Crush
Maybe it was my mood that day. Hell, if I'm honest about it, I'd been in the same mood for weeks. I'd been dreading that day, watching its approach on the calendar as I mentally crossed off each ending day, and the closer that date got, the more hostile I became, snapping at my co-workers, hollering at traffic. I almost beat the hell out of one suspect in the interrogation room. The interrogation room. He was a repugnant little man, and I'd found his seamen on and in a seventy-year-old victim who he'd tied up, raped and then stabbed her just under her right rib, leaving her to slowly bleed to death. What's more, I found a cigarette butt on the floor near her bedroom dresser, and the lab found both this assholes saliva and trace amounts of the victims, meaning he'd stood there smoking and watched her die. He was smug, even after I showed him the evidence against him, denying his presence in the victim's house, and when he started to deny the existence of DNA, not just his own, but the entire science of it, I stood up, quickly and forcefully, the scrapping sound my chair made against the tiled floor stopped his crap, and he looked up at me. His eyes turned from the arrogance they originally held to confusion and then quickly to fear when he saw the look in my own eyes. If Brass hadn't stepped in front of me, I might have ended up wearing handcuffs myself. Or in a padded cell.
As that day approached, the square boxes of the calendar slipping away, there were days that I thought I might be better off in a padded cell. This mood change has happened to me this time of year for the past four years, and last year, in a desperate attempt to figure out what the hell was going on with me, I bought several psychological self help books, and in one, found my answer. Sub-conscience anniversary. It wasn't until then that I realized what was bugging me. It's the anniversary of Kristy's murder.
Like I said, it was a mood. I wasn't just in a mood, I was buried underneath it. I hadn't even made it into the lab yet, I was sitting in traffic when my pager went off, it's piercing beeps did nothing to help the throbbing headache I'd gotten up with after spending a sleepless night. Every time I'd closed my eyes in an attempt to sleep, images of Kristy floated before me, forcing my eyes wide open again. It was a long time until daybreak.
My field kit weighed heavy in my hand, the camera strap scrapped the back of my neck, and the camera itself thudded against my chest with each step I took. Somehow, I found all these things reassuring.
Vega was standing in the living room with his back toward the door when I walked through it and paused a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the comparative darkness of the indoors, a great contrast to the Nevada sun, still bright even as it set, as if it knew it had to compete with the neon lights Las Vegas is bathed in. Vega seemed intent in his study of the bookshelves that lined the wall opposite the front door.
"Hey." I said gently, knowing the last thing you want to do is startle an armed man when there's a dead body in the next room.
He turned quickly at my greeting and said: "Frogs."
I tucked my sunglasses into my vest pocket, underneath the white lettering that spelled out 'Forensics'. "What?"
"Frogs." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the bookcase he'd just been staring at. "She collected frogs." He turned again to the shelves. "Hell of a lot of them too."
I crossed the short entry way and came up behind him. He was right, intermingled with the books and photos, there was a hell of a lot of frogs displayed all over the shelves. And about half of them were wearing, of all things, crowns. "Huh." I said, not knowing what else to say. "Victims is female?" I changed the subject; just wanting to get on with it, get my mind on the crime scene and off of Kristy.
"Yeah." Vega answered me, all business again. He half turned and pointed down the hall. "Kelly Knight, age 34, she's in the bedroom."
I tightened my grip on my field kit and said, "Ok, lets go" before following him down the short hall. I looked around me as we went. My mom would call this a cottage, it was so small; the rooms seemed built on top of one another, but, as I glanced behind me taking another look at the living room, she'd made it cozy. And that's not exactly a word I use often, but it was the only word that fit.
Ahead of me, Vega gave me some of the details. "Neighbors called it in. Said the television was blaring all day, and when she didn't answer their knock, they called the police. Responding patrol car found a hide-a-key, let themselves in, and found her back here."
The bedroom was at the end of the hall and as we entered, I saw David, the lab's assistant coroner, standing next to and leaning over the bed. From my point of view it almost looked like the victims legs were growing out of David's right hip. He straightened and turned at the sound of our arrival in the room.
"Hey Nick." He said, almost smiling. Another thing you never want to do where there's a dead body nearby is smile.
I gave him a short nod in answer as I walked up next to him and looked down to the victim lying on the bed. Immediately I was struck by how pretty she was. I didn't see the bruising that had time to swell and discolor her skin before she died, I didn't see the red blotchy marks her killer had left on her throat. She wasn't beautiful, wasn't a Hollywood glamour puss, and I feel like a two year old pointing at a flower saying 'pretty, pretty', but that's what she was, pretty.
"COD; strangulation." David's voice snapped me out of my stupor and I blinked twice before meeting his eyes.
"Time of death?" I asked, trying to keep my focus, literal and mental, on him and his answer, but my gaze shifted back down to the girl on the bed.
"Two or three hours ago, that'd make it…" he paused and I guess he looked at his watch "One or two this afternoon."
"Fits with the neighbors story, they said the TV started blaring about noon." Vega answered from the foot of the bed.
I heard the wheels of the coroners cart rattling down the hall. I tried to move, but somehow felt frozen.
"Hey. Nick." Vega said. I tilted my head just slightly, letting him know I was listening. "You know this girl?" he asked quietly.
I shook my head. "No. Why?"
"You're staring at her is why. You trying to commit the scene to memory instead of taking photos?"
My frozen limbs suddenly thawed, and I was once again aware of the heaviness of the camera around my neck. I looked at Vega. "No. No, I was just…trying a new tactic." I lied and lifted the camera to my eye and began to take the crime scene photos.
Later, the body was gone, off to the coroner's office and the hands of Al Robbins. Vega was outside talking to the neighbors and I was alone in the house cottage.
I ran the UV light over the sheets of the bed, there wasn't any fluid there, and I heaved a sigh of relief. Chances that she wasn't raped before she was killed were better with the absence of body fluid. I took my time in the bedroom; found two hairs on the pillowcase that didn't match the length of Kelly's hair. I tweezed them up and slipped them into an evidence envelope. As I lifted the pillow, I caught a whiff of a familiar scent. Glancing around the room, I found the dresser behind me, and sitting on top of it, next to a jewelry box, was a bottle of White Diamonds. Smiling a little pleased somehow that I was right about the scent; I turned my attention back to the bed, and realized that when I'd picked up the pillow, I'd uncovered a smallish spiral bound book. Picking it up, I flipped through the handwritten pages. Her diary. I squinted, fighting the urge to sit down in the middle of the crime scene and read it right then and there. Instead, I slid it into it's own evidence envelope and placed it next to the envelope with the hairs, inside my field kit.
Walking back down the hall, I could hear Vega' voice drifting in from the front porch. "What kind of car was it?" He was still interviewing the neighbors. I made my way into the kitchen, pushing through a set of half doors that reminded me of saloon doors from a movie western, and some part of my mind expected to see a group of dusty cowboys sitting around a poker table, stubs of cigars sticking out of the corner of their mouths as they fingered their chips. What I did find was a brightly lit, very clean, normal looking kitchen.
I started with the trash, knowing that anyone trying to rid the house of traces of themselves would probably use this trashcan. What I found was a pizza box, three uneaten slices growing stale inside, propped up next to the can, and an empty bottle of Heineken lying at the top of the pile, about half way down. Lifting out the beer bottle, I dug around the rest of the garbage; finding only crumpled paper towels, a used paper plate, several unopened envelopes that looked like average junk mail and this morning's newspaper, in varying degrees of disarray.
I moved from the trash to the fridge. A half thawed T-bone steak sitting among the cartons of yogurt, a half-gallon jug of milk and the rest of the Heineken caught my eye. Beer and left over pizza for lunch, steak planned for dinner; a girl after my own heart. Without knowing why, I swallowed hard as I shut the fridge door.
"Hey Stokes?" Vega's voice stopped any introspection I might have had into the reasons for that swallow, or the heaviness that had grown in the pit of my stomach.
"Yeah." I called out. "Be right there." With a last glance around the kitchen, I switched off the light and pushed through those saloon doors back into the living room.
Vega was standing near the windows, reading from the small black book he jotted down notes in, flipping back and forth between two pages. I started across to him, but when I reached the shelves across from the front door, I stopped in mid step and turned, wanting to have another look, intrigued by the frogs, especially those wearing crowns.
My attention was instead drawn to a photo of the victim, standing between an older man and woman, who had to be her parents; her face was such an exact combination of the two of theirs. All three of them were dressed up, and Kelly's hair was piled up on top of her head in an elaborate style held by what had to be an entire can of hairspray, the kind of hairdo that looks good, until you try to run your fingers through it. She had her arms draped around her parents shoulders and they all smiled brightly, genuinely at the camera. I found myself wondering where they'd been, and if, when told of their daughter's death, that night, however long ago or recent, would be one of the memories they called to mind to comfort themselves in their grief.
"She was a pretty girl." Vega's voice came from just over my shoulder, and I jumped, startled that I'd lost myself so deep in this photograph that I didn't realize he'd moved up behind me.
"Yeah." I set the frame back where I'd found it, and cleared my throat. Vega was too good a cop not to have noticed my being startled, but he was also too cool a guy to mention it. I lifted my chin a little. "What'd the neighbors have to say?"
"They said she was a nice girl; always said hello, involved in Neighborhood Watch, baby sat for them a couple of times –their kids loved her-." He flipped the page in his notebook. "They also said she had a nasty ex-boyfriend, and the husband thinks he saw the guys car parked on the street earlier. Nothing he can testify to, just glanced it when he came out to mow the lawn, right after lunch, and when he came out from the garage, the car was gone." Vega looked up at me from his notes "He seems pretty sure it was the ex's car."
I nodded. "As good a place as any to start. You get a name?"
"Yeah," he said, just as the cell phone attached to his belt began to ring. He unclipped it and held it up, reading the caller id. "Harry Webber" he said to me as he pushed a button on the phone and brought it to his ear. "Detective Vega" he said into the mouthpiece.
Turning away, I began to inspect the shelves again. She liked to read, had a lot of books, mostly paperback detective stories. I wondered if her interest in them would have declined if she'd known she was destined to become the center of an investigation herself. Maybe it would have grown. Running my finger down the spines of the lined up books, a group of three caught my eye. They weren't dark blue or black covers with bright red writing that was supposed to look like blood that most murder mysteries seemed to have, these three were lighter in color. One, a grassy sort of green, it's title spelled out in a silvery, curvy font The Torn of the Rose, several cracks ran up and down the spine, almost obscuring the lettering, a sign of a well read book. I ran my finger up the lettering, tracing the creases and pulled the book out from its place next to the others. Its cover depicted a drawing of a woman reclining against a long stuffed lounge chair, wearing a white gown. In her gloved hand, she held one red rose. My first thought was that it was a romance novel, until I saw the elves dancing in the corner. I flipped the book over and read the back. Fairy tales for adults? Opening the book, I glanced at the titles of the stories, where I found words like princess, troll, and tower. I could feel the bewilderment kneed my brow as my eyes narrowed, as if somehow a tighter focus would make it all clear to me. I pulled out the other two books from the group and found the same kind of thing. Each one of those books had been read several times as well, judging from the pleats on their spines.
"car matching the neighbors description." Vega's voice broke though my confusion.
I shook my head and looked up at him. "Sorry, what?"
"The vic's ex is the RO of a car matching the neighbors description." A small smile spread across his face, I was amusing him. I slipped the books back into their place on the shelf.
"Ok, uh. . ." I paused, looking at the books one more time, committing the titles to memory, wishing I had a good enough reason to take them with me. "Uh, you want me to go with you to interview him?"
"No." It sounded like he was suppressing a laugh. "I don't know what's going on with you, but I think you're better off at the lab."
I didn't know what was going on with me either. Victims can sometimes get under your skin, we've all had cases that effected us personally for one reason or another, but I'd never experienced anything as consuming as this. I thought about maybe talking it out with Warrick, but I couldn't even begin to think of where to start. At the lab, I dropped off the trace hairs I found on the pillow with Mia. Hodges was in there trying desperately to make some headroom with her, and for once, he didn't make a snide comment. Maybe there's something good coming out of my bad mood after all.
Headed to the morgue, I ran in to Doc Robbins in the hall. "Sorry, Nick. It's a busy night. I've got three bodies lined up before I can get to your vic."
"Kelly." I corrected him.
He stopped. "What?"
"Her name was Kelly."
He looked at me strangely for a moment. "I'll page you when I get to her."
I nodded and tightened my grip on my field kit, thinking about the diary inside it. Without another word, I turned and head back down the hall, toward the break room.
"Oh you did not." I heard Sara's voice ring out and echo down the hall. I glanced at my watch. It was after midnight, my shift had officially ended and theirs had begun, and I could tell from the light tone of Sara's voice they were still waiting for assignments.
"Did too." Greg answered. I arrived in the break room doorway to find them both sitting on the couch. Sara laughed, and I imagined she was picturing Greg doing whatever it was they were discussing. I wanted a quiet place to read the diary, and I wasn't going to get it here. I turned to leave but Sara saw me.
"Hey Nick." She smiled, and I took a moment to wonder how long it'd been since I'd seen her smile.
Greg turned and followed her line of sight. "Hey. Pulling a double?" he asked me.
"Yeah, I guess." I lifted the kit up a little. "Hey, um, is Catherine still here?" I asked, suddenly realizing her office, if empty, was the best place for me to get some privacy.
"No, she and Warrick wrapped up their burglary and took off at the stroke of midnight."
"Yeah, they made like Cinderella." Greg added, and I gave him half a smile, his fairy tale reference was a little to weird.
"Ok. I'm ah. . .going to set up in her office then." I turned and left, ignoring their puzzled looks.
A couple of weeks ago, Warrick and I hauled a couch into Catherine's office for her. It's on that couch that I sat down, yawning, the sleepless night and bizarre day was catching up with me. I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to rouse myself. After a moment, I looked down to the case at my feet. It was only a hunk of metal with a handle, but I found it antagonizing, and suddenly, instead of wanting the privacy I now had, I wished I had shown the book to Sara, asked her to go over it with me, an excuse, just to have someone else in the room besides me and Kelly's spirit. I sighed and opened the case.
Hey youI feel silly, writing these letters to you, when I don't even know who you are. Suzette, my therapist, says that by writing to you like this, I'll be able to "comprehend my emotional needs" and "by expressing my deepest thoughts and fears" I'll be able to realize my hopes and find you. Personally, I think it's a bunch of crap, but what the hell, what's it gonna hurt?
Dearest Nicky,
Why did I have to die for you to find me?
My heart began to race, thudding so hard in my chest; I could actually hear it beeping. I woke up with a start, the beeping still assaulting my ears. It wasn't my heart, it was my pager. I grabbed the damn thing and shut it off without looking at the screen. Glancing down at the book, I looked for the entry addressed to me. It wasn't there. Of course it wasn't. I'd fallen asleep reading the first page. I shook my head to clear it, and grabbed the pager. Robbins was beginning Kelly's autopsy.
Doc Robbins was dictating when I pushed through the autopsy room's double doors. "Asphyxia due to strangulation." He looked up at the sound of my steps and gave me a short nod hello. "Multiple round reddish bruising around her throat." He said into the recorder and clicked it off.
"Strangulation." I stated flatly, staring at Kelly's face. A lock of hair had shifted during the jumbling from the cart onto the examine table, and laid across her forehead, over her closed eyes, the ends lying just atop of her lashes. I wanted desperately to reach up and sweep the hair away from her face.
"Um-hmm. And David's estimation of TOD was correct. One or two o'clock this afternoon." I only nodded, still staring at her inert face.
"Was she raped?" I asked over the lump in my throat.
"No signs of it, no bruising, no seminal fluid. In fact, no signs of sexual activity for at least a few months."
I pressed my lips together tightly, keeping the rush of relief inside me.
"Nick, do you know this girl?"
Why did I keep getting asked that? "No." I said a little more harshly that I'd intended.
I could feel him staring at me for a long moment before he said: "Go home. Get some rest." When I didn't move, he added, "That's an order. "
I don't know if he's technically able to give me orders, but I knew he was right. I'd learned from Catherine that rest and "fresh eyes" as she liked to say, were just as important as anything else in this job. "Yeah. Ok." I mumbled and reluctantly turned to the door, and home.
