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Warning: This chapter contains mature situations that might be upsetting to sensitive readers. Thank you.
"So, Mikey, this time you've been a really bad boy, and this time you're going away for a long, long time." Jim Brass sat in the chair opposite the suspect, his elbows on the scarred surface of the metal table. The reasonable, upbeat tone of his voice, and the fixed smile on his craggy features, were in juxtaposition to the narrowing of dark eyes that seethed with anger and disgust.
The suspect slouched back in his chair, his lanky frame relaxed, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He was no stranger to the inside of a cop shop. Michael Edward Strickland had a rap sheet for a variety of mostly petty offenses, including public nuisance, break and enter, receipt of stolen merchandise, driving while intoxicated, and domestic assault. He was thirty years old, and had thus far been successful in avoiding any real time behind bars. Not due to any cleverness on his part, but the result of an over-burdened justice system that had more offenders than it had room to house them.
The judge that had presided over his last case, the domestic assault trial where Strickland had been charged with beating up his then girlfriend and breaking her jaw, had decided that much of Michael's problems stemmed from his alcohol usage. Strickland had served four months of actual time for that incident, and had been ordered to undergo drug and alcohol counselling. One of the conditions of his parole three months ago had involved mandatory attendance of AA meetings, and abstaining from the consumption of alcohol. Strickland had agreed to the conditions in exchange for an early release.
He rubbed a hand over his passably good-looking features, then up through the shock of greasy, blond hair that tumbled over his forehead. Strickland knew that he'd messed up. He shouldn't have gone to Andy's Bar for a few drinks, but the detective sitting opposite him was just yanking his chain in saying that he'd be sent up for a long time for the parole violation.
Strickland knew that there were a lot worse felons out there...really bad boys...and the State of Nevada wasn't going to issue a small-time guy like him an extended vacation at one of their pens, when there was already no more room at the inn. He wasn't even drunk, he'd just had a few to get a little buzz going. His high had already worn off for the most part. A quick glance at a clock high on the wall let him know that it was now going on 1 a.m., and over an hour since he'd downed his last tequila.
His public defender, the chunky black broad in the grey suit, had agreed that he was fit for questioning. Strickland knew there was a very slim chance they'd send him back to the slammer for the parole violation. But he wasn't worried. He had a bargaining chip. Michael knew the location of a new chop shop that had sprung up in the past month, and that was responsible for a recent string of high-end vehicle thefts. There had even been a few related carjackings, that had tourists worried and the mayor pissed off. He'd have to high tail it out of Vegas once he ratted, but that was okay with Strickland.
Unless this wasn't about the drinking, and the ensuing altercation with that pansy who'd been giving Michael the eye all night from across the bar...
Strickland shifted uncomfortably in his seat for a moment, and tried to stare down the middle-aged cop. He rubbed his right fist, where red, raised welts were already angry splashes of colour across his pale skin. Something about the intensity of the other man's gaze disturbed Strickland, and he dropped his own eyes to the worn, tiled floor.
"Yeah, you know what I'm talking about, don't you...Mikey?" Jim Brass continued conversationally. "You're the worst kind of scum there is. The scum that hurts children. You're a sick son of a..." Brass paused to glance at the attorney, "...gun. Your luck's run out, Pal. No more leniency. This time they're gonna lock you up and throw away the key." He let Strickland consider that for a moment. "And the other guys, your new room mates, they don't take kindly to animals who abuse kids. They have their own system of...justice." Brass savoured the thought, while taking a deep breath to stem his rising fury.
Catherine Willows, who had remained standing near the two-way glass when the suspect was brought in, watched intently. Strickland had given her a lecherous once-over when he'd entered the room, that had made her skin crawl. Every maternal fibre of her being had resounded with hatred and revulsion.
"I don't know what yer talkin' about," Strickland mumbled, shifting in the chair again and refusing to meet the detective's eyes. He swallowed convulsively, his adam's apple bobbing against the new tightness in his throat.
"Oh no?" Brass asked with seeming geniality. "How about I refresh your memory." He flipped open the case file that was on the table in front of him, though he already knew it's contents by heart. Brass felt a pang as he looked down at the picture of the frightened young girl. She had a waif-life, ephemeral quality. Big, blue eyes. Pale, delicate features. Her long dark hair fell forward across her thin, barely developed chest. The dark smudge at the left corner of her mouth was the beginning of a nasty bruise, and her lower lip was split at the centre. Dried droplets of her blood stained the thin, white t-shirt she had been wearing.
Brass shifted the photograph to the side, glancing up to see if Strickland was watching. The man was studiously avoiding Brass's activities though, and staring fixedly at his left hand, picking the cuticles. The next photograph was of the bruising around the girl's slender wrists. The one after that, of an abrasion high on her right, inner thigh. Brass could feel the blood pounding in his temples, and he willed back the red mist that threatened to envelope all rational thought. Carly Palmateer. Just twelve years old. The sick bastard!
"You hurt that little girl. You raped her. Just a baby. In her own home. You were an adult she trusted, and you abused that trust in the worst possible way." Brass spoke in short, clipped sentences, trying to stem the rising tide of anger. These were the cases that affected him the most. That ones that involved the children.
"What girl? What are you talkin' about? You're wrong man, I never hurt no kid," Strickland whined plaintively. He looked up at his lawyer for help, then away from the disgust in her warm, brown eyes.
Brass suddenly slapped the table with the flat open palm of his right hand, causing it to reverberate and almost startling Strickland out of his chair. "Carly Palmateer, Mikey!" he announced, raising his voice for the first time. "Your girlfriend's kid. Sweet little twelve year old!" Brass pressed both palms against the table top, resisting the urge to just reach across and throttle Strickland. An action like that would cost him his career, of course. And possibly his freedom. But oh...it would be so worth it. Brass tried to hold onto the knowledge of what the hardened cons in a maximum security prison would do once they found out why Strickland had joined them.
"There's some kinda mistake," Strickland insisted petulantly. "Somethin' happen to Carly?" He was trying to gauge just how much the cop knew and how much was speculation. Michael had threatened to kill the kid's mom, that loser Lisa, if the girl said anything. He was sure Carly had believed him, and he didn't think she'd blab.
"Where you been the last two days, Mikey?" Brass queried calmly, ignoring the protestations and the question. "Lisa Palmateer says you just lit out. You were shacking up together, but she hasn't seen you since Saturday." Brass inclined his head. "You didn't show up for work today, either. That's a violation of your parole too."
Uniformed officers had gone to the auto detailing shop where Strickland worked, only to be told that he hadn't come in and he hadn't called. His boss, and the owner of the business, a muscle-bound, tattooed and bald-headed ex-con named Luke Upton, occasionally hired men out of prison to apprentice at his shop. He knew how difficult it could be to make a fresh start, and knew that having a trade and the self-esteem and opportunity for income that it provided, often made the difference between the success and failure of rehabilitation.
Upton was a no-nonsense but fair employer. He'd been royally ticked when Strickland hadn't shown for work, and was even more disgruntled when he knew the police were looking for the man for questioning in regards to a recent crime. He'd promised to call the cops if Strickland turned up. Flexing his powerful biceps, he even promised to personally hold him til someone could get there to take Strickland off of his hands. Upton had no patience for guys that had been given a chance and then screwed it up. Luke took it personally that Strickland hadn't bothered to call in, and said that unless that was because Michael was laid up in a hospital bed somewhere, his job was history.
Strickland shrugged. "I had some thinkin' to do. Had to look for a new place to stay, too. I left the dumb broad," he explained. "She was a freakin' ice queen. Her and her two brats weren't worth my time."
"You raped that little girl and then you took off," Brass asserted coldly.
"Hey man, if somethin' happened to Carly, that's a damn shame, but I didn't..."
Brass interrupted. "She says you did, Mikey." He stared across the table, waiting the other man out.
"Well then she's a lyin' little bitch!" Strickland insisted. "She's such a 'ho anyways..."
The words were barely out of Michael's mouth before the detective had vaulted nimbly from his own chair, kicking it behind him where it slammed forcefully into the wall before careening over and sprawling to the floor with a resounding clatter. Brass was across the table, his face pressed close to the suspect's, one hand bunched around the collar of the man's shirt. He could smell the liquor and the halitosis that comprised Strickland's breath, exhaling raggedly from the stupified oval of his lips.
Catherine moved towards the table, understanding the myriad of emotions that were raging through Brass. She couldn't let him compromise the case though.
Carly Palmateer. Catherine owed it to the girl to make sure they had an airtight case against this monster who had abused her. She was transported back to Saturday night, and the call that had come in about a rape case. She'd driven to the hospital, where she'd found the victim in the ER. A child, not even in her teens, sat on the edge of a hospital bed. Thin, coltish legs dangled from beneath the hem of the green hospital gown. Her face had been buried against the ample chest of one of the hospital's janitorial staff. Catherine had been confused, and angry that in some misguided effort to comfort, the woman might be compromising any trace evidence that remained on the girl.
Catherine had learned that Lisa Palmateer was the the child's mother. Palmateer had recently started working at the hospital after moving herself and her two daughters to Vegas six months ago. She was on the night shift, and had been mopping floors in the oncology ward when Carly had stumbled out of an elevator, disoriented and in shock, her seven-year old sister in tow. She'd had on a t-shirt that was spattered with blood, while more blood seeped down her thighs below her denim skirt.
Lisa Palmateer had dropped the mop and rushed her daughter down to the emergency room. One of the physicians who was on confirmed the girl that had been sexually assaulted. Carly was suffering from a couple of deep, vaginal lacerations, one of which would require stitching. She was given the Morning After Pill, even though she had not yet begun her menses. After much cajoling, she had tearfully admitted that her mother's boyfriend, Michael Strickland, had been the one who had raped her.
He'd made her shower and clean up the traces of the assault with a douche. Then after she'd struggled into a fresh shirt and skirt, he'd threatened her mother's life if she told anyone what had happened. Then he'd taken some cash that her mother had saved and stashed in a cannister in a cupboard, and left. No longer feeling safe there, and worried the Michael might come back and hurt her little sister the way he had hurt her, Carly Palmateer had changed her sibling out of pajamas and they had begun the journey from the apartment. Barely aware of the blood that ran down her legs, Carly had walked her frightened sister the thirteen blocks from their home to the hospital where their mother worked.
Child Protective Services had been called, and the younger girl, Jenna, had been taken into custody pending an investigation.
Despite the efforts to obliterate his DNA, the attacker had left semen behind. Catherine had handed her sexual assault kit to one of the nurses on duty, whose swab had recovered trace amounts. Catherine had scraped the girl's fingernails for any evidence that had been transfered during a struggle. She would search the apartment later.
While these procedures were carried out, the girl's mother sat in the corner of the room, her fists curled into balls, her fingernails digging deep crevices in her palms, her doughy face pale. Catherine stole glances at the woman, fighting back her irritation. How many cases had she worked where mom's boyfriend had raped, or abused, or sometimes even killed, her child? Usually these were men who weren't exactly pillars of the community either, but men with violent or criminal histories.
When Catherine had first started working as a CSI, she had found herself bearing almost more malice towards the women, then she did towards their partners who had committed the heinous acts. She couldn't understand why the women stayed with men who were physically abusive, or who were addicted to alcohol or illegal drugs. It was their jobs as mothers to first and foremost protect their children.
The longer that she had worked, and the more cases she had been involved with, the more sympathetic Catherine had become. Though she rarely found a situation where she felt the women should be absolved of all responsibility, she had grown to understand the vicious cycles of poverty, abuse, the lack of education and the abscence of support that over the years drained the women, and stripped their self-esteem and their confidence. Leaving them...and their children...easy prey for men who were the dregs of society.
Having been judged by others in her own life, and knowing how unfair those judgements had been, she had struggled to give these women the benefit of the doubt and to accept that in many situations they were just as much victims as their children. Once she had had Lindsey, however, Catherine had found herself battling her intolerance again. No matter how bad things were, she couldn't understand a mother allowing a man to abuse her children, just because she felt they needed his financial contribution, or because the woman was afraid to be alone.
"I knew something wasn't right," Lisa Palmateer whispered to no one in particular. Catherine had swung her head to look at the woman. Lisa Palmateer was only 27, Catherine had learned, but she looked at least a decade older. She was short and obese, with thin, dark hair that hung limply just to her shoulders. The buttons on her uniform strained to contain her bossom. Some overweight women carried their excess well, but not Lisa Palmateer. She was an unattractive woman, Catherine had to admit, with bad skin and even worse teeth. "There was nothin' I could put my finger on, but somethin' just seemed...off."
She raised her head then and stared at Catherine. "Michael...he seemed like a good guy, at first. He had a steady job. And he didn't do drugs, and hardly ever would drink." She shrugged her beefy shoulders, and her voice took on a self-pitying quality that grated Catherine's nerves. "I been alone for a long time. The girls' daddy left when Jenna was just born. Just took off one day, and I ain't seen him since. We come to Vegas, and got a crappy apartment. But I got this good job. I was figurin' to move the girls before too long."
She paused, casting dull grey eyes around the antiseptic room. "I ain't that old. I get lonely, ya know." Her eyes narrowed bitterly as she took in Catherine's classic beauty. "You wouldn't know. Bet you got more men than you know what to do with. I know I ain't much to look at. But that don't mean I don't deserve a man to hold me." She leaned forward in her chair, as though daring Catherine to contradict her. Lisa Palmateer sighed. "I didn't like the way he was lookin' at Carly lately. Michael." Tears begin to course down her cheeks. "But I never really thought he'd hurt my baby." She had buried her face in her hands then and wept.
Carly Palmateer had been laying back in the bed, the sheet pulled up to her chest. She watched her mother stoically, her face impassive, though her lower lip quaked. Catherine had felt a mixture of pity and disgust for Lisa Palmateer. Over and over this cycle would continue to play out. Next time it would be another child, and another woman, and another boyfriend. But the end result would be the same. The child would pay the price for his or her mother's desperation.
But Michael Strickland...he would be held accountable for his abhorrent attack on Carly. Catherine had promised herself that. That much, at least, she could do.
Catherine was reaching now towards Jim Brass' shoulder, readying to pull him away from the suspect, despite her conflicted feelings of wishing Brass would knock the stuffing out of Strickland. At the same that she extended her hand, the public defender, Mara Cummings, was uttering a verbal caution. "Captain..."
"She's a twelve year old child, and you violated her and stole her innocence you walking bag of excrement," Brass hissed, his dark eyes boring into the frightened, pale blue orbs of the other man. He heard Mara's warning, as he felt Catherine's small but firm grip on his shoulder.
Brass brought his mouth next to Strickland's ear and whispered so softly that his icy words were audible only to Strickland. "When you get to the pen, Mikey, those cons are gonna have a field day with you. First, they're gonna give you a taste of what you did to that girl. They'll take turns. Then they're gonna tear you to pieces with their bare hands. It will be unlike anything you can even imagine, and long before they're done, you're going to be praying you were already dead." Releasing Strickland's shirt, Brass shoved the man back in his chair, then stepped back quickly as though he'd been burned.
"Police brutality!" Strickland squealed, rolling his eyes. "You saw that!" he gasped to his attorney. "He damn near killed me!"
Mara Cummings held little sympathy for her client. She would do her best for him as his court appointed attorney, as she had pledged to do, but she had nothing but aversion to a man who would do what Michael Strickland had done. While Jim Brass' actions had been bordering on an infringement of her client's rights, Strickland hadn't been hurt and she wasn't inclined to make an issue of the incident.
"Oh stop it, Michael," she said coldly. "You're fine. Captain Brass didn't harm you." Strickland looked wounded as he realized there would be no sympathy for the one person who was advocating for him.
Jim pulled the folder towards himself, and rifled through for another sheet of paper, throwing it down onto the table in front of their suspect. "That's a warrant for a DNA sample. Ms. Willows here is going to take that right now. I'd co-operate with her fully, if I was you."
Catherine stepped forward, setting her case on the table and unsnapping the lid. She grabbed one of the tubes, tore off the wrapper, and opened the top. "Open your mouth please, Mr. Strickland."
Strickland looked at his lawyer. "Do I have to do this? My DNA is gonna be all over the apartment and the kid. I was livin' there, for chrissakes." She simply nodded.
"We won't be comparing the sample to that which can transfer during casual contact, Mr. Strickland, " Catherine notified him, unable to resist a smug smile. "We have a semen sample taken from the victim. You see, you can't just wash out all traces of ejaculate that way."
Strickland looked shocked. He hadn't expected the kid to betray him, but just in case, he'd made her wash up really good. He wasn't a stupid guy, and he watched t.v. and he knew about DNA. Now the pretty cop was saying that it hadn't been enough. That they were still going to link him to the rape.
"Detective!" Strickland said desperately, zeroing in on Brass. "I wanna make a deal. I got some info about a chop shop that you guys have been lookin' all over for. I know where it is and who's behind it, and about those carjackings and everything. I'll trade you that info!" His eyes shone with unnatural brightness, and his hands gripped the table's edge. The cop's whispered words resounded in Strickland's head and caused gooseflesh to ripple across his skin and for his testicles to draw tight into his groin.
"Just how stupid are you, Mikey?" Jim Brass queried tiredly. Then unable to stand the sight of his suspect any longer, he turned on heel and stalked out of the room. Behind him, Catherine was asking Strickland to 'say aww'. He nodded to the uniform just outside the door, and the other cop stepped into the room to be with the CSI.
Brass strode angrily through the hall, turning the corner abruptly and almost barreling into Cecilia Laval. He had forgotten, for the last few minutes, that the writer had been outside, watching the interrogation. His dark eyes stared into hers, then he glanced through the one-way glass into the room where Catherine was closing up her kit. He looked back at Cecilia, impassively, his face devoid of guilt or shame.
He wondered, briefly, if the incident would be reported on the morning news. Overblown and distorted. Oh sure, he knew that Cecilia wasn't a reporter, but a civilian probably wouldn't understand what had just occured. And might feel compelled to see that an investigation was launched and to make sure that he, Brass, wasn't some rogue cop who went around battering suspects and infringing on their precious rights.
Perhaps she'd simply mention what she had witnessed to the Kellermans, expressing her shock at the unprofessionalism of one of Las Vegas' Finest. That would probably rate a private chat with the Sheriff. Maybe some kind of notation on Brass' file. Possibly a visit to the department's shrink, so he could discuss his 'anger issues'.
The thoughts passed quickly through the detective's mind. Screw it. He didn't care. He honestly didn't regret what had happened. When Strickland had made that derrogatory comment about the little girl, Brass had lost control, if only for a moment. But he hadn't hurt the slimeball. He was confident he hadn't compromised the case. And Brass hoped that his parting words would cause the scumbucket 'deep mental pain and suffering'. Christ knew Strickland deserved that at the very least. Sorrow washed over the detective as he thought about the kind of suffering the child had endured and would continue to endure for years to come, as a result of that heinous assault.
Cecilia had watched the interrogation with interest. Catherine had filled her in on the general aspects of the Palmateer case. Cecilia had been nauseated by the recounting. She knew that horrible things happened to people every day. Even to children. But seeing the suspect through the mirrored glass, listening to his voice, hearing his lies, had brought home the reality of the situation in a way that had deeply disturbed Cecilia. Innocent until proven guilty, of course. But Catherine and Brass's certainty that Michael Strickland was responsible for the sexual assault on Carly Palmateer, had transmitted to Cecilia, so that she believed in his guilt because they did. She prayed that the DNA Catherine would collect tonight would seal Strickland's fate.
When Strickland had made his derisive comment about the child, when he had called her that name, Cecilia had pressed white-knuckled hands to the glass, wishing for a moment to be through it and into the room. She had been infused with a fury that she had never experienced before. She had wanted to shriek with primal rage, and to inflict physical pain on the monster in the other room.
When Captain Brass had kicked his chair out from underneath him, Cecilia's adrenaline had surged. When he was across the table almost faster than her eye could track, she had sent up a silent cheer. When Brass had grabbed the suspect's clothing, Cecilia had wanted him to twist until the other man's eyes bulged in his head and his face turned blue, and his tongue lolled from his lifeless mouth. She had been shocked by her reaction.
But she hadn't been shocked by Brass's actions. Too soon, he was releasing Strickland, and pushing him away, unharmed. Cecilia's had flushed with disappointment. Before Brass had let Strickland go, he had said something to the man. Something that she hadn't been able to hear. Whatever it had been, for the first time Strickland displayed true terror.
Brass was standing here now, looking at Cecilia unapologetically. She wanted to say something. To tell him that she understood. To communicate how much she admired the restraint he had shown, and his ability to reharness his anger. She wanted to express how much his empathy and compassion for the victim, touched her. She wanted to thank him for whatever he had whispered to Strickland.
Before Cecilia could say anything, however, Brass was coolly excusing himself, and stepping around to continue down the hall towards his office. She turned her head, her dark eyes following his progress. His quick gait, and the stiff way Brass held his arms at his sides, evidenced his tension.
The moment had passed, and Cecilia knew she would never speak to the detective about what she had just witnessed. 'Bravo, Captain,' she thought with fierce pride, as his compact figure retreated down the hall. 'Bravo.'