Authors: Laurel Dewey
Tags: #Police Procedural, #Denver (Colo.), #Mystery & Detective, #Psychic ability, #Women detectives, #Crime, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Children of murder victims, #Fiction, #Occult & Supernatural, #Espionage
Protector (10 page)
“She obviously didn’t stay in the closet the entire time,” Weyler said irritated. “Do a little crime scene math! Or is your head pounding too much?” Jane instinctively grabbed a cigarette from the pack in her shirt pocket. “You can’t smoke in here!”
Jane jabbed the cigarette back into the pack. She could feel herself becoming edgier. “Okay, so, she’s in the closet and she possibly sees the perp. He leaves the scene for whatever reason. She gets up, walks downstairs and sees mom and dad on the living room floor. Then she goes back up—”
“No, she does not go back up right away. She walks over to her parents, their blood pooled together, and stands there in her bare feet for an undetermined amount of time. We know that from the trail of her bloody footprints that lead back up the stairs. The front of her nightgown was also partially stained with their blood as were the palms of her hands.”
Jane listened, unable to stop the gory visuals. As much as she tried to remain detached, she could feel herself falling into the child’s body, standing in her parents’ blood and looking down on their mutilated corpses. Jane collected herself. “It sounds like you know a lot already about this case. I’m sure the kid will tell you the rest.”
“As I said earlier, she’s not talking except to ask if her parents are dead. She stood in their blood and she doesn’t remember any of it. Martha says it’s deep post-traumatic stress. When you see or experience something so utterly destructive and shocking that you simply turn it off, you black out in a way and bury it somewhere deep down in your psyche.”
Jane looked Weyler in the eye. “Sounds great. Some people aren’t given the gift of blacking out memories.”
“According to Martha, it’s never completely blacked out.”
“Wait a second,” Jane interrupted. “Since when did Martha become an expert trauma psychologist? Isn’t she just a glorified government babysitter?”
“She’s read books on the subject—”
“Oh, spare me!”
“She works with children who have been traumatized! Children just like Emily Lawrence who bury ghastly images deep in their mind and can’t remember. However, the research shows that slices of those memories fall between the cracks of the child’s subconscious. With the right stimulus, they reappear, allowing for a full reconstruction of the events. For the time being, it might just be a memory of, say, a face. Maybe the face of the killer.”
“That’s asking for a lot, don’t you think?”
“It’s all dependent upon what the child is willing to share. Martha is of the opinion that Emily has something to say.”
“So, now Martha’s psychic?”
“In the few words that Emily has said to her, she has made it crystal clear that she has some kind of information to offer us.”
“Why don’t you just leave the poor kid alone?”
“Because two innocent people who had no criminal history were savagely stabbed to death in their comfortable Washington Park living room. Because I am drowning in a case that is quickly becoming as high-profile as the JonBenet murder. And because I don’t give up or give in when I have a viable witness to the crime. In short, I am in the business of solving homicides. And so are you.”
Jane started to shove her files back into her satchel. “Well, good luck.”
“Remember last night when I told you that you made quite an impression on somebody? I was referring to Miss Emily Lawrence.” Jane looked at Weyler in confusion. “For whatever reason, you appear to have captured the child’s attention. First in the stairwell and more importantly, in the hallway when you talked the Mexican woman out of killing her husband. I’m not sure what Emily sees in you, but it makes no matter to me. You’ve been personally chosen by this child as the only individual she will talk to.”
Jane could not believe what she was hearing. “You have got to be kidding! She’s nine and a half. When did we start giving nine-and-a-half-year-olds the power to tell us who they will only speak to?”
Weyler leaned forward. “When that nine-and-a-half-year-old can solve a crime!”
Jane folded her arms tightly across her chest and met Weyler’s piercing glare. “I won’t do it.”
“Then your suspension becomes a termination. Effective immediately.” Weyler’s tone was firm and etched with anger.
Jane bristled. Her whole body tightened. “You can’t do that.”
“Watch me!”
“You can’t fire someone for refusing to interrogate a witness!”
“Someone with a hangover shouldn’t question my administrative power. Now, what’s it going to be?”
She looked away from Weyler as her heart began to race.
Jane stopped by the coffee maker on her way to the interrogation room and poured herself a cup. She wasn’t sure whether her head was pounding from the hangover or from the anger she felt at being blackmailed into talking to Emily. The interrogation room was just down the hall from homicide. It was a tiny room, about eight by ten feet square, designed to make suspects feel pinned in and anxious. The walls were painted lime green, or as some called it, “D.O.C. green” for Department of Corrections. The floor was covered in tough, “industrial-strength” carpeting. The walls were empty save for a corkboard where evidence was placed, a writing board for the suspect, a nondescript clock, a calendar and a “No Smoking” sign in bright red lettering. Fluorescent lighting beamed down on the suspect, who sat across from the interrogator at a small table. Hidden in the corner of the small room was a camera and microphones that videotaped the entire scene. A computer monitor sat nearby, connected to a keyboard in the narrow observation room on the opposite side of a two-way mirror. During questioning, an observer who was monitoring the interrogation, could type a question into the computer for the interrogator to ask.
Sergeant Weyler stopped first at the observation room and poked his head in. “Here she is.”
Chris popped his head outside the door. He looked weary with bloodshot eyes and tousled hair. It was obvious to Jane that the Lawrence case was occupying his nights and days, leaving little time for sleep. Chris acknowledged Jane with a tinge of attitude in his voice. “Glad you could make it to my case!”
“I’m not grandstanding, Chris,” Jane said, irritated as she leaned her leather satchel against the wall. “I’m only here because Weyler strongly suggested I help out.”
Chris moved closer to Jane, catching a whiff of her boozy aroma. “You’re fucking hungover!” Chris addressed Weyler. “She’s hungover!”
“Hey, why don’t you talk to the kid?” Jane yelled back. “You’re such a people person, I’m sure you’ll bond!”
“Alright, you two!” Weyler said. “That’s enough! Jane is not going to screw up your case, Chris. The child simply asked to talk to her and not you.”
“Fine,” Chris said, sounding like a petulant child. “Just find out what she saw and whatever important thing she has to tell you so I can solve this crime and get the media off my ass.”
“Oh, like you don’t love having your face splashed across the local news shows!” Jane exclaimed.
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I don’t like being hounded by the media? Constantly being asked if we’re as inept as we appear?”
“Have I got to pull the two of you apart?” Weyler interrupted.
“No, sir,” Chris said, scowling at Jane. “Just get the information we need. And keep your eye on the monitor in case I come up with questions. Don’t act like some one-woman renegade in there!”
Jane turned toward the interrogation room. “Your confidence overwhelms me.”
Weyler gently knocked on the interrogation room door. Martha Durrett opened the door and slipped out, closing the door quietly behind her.
“Detective Perry! You don’t look well,” Martha said, her voice laced with apprehension. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Oh, Christ,” Jane said, turning to Weyler. “I don’t need this shit!”
“There you go with that inappropriate language again! You can’t say those words in front of that child!” Martha turned to address Weyler. “Sergeant Weyler, I don’t feel this is a good idea. I’m almost positive that with a little role playing, engaging the child in some sort of artistic endeavor and maybe incorporating dolls that represent her family, I can convince Emily to disclose information to me.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe the state allows you anywhere near a kid!”
“Sergeant Weyler, the detective is out of order!”
Jane grabbed her throbbing head. “Hey, am I going in there or not?”
“I don’t think this is a prudent idea!” Martha exclaimed.
Weyler took Martha by the shoulder and ushered her into the observation room. “Martha, go inside and wait for me.” Martha reluctantly disappeared inside the narrow room. Weyler turned to Jane with a frazzled look. He grasped Jane’s shoulder tightly and looked her in the eye. “All I ask is that you do your job.” Jane nodded. Weyler turned, went into the observation room and closed the door behind him.
Jane walked into the interrogation room and shut the door. Emily was seated across the table from the two-way mirror. A stuffed animal shaped like a brown bear sat on the table in front of her, next to the computer.
Emily looked up at Jane, a look of slight surprise on her face. The girl seemed out of place in the room, sitting there in her denim jumper and cheerful yellow-and-red polka dot, short-sleeved shirt. “You’re here!” Emily exclaimed.
“In the flesh, kid,” Jane said as she slid into the chair opposite Emily.
Emily intently stared at Jane in utter fascination. After a second, all the kid could say was, “You’re here . . . in the flesh.” Emily looked stunned. The seeming worship by the kid made Jane feel uncomfortable. Nervously, she rubbed her head with her bandaged hand and let out a sigh. “Are you okay?” Emily asked Jane, genuinely concerned.
“Of course I’m okay.”
“You look kind of sick.”
“I’m not sick.”
“What’s that smell?”
“Excuse me?”
“You smell like my daddy when he gets drunk.”
“Oh, this is great,” Jane said as she pulled out a cigarette from her shirt pocket and lit up.
“I don’t think they let you smoke in here,” Emily said, motioning to the “No Smoking” sign.
“Is that a fact?” Jane said, taking a deep drag on her cigarette.
From inside the observation room, Chris buried his head in his hand and muttered, “I knew she was going to fuck this up.”
Emily’s eyes were drawn to Jane’s bandaged hand. “What happened to your hand?” she asked.
“It got burned.”
“In the kitchen?”
“No. In the line of duty.”
Emily looked at Jane, examining her face very closely. “What happened to your head?”
Jane was caught off guard. “What?”
“The scar on your forehead.”
Jane readjusted herself in her seat nervously. She could feel the prying eyes of Weyler, Martha and Chris behind her. “It’s just a scar.”
“How’d you get it?”
“I got it . . . in the line of duty.”
“That must have hurt really bad.”
“You’re a real detail-oriented person, aren’t you?”
“Huh?”
“You see small things in a big picture.”
“I guess so.”
Jane felt uneasy and took another drag. “What’s your bear’s name?” she said pointing to the stuffed animal.
“I don’t know. Martha gave it to me. I’m supposed to talk to it and tell it secrets.”
“Really?” Jane wanted to roll her eyes but restrained herself. “You doing that?”
“No. Why would I tell a stuffed animal secrets? It’s not real.”
Jane could feel a slight smile forming on her face but did her best to hide it. She looked over to the monitor. A sentence scrolled across the screen in capital letters: ASK HER WHAT SHE SAW! Jane knew the message was from Chris. “So, you got something you want to talk about?”
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