Stevan Mena - Transience

She headed upstairs to check on her. She entered her bedroom — empty — the grilled cheese sandwich and glass of milk she’d made her for lunch was still sitting on the table by her easel, untouched. “Rebecca?”

She checked every room upstairs. “Rebecca?” Her voice grew nervous.

She raced back downstairs and spun in place, not sure where to look next. She turned and went through the side door into the garage. The garage door was open, the cold blast of the outdoor air chilled her skin.

She saw Rebecca’s bicycle was missing.

Harrington briefed Jack as they walked through the precinct hallway towards the interrogation area. There was an electricity in the air, Jack could feel his hands trembling with adrenaline.

“Name’s Teresa Mason, 26, she managed to give a description before she passed out,” Harrington said.

“Mason? Doesn’t sound like his M.O.”

“HP cornered the bastard on the interstate, she gave a pretty solid ID to a neighbor who called it in. I think we got him, Jack.”

“How is she?”

“Critical condition, suffered massive trauma to the head. Put up a good fight; they’re not sure if she’ll make it.”

They entered the holding area adjacent to the interrogation room. Jennifer stood near the two-way glass, watching the suspect. He sat alone in a chair, light shining on him overhead, the rest of the room dim.

Jack stepped up to the glass, peering in. Can it be this easy? My incompetence so immense that you had to hand deliver him to my doorstep?

“Who is he?” Jack asked. Jennifer read from a printout:

“Edward Bishop, 42, plumber, has a prior record of sexual assault of a minor, served four years. Spent time at Northville Psychiatric Hospital on four separate occasions, self admitted.”

Bishop sat slouched in his chair. He was boyish looking; wiry brown eyes so dark they were almost black. A thin, pointed nose. Scratches on his cheek. He looked disinterested. “He also works part time for Baxter Mills Inc. They contract out bonded cleaning services to offices, municipalities, schools. They’re under contract to several universities in this area.”

Jennifer handed the report to Jack.

“Someone should talk to Baxter about their employee vetting process. They search the vehicle?”

“We found a black duffel bag in his van,” Harrington said, “gloves, rope, knives, and wire, along with these.” Harrington placed a few professional looking laminated ID cards on a table, all different occupations, all had Bishop’s photo. “We also found several stolen laptops.”

“Forensics is running a trace on the vehicle for blood samples,” Jennifer said.

“What about his residence?”

“They’re tossing it as we speak,” Harrington said.

Jack shot an anxious look towards Harrington. Harrington shook his head. “They didn’t find anyone.”

“How long has he been here?”

“I called you as soon as they brought him in, wanted you to be the first to speak to him.” Jack turned to look in again at Bishop. He’d seen him before. His picture, his prior arrest. He was one of hundreds of potential suspects he had studied during the investigation.

Jack walked out and around to the interrogation room entrance, taking a moment to compose himself. He slowly turned the handle and entered.

Bishop stared at the floor as Jack approached. Harrington entered behind Jack and closed the door.

Jack bypassed his usual tactic of pushing the table across the room, leaving the suspect exposed. He had so many questions, he didn’t want to start out confrontational. There was too much work to be processed between them. He took the seat across from Bishop. Harrington stood behind Bishop, his arms folded.

Bishop lazily tilted his head back to take a look at Jack. He observed Jack’s labored movements, the pain he was trying to conceal. Jack placed the clipboard with Bishop’s arrest report down on the table. Bishop lifted his handcuffed wrists and awkwardly scratched an itch on his cheek with the back of his knuckle. Jack felt a certain unease about him.

Bishop was unattractive, ugly, with thin hair combed forward to cover his receding hairline. He had a fresh bruise around his left eye. Jack sat perfectly still, staring at Bishop, hardly even taking a breath. He picked up the clipboard and read aloud:

“You live at 23 Washington?” Bishop remained silent, blank. “Is that your residence?”

Harrington stepped forward and grabbed Bishop’s brittle hair, forcing him to look at Jack. Bishop grinned at Harrington’s show of force, as if he expected it. Jack flitted his hand for Harrington to release him. Harrington obliged, letting go and taking a step back.

“Several messages sent to Teresa Mason were traced to an IP address registered to your computer,” Jack said.

“I don’t own one. But nice try,” Bishop said, his voice effeminate, high pitched and nasal.

“Claims he was home all day,” Harrington said. He looked down in Bishop’s direction. “Lemme guess, didn’t match your tall, dark, and handsome profile; things went downhill from there?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“She’s clinging to life in the ER. Claims you attacked her,” Jack said.

“Who?”

“Two witnesses saw you exiting her apartment at the time of the attack,” Harrington said. “They scraped your DNA from under her God damn fingernails. I’m sure that’s not the only place they’ll find it.”

“You say you were home all day?”

“That’s right.”

“So what happened between 5 and 7 P.M. that caused you to race onto the expressway headed towards Ohio?”

“You guys are full of shit.”

Jack tossed an ID card onto the table between them. Then another, and another. “Forged plumber’s license, telephone repair man.” Jack turned over another one to read it. “I see you work for the US Post Office too?” Jack tossed it into the pile accumulating on the table. “You stay busy.”

Bishop licked his lips and rolled his eyes, locking them in an odd angle, appearing quite deranged.

“Uniform’s a good ruse to gain entry into a woman’s home, isn’t it?” Harrington said.

Bishop started to stand up; Harrington sat him down with one push from his powerful arm. Bishop shrank, sensing Harrington’s immense strength.

“I read Teresa Mason holds a black belt in Karate. What happened, finally met your match?” Harrington said, a bullying grin, he wanted to hurt Bishop so desperately.

“Fuck yourself,” Bishop muttered in a monotone grumble. Harrington cracked his knuckles in anticipation, but Jack’s stare held him at bay.

Jack continued to read from the printout: “Attempted rape, attempted murder, resisting arrest.” Jack raised his eyebrows at the next detail, then looked at Bishop, sizing up his thin, diminutive frame. “Attacking an officer? Resisting arrest? You’re in a lot of trouble, Ed. But that’s nothing new, you have a long track record of sexual offenses. Did time in jail for rape, paroled a little over 4 years ago.”

“Would explain the gap in time between the murders,” Harrington said.

“Yes it would,” Jack said to himself.

Jack took a photo out of his inner jacket pocket. He placed it down in front of Bishop. It was a picture of Angelina.

“Recognize her?” Jack asked. Bishop looked away and spit on the floor. Harrington grabbed him again and twisted his head to look at the picture. “You look at it!” Harrington growled.

Bishop stared at the picture, breathing heavily through his teeth. “She’s been missing three months now. Take a good look.”

“Never seen her.”

“If you don’t help me, I can’t help you,” Jack said.