Price of Vengeance

Chapter One

         I've lost track of time.
         
         I don't know how long I've been sitting here; tears streaking my face, head in hand, back against the closed door, butt resting on my heel. Looking around the room, slow, almost tedious, I wait for my eyes to clear so I can start to take everything in. It takes a while.

         Pushing myself up the wall my hands find their way to my pockets where they clinch into painful fists. A big part of me wants to rush out of the room, to go somewhere else, anywhere else. My toes curl down in my shoes, almost like an anchor keeping me in place. The body is long gone, the evidence long since collected, the room taped and secured. It pays to still have friends on the force, friends that will risk their neck to let me see, to let me search for my own answers.

         The outline of her body lies on the sheet, a clean island in an ocean of blood. The bedposts are bare now, but I know that they held ropes that were used to secure the young lady in place. The rage wells up in my throat. I bit my lip and close my eyes, willing it to pass.

         In my mind's eye I see her there tied, afraid, hoping for a rescuer like in the romance novels. Her blond hair matted to the side of her face, damp where the dirt and debris had been washed away while he watched, excited. She would have been beautiful in a way that embarrassed grown men and made most women angry for reasons they didn't quite understand. Her face would be lightly made up, but heavy around her eyes. Teeth marks would have been seen clearly in the lipstick on her bottom lip. The lipstick a shade or two darker than her skin tone. She would be sixteen, maybe seventeen, left on display like every young lady before her.

         Ignoring the bed for a few moments I turn toward the bathroom, knowing I would find nothing. A strong urine smell drifted from the room, which is the way it always is in these cheap, by the hour, motels. The room was a mess, but things were missing. The wet towel was removed, it would have been folded neatly and placed on the shelf above the toilet. There may have been a spot or two of blood. The straight razor from the sink top would have held a few hairs, trace of expensive shaving cream and maybe a spot or two of blood. The hair would have been off by a shade or two from the hair on the young woman's head, that's not where it would have come from. Beside the razor would have been a small, sharp pair of scissors. Both would have been resting on a hand towel that would have strongly smelled of bleach.

         Not needing to, I looked at the bottom corner of the mirror and there, like always, was a perfect fingerprint left in the same shade of lipstick the young woman had been wearing. The prints wouldn't be on file, but they would belong to the next victim. Her body will be found sometime within the next six to ten weeks.

         Using a pen from my jacket I pull open the medicine cabinet; dust and dirt built kind of high in each corner, a tube of toothache ointment, a couple of rusted razor blades, a rolled tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush covered in a tiny cobweb. The sink cabinet door opened; a hair dye kit, a few rolls of cheap one ply toilet paper, and a "girly" magazine. Hilton, this place definitely wasn't.

         The tub faucet was dripping steadily, with a faint metallic plop. The massage shower head hung loose a pregnant drop of water hanging there refusing to fall. Shaving cream was smeared along the wall, but that would be the only things in there from tonight. All sorts of trace would have been pulled from the shower and the drain; strands of hair, a spot of blood, maybe a few other unmentionable body fluids, and bleach. Nothing would be usable, just like the times before.

         The doors to the small wardrobe were left open. The pink and black plaid backpack, with the white skull and pink bow, was no longer there. The clothes inside of it would have been washed, pressed and tightly folded; pants on bottom, followed by shirt, panties, bra, socks, and shoes. The shoes would have been wiped down with alcohol and thoroughly cleaned. The drawer on the nightstand was opened, its only occupants being a Gideon Bible, a phone book, and a list of channels available on the TV.

         That brought me back to the bed. Even though the body is long gone, I can still see what would have been here and I'm fighting the urge to scream.

         Her eyes would have been left open, the brilliance long gone, but her tear soaked lashes would give them a weird life. The duct tape would have been removed from her mouth, but traces of thread and stickiness would remain. Rubbed raw her neck would have held a strange sheen of dampness. Her wrists and ankles would have held the same irritations. Several tiny nicks would have littered her body; stomach, legs, arms, and her breasts. She would have smelled faintly of alcohol.

         Neatly at the foot of the bed would have been a pair of handcuffs, with its key resting beside it. Also, stretched out would have been a length of rope with the ends intricately wrapped around itself in a knot, but it wouldn't have been pulled tight. It was left that way so we could marvel at it. The only skin traces would be from the victim.

         My eyes are starting to glaze over with tears or remorse, loss and rage. My heart can't take it anymore; I can't be in this room any longer. I almost stagger out of the room into the too bright light of the morning sun. My chest feels constricted, my throat is dry and in this moment I would give my soul for a cigarette. I want to feel it choking the breath out of my lungs, smothering me.

         A few steps is all I can manage before I drop to the floor and lean against the wrought iron railing. They told me that it wasn't my daughter. She was still out there, my little girl. He's kept her longer than any other. Is she dead? Dropped off like unwanted garbage in a stretch of woods? An old barn? A dumpster? I can still feel the room around me as I start to sob uncontrollably.













         

Chapter Two

         I was just a few short steps away from my car when I heard a voice that I was hoping to avoid.

         "That was a crime scene. You have no business being here. I could arrest you, I should arrest you."

         Coleman Mears stands six foot three and is a good few inches taller than I am. While I'm not a slouch, he is in better shape than I am, but when you don't have a life and spend all of your time in the department's gym it's bound to be that way. What you could see of his high and tight hair cut was black. At first glance you would think he was a former Marine, like his brothers, father, uncles, hell, the whole damn family. He wasn't. Asthma was the culprit and he loved to bring it up whenever possible.

         We don't see eye to eye. When my daughter was first kidnapped I walked in on him making an off handed joke. He walked away with a broken rib and a blackened eye. I was walked away from my career. I still have friends on the force, they know I check out the crime scenes when they could be connected, Coleman hates it.

         "Take a breath Coleman, jeez. How's it going Shannon?"

         Andrea Alvera went a few inches in the opposite direction of Coleman. She stood about five three, killer smile. She was beautiful and she knew it. How could you win a few beauty pageants and not know. She liked to downplay it. Very little make up, brown hair always pulled up in a tight bun. Her jacket and shirts were always a cut too big. It made it easier to hide her breasts I supposed, but it also made it easier to hide the gun hanging from her shoulder. It was tough being a lady cop, tougher being a lady detective.

         I turned around to see her squinting against the sun and smiling that smile.

         "Well if it isn't Tenspeed and Brownshoe. What can I do for you?" I asked as I started back toward my car.

         As I walked I could hear Coleman's angry whispers. I didn't really care. Making it to my car, I spun around and leaned against the trunk.

         Coleman started to speak and with a quick glare, Alvera cut him off. "Same guy?"

         I didn't want to think of that room anymore, I wanted it's memory to go away. It wasn't going to. "I'm pretty sure it is."

         "You can't know that, Price." Coleman doesn't get to call me Shannon.

         "Alvera, you need to get your dog on a leach, before he finds himself castrated." God I really want a cigarette. Ten years has been long enough without one. Right?

         Coleman took a step to me, but it was all bluster and bother. He knew he didn't want to cross that line with me again. Alvera stopped him with an easy hand on his arm. I could see the relief in his eyes, he hid it well.

         "There was a fingerprint left on the bottom corner of the mirror and I'm pretty sure it matched the shade the victim was wearing. The fingerprint will be the next victim's. The fingerprint's owner was forced to torture the victim."

         "Tortured how?"

         I paused to look at Coleman for a moment and I wonder, is he really this daft, or does he think I don't know what I'm talking about.

         "Yes, dumbass, torture. She was cuffed behind her back. Rope was tied around her neck, run down her back and tied to her ankles very short and tight, so any movement to straighten the legs would choke her. So if her ankles were moved back and forth she would be choked by the movement. While that was happening he cut her repeatedly with small tiny motions. They wouldn't have bled very much, but they would have stung. Torture."

         "He likes his girl's clean shaven. So that would have been done by fingerprint, while the victim was handcuffed. He would have watched from somewhere within the room. The razor and shaving cream removed from the bathroom will have very little evidence; they would have been wiped down and cleaned. Most likely with the same alcohol used to clean the victim."

         "The clothes from the closet would hold no evidence either and they will not be the victim's size. It's the same fucking guy."

         I could feel daggers coming from Coleman's eyes as I pushed off the car and headed for the driver side door. Alvera stopped the door as I was pulling it open. Coleman had turned and walked off, not too far, but far enough to get away.

         "Are you ok?"

         "I've been better."

          Alvera smiled a sad smile, "Shannon, she's still out there, alive. You have to believe that."

         "I want to, but it's getting harder and harder."

         She let the door go and stepped back. I climbed behind the wheel and my throat closed up. I could feel the tears welling up again.

         "I'll get you a copy of the report when I can."

         I nodded and started the car. Alvera closed the door and walked away. My vision blurred as I shifted into gear and drove off.






         

Chapter Three

         The waitress was pretty, but in an ordinary way. You would take notice of her when she came near, but as soon as she was out of sight she would be forgotten. You wouldn't make up stories about her to impress your friends. She dropped off their orders; hot apple pie with melted cheddar for Alvera and a breakfast skillet, extra bacon for Coleman. Alvera watched the soft sway of the waitress' hips as she walked away. Coleman didn't notice her wandering eye.

         "I can't believe you called him to the scene this morning, Andrea." Coleman said with a hint of frustration as he seasoned his food.

         Alvera had reached the point where she could drown out Coleman's constant complaining over the events of the morning. From the moment Price drove off, up until this very moment, Coleman hadn't stopped groaning about it.

         "Andrea, he's a disgrace. He was kicked off the force for striking another officer. Yet, you decide to let him walk a closed crime scene. I just don't get it."

         "I didn't call him and you know it. He was my partner, Coleman."

         "He's a god damned disgrace and you damn well know it!"

         Alvera stopped a bite of pie halfway to her mouth and dropped it back on her plate. She had finally had enough.

         "You don't know a damn thing about Shannon Price. He was kicked off the force for whipping your ass after you made a careless joke about his missing daughter. Don't think for a moment that I've forgotten that or that anyone else has. I'm your partner because the brass thought it would help calm things down around the department if you were put with Shannon's old partner."

         "Shannon and I worked this case for two and a half years. Every three months a new girl would turn up, each girl would turn up six month after her disappearance. A year and a half ago Shannon's daughter disappeared and a note was found telling him this same guy had his daughter and it was signed the Puppetmaster. Few people know that this serial killer has Shannon's daughter. Few people know that she hasn't turned up yet, the only missing girl to break the sixth month pattern."

         "Now you know why he showed up at the crime scene. So the only words I want to hear from you for the next hour is, check please."

         Alvera took her forkful of pie and chewed it slowly, in silence, until Coleman raised a hand to call for the check.







         

Chapter Four