Where the Truth Lives

by Mia Sheridan

He tilted his head as if conceding her words. “No, it doesn’t work that way. And you’re right. I would have saved you if I could have. I would have flung that cellar door open and dragged you out of the dark. I would have done something for my mother if given the chance too. But I didn’t need to. Josie saved herself. And I see you trying to do the same. That’s what I see.”

  Liza felt tears burn the backs of her eyes. Reed went on. “Don’t deny your past, Liza. It’s not your shame to carry. Grieve it, and then use it to strengthen others. You made it. You’re here, and I have no idea how, but you are. That’s the story I really want to hear. Maybe someday you’ll tell it to me, because I’d like to believe monsters don’t get the final say.”

  Oh God. Pain welled in her chest, flowing through her blood, her bones, down to her very marrow. She hurt. Everywhere. Fifteen years, three unimpressive foster homes later, a college diploma, a psychology degree, she still hurt. Still feared. Still suffered. God, she wished she could rise above it. Be free. But she wasn’t, and sometimes she wondered if she ever truly would be.

  “I can’t,” she said brokenly. “I’m sorry. You’ll never know how much.” She shook her head, closing her eyes against the empathy she saw in his. She didn’t deserve it. “Go home, Reed.”

  Her heart beat hollowly in her chest as she heard him let out a quiet sigh. He didn’t move for several moments and Liza got the sense he was waging some internal battle. But when she opened her eyes, Reed was walking away. She tried to tell herself she was relieved, but Liza had never been a liar, not even to herself.

  Reed opened the door, paused as if he might look back, might give her some parting words. But in the end, he didn’t. He walked through the door and let it close quietly behind him.

  Liza walked to the bed, sinking down on it, and wrapping her arms around herself. She didn’t want Reed’s words to repeat in her head, but she couldn’t shut them out, nor could she erase the way his eyes had looked as she recounted her story, not with the disgust she’d expected, but with some version of . . . love.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Did the tech guys say what they’d found?” Ransom asked, approaching Reed where he was waiting for him in the hall at the Cincinnati Emergency Operations Center.

  “No. Only that it was in regard to Steven Sadowski’s computer.”

  Ransom glanced at him sideways as they walked toward the office on the floor where the computer technician working on Steven Sadowski’s computer had asked them to meet. “I hope it’s something good.”

  Good would be relative in this case, but Reed hoped it was at the very least something useful.

  “Detectives Carlyle and Davies here to see Micah Dorn,” Ransom said to the secretary at the front desk.

  “He’s expecting you. Go on back.”

  They thanked her and walked to the lab down the short hall. When they entered, Micah glanced back, standing to greet them. “Hey, Reed. Ransom.”

  “Micah. How’s it going?” Ransom asked of the tall guy who looked more like a surfer dude than a computer geek with his curly, streaked blond hair, tanned skin, and wide shoulders.

  “Good. You?”

  “Not bad. What you got?”

  He sat down and indicated two rolling chairs that Reed and Ransom pushed over to either side of Micah, taking a seat next to him. He had Steven Sadowski’s laptop on the surface in front of him and moved a wireless mouse to click it on.

  “Yeah, so we’re a little backed up down here, but I got to Sadowski’s computer yesterday. I looked in the obvious places last night, checking in the default photo directories and didn’t find anything. This morning, after scouring the hard drive more closely, I found them. He’d obfuscated the photos by changing the extension, but it was the size of the files that caught my attention. When I changed it to .jpeg, voila. A whole slew of photos came up. He actually hid them fairly well for someone who presumably doesn’t know computers.”

  No shit. Reed leaned forward. “Kudos to him. What are they of?” he asked, though he was pretty damn sure he already knew.

  “Naked women. It appears that the subjects are unaware of being photographed. Most of them are in what look like locker rooms and bathrooms. Some might be underage, it’s hard to tell.” He opened a folder, clicking on the first photo of a young woman, naked, about to enter a shower stall. Micah used the arrow keys to scroll quickly through the rest of the photos, all of women in various stages of undress, clearly oblivious to being watched, much less photographed.

  “Sick fuck,” Ransom muttered. “Those are hospital-issued towels. See the logo?” He pointed at the screen. “He was taking lewd pictures of psych ward patients without their knowledge.” He shook his head. “Thanks, Micah. Can you transfer those to a flash drive for us?”

  Micah picked one up sitting near the back of his desk, handing it to Ransom. “Already did.”

  “You’re the man,” Ransom said as they both stood.

  “I’m still going through his Internet history and email accounts, referencing the case information you sent,” Micah went on. “If I find anything, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Great. Thanks again.”

  When they walked back into the hall, Reed looked at his phone. “We’ve got a meeting with the team in twenty minutes. Let’s talk about this new info when we get there.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Reed sat alone waiting for the other detectives to arrive, including Ransom who, if he knew his partner, had probably stopped along the way for some fast food. He took a sip from his coffee, hoping the caffeine would help his focus. His mind insisted on circling and re-circling the night before, the things he’d learned about Liza, the information she’d thrown at him. And that was exactly what she’d done—lobbed horrifying personal details, expecting him to duck and run.

  Part of him questioned whether he should. He didn’t know her, not really. Sure, he felt a pull toward Liza that went beyond the physical. But that might be explained away by the job he’d chosen, and the reasons why. She hadn’t been wrong when she’d said it was important to him to be noble, to protect, to rescue, to be a force of good in the world in whatever ways he could.

  He needed to be careful, though. Not just in guarding his own heart, but in the effort to do what was best for her as well. Perhaps the last thing she needed was the pressure of him pursuing more from her than she was ready or willing to give.

  Or maybe it was exactly what she needed. Maybe he needed to be bold enough to take the lead, because Liza never would.

  Fuck.

  He could understand her resentment at him for looking up her story. She’d tried to manage it herself. Tried to dole out the least information she could while still being truthful. She wanted to be in charge of what he learned and what he didn’t. And how could he blame her for that? Not only was it her information to offer, but she didn’t need to be comfortable telling anyone what she’d gone through. She owed him nothing and was embarrassed that he knew her most private horror anyway.

  Reed scrubbed a hand down his face. He’d have to think about all that later. He had a job to do. And new evidence that could help them figure out their next move. Victims that deserved justice, and people, yet unknown to Reed, who might very well be in danger right that moment. Just as the thought crossed his mind, the door opened and Sergeant Valenti and Detective Pagett walked in, coffee cups in their hands as they greeted Reed and took a seat.

  Ransom caught the door before it’d closed and entered as well, a Wendy’s coffee cup in his hand, taking the seat next to Reed.

  In light of everything that had happened in the past couple of days, they’d moved to a bigger room where they could display the information and evidence they’d obtained so far, and also keep a rolling whiteboard of pertinent media information.

  Reed first updated the team about their visit to Micah that morning and what had been found on Steven Sadowski’s computer.

  “No way,” Jennifer said. “What a dir
tbag.”

  “No argument here,” Reed said.

  “Think the whole peeping Tom,” Jennifer said, making air quotes, “deal has anything to do with the fact that the dude lost the eyeballs he did the peeping with?”

  Reed shrugged. “Some sicko’s idea of poetic justice? Anything’s possible. And if he was the only victim, I might say, likely. But it’s just not clear how the others fit in.”

  “This is good,” Sergeant Valenti said, tossing a file folder on the desk. “Because it’s not the only piece of new information. We have the name of the victim found yesterday in the parking garage.”

  Reed sat up straight. “That came in last night?” he asked Jennifer, knowing she was the only one in the room who’d been on duty after the rest of them left the night before.

  “Yeah,” Jennifer said, taking a sip of her coffee. “I’ve been out this morning interviewing witnesses. I didn’t know you’d be up so early. I figured I’d let you boys get your beauty sleep and update you when you came in. I’m beautiful enough as it is.”

  Reed smiled. “Thanks for that. Fill us in.”

  Jennifer walked to the front of the room where Steven Sadowski’s and Toby Resnick’s photos were hung, along with the information they had on each man. She drew a line, making a column for the victim they’d found in the parking garage the day before, and then removed a photo from the file she’d brought with her, taping it at the top. Three sets of sightless eyes stared into the room of CPD detectives who were attempting to bring them justice. On the board next to the one where Jennifer had just hung the photo, a picture of Margo Whiting, the prostitute with the same brand as the other three men, but who’d died from a fall, hung by itself, separated because of the difference in MO.

  “Clifford Schlomer,” Jennifer said as she wrote the name under the man’s photo. “Known as Cliff to friends and acquaintances, the former of which he seemed to have few. He ran a check-cashing slash payday loan business in Camp Washington.”

  “Camp Washington?” Ransom asked. “That’s nowhere near the parking garage downtown where he was found.”

  “No, and he only lived three blocks from his business.”

  “Huh,” Ransom muttered as he unwrapped a breakfast biscuit sandwich and took a bite. “Okay, what else?” he asked around the food, a smear of melted cheese gracing his upper lip.

  “Dude, what is this? Animal House? Chew with your mouth closed, you heathen.”

  “Welcome to my world,” Reed muttered.

  Jennifer gave Reed a sympathetic look before turning and leaning against the edge of the table at the front. “His business received lots of ethics complaints. Nothing stuck. The last complaint filed was five months ago by Ted and Nellie Bradford. I paid them a visit this morning and then came straight here.”

  “Were they able to tell you anything?” Sergeant Valenti asked.

  “Yeah. It turns out their thirty-year-old daughter, LuAnn, suffers from a mental illness. She’s usually pretty functional, even manages to work somewhat consistently. But she got involved with drugs a few years back, and it’s been a monkey on her back ever since. She lives in that halfway house on Spring Grove Avenue. New Hope?” She looked at Reed and Ransom for confirmation.

  “Yeah. I know it,” Reed said as Ransom nodded.

  “Anyway,” Jennifer went on, “her parents say they’ve offered to let her live with them, but she doesn’t care for the rules they insist upon. They’d noticed that things they had in their name for her—a phone, and some streaming accounts—went past due, and when they asked LuAnn about it, she told them about using the check cashing service several times when she needed an advance on her paycheck. They took fifty percent, and after going back a second time, she was quickly behind on her bills, and having to borrow money for food from the folks.”

  “Yeah, sucks, but that’s how those places operate,” Sergeant Valenti said.

  “The Bradfords—and from what I can tell from many of the other ethics complaints—charge that Cliff Schlomer takes advantage, specifically of the clientele at that halfway house. People say there’s always a line on the first of the month when disability checks come in. He not only takes fifty percent, but he skims a little more off the top and if they notice, tells them it’s some surcharge or another. They call the cops and when someone arrives, the complainant is yelling, practically incoherent, paranoid . . . you get the drift, and old Cliff”—she placed her hand over her heart—“is just a man trying to run an honest business. Terms are all up front, he says. It’s not his fault if people don’t read the fine print.”

  “Okay, yeah, we get the picture,” Ransom said. “He was a bastard who took advantage of other people’s weaknesses for profit.”

  Reed sat up straighter. “Similar to Toby Resnick, who apparently sold prescription medication originally prescribed to those with mental health disorders. Has anyone been able to track down the patients those prescriptions were made out to?”

  “Not yet,” Sergeant Valenti said. “Olson is working on that today. Unfortunately, the names are pretty common so not a lot to work with.”

  Reed tipped back slightly in his chair. “Okay, with the proof that Steven Sadowski was taking pornographic photos of female patients, we could have a connection between the three victims,” he said, a clutching in his chest, the excitement that came with a possible breakthrough in a case, one that might lead to another breakthrough and another until the whole mystery unraveled. He set his chair upright with a small jolt, looking around at his fellow detectives and sergeant. “This killer is targeting those who targeted the mentally ill.”

  Reed’s mind was whirling, threads weaving together in some semblance of a pattern. But not one he could make out yet. They needed more.

  “Okay, okay,” Ransom said. “It can’t be general, though, can it?”

  “Meaning?” Sergeant Valenti asked.

  “Meaning,” Jennifer answered, her gaze going between Reed and Ransom, “the killer knew about these three people somehow, became aware of what they were doing. How? Could he be one of the ones taken advantage of?”

  “We need to gather as many names as possible of people who came into contact with these three, specifically those they victimized and start cross-referencing,” Reed said.

  “On it,” Jennifer said, jotting a note in her notebook.

  “And how does Whiting fit in? It doesn’t appear she lived a life where she’d have much opportunity to take advantage of anyone, nor had any reason to regularly interact with the mentally ill. If anything, she lived a life where she was more likely to be a victim.”

  “We’ll keep gathering information on her,” Ransom said. “Maybe something will come up.” Maybe. Reed’s least favorite word.

  Reed began collecting his things, glad they’d gathered a few more crumbs toward the case. But if what they were thinking was true, that those preying on the disabled were being targeted, the perpetrator had a story to tell. And it may have only just begun. But why? How were they linked? A feeling of doom expanded in his chest that he had no way to explain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Reed and Ransom walked toward their car in the corner of the front lot at Lakeside Hospital. “Sophia Miller,” Ransom said, reading the name off the piece of paper holding the name and address of the girl who had filed the complaint against Steven Sadowski three years before when he’d worked at Valley Children’s Hospital, a mental health facility in nearby Kentucky, serving the needs of three to seventeen-year-olds.

  “Have you ever been to Valley Hospital?” Reed asked, clicking the key fob and unlocking the doors of the city car.

  Ransom shook his head. “No, but how much do you want to bet there’s no goddamned valley in sight?” He opened the car door, looking at Reed over the roof and tapping his index finger to his head. “They’re messing with people. It’s not right. I say we do an exposé on this. Blow the story wide open.”

  Reed let out a small snort as he opened the driver side door and slid ins
ide. “Before we dig in deep on that one, let’s go see what Sophia Miller has to say.” The car grumbled to life and Reed pulled out of the lot, sparing a glance up at the floor where Liza worked. He wondered if she’d come back to work today, or if she was still holed up in that hotel room. He forced his mind away. It wasn’t his business. He’d even resisted the urge to stop by her office since he was at Lakeside requesting Steven Sadowski’s personnel file.

  Although he had made a call to a buddy who worked uniform patrol in the district where Liza lived and asked that he drive by her apartment during his shift and make sure he didn’t spot anything unusual.

  But that was just part of his job. At least that was what he was telling himself. And it was mostly true, so he decided to let himself slide.

  “So, as it turns out, Sophia Miller wasn’t lying about catching peeping Sadowski. I wonder why she recanted,” Ransom mused.

  Reed shook his head. “Maybe Sadowski pressured her to? If she was at the Children’s Hospital, the most she could have been was seventeen. Maybe she just got scared. She was only a kid.”

  “Didn’t the report say, she said she was angry because he confiscated her cigarettes? Even if she was seventeen, she wasn’t old enough to have cigarettes.”

  “Thank God no one ever breaks laws, Detective Carlyle. Or we’d have a job or something.”

  “Point taken, smart-ass.”

  Reed pulled onto the highway heading toward the Brent Spence Bridge that crossed over into Kentucky where Sophia Miller lived. And coincidentally, close to where Reed had grown up in a quiet residential neighborhood at the end of a cul-de-sac.

  “If Sadowski was twisted enough to take nude photos of underage patients, I can’t imagine he’d be above threatening one of them in some way if they threatened to expose him. No pun intended.”

  “Is it wrong that I’m beginning to understand why someone would have a motive to strangle that dude?” Ransom asked.

  Ransom said it sarcastically and off the cuff, but it was the age-old question all law enforcement grappled with at some point. Did people sometimes deserve the crimes committed against them? Was it wrong to pass that sort of judgment on a victim? Even a victim who’d perpetrated appalling acts? A victim who’d victimized others?