Turtle Island (17 page)

The large detective knelt by Karen Fuller’s side. ‘The knife?
I can’t.’

‘Pull it out…she going to die.’

‘She’s already gone.’

‘Just pull it out, Leroy.’ Georgina didn’t wait she leaned
across Karen’s body and grasped the handle of the knife and with
one quick tug pulled the blade from her chest.

‘Now, pump her chest.’

Leroy moved forward and started to decompress Karen’s chest.
Georgina waited for him to stop and pinched Karen’s nose again and
breathed into her mouth, only one side of Karen’s chest rose.
Georgina breathed again, repeating the process another three times.
Her own lips suddenly felt wet, sticky warm fluid painted her own
mouth as Georgina tasted the teacher’s blood, returned to her mouth
via Karen Fuller’s filling lungs. Leroy stood and dragged Georgina
away. ‘She’s dead.’

Georgina stormed over to where Montoya was glued. ‘What the
hell were you playing at? You know procedure for entering a room,
especially where a kidnap or hostage victim is being held.’ She
grabbed Rick's lapels shaking him violently.

Rick stared blindly. ‘He...had...a...knife, I saw him slashing
across the girl with it. I thought he was killing her.’ Rick
repeated himself. His voice was monotone, as dead as the body of
Karen Fuller.

‘Come on.’ Frusco pulled Rick out of the bedroom allowing some
of the uniforms in.

The distant wail of sirens announced the arrival of the
paramedics and back up. The siren grew louder and louder and then
stopped.

Forensics moved into the house once the bodies were cleared
for transport to the pathology lab for post mortems. Georgina and
Leroy hung around, trying to uncover anything fresh, searching the
house for fresh evidence to incriminate Fleisher. Georgina moved
from room to room searching methodically, taking her time, lifting
and moving every conceivable object. She entered a door, which lead
to the basement and found a full video-editing suite with monitors
and scores of videotapes.

‘Leroy?’ Georgina backed out of the room and called up the
stairs to the upper half of the house.

Time ran quickly into the morning and an entire night had been
spent on the search for evidence for a case that was now closed as
far as the state of Missouri and Norman Frusco was concerned.
Georgina knew she was wasting her time, Frusco had his man; the
media had their story. She would rather have spent the time asleep
in her motel room but for the nagging lingering doubts that
pervaded her thoughts. Leroy moved from room to room, intrinsically
searching for anything that would take his mind off Lia.

The press and TV were banging at the door within an hour of
the incident. Barbara Dace heading up the long line of reporters
vying for exclusive access. Barbara stood on the door demanding to
the police guard that she spoke with either Captain Frusco or the
FBI agent, Agent O’Neil. Georgina was within earshot, she
recognised Barbara Dace’s voice. She came to the door.

‘What can I do for you Mrs Dace?’

‘I was hoping for a little payback for the help I gave you.’
Barbara was her usual assertive self; even so, her voice had an
edge to it tonight. Dace’s cameraman John Keller was waiting behind
her, looking tired and in need of a long vacation.

‘Mrs Dace.’ Georgina’s voice was firm; there was no way she
was going to be intimidated by either Barbara Dace or any of the
other reporters standing line. ‘When forensics have finished here,
I promise you will be the first and only reporter allowed inside
the house, but until then would you kindly fuck off.’ Georgina’s
voice didn’t change pitch or tone but she knew it had the desired
effect when Barbara’s jaw hit the ground. Georgina smiled and
closed the door politely.

‘Hey, that was cool.’

Georgina turned to see Leroy standing, laughing.

‘Have you ever thought about working in public
relations?’

‘You know those leeches really crawl on my skin
sometimes.’
‘I guessed. You kinda gave that away.’

The letterbox to the door opened and Barbara called through.
‘So, when do you think forensics will be finished?’

They watched totally enthralled. The small community of Turtle
Island was unexpectedly thrown into the limelight and their
attention had not been captured so collectively since the Oklahoma
bombing or that dark day in New York, September 2001. Images
filtered through the air, through cables and broadband
telecommunication lines. Riveted, the populace never moved from
their seats, choosing to watch the news unfold in front of their
eyes, and then the beginning of the exodus of the curious and the
morbid as they began their pilgrimage to the house on the far side
of the Island where Charles Fleisher kept Karen Fuller captive and
eventually killed her. It was a trickle at first, then a continual
steady flow of people ready to pay homage, then a rush. Each of
them curious to see firsthand, to feel and breathe in the air, the
very same air Charles Fleisher breathed. A group of inquisitive
onlookers encamped outside Fleisher’s realty agency, though what
they expected to find was as much a curiosity, some even settled
outside the Fleisher household. Narla Fleisher watched the whole
event unfold via news broadcasts. Their daughter, Harley watched
with her in stunned silence, at first disbelieving, then finally
relieved. At four in the morning she finally slunk beneath the
covers of her duvet. Harley Fleisher would sleep soundly for the
first time that night in years, there would be no more
interruptions and no intrusions in the middle of the
night.

Georgina lay on the bed in the bare surround of her motel
room, exhausted. The only light in the room was coming from a small
table lamp that sat on the locker by the bed. She noticed the
sheets had been changed for the first time since she arrived. Even
though she desperately wanted to close her eyes and sleep, her mind
was still racing. The 'coming down’ period after a case's
resolution always left her drained but restless.

The horrible feeling that she had taken a life stuck in her
claw, even if it was a lowlife like Charles Fleisher. Somewhere
inside his twisted mind there must have been the fragments of a
decent person and to have extinguished anything that may have once
been good unsettled her, redemption is always for tomorrow. Charles
Fleisher was the first person she had ever shot, let alone killed
and she had to come to terms with it, figure out in her mind what
it was now that separated her from him. Both of them were now
killers, even though the government sanctioned her, it didn't
address the internal moral battle. She had stopped someone from
living, snuffed them out, stopped them...Full stop.

Georgina sat up, leaned across the bed and opened her small
attaché case. She pulled out a large A4 pad and pen and began to
write her report on the case. She was angry that she was
compromised into killing Fleisher. If anyone were going to break
that night she would have laid a month’s salary that it would have
been Leroy but if anything he was more focused than usual. Rick
Montoya had acted like a rookie, a bad one at that. Georgina was in
no doubt that if Rick had aimed better Karen Fuller would have
lived to tell the tale. O’Neil worked on until 4-30in the morning,
when finally she succumbed to sleeps hypnotic potion. She fell
asleep holding the biro, still writing the report with the pad
resting on her raised knees.

SUNDAY

At twelve thirty, Georgina called into the office. The day was
overcast and considerably cooler than of late. Rain threatened and
the stormy clouds that held it were moving fast towards Turtle
Island. She had watched the morning news and wasn’t surprised to
see Barbara Dace reporting from inside the house where Charles
Fleisher and Karen Fuller had died. The media were spinning their
own version of events on Turtle Island. It would seem that
everything was straightforward and Barbara's report appeared to be
with the police department's blessing, it certainly coincided with
Captain Frusco’s thinking. Seeing Norman Frusco interviewed by Dace
confirmed Georgina’s suspicions. The case was over and the only
thing left for Georgina to do was to file her report, which out of
courtesy she felt obliged to show Frusco, even though she knew his
reaction would be far from one of pleasure. She waited outside his
office occupying one of the seats that was usually kept for
interrogating suspects. The well-worn leather seat was unsupportive
and for the few minutes she had been sitting on it, found it
extremely uncomfortable. With luck she could be on her way home by
Monday, Tuesday at the latest. She had no desire to be drawn into a
lengthy post mortem of the case, not that for one moment did she
believe there would be one. This case had all the trappings of an
irritating acquaintance and the chances were it was going to be
swept under the carpet and forgotten about. It was not the sort of
thing that the people of Turtle Island wanted hanging about, it
stank as bad as the unknown corpse they fished out of the water at
the beginning of the case, lowering property prices and scaring
prospective tourists. Hence the sunshine and roses report from
Barbara Dace.

‘…
the nightmare ended last night and now residents of Turtle
Island can return to the idyllic lifestyle they shared before
Charles Fleisher began his short reign of terror. Tonight we can
sleep safe. Barbara Dace, M.R.T.V Turtle Island.’

Georgina waited patiently in the office, looking at the hive
of activity unfolding in front of her. Missouri Police were dealing
with the daily running of their state. Norman Frusco was lunching
with Barbara Dace and the desk sergeant couldn't give a time,
approx or otherwise, of his return. She said she'd wait.

Georgina waited an hour before accessing a photocopier and
leaving a Xeroxed copy of the report on Frusco's desk. She couldn't
shake the image of Karen Fuller lying dead on the bed under the
prostrate figure of Charles Fleisher. She wanted to go somewhere to
clear her head, do something positive. She found herself driving
down the highway towards Leroy LaPortiere's house. As she drove,
she began to question the sacrifices she had made for a career and
wondered about the psychological damage to her mental welfare. The
scars usually materialised in the form of nightmares, sleepless
nights, or as now, trying to find some sort of mental release.
After a mile or so Georgina couldn't understand why she was having
difficulty seeing properly, when she looked in the rear view mirror
she saw the reason; both her eyes were clouded with tears. She
pulled the car to the hard shoulder and spent a confusing twenty
minutes controlling large shoulder heaving sobs. She could see
Karen Fuller in her mind, lying perfectly still, perfectly dead.
Georgina had been close to death on many occasions and was at a
loss as to why one more death should affect her so deeply. Georgina
had seen worse, dead children, murdered babies, old folk robbed and
brutalised; why should the death of a middle class school teacher
move her to tears on the hard shoulder. She wiped her eyes dry and
tried to compose herself, before putting the car into drive and
pulling away.

In the daylight, Leroy LaPortiere's house showed the signs of
neglect that Lia had so often complained. Cracked and flaking paint
around the windows and doors allowed rain to seep through the
unprotected surface, swelling and splitting the exposed wood.
Georgina looked for a bell, two bared wires hung impotently from a
small hole which once was resident to a push button bell. She
rapped on the fly screen with her knuckles hoping that if he were
in, he would hear her. Georgina waited for a minute before pulling
open the fly screen and knocking hard on the glass panelled door.
Leroy's lumbering frame moved toward the door behind the obscured
glass panel. He opened the door, unshaven and reeking of alcohol,
eyes hanging out of his head. He looked bewildered,
lost.

‘Hi.’

He seemed unsurprised to see the detective standing at the
door and stepped to one side to let her in. Georgina noted that he
was still wearing the same clothes as when she last saw
him.

‘Sorry the place is a bit of as mess.’ Leroy apologised as
Georgina entered the main room.

A home video was playing in the VCR, Lia was running around in
the garden, spraying water over the cameraman, whom Georgina
guessed to be Leroy. Lia was laughing, filmed during happier times.
To the side of the armchair that Leroy had obviously been sitting
in lay an empty bottle of rum and five cans of beer. The image on
the television froze, Georgina turned. Leroy swayed unsteadily, the
VCR control held in his wavering hand.

‘Been watching old films.’ Leroy said almost apologetically.
‘You know, I've been walking around the house spraying an old
bottle of Lia’s perfume, just to pretend she was still
here...’

Georgina spotted the bottle of Jewel lying amongst the empty
bottles.

‘I spent 50 bucks on a bottle of her brand of perfume just to
spray around the house, yet when she was here I never bought her a
bottle. She always used to buy her own, ‘cause I was too
busy...pathetic isn’t it?’ Leroy dropped into the armchair, his
foot kicking the empty bottles out of the way.

‘I don’t know what you want me to say Leroy. I know this job
eats too far into all of our lives, but no matter how much, it
always come as a complete shock to us as to the damage it is doing
to others.’ Georgina sat opposite Leroy, placing her report folder
down next to her. Leroy scratched his head then rubbed his face
with his hand. He stared at her, through her, for a moment
completely lost in his own world.