M Sellars - Perfect Trust

“The abuse?”

“Overdose.” McLaughlin shook her head. “She’s an addict. More tracks than Union Station.”

“Don’t tell me.” Ben shook his head. “Last time she scored was Saturday night.”

Charlee laid one index finger against the side of her nose and simply pointed at him with the other.

“So what the hell’d they call ya’ for?”

“She’s blonde…”

“…and petite, and doctors ain’t cops.” Ben finished the diatribe for her while nodding his head then slapped his open palm against the tiled wall and leaned into it. “Shit! Hodges bolts and now this is a dead end. We can’t catch a fuckin’ break!”

His voice echoed down the corridor directly behind the fading sound of his hand impacting the tile. He was still riding the adrenalin rush that had hyped him up less than half an hour ago, and the disappointment at this turn of events seemed to ravage his features as he huffed out a disgusted sigh.

And right there was a shining example of the portrait I had in my mind. Benjamin Storm, supercop-protector of the innocent.

“I’m right there with you, Storm,” McLaughlin told him, showing mild surprise at his outburst. “But you gotta stop taking it so personally.”

“Yeah, well tell that ta’ Debbie Schaeffer’s parents,” he said. “It’s Christmas freakin’ Eve, and what’s left of their daughter is spendin’ it in a body bag over on Clark Avenue. Merry fuckin’ ho, ho, ho.”

“You can’t change that,” I offered to my friend.

“No,” he admitted, “I can’t change it, but I can give ‘em this asshole as a gift. At least that’d be somethin’.”

“We don’t even know for sure if it’s the same guy,” Charlee said.

“Maybe not, but it’s the best lead I’ve got at the moment.”

“Then let’s follow it,” I interjected, my voice flat.

“How?” he shot back.

“There are other victims,” I offered. “We talk to them.”

“Jeez, white man, like I just said it’s freakin’ Christmas Eve!”

“Yes it is,” I acknowledged. “But you’re the one who wants to give Debbie Schaeffer’s parents this guy as a gift. By my calculations you’ve only got about twelve shopping hours left.”

“Yeah, well I’m thinkin’ it’s gonna be a disappointin’ holiday for all of us.”

I looked over at Charlee. “You said there have been eight rapes reported so far?”

“Yeah,” she nodded.

“Do you have all the victim’s numbers?”

“Yeah, I’ve got their numbers.” She gave me a nod then looked at Ben. “He’s right. It’s worth a try, Storm.”

“Maybe,” he huffed, “but I’m not gonna hold my breath.”

“Okay.” I shot my glance between them. “Rule out Miranda Hodges and that leaves seven. At least one of them has got to be willing to talk to us.”

McLaughlin cocked her head to the door of the treatment room. “This one wants to file a report, not that I think she’ll follow through. Anyway, let me get someone down here to take care of this, and we’ll start making calls.”

“I guess I’d better call the crime scene guys and cancel,” Ben added. “Did they end up gettin’ Murv?”

“Afraid so.” McLaughlin nodded.

“Afraid so? That doesn’t sound good.”

“Yeah, they called him in off of a vacation day.”

Ben puffed his cheeks out and let the breath go with a slow hiss. “Well, guess I’d better stop by the smoke shop on the way home. I’m gonna owe ‘im some cigars for this one.”

“It’s Christmas Eve. Remember?” I said. “Any decent smoke shop is going to be closed by the time you get a chance to run by.”

“Crap. Well, guess I’ll hafta do it Wednesday.”

“Look at the bright side,” I told him. “Maybe you can get them on sale.”

Thirty minutes and five no-answers later our luck began to turn. The woman in the treatment room was giving her statement, the CSU call had been cancelled, and a young woman named Heather Burke answered her phone and said yes.

“Sorry about the mess,” the woman apologized while shifting a basket of clothing from a chair and onto the floor beside it. “I wasn’t really expecting company today.”

“No problem, Miz Burke,” Charlee told her. “We really appreciate you talking to us. Especially with it being Christmas Eve and all.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” She shrugged. “I don’t have any family left, and I’m taking a bit of a hiatus from the dating scene if you get my drift.”

Heather Burke was a perfect example of the quintessential “perky blonde.” Large, bright eyes peering out from a soft face framed by a feathery shag of yellow hair. Five foot four, slim, and blessed with what some would call “eyeball measurements.” She was literally a textbook victim for this particular predator. Looking at her, I couldn’t help but think she bore a close resemblance to my wife, except of course for the hair.

She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that sported a faded but still readable iron-on transfer which announced, “Don’t let the hair fool you, I belong to MENSA.”

“Nice shirt,” I observed, thinking to myself that she even had Felicity’s headstrong attitude.

“You like it?” she asked rhetorically, looking down at the lettering then back at me. “Made it myself. It tends to stop the blonde jokes cold.”

“I can imagine.” I nodded.

“Have a seat.” She motioned to us. “Can I get anyone anything? I’ve got coffee on. Soda? Water?”

We all declined the offer, and she simply shrugged then dropped herself onto the couch and crossed her legs in something close to a relaxed lotus position. “I’m not sure what I’m going to be able to tell you,” she began, shaking her head. “It’s been three weeks and I haven’t really remembered anything yet.” She directed her attention to Charlee. “I mean, other than what I originally told you at the hospital.”

“I understand,” McLaughlin told her with a nod. “That’s actually why Mister Gant is here with us. Like I said on the phone, we’d like to try some things to help jog your memory.”

Heather wrinkled her face in concentration, lifting one eyebrow and cocking her head to the side as she muttered, “Gant… Gant… Wait… Now I remember…” She focused her gaze directly on me. “I thought I recognized the name. You’re the Witch, aren’t you?”

From the corner of my eye I saw Ben shoot an almost startled glance at me. I suppose her recognition caught him by surprise, but I’d been expecting something like this all along. In recent days a file photo of me had been flashed across local TV screens as the media speculated about my involvement in the Debbie Schaeffer murder investigation. There had even been a few column inches devoted to me in the local paper, so someone had been bound to recognize my face, my name, or both. It was only a matter of time.

“I don’t know about being the Witch,” I nodded with a slight smile, “but, yes, I’m the guy that’s been in the newspaper.”

“How cool is that,” she nodded in return then continued in a matter-of-fact tone, “So that would mean that Detective Storm here is the same Detective Storm from Homicide who is investigating the case with the murdered cheerleader. And if that is so, it stands to reason that since you are here talking to me, you think that murder is somehow connected with this rapist.”

Ben answered with a tentative note in his voice as he slowly nodded, “That’s the going theory.”

“Don’t look so surprised,” she told him.

“I know,” he said. “You’re a member of MENSA.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together,” she returned with a quick shake of her head. “I watch the news.”