Her Last Scream (2 page)

Spring in coastal Alabama is a violent time, weather-wise. Two inches of tumultuous, lightning-driven rain an hour is not unusual, nor is it rare for blue to rule the sky minutes thereafter, as if all has been forgiven. Gulls return to the air and the whitecaps on Mobile Bay settle into a mild green chop beneath warm breezes built for sailing.

I drove to work from my beachfront home on Dauphin Island, thirty miles south of Mobile, still stuck in the first movement of the meteorological symphony, purple-black clouds laced with bolts of jagged lightning and rain sweeping down in roiling sheets. Smarter drivers took shelter in coffee shops and donut joints. I was doing fifteen miles an hour, squinting through my windshield and trying to recall when the wiper blades were last replaced.

Three years ago? Four?

A semi raced in the opposite direction, sloshing another gallon of water over my windshield. I peered into rippling gray and slowed to ten miles an hour. My cell phone rang and I pulled it from my jacket pocket, the word
HARRY
on the screen. Harry Nautilus was my best friend and detective partner in the homicide division of the Mobile, Alabama, Police Department. Harry kept me grounded in reality and I kept him … I’m not sure, but it’ll come to me.

“I’m at the morgue, Carson,” Harry said. “There’s a situation here.”

I was ticking my head side to side like a metronome, trying to see through the split second of clear behind the wiper blade. “What is it?” I asked. “The situation.”

“Just get your ass over here, pronto.”

“My wipers are shot, Harry. I’m stopping.”

“You and that damned ancient truck. Where you at?”

My truck was old but not ancient, perhaps suggesting antiquity by being the color of the pyramids, roller-coated with gray ship’s paint. Say what you will about aesthetics, I’ve never been bothered by rust or barnacles.

I said, “I’m just off the DI Parkway near the city limits sign. I’m pulling into the fish shack.”

“Hang tight and I’ll send the cavalry.”

“The what?”

Harry hung up. There was a coffee shop past the fish restaurant, but getting there meant crossing twenty feet of open pavement. Lightning exploded above and I sank lower in the seat.

A minute passed and I heard a howling. I thought it was the wind, until it turned into a siren, followed by lights flashing blue and white in my mirror. I sat up as a Mobile police cruiser pulled alongside. I wiped condensation from the window with my sleeve and saw a face on the driver’s side, a hand gesturing me to lower my window.

Rain whipped in and a pretty young black woman in a patrol cap and uniform yelled, “Stay on my bumper. But not too close, right?”

I was perplexed for a three-count, then saw the plan. The cruiser whipped away and I pasted myself fifty feet off its bumper. When we hit the highway another set of flashers slid in fifty feet behind me. I was bookmarked by light and sound and we blasted toward the morgue at perilous speed, though I can’t say how high exactly, never taking my eyes from the leading cruiser, my sole point of navigation.

Fifteen white-knuckled minutes later our impromptu caravan rolled to the entrance of the morgue, more correctly the pathology department of the Alabama Bureau of Forensics, Mobile office, a squat brick building by the University of South Alabama. I spent a fair amount of time in the morgue for two reasons; one was its ongoing collection of murdered humans, the other being the director, the brilliant and lovely Dr Clair Peltier, was my friend. Take that as you wish, you can’t go wrong.

I pulled beneath the portico and parked beside the nearest
NO PARKING
sign. The cruiser protecting my flank sped away, leaving only the vehicle driven by the young officer. I waved thanks as she stopped on the far side of the portico, rain drumming across her cruiser.

The driver’s-side window rolled down and the pretty face frowned at my trusty gray steed. “You really ought to get rid of that truck, Carson,” the woman called through the downpour. “You’ve had it for what – eight years?”

Her familiarity took me aback. “Almost nine,” I said. “How did you know how many –”

“Carson Ryder …” she said, tapping her lips with a slender finger. “Started in uniform at age twenty-six, made detective at twenty-nine – a record. Paired with Detective Harry Nautilus from the beginning, first as mentor, then as detective partner. An avid swimmer, kayaker, angler.”

I smiled at the recitation, common knowledge in the department.

“A man whose intuition often battles his logic,” she continued. “At times a problem, but usually working out for the best.”

“Pardon me?” I said.

“Some might call you a womanizer,” she added, a puckish twinkle in her eyes. “But that’s too harsh. Better to say you’re a lover of beauty and a secret fan of poetry, mainly Cummings, Dickey, and Roethke.”

My mouth was now open so wide that in the rain I might have drowned. I was sure I’d never seen the face before. And she was too pretty to forget.

“We’ve met?” I said, flummoxed by the surreal exchange.

“Don’t you remember holding me in your arms, Carson? Or the time we kissed?”

“Uh …”

Her radio crackled with a dispatcher’s voice. She canted her head to listen, then looked at me with a sigh. “Lightning blasted out traffic lights along Airport Road,” she said. “Time to go. But I expect I’ll see you soon enough.”

Her window rolled up and she disappeared into the gray. I stared into the rain before recalling the building at my back and the reason for the wild ride that had started my day.

I’m at the morgue,
Harry had said.
There’s a situation …

Giving a final glance to the space where the woman’s cruiser had resided, as if the drenched asphalt held a clue to her identity, I turned and pushed through the door to the morgue, finding – as always – a dry and cold atmosphere spun through with molecules of violent death and human despair.

Most folks checked in at the morgue, but I was such a frequent visitor the receptionist signed for me. A rubber stamp with my name would have been even easier. I continued to the main autopsy suite, seeing Harry in a corner beside forensics chief Wayne Hembree, a moon-faced black man with the build of a scarecrow beneath his limp white lab coat. Clair was leaning against the wall with a phone to her lovely cheek, talking about DNA. She looked up, winked one of the arctic-blue eyes, and returned to her conversation.

Hembree tossed a sheaf of pages on a lab table and walked to the center of the room, Harry on his heels. My partner was subdued, fashion-wise, his pink linen jacket riding an aloha shirt of hula girls strumming ukuleles. His pants were something between puce and plum; pluce, perhaps.

We met at a gleaming autopsy table holding a woman’s body, slender and well proportioned and with the tightness of youth, mid-to-late twenties or so. Her hair was dark and her skin olive, an impression of Filipino perhaps, or Hispanic. There were abrasions on the legs and arms, probably rope burns. The hands were dirty and bruised and I saw fingerprint ink on the digits. The breasts looked odd, purpled and akilter. Someone had laid a white towel over her face.

“Thanks for sending the escort,” I told Harry.

He nodded toward the body. “It’s gonna be one of those days.”

“Who am I looking at?” I asked.

“Right now it’s Jane Doe,” Hembree said. “I’m running prints through the standard databases. Nothing so far.”

Clair dropped the cell into the pocket of her green scrubs, the only woman I knew who could make the formless garment resemble a Versace gown. She stepped to the table and slipped the towel away. The woman’s head was bald, but I stared at the face.

“No eyes,” I said, realizing it was a ridiculous thing to say.

“Probably removed with a scooping tool,” Clair said, her voice devoid of emotion. “Could be something as simple as a spoon.”

“What happened to the breasts?” I asked.

“Contusions. They appear to have been singled out for punishment.”

“Tell me about the hair,” I said. “Why is she bald?”

“I found a few small nicks. Not a razor; electric clippers, maybe.”

Hembree said, “A skinhead, maybe?”

“No tats on the back?” I asked Clair. “No tramp stamp?” A tramp stamp was street slang for a tattoo across a woman’s lower back, generally but not always associated with women of low stature, either as perceived by themselves or others.

Clair shook her head. “One postage-stamp-sized tat on her shoulder blade, a butterfly.” Hembree and Clair rolled the shoulder up and I saw the tat, a blue-and-orange butterfly that could have hidden beneath a quarter. The artwork was bright and delicate, the style and positioning of tat consistent with those seeking the current hipness of body art without going for the full Winehouse.

“With skinheads it’s skulls, swastikas, the usual Aryan-supremacy garbage,” I said, nodding that I’d seen all I needed. “Not Lepidoptera.”

“I also found a horizontal band of mucilage twenty-one centimeters below her navel,” Clair said. “Maybe the killer tried taping her to the chair and went to rope when the tape didn’t hold.”

“Where was she found?”

Hembree said, “The city dump, sitting at the edge of a sea of garbage. The body was tied upright in a chair, like staring out into the dump.”

The information made a surreal picture in my head. “Killed there, you think?”

“Dead at least a day when she was bound to the chair, Carson. But the ligature marks on her wrists and ankles are scabbed over in places.”

“She was held prisoner.”

Clair nodded. “For at least two days before being killed.”

I stared at the body, seemingly in good health and attractive, if you ignored the red hollows below her brows and the contused breasts. “Who caught the call?” I asked.

Harry said, “Tate and Bryson. But …”

“But Piss-it has ownership now,” I said, not happy with the thought. Harry and I were members of a special unit named PSIT, the Psychopathological and Sociopathological Investigative Team,
Piss-it
for short
.
We were the sole members, calling in specialists as needed. Murders appearing the work of severely damaged psyches landed on our desks.

We retreated to Clair’s office to wait out the postmortem. On her desk was a floral vase the size of a half-bushel basket, dwarfed beneath botanical pyrotechnics: roses white and pink, sprigs of dogwood and azalea, camellias, sunflowers the diameter of saucers. Clair’s hobby was gardening. I figured since she spent her days with death, coaxing life from the ground was another aspect of her exquisite balance.

Harry and I opened briefcases to review other cases and drink first-rate French roast coffee with chicory. Clair paid the difference between primo coffee and the budget brands of most official venues. Since divorcing old-money Zane Peltier years ago, Clair was fixed for life. She worked because she loved her profession.

I was into my second cup of coffee when I noticed Harry studying me.

I held up my hand. “Only death will keep me from attending your family reunion on Saturday. I’ll do it even though we’re not related, I’ll know almost no one there, and it’s way the hell over in Mississip—”

I was interrupted by Clair, stepping into her office and scowling at my shoes on her desk. I looked at my feet with
how-did-they-get-there?
surprise before dropping them to the floor.

“Did you determine when the eyes were removed?” I asked.

“Three to four days back.” She paused. “It’s the same timeline I’d put on the breast damage.”

I considered what Clair’s words meant. “Kept as a prisoner for five to seven days, beaten, her eyes removed, then left alive for two or three days. Is that it, Clair?” I kept my voice even, forcing down the rage at what human beings could do to one another.

“Don’t think about it, Carson,” Clair said quietly, her hand coming to rest on my shoulder. “Like I’m trying to do.”

Treeka lay in bed holding a bag of frozen peas to her nose and right eye, the malleable packages conforming to a bruised face better than ice cubes. Tommy had beaten her yesterday after the scene in the grocery, her torso mostly, where the marks didn’t show. But this morning, when he’d started goading her, calling her a lesbian, she’d screamed out,
Why do women scare you so goddamn much?

He’d lost it completely and started punching her face, howling he’d kill her. She’d done like usual, curling into herself until the storm passed, grateful to have again made it through alive.

Treeka stared one-eyed at the ceiling, feeling melt-water mingle with her tears. She watched her shameful history parade across the ceiling like a low-budget documentary: molested by her uncle from age nine until he died drunk in a car crash when she was thirteen. Her first high-school crush, Carl, slapping her when she looked at other guys, Treeka the one to apologize. She’d won a two-year nursing scholarship, her then-boyfriend, Lane, forbidding her to attend school, Treeka agreeing, terrified of losing Lane’s angry love. She lost it anyway when Lane ran off with Treeka’s best friend, but by then the educational opportunity had passed and Lane had drugged away all the money she’d saved cleaning rooms at a local motel.

She’d vowed to never go out with men again. Never, ever, no-way. But after two years, Tommy appeared, and Treeka figured she could be forgiven for thinking he’d been sent by God. They’d met at church, a Pentecostal outpost in a trailer north of Estes Park, Tommy a thirty-four-year-old deacon, Treeka twenty-five and the guest of a friend from the Wal-Mart where they worked as cashiers.

Tommy’d been kind and gentle through the three-month courtship, shy even. It had been his idea that they not be intimate until after the wedding. The newlyweds went to Branson for the honeymoon, renting a cabin in the Ozark Mountains. They’d got tickets for a show at Presley’s Country Jubilee, and Treeka had proudly put on a new dress: scarlet red, scoop-necked, and three inches shorter in the hem than she usually wore – it was a honeymoon, after all.

“No,” Tommy said, scowling like she was selling herself under a light on a city street corner. “You get something else on, now.”

It was a command, the first of many.

The movie in Treeka’s head fast-forwarded to yesterday’s beating and she shut off the projector. Flipping the bag of peas, she replaced it on her swollen eye; another day for the big sunglasses. She figured Tommy made her put them on so he didn’t have to look at what he did, not that he’d see anyway, passed out in the hammock out back and snoring.

He’d wake up soon enough. He always woke up.

But Saturday was coming, and since it was a fishing day Treeka would get hours of blessed relief. Several times a month Tommy joined buddies from Estes Park and they’d fish a lake by Silverthorne, over fifty miles away. The earliest he’d ever gotten back was nine at night. Even better, the mountains blocked cell reception and he couldn’t call and check on her. This time, with the fishing trip falling on a Saturday, Tommy would be staying out even later.

Treeka planned to hop a bus and head to Boulder, to that place by the University of Colorado. She seen it when she’d snuck into Boulder three weeks back, a plain brown house on a block populated by student housing, a store selling earth-friendly sandals, a bike shop, and a dark-windowed bar.

It was the sign that had riveted her attention:

W
OMEN’S
C
RISIS
C
ENTER OF
B
OULDER

Treeka had walked around the block five times before finally screwing up the courage to walk to the door. Reaching for the door knob, her breath had stopped in her throat and she backed away, looking side to side, knowing it had been a trick and she’d see Tommy’s big loud truck roaring up, him knowing about the trips to Boulder and waiting for her to make her move.

“
I see every thing you do, Treek. You can’t get away from me …
”

But that night, when Tommy stumbled back to the ranch past midnight mumbling about a cooler full of fish that needed cleaning, it seemed he hadn’t seen a thing.

A center for women?
Treeka wondered, holding the peas to her face. What could it mean? What did they do?