Chris Mooney - The Dead Room

'They're here to dig up the bones in the basement,' Darby said. 'We found three sets of remains. All women.'

Baxter didn't say anything. She watched the group of men filing into the house.

'It going to be hard to identify these women,' Darby said. 'Someone removed their teeth along with their hands and feet. If you know something that could help us -'

'Sorry, but I can't help you.'

'Can't or won't?'

'You can't find ghosts.'

'I'm not following.'

'I mean there are still some people who float through this town that don't have any names. They just come and go. Like ghosts.'

'Like the man you were speaking to earlier?'

Baxter kept her eyes on the house. 'You seem like a good person, but the thing is nobody here's gonna talk to you. They do and they're going to disappear or have an accident. That badge clipped to your belt? You might as well be smeared in dogshit.'

Darby leaned her elbows on the railing, next to Baxter, and said, 'Kendra Sheppard was living in Vermont with her son.'

No reaction.

'Kendra was living under another name – Amy Hallcox,' Darby said. 'She and her son came to Belham a few days ago.'

'How old is her son?'

'Twelve. A man pretending to be a Federal agent came into his hospital room, and Sean – that's Kendra's son – Sean was terrified at the thought of going away with this man and do you know what he did?'

Baxter didn't answer.

'Sean tried to commit suicide,' Darby said. 'Shot himself in the head. It seems he was carrying a gun with him for protection. Before he tried to kill himself, he told me that his mother was afraid of these people finding her. And they did. In Belham. Want to know what happened to Kendra?'

'Not really.'

'Someone tied her down to a chair and slit her throat.'

Baxter looked down at the railing and picked at a paint chip with a long fingernail decorated with fake diamonds, moons and stars.

'Do you know why anyone would do something like that?' Darby asked.

'No.'

'Did you know Kendra Sheppard had changed her name and run away?'

'No.'

'You willing to say that under oath?'

'Sure, why not? You can swear me in right now if you want. There's a Bible underneath one of the kitchen chair legs. I need something to keep the table from wobbling.'

'If you're scared, I can put you into protective custody.'

'With the Feds?' Baxter laughed. 'Thanks, but no. I'll take my chances here in the real world.'

Darby tried another way in. 'Michelle, what you went through… I can't tell you how sorry I am.' She hoped her true feelings came across in her voice. 'You didn't deserve that. Nobody does.'

'Wasn't looking for your pity. I just wanted to explain the lay of the land here.'

'I can give you the name of some counsellors who can work with you on a pro bono basis.'

'Talking isn't going to change what happened. It don't erase what you carry around inside your head.'

'It can help.'

'Thanks, but I think I'll stick with Ambien and Percocet. They work wonders.'

Darby placed her business card on the railing. 'Tomorrow, when you're sober, give me a call and we'll talk.'

Baxter pushed herself off the railing and stubbed out her cigarette on the card. 'Feel free to help yourself to some beers on your way out.'

Darby closed the door to Baxter's apartment and stood alone in the dark hallway, feeling dizzy, wobbly on her feet. Not from the woman's story. Baxter's repeated victimization and humiliation by a sexual predator and possible serial killer… that story and all of its variants had been around since the dawn of time. Darby had a collection of them dating back to her early days at the crime lab, when she'd be called to the hospital to administer yet another rape kit to a female victim – always young, always vulnerable. Hearing these stories and witnessing first-hand how each of these women had been abused and assaulted had inoculated her against the myriad ways in which men inflicted pain, fear and degradation (and then later, out in the field, death). See it often enough, listen to the same stories over and over again, and a normal, healthy mind has no choice but to protect itself. Much like the person nailing boards across the windows of his home to protect the vulnerable areas from yet another unpredictable hurricane, you had to batten down the hatches or risk permanent damage.

But every castle, no matter how well fortified, always has vulnerable areas. It doesn't matter how many hurricanes it has endured or survived, each storm is different, unique in its own way. What had penetrated Darby, had made her legs feel boneless as she walked down the steps to the front door, was the way Baxter had spoken in a lifeless – no, soulless – tone about her personal horrors. It was as if God himself had whispered her fate against her ear. Sorry, but you don't have a choice here, you're just going to have to accept it.

And that was exactly what had happened. Baxter couldn't turn to the police. And her mother, the single person on the planet entrusted with the responsibility for protecting her, had told her daughter to keep her mouth shut and do her time. Jesus.

Darby opened the front door and spotted Coop pacing across the street. He was on his mobile. He saw her coming, said something to the person on the other end of the line and hung up.

He stepped out from the thinning crowds and met her in the middle of the street. In all her years of knowing him, she had never seen him this angry. Or hurt.

'Let's get one thing clear right here, right now,' he said, struggling to keep his voice calm. 'That crack Tipsy McStagger made about me going to those hotel parties and dipping my wick, as she so eloquently put it, is bullshit – complete and utter bullshit. I swear on the life of my mother.'

Darby nodded. She didn't speak.

'What, you don't believe me?'

'Of course I believe you,' she said. 'I'm still just trying to process what happened.'

'Go ahead and say it. I can see it in your eyes.'

'Did you see a videotape in which Baxter was being raped?'

Coop gritted his teeth, his face turning a deeper shade of red.

'Have I done things I'm not proud of?' he said after a moment. 'You bet. But you're talking about something that happened more than twenty years ago. I was nineteen and standing inside a room with a bunch of guys who'd done some serious hard time. If I'd gone for that tape, I'd be rolling up to crime scenes in a goddamn wheelchair.'

'Great group of friends you have there.'

'Look, I'm sorry about what happened to Michelle. It's a goddamn tragedy -'

'No, Coop, it's a crime.'

He held up his hands in surrender. 'No argument there. But you'll have to forgive me if I'm not acting, I don't know, all broken up at the moment. A lot of people around here, myself included, have gone out of their way to help Michelle out – I've got a list a mile long of people who went to bat for her, called in favours and got her a legit job, a place with health benefits, and every time she blew it off and ran right back to the pole. If you like, I can take you to someone who picked up the tab for her rehab. Twice.'

'What's the deal between you two?'

'There is no deal.'

'There's something going on. You kept trying to get me out of the apartment.'

'I wasn't interested in hearing her story again. At some point you've got to stop playing the victim card. You've got to make a decision to get on with your life, take responsibility and stop wallowing in all your shit.'

'Are you speaking from personal experience?'

'I'm done here.' He turned around and started walking away.

She grabbed his arm. 'I asked you to watch that man. Why didn't you call me when he left?'

'I tried, but all I kept getting was static.'