Rick Mofina - In Desperation

The cabdriver who’d delivered the yellow bouquet stopped to talk to insistent reporters after he’d handed the vase over the tape to a sheriff’s deputy. “Sir, just a few words please, sir!” The deputy gave the vase a quick inspection before taking it around the back to investigators who were checking each item.

The female Phoenix police officer who’d accepted the flowers passed a wand over the vase then delicately probed the stems with latex-gloved fingers. A detection dog from the K-9 unit sniffed the bouquet before the flowers were taken inside. The FBI agent who’d received them started to set them in the living room with the other items but reconsidered.

She saw Cora on the sofa, hands cupped around a mug of coffee. Her hair was pulled back and her sleep-deprived eyes brimmed with sadness as if she were gazing into an endless pit.

“These look pretty, don’t you think, Cora?”

The agent glanced at Gannon, who was standing nearby, checking his cell phone messages, then she set the vase on the coffee table. The fragrance generated a weak smile from Cora.

“All yellow,” the agent said, “for hope.”

But Cora feared she was running out of hope. Aside from last night’s false alarm at the Burger King in Tempe, the FBI had received no strong leads on Tilly.

Where was she? Why hadn’t Lyle called? Where was he?

And she’d heard nothing from the kidnappers.

The alarm ringing at the back of Cora’s mind grew louder, filling her with doubt. Had she been wrong to go to the police? The way she’d been wrong about so much in her life, running away from her family and making so many mistakes. But that was the past. She’d left it behind and had been rebuilding her life, piece by piece.

Why was this happening?

Was it somehow tied to the unforgivable act she’d committed all those years ago? Stop . It made no sense to think like that because it had nothing to do with Tilly’s kidnapping.

But what if karmic forces were at work?

Guilt began to tighten its grip on her.

“Are you going to open it?”

The agent indicated the envelope that Cora still held in her hand. She opened it to a simple white card, with an embossed garden scene. She unfolded it, expecting, as with the other cards, an expression of sympathy or something encouraging.

She stopped breathing when she read:

You called police. You pay the price. Remove the flowers and look in the water. Find GALVIERA or more will come!!!

Cora couldn’t move.

“Is something wrong?” Gannon had been watching her.

Cora’s hands trembled as carefully she lifted the flowers from the water. She was afraid to look but forced herself to pick up the vase, tilt it and slowly peer into the water.

Shock hit her like a sledgehammer to the chest.

Her stomach lurched as she felt the earth move under her.

“What is it?” Gannon said.

“Are you all right?” the agent asked.

Cora dropped the vase. It shattered on the coffee table.

“Oh Christ!” said the agent, incredulous, staring at the two white orbs that had fallen from it to the floor. They looked like small boiled eggs. Each had swirls of pink fleshy strands and blue irises.

Eyes.

“My baby!!!”

Cora released a raw heart-stopping shriek and began flailing at the air.

“Jesus!” Gannon rushed to her.

After reading the note without touching it, Hackett seized a radio and called to officers outside in the front yard.

“Eight-sixty. Who made the last delivery? The yellow flowers in a yellow vase, who brought that?”

“Seven-O-one. Cabdriver with Flying Eagle. He’s out front talking to the press.”

“Grab him!”

“Say again eight-sixty?”

Cora’s screams had interfered with Hackett’s transmission.

“Grab him now! Keep it low key and bring him around back!”

Cora screamed and screamed until she passed out.

Eventually, Gannon and the others got Cora to her bedroom.

Paramedics were called to tend to her while FBI crime scene experts cleared the living room and began investigating the note, pieces of the vase and its grisly contents.

Outside, at the back of the house, Hackett and Larson went at Velmar Kelp, the taxi driver who’d delivered the flowers.

“Like I told you, I just delivered them,” Kelp repeated. “I stopped for coffee at Zeke’s Diner on the west side, at Central and Eighty-Second Avenue and this guy came up to me, all busted up about the missing girl and whatnot and gives me two hundred bucks to deliver them,” Kelp said. “What’s going on?”

“It looks like you’re involved in the kidnapping, Velmar.”

“What? You’re crazy.”

“A shit storm is about to come down on you so you’d better give us the truth now.”

“I just delivered the flowers for some guy on the street, I swear!”

“Did this guy have the address?”

“No. I got it from my dispatcher, from First Eagle bringing fares to the house here, you know, news people. And the Republic story today gives the street and whatnot.”

The FBI refused to let up.

Did Kelp get the guy’s name, a card, a phone number? What did he look like? Any scars? Tattoos? What about his clothing? The way he spoke? Show us the cash he gave you. Were there witnesses? Did he ask for a receipt? Was anyone else with him? Did he get into a vehicle ?

Their questioning grew into an unyielding interrogation until they convinced Kelp to ride with them to Zeke’s Diner where he’d received the flowers. Supported by Phoenix detectives, FBI agents canvassed the area and searched for security cameras, all while pressing Kelp for more details.

They demanded he volunteer his fingerprints.

At Cora’s house, the FBI evidence team processed the vase and note for latent prints. It was when they undertook the gruesome task of examining the eyes that their interest deepened. Something ran counter to the assumption. Something was different. They needed to conduct more tests but one of the forensic experts said: “These are characteristic of Sus scrofa, recently isolated.”

It took a sedative and several hours to calm Cora.

By the time she woke, Hackett had returned and was with Gannon and a few other people in her room. Taking stock of their faces, Cora braced for the worst.

Tilly was dead .

“Cora,” Gannon started.

She stifled a guttural moan.

“It’s not what you think,” he said.

“The eyes are not human,” Hackett said.

She blinked in confusion.

“They were removed from a dead pig. They’re pigs’ eyes.”

“Pigs’ eyes?”

“They can’t belong to Tilly, or anyone else,” Hackett said.

Overcome with relief and fear, Cora buried her face in her hands.

“They just wanted to pressure you, send a message,” Hackett said.

“To prove they’re evil fucking bastards?”

“Cora,” Hackett said, “we still need to collect your fingerprints.”

She stared at him.

“My fingerprints? But you already have Tilly’s. Why do you need mine? How will my fingerprints bring Tilly back?”

“We have to process the prints of everyone who touched the vase, the card and other things,” Hackett said. “We talked about why we needed your prints at the outset when ERT started their work.”

She remembered but said nothing.

Hackett then indicated the fingerprint analyst next to him with a laptop.

“We’ve got an electronic scanner. No ink, no mess. It won’t take long.”

Cora hesitated and Gannon tried to help the situation.

“I gave mine. Cora, it’s routine.”

“To create elimination prints,” Hackett said. “To help isolate prints that should not be present.”