that your firm was contracted to refurbish the house that burned down,” Addison said.

  Jeff nodded. “We do a lot of that in Stafford and in the nearby counties. I subcontract with a number of smaller firms to do the routine stuff. I just look over the contracts and make sure we can allocate the budget properly.”

  “So that particular house wasn’t familiar to you at all?”

  Jeff shook his head. “No. When I first started, that kind of work was a big deal. But now my business has grown so much, I leave the smaller stuff to my foremen. I mostly just supervise on the commercial contracts now.”

  “Can I get your records as to who you subcontracted that house to?”

  “Sure. What else do you need?”

  “Have you got your daughter’s dental records?”

  “I don’t. What’s that for?”

  “While DNA testing is normally pretty accurate, it’s always better to have two means of identifying the deceased. Can you give me the name of Samantha’s dentist?”

  “I can't remember his name. I’m sure Brenda’s got copies of the bills and stuff in the house somewhere. I’ll look for it when I get over there,” Jeff said.

  “I would appreciate that,” Addison said.

  Jeff looked out of the window. The Venetian blinds were partially closed, bathing the room in a half-twilight. “I guess I’ll stay with her for the time being. I’ll just have one of my guys from the office pick me up later. So what happens now?”

  “I’ll let you know the DNA results as soon as they tell me.”

  He turned and looked at her. “Okay. What I mean is, what about any suspects?”

  “We’re working on it,” Addison said. “One of my colleagues is at the mortgage company now to find out who owned the house last.”

  “Okay,” Jeff said. He started making his way towards the open doorway. “I’m going to find something to eat, can I get anything for you?”

  Addison’s stomach growled. She was tempted, but she made a vow never to eat in hospitals. Anyway, there was still a lot of work to do. Any grub going her way would have to be later. “No thanks, I need to go myself.”

  “Okay, I’ll talk to you later, detective.”

  “See you,” Addison said. She waited five minutes until he was in the elevator before walking out of the room. If the bad news did happen and the skeletal corpse was indeed their daughter, then it was better that the doctors were nearby in case Brenda suffered another mental breakdown.

  When she made it over to the parking lot, her smartphone started ringing. Addison pulled the device out and answered it. “Detective Draper.”

  The voice on the other line was Mike Arnold. “Addy, we got a suspect. The last owner of that burned house. He’s got a place in DC, Washington Highlands neighborhood. I’m currently en route to link up with MPD and take him into custody.”

  She started running towards her car. They would be working with Washington DC’s Metropolitan Police Department since it was in their jurisdiction. “I can join you, what’s his name?”

  “Floyd Winston,” Mike said. “Age fifty-two. Divorced. African American. Has priors on dealing and statutory rape.”

  She made it to the side of her car and began fumbling through her coat pocket for the keys. “Sounds like our man, what’s your ETA?”

  “About ten minutes.”

  Damn. She would be late when they nabbed him. But at least they finally had someone. Now they could put this damned case to rest. “I’m on my way, can you give me the exact address?”

  “Sure, hold on.”

  Eight

  Floyd Winston rubbed the back of his shaved head as he sat on the side of the bed. His right knee was bothering him again, but he had to work later that evening. The blinds had been fully drawn over the window because he needed to sleep, but the sounds of screaming children just beyond his front door, and the heavy, incessant thumping of rap music being played in the unit above made it hard. Back in his younger days, he would have gone out to the corridor with his gun thrust in his waistline, telling everybody to shut the hell up or there would be some violence to be done. He was too old for all that now. He had been through a lot, and now he needed to get his life back in order. The last thing he wanted to do was to disappoint his son Keyshon, for that was all what mattered to him now.

  Shuffling over to the bathroom, he stared at a reflection of himself over the partly broken mirror. He had been a strapping young man in his youth, now all that muscle was gone, replaced by droopy skin and cadaverous frame that endured numerous fights, stabbings and even a gunshot wound in his stomach. Black curly whiskers on his chin indicated he needed a shave. His deep brown eyes were bloodshot, and it reminded him of his one remaining vice- having a six pack of beer just before bedtime in the wee hours of the morning. Keyshon had told him to stop all his vices, and he mostly did, except for this one thing. After all, there were worse things he could have done, and drinking wasn’t illegal anyway.

  The sound of glass breaking out in the corridor jolted him a bit, nearly making him cut his chin as he shaved off last night’s hair growth. Damned kids, he thought. Why couldn’t their fathers be there for them to teach them right from wrong? Don’t they know better than to mess around in the corridor?

  Only after he started wiping his chin on the bathroom towel did he realize what a hypocrite he was for even thinking that. Floyd himself had not been around for his son. He had spent most of his life in gangs, and both dealt and used every kind of drug imaginable in order to get through the day. He wasn’t there when the boy was born—he was sitting in a jail cell, awaiting trial for drug possession. Floyd wasn’t there either when his son graduated with honors from high school, and was accepted to college on an academic scholarship. When he heard about it, Floyd didn’t bat an eyelid; he just went about his daily routine of working out and sitting on his cell, waiting on time to pass by until he could get out and go back into the world.

  In the end, the world finally caught up to him. His son graduated from college with top marks, and became a systems administrator for a local IT company. Floyd just didn’t think it was possible, yet Keyshon paid him a visit while he was in prison. Their talk was brief, and it changed his life. For the first time ever, there was somebody who respected him. Keyshon told him that he forgave him for abandoning his mother, because he simply didn’t know any better. Floyd lay down in his cell bunk that very night, and made a silent vow to himself. He would turn his life around. He would do it for his son, the one person who still believed in him.

  When he got out, Keyshon was there, waiting for him. His son put him up in a house by the woods, away from the city. Nobody else would take a chance on him, so Floyd got a job at a construction firm since the foreman was a former cellmate of his. Keyshon had his own family, so other than an occasional visit, Floyd was mostly by himself. Even though he tried to put his past behind, there were times when he had to do a few favors that he later regretted. Floyd was loyal to anyone who helped him, and he had a debt to pay. Some of the things he had to do still gave him nightmares, and at times he relapsed back into drugs. When Keyshon found out about it, he got him out of that house and gave his father an ultimatum: either s
hape up or they never see each other again. Floyd begged for one last chance and he got it. His son gave him enough money to live in a dingy old apartment back in the city. His new job was working late at night as a janitor for one of the biggest lobbying firms inside the Beltway. The pay wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Floyd figured a few more years on the job would be enough for a pension, and he would take things easy then.

  Getting out of the bathroom, Floyd had to grab hold of the side of the doorframe in order to prevent his right knee from buckling. His body was breaking down. This was a reckoning for all that hard living he did. He figured his liver was perforated too, but the beer helped him to pass the time, so it was worth it. The dresser was right by the door, and he hopped on one leg before grabbing the handlebar of one drawer to open it. He still had one good pair of pants that was clean, so it should be enough to last him for the rest of the week. Even though he could barely stand, Floyd didn’t dare to call in sick again. He had used up all his free days, and his supervisor told him he was on a very short leash.

  The corridor outside had become quiet for a change, and Floyd wished it had been sooner so he could have gotten more rest. Now he had to get dressed and catch the bus before his shift started. He had just gotten his pants on when he sensed something wasn’t right outside, but he shoved that feeling to the back of his mind. He needed to focus on the job now. Standing a few feet from the door, Floyd reached down for his shoes, trying not to put too much strain on his back.

  When the door burst open, they caught him just as he was putting his work boots on. A few seconds before the chaos, the room was all quiet and peaceful. Then the loud crash of the battering ram, which sent him tumbling over to the side and onto the floor, hurting his ribs. The next thing he felt was being shoved down even closer to the ground, a sea of black and blue armor all around him. Gun barrels aimed at point blank range to the back of his head, and SWAT troopers screaming at him, “to stay down and don’t move.” Floyd groaned as they put pressure on his stomach before pulling his arms up over his back and cuffing his wrists tightly. Then they pulled him upright like a shipping crate.

  As they brought him out, his knee finally gave way and the cops had to carry him along with them. Passing by the corridors of the apartment complex, he could see the silent, wide-eyed faces of the children staring back at him through half-opened doors, their mouths agape with a combination of surprise and curiosity.

  The two Stafford County detectives sat across the small table with the suspect. A stack of papers were in a folder in front of them. The interrogation room’s fluorescent lights blazed down on them with a buzzing white radiance. It had been a few hours since they brought him back to Sherptons Mill, and the questioning was ongoing.

  Addison Draper leaned forward, her hands folded on top of the table. “For your sake, I think it’s better you just tell us everything.”

  Floyd looked down at his knees. His hands were cuffed to the back of the chair, and his shoulders ached. He continued to stay silent.

  Mike Arnold picked up a photograph and held it up so the suspect could see it. “Take a look at this again. This is what remains of a young lady that you kept in a hidden room in your basement while you rented that house by Brooke Road.”

  Floyd said nothing as he merely shook his head.

  Mike put up another picture of the skeletal remains. “What were you keeping her in there for? Sex?”

  Floyd was tempted to look at the photograph, but he resisted the urge. He just kept staring down at his tender knees.

  Mike stood up and leaned over. He shoved the picture in front of Floyd’s downturned face. “Here, look at it. Look what you did to her. Be a man and look at it.”

  Floyd jerked his head to the side. His words were like a growling whisper. “I didn’t do nothing.”

  “Don’t give us that crap,” Mike said as he sat back down. “You were the last renter of that house. We know about the meth lab downstairs, pal.”

  Floyd bit his lip as he kept shaking his head. “Somebody else did that. Not me.”

  “You know who lived in that house before you turned it into a meth lab? An old couple who were married for fifty-four years,” Addison said. “Their kids put it up on the market after they passed away. Then you came over. Everything points to you. What have you got to say about it?”

  Floyd stayed silent.

  “You were staying in that house just until a year and a half ago when it got repossessed,” Mike said. “That coincides with the timeline of the girl’s death. Did you decide to leave when you saw she was dead?”

  Floyd’s lips trembled and it looked like he was about to say something, but he kept his mouth shut.

  “You rented the house for five years, and it’s a big house for just one man,” Addison said. “Who was staying with you?”

  Floyd’s eyes flickered as the rage began to build. He wasn’t going to say anything to these pigs. All his life, he hated cops, for they brought nothing but misery to him. Besides, he knew the code. If you want to stay alive in prison, never rat out on anybody. It was the one rule he never broke.

  “You’re going to go down hard for this,” Addison said. “We can help you, but you have to talk to us. If you weren’t the one who held that poor girl in the secret room, then who did it?”

  Floyd exhaled slowly. He made a promise. He owed them.

  “Once you’re convicted, there’s no coming back for you,” Mike said pointing at him. “I know it was you. You got a prior on a statutory rape charge.”

  Floyd’s eyebrows wrinkled in disbelief.

  Mike sensed he was close to breaking him, so kept on going. “You got a past, pal. She was like what, fourteen? You were nineteen, already an adult. You should have known better.”

  Floyd grimaced. He couldn’t believe they were going to bring that up. He was young back then, and high on drugs. She was a neighbor, and she wanted a hit too. The girl didn’t have any money, so he had her for the night. When her parents found out, they called the police. He spent a few years in the can for that, but he learned his lesson when it came to something like it. From then on he only used whores.

  “So you didn’t want this next one to talk to the cops, is that why you put her in a secret room in your basement? That’s just sick,” Mike said.

  Floyd was feeling so tired. His eyes were drooping. He didn’t do anything, but it looked like they had him anyway.

  “Look, if it wasn’t you, help us find the one who did this,” Addison said. “You don’t want to go down for this, do you?”

  Mike looked at her. “He’s the one, it’s him.”

  Addison shrugged. “Maybe it’s somebody else.”

  Mike threw his arms up in frustration. “Who, then?”

  Addison looked down at the notes she had on the table. “Well, the house rental agreement was co-registered to a Keyshon Winston.” She quickly made eye contact him. “Your son, right?”

  Floyd looked up at them, scowling. “Y’all leave my son out of this, you hear?”

  Mike smirked. “So who kidnapped her and held her prisoner, you or your son, Floyd?”

  Floyd was breathing heavily now. No. Not Keyshon. Not his son. There was no way these pigs would make him talk!

  Mike looked at his partner again. “I think we ought to bring him in too.”

  “Keyshon didn’t live in that house, only I did,” Floyd said. “You got nothing on my son.”

  Mike pointed at him again. “So it was you, then?”

  Floyd said nothing but shook his head.

  Addison stood up. “Okay, let’s bring in his son.”

  Mike got to his feet as well. “Fine by me. Like father like son, probably.”

  Floyd’s composure finally broke. He tried to get up, but his knees were too weak. He strained against the handcuffs, gyrating his shoulders back and forth. “Goddamn y’all! Leave my son alone! He ain’t got nothing to do with this, you sons of bitches!”

  Mike slammed his hands on the t
able and leaned over so he could see into the other man’s eyes. “If you won’t tell us anything, then I bet your son will. We’re going to keep him here for a long, long time.”

  The two detectives opened the door and walked out as Floyd squirmed in his seat, cursing at them. Closing the door behind him to muffle out the shouts and swearing, Mike stretched his back while standing in the corridor before stifling a yawn. It was a long day.

  Captain Ed Scowcroft stood in the passageway. He had been listening in. “Well?”

  Addison rubbed the back of her neck. They had been working on the suspect nonstop all afternoon, and she wished she could go home and have Stephanie give her a rubdown. “I don’t think it’s him, Ed.”

  “I do,” Mike said. “His priors all point to him.”

  “Yeah, he’s got a past, but look at him,” Addison aid. “Why would a man like him kidnap a young woman? He doesn’t fit the profile.”

  Captain Scowcroft scowled. “Mike’s right though, what about his prior?”

  “He was a young man back then, and the black girl who reported him was closer to his age,” Addison said. “If the cadaver is Samantha DeVoe, she's Caucasian, not Afro-American. Most rapists choose victims of their own race. I’m just not buying it.”

  Her superior pursed his lips. “So what do you suggest?”

  “We interview the neighbors,” Addison said. “Even though the closest one is a bit down the street, they could have seen someone else in that house.”

  Mike rolled his eyes. They had this in the bag, and now his partner wanted to do more work. He was so tired. “Jesus, Addy. We got him already. The door was padlocked for chrissakes.”

  One of the sheriff’s administrators came walking down the hall. Peggy Anderson was a plump middle aged woman with thick glasses and curly hair. She walked up to the three of them carrying a piece of paper. “Captain, detectives.”

  Addison smiled faintly. “Hi Peggy.”

  Peggy handed the captain a piece of paper. “This just came in,” she said before turning around and heading back out to the front.