AUTHOR'S NOTE: For those of you getting pissed off about errors in chapter 1 involving punctuation and indentation, I am sorry! For some reason I am having problems getting these to upload correctly, and I am working on it. Chapter 3 should be better, and when I have it figured out what I'm doing wrong, I'll reload the whole story for you. Thank you for being patient.

Chapter 2

Dutch had finally managed to locate that paper work he'd been searching for. He stayed all night filling it out.

As she left, Claudette asked him how long he would be staying.

"Until this is done," he muttered, continuing to fill out a report on the Martinez kid.

"Not wanting to go home?"

"Not feeling like sleep," Dutch replied, slightly irritated. He liked Claudette, but he wanted her to keep out of his space and stop asking him questions. He didn't like being on the other end of the questioning.

Claudette seemed to pick up on this sensitive vibe, and she nodded, walking towards the door. "All right," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah,"he mumbled, signing the bottom of the report. Done with that one, on to the next.

Once he had located the paperwork, he realized just how much he had to do. The piles of files looked large, but not this large. It was like the biblical story of the bottle of oil. It just kept coming, no matter how long he worked.

So when the phone rang at half past midnight, he was relieved for the break to answer it but irritated that a portion of his work time was being taken.

"Detective Holland Wagenbach," he answered, using his full and proper name.

"Wagenbach?" Scoffed a familiar female voice at the other end. "You're kidding me, right?"

"Crystal."

"I want you to call me Chris." Her was stern and steady. She sounded rational now, far different from the day's hysterical and crazed version. "I'm sorry for before."

"When you slapped me and called me a cock-sucking bastard?" Dutch asked wryly, leaning back in his chair, still looking at the paperwork left before him.

"Yeah," she said. "That. Look, I am still royally pissed about what happened to my brother-"

"I love the way you go through the stages of grieving," he remarked sarcastically. "I've never seen it done this way before."

"I think you'll realize eventually that I'm a very different person," Chris said with a hint of cruelty to her voice.

"I think I already have," Dutch responded, sensing that he was treading dangerous water.

"I wanted to say sorry for blaming you...again, for what my brother did, and subsequently for the result of his actions."

Dutch was always slightly surprised by how well spoken this ghetto girl could be. He was also surprised by how quickly she recovered from unspeakable rage.

"I know you were just doing your job," she added when he didn't respond.

"You don't have to apologize. You've lost everything in the past year. It's understandable, seeing as he was the only thing you had left."

It was Chris's turn to remain silent on the other end of the line. Dutch was about to say something to break the slightly uncomfortable silence, but then Chris spoke again: "The reason I really called was because I was cleaning out the closet - I'm getting ready to get out of here - and I found a huge Ziploc crammed with pot."

"Pot?"

"Yeah. It has to have been my brothers. I've never seen it before, and I thought I should tell the police."

"Do you want me to drop by and pick it up?"

"No," Chris said after a moment of consideration. "In the morning I'll drive it by."

Feeling a little uncomfortable with this prospect, Dutch asked as carefully as he could, "Are you sure?"

"Positive. Don't worry about it, I don't smoke."

"That's not what I was concerned about-"

"Stop lying. That may be one of the reasons people call you an asshole."

Sighing, Dutch leaned forward against his desk. "All right."

"So, you don't have a life, do you?"

"Hm?"

"You're still at work and it's twelve forty-five. What the Hell? Do you not want to go home and face your ghosts?"

You could say that. "I'm not tired yet."

"You better be getting over time."

"Nah. We're a little short on money at the time, so I don't think that'll be happening."

"That blows."

"It's all right. Good pass time." He paused and looked down at the pile of work. "Look, I've got to get this paperwork under control."

"I got it," Chris said. "Gotta get back to your desk. Your work. God, as much as you work, I'd almost think it excites you or something."

Dutch was unable to stop the thought before it trailed through his mind: Occasionally. Shaking his head in annoyance, he leaned forward. "I'll see you tomorrow." And the phone was slammed back into its cradle.

He began to get back to work, feeling suddenly exhausted.


Chris was seething as she set the phone back down. She thought she'd returned to a placid place in her mind, but as soon as she heard his ridiculous voice she could feel fire rising in her throat. Her heart felt like it was going to burst in...in not just anger, not just rage, but hate.

She sat there for a moment, trying to calm her nerves by breathing steadily. Steady breathing, steady breathing, trying to flush out the anger-

Rising quickly to her feet in a burst of raw, absolute emotion, she swung a hand, fingers curled in angry claws, throwing the phone across the room and into the opposite wall. A scream was choked down in her throat as it fought with sobs.

Her eyes strayed to the huge bag of weed. It wouldn't be the first time she'd smoked marijuana. She didn't like it, she didn't condone it, but she felt like she needed it.

"Stop," she told herself through chattering teeth, running her fingers through her tangled hair. "Just stop. Stop."

As her fingers caught in her gnarled hair and she blinked tears onto her cheeks, she realized she hadn't brushed her hair in days. She realized she hadn't taken a shower yesterday. She hadn't brushed her teeth since last night, and she hadn't eaten since the dinner Dutch had paid for.

She wasn't hungry, but her hair was driving her nuts and she had a bad taste in her mouth. Plus she felt a little gross, sweat under her arms, a pimple forming on her chin. She felt like she'd just gotten out of a high school gym class and hadn't had the chance to shower.

So she went to the bathroom, the only other room in the apartment besides the bedroom/living room. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, and saw her skin was paler than usual. The darkness under her eyes was darker, almost like two black eyes, her lips were chapped, her hair was wild.

It was about this time she found herself fumbling in drawers for the scissors she used to trim her hair. She didn't have the money to get her hair cut professionally. But she didn't mind. Besides, at this moment all she had in her head was the thought of starting over. Of starting a new life. Quitting her job, moving out of her rat hole apartment, getting a new hairstyle.

The scissors came to her fingertips, and she began hacking away the gnarled locks, which would have become dreadlocks in a few weeks.

Chop chop, snip snip.

The locks fell away until she left with a choppy, messy haircut that was somehow her new sexiest feature. She ran her fingers through her hair, combing the knots away with her fingernails, brushing clippings from the nape of her neck, and stared at her reflection in the mirror.

A ghost. But not just a ghost, the ghost of a complete stranger.


Her mother, Lola Martinez had stopped by just as she was leaving. She stored the pot away in her purse so her mother wouldn't have to know that part of her baby boy's life. The woman could be spared one ounce of pain.

But she didn't even look as though she had been crying. This woman was stranger than the reflection she had looked into this morning. This woman might be someone she passed on the street, a coke addict who had never even heard of the little boy who had committed suicide in prison.

"My God," the woman snarled when she saw her daughter, "what the Hell were you thinking?"

"What?"

"That hair cut. It's awful."

"I did it myself," Chris chirped with mock pride as she turned in the direction of The Barn, bag of pot in her purse, new haircut and all.

Lola was on her heels, following like a mutt begging for food. "Do you have any money?"

"Why the Hell do you think I would have money?" Chris snapped. "And if I had enough to lend to people for booze and drugs, why should I give it to you?" She looked over her shoulder at her mother.

The woman wasn't old, maybe in her thirties. Her hair was graying and thinning, lines of wear and tear were worn deep into her dark skin. She was the kind of person you could tell had once been beautiful, with long, shinning black hair and slender legs. But too many highs and abusive spouses had turned this angel into a creature God must've messed up on. Teeth were missing, there was a long scar on her right cheek, and she had gained a considerable about of weight around her belly and legs, as well as hunch in her spine.

It was this woman that had Chris convinced to clean herself up, to never even touch alcohol again. It was the thought of this woman that had kept Chris from sneaking some pot last night. She would not end up like this old hag living her life by mooching off others and passing out on the sidewalk.

Looking as if she had taken particular offense to Chris's remark, Lola sped up to walk at her daughter's side. "Why are you so mean to me, huh?" She barked in her thick accent. "Why so cruel to your mother? Why don't you answer me? Goddamn it you like bitch!" Her long, bony fingers wrapped around Chris's wrist, precisely where Dutch had grabbed her the day before. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

As Chris wrenched her arm away, she found herself thinking she much preferred Dutch's touch to her mothers. "No name calling," she said as if she were chiding a child. "Especially when you're being hypocritical." She knew her mother wouldn't understand, which was precisely why she said it.

"What did you say?" The old woman asked, her voice raising steadily.

"I said you're the bitch here," Chris spat back, not even bothering to pay any attention to the fact that she was speaking to her mother. This woman may have given birth to her, but that didn't make her a mother. "And I know what you're going to say next. You're going to call me a hoe and a cheap slut, you'll say I owe you for raising me. So let's just skip to the end of this. I've never sucked a dick for heroin cash, you have. You didn't do shit for me, moving me and all your other bastard children from house to house, from one abusive man to the other, getting high in the living room while we watched cartoons. What do I owe you for that?" And as far as she concerned, the conversation was over.

"Crystal Loretta Martinez!" Lola yelled as Chris marched off down the street. "Get back here right this instant! Crystal!"


Vic recognized the girl called Crystal sitting outside in the waiting room as he came in. Except, between the time he had seen her yesterday and now, a considerable amount of hair had been lopped from her head. He stopped and looked down at her, and she looked back up. "Are you going to try to cut his balls off this time?" Vic asked, smirk in place.

"I have something to drop off," she murmured quietly. She felt drained after the spat with her mother and very little sleep the night before.

"Tell me it's a knife and I'll let you in."

Chris seemed to consider this for a moment before turning her anger on him. "Fuck you."

"Oh, did I offend you? It looked to me like you were ready to kill him yesterday."

"Yesterday I was," Chris replied. "But today is a new day."

"The same you, the same him," Vic said. Then, tauntingly: "The same dead brother."

Chris's eyes darkened as she looked up at him. "Listen asshole, I get it. You don't like him and you wouldn't mind if I put a bald in his gut. You should have made the offer yesterday, it might have happened. But I here for different reasons today, OK pal?"

"You've got quite a mouth don't yuh?" Vic replied, his voice equally level, but less emotional. She was loosing her cool, while he was keeping his easily intact. When a few moments passes with a helpless silence on her part, Vic smiled again. "I guess I'll leave you alone, then." He walked to the door, glancing through the window. "Buzz me in."

The little annoying buzz and he pushed the door open. As soon as he passed through, Dutch came through in the opposite direction. "How long have you been out here?"
"Not long."

"Why didn't you ask for me? I would have come."

"I wanted to sit for a while," Chris said as she stood, reaching into her purse and pulling out the pot, handing it to him. "There it is. Do I have sign anything?"

He looked at her for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, you'll probably have to give a statement."

She sighed heavily. All she wanted to do was sleep. "All right," she said. "Right now?"

"It would be best."

"Fine."

"Come on." He turned toward the door, the buzzer buzzed, and he led through the now familiar station toward his desk. "Just sit down right here," he said, motioning to the chair opposite his. "I'll get out all the proper forms in a minute."

He vanished with the bag of pot for a few minutes and returned with papers. "Well," he said, placing them on his desk. "Let's get this started. What a fun second date this will be." He laughed at his own sad little joke. The strange part was, he seemed to realize it was sad.

However, there was an even stranger part that caught Chris a little off guard. She saw his face and heard his voice, and felt not the slightest shred of anger left inside of her. She had finally found the right person to be mad at when she was on her way over. Mother dearest...