SquidgeWorld Archive

Leaving 7

Big Boys, Bears, and Boo-Boos

"Why are we responding to this, Jim?" I asked as we got out of the truck. "I mean, shouldn't it go to Homicide?"

Jim nodded. "Yeah, but the father is a prominent physician, whose brother is a city councilman, and every politician in town is watching this. The mayor himself called Simon and asked for us."

I shook my head. "Sometimes it just doesn't pay to be so good, does it, Jim?" I almost laughed as I watched ol' Stoneface stiffen and then relax when he realized he was being teased.

He cuffed me on the head -- well, he tried to. I've gotten good at ducking and I did laugh at the expression on his face -- irritation mixed with affection. It made me smile to realize Jim cared about me. It gave me a sense of security and stability that had been missing in my life for far too long.

We were almost at the front door when he stopped and took my arm. He held me there and looked at me seriously and said, "This is gonna be bad, Chief. It's a kid -- a little girl, and, well ..." He lifted his hand and ran it through his close-cropped hair. "It's just bad, Chief. If you have to -- leave -- it's okay."

I swallowed hard. I didn't get sick at crime scenes anymore. Hadn't for a long time. But if Jim felt he had to warn me -- well, let's just say I wasn't looking forward to going in there.

Jim nodded at the uniform at the door, an older guy named Barrett and he waved us both through. It was a nice house -- definitely upper middle class -- two stories, three-car garage, all the amenities. We walked through a slate-tiled foyer that was open to the roof with a massive crystal chandelier hanging from an open beam. It glinted in the sun and cast rainbows on the walls. The great room beyond had thick, plush carpet in a neutral beige and a huge stone fireplace took up one whole wall. I liked it. The hearth was higher than average and I knew someone had done that deliberately -- it would be perfect to sit comfortably on, even for someone tall like Jim.

Jim's hand pulled me back from my admiration, reminding me of why we were there. He steered me to the left, past a breakfast 'nook' the size of our living area, then through the kitchen -- all professional quality appliances with a walk-in freezer. Another short hallway past the door to the garage and we were in a pantry the size of my room. Shelves lined the walls and were filled with cans, boxes, bottles and bags. Bulkier items were arranged on the bottom shelves or sat on the floor. And over in one corner, behind a fifty pound bag of dog food and several huge multi-packs of toilet paper and paper towels, there lay the nude body of a young girl.

I froze. It didn't seem possible that one small body could bear so many bruises, shed so much blood. Her legs were scored with belt marks, and her inner thighs were covered in blood -- a sign that she had surely been raped. Her torso bore new bruises on old, and welts from the same belt had broken the skin in numerous places. One small, undeveloped breast had had the nipple cut off. Her arms were battered and bruised as well, and I knew if we turned her over, her back would be a mass of the same welts and bruises and blood. Her neck was ringed with purple, finger-sized marks.

But even so, with all of that, I was doing okay. I was breathing through my mouth like Jim taught me, and I'd tried hard to check my emotions at the door. I had one hand on his arm, grounding him as he studied the scene, and I was really doing okay. I just wasn't thinking, really. Couldn't let myself think. But I was doing okay, and I would have been okay, if it hadn't been for the kitty litter. The fucking kitty litter.

I looked at the child's face -- the angelic face that had been carefully left unmarked so that no one would know what went on at home, and saw where that beautiful face, that innocent face, had been brutally slammed against the elegant Pergo floor. And then -- someone had scattered kitty litter on the floor -- to absorb the blood.

To avoid staining the floor.

Because, you know, bloodstains were a bitch to get out.

And the floor was beautiful.

Top of the line.

Expensive.

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God ..." I wasn't even sure if I'd said it out loud.

I was going to be sick.

I squeezed Jim's arm -- the only warning I could give -- and then raced backwards through the house. There was nothing here to admire anymore. It all disgusted me.
I made it out the front door, and over to the hedge on the side of the yard, and then I anointed the bushes with my lunch. And continued to give up everything -- lunch, stomach acid, bile, until finally there was nothing left -- just dry heaves. I was bent over, hands on my thighs, gasping for air, struggling for control when I realized someone was holding my hair out of my face. And there was a soothing hand rubbing my back. I frowned for a moment and then I could hear words as well.

"Steady there, Chief, it's all right."

Jim.

Staying with me.

Looking out for me.

Taking care of me.

I gasped again, still breathing hard, and began to cough. When I could breathe again, a bottle of water appeared in front of my face. I looked up, expecting Jim's hand, Jim's arm, Jim's worried eyes, but instead found Officer Barrett. "Here ya go, kid," he said softly. "Rinse your mouth."

I nodded my thanks and rinsed, then spit, then drank. The water was tepid, but it still soothed my raw throat. "Thanks, man," I said, trying to pass the bottle back. "Haven't done that in a while."

I could see Jim tense, ready to pounce on Barrett if the man said the first wrong word, but he only shrugged and pointed a little further down the hedge row. Another, uh, mess. I looked up and smiled.

"Why do you think I'm out here, kid?" The older man ran his hand over his head and sighed heavily. "Been doing this a lot longer than you, Sandburg," he said, "and this one really did a number on me. That kid," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the house, "she could be mine. Same age, same size, same hair color -- everything." He rubbed his face, then covered his mouth for a long moment, first with his open palm, then with his fist. "I just wanna get the fuck outta here and go see my wife and kids." He patted my arm awkwardly. "Keep the water, kid. You and Ellison just work that magic that you're so famous for and catch this bastard fast. Don't let this be Jon-Benet all over again," he added as he lumbered off.

I watched Barrett walk away and then turned and looked at Jim. "When are you going to arrest him?" I asked.

Jim blinked and looked confused. "Arrest who?"

I frowned. Wasn't it obvious? "The father."

"Why?"

"Because he beat that little girl. He beat her and raped her and then he killed her." Why was I having to explain this to Jim? Shouldn't he know?

"We don't know that," Jim said softly, his face a mask of concern for me.

"I know." I was sure of it. I had first-hand knowledge of what grown men could do to small children. "This was not a stranger killing." Jim looked at me oddly. "The kitty litter," I said. He was still looking at me as if I'd grown a second head. "He put the kitty litter down to clean up the floor." Still no connection on Jim's face. "To soak up the blood," I said. "Because, you know, the floor is expensive." I could see the understanding dawn on Jim's face before he went all stone cold cop on me. His eyes darkened and his jaw clenched and his whole body went rigid. Good, I had convinced him.

But Jim needed proof. So, I figured we'd have to go back in and get proof. I was starting to tremble, but I headed back for the house anyway. Jim's hand on my arm stopped me.

"Where you going, Chief?" he asked as he held me in place.

"Back inside. With you." Why was I having to explain all this? "To get evidence." I was shaking in place now, my limbs trembling so bad I was afraid I was going to fall.
Jim tightened his grip on me and for a moment, I was leaning on him totally for support, but then I got my legs back under me. "We have to get the evidence," I said, and my voice sounded far away to my ears.

I tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let me go and for a minute I saw someone else holding me, someone big and strong and angry and I was very small. "I'm sorry!" I whispered. "I'll be good!"

"Blair? Blair!"

Jim was calling me. He was calling me Blair and he only did that when he was very serious or very worried. I wondered which one this was. I wondered where the other man went, the one who scared me. The one with the belt in his hand. I tried to look for him, but everything was turning gray and Jim was calling me again. I wanted to answer, but my mouth wouldn't work and then, everything went black.

I woke up in the truck.

I was lying across the seat with my legs sticking out the door, and Jim was standing between them, leaning over me. Something cool and wet was across my forehead. Jim was talking and after a minute, I managed to resolve the sounds into words.

" ... awake now?" he asked.

I nodded. I started to get up, but his hand on my chest prevented me.

"Just stay still a little longer there, Chief," he said quietly. "You went down pretty fast." He eyed me critically and I just knew what the next question was going to be. "You gonna tell me what happened?"

I shook my head. "Not here." I felt better and I really didn't want anyone to see me like this. Not everyone would be as understanding as Barrett. "Let me up, Jim," I said as I pushed his hand away.

He nodded reluctantly but helped me sit up. He wouldn't let me stand, but I didn't fight too hard on that since I still felt a little woozy. It was going away fast though, and in a couple of minutes, I was fine. He helped me to my feet.

"We need to go back in," I said softly.

"I don't think so, Blair," Jim said in that 'this is final and not open to negotiations' tone of his that I hate so much.

"Look, man," I told him, "her father did this. You may be the only one who can pin it on him."

"How?"

"Scent? The bruises matching his hand? Occult blood on his belt?" I raked my hair and Jim dug in his pocket and produced one of my hair ties. I don't know how he always ends up with them. "Shit. I don't know. But there has to be something."

Jim nodded slowly. "Okay, Chief," he said. "We'll go back in. But I can tell you now, his scent is bound to be on her -- he's her father."

"Semen," I said shortly.

"The killer wore a condom."

I lifted one hand and gripped his arm tightly. "Jim -- he did it. Please -- believe me."

His hand came out and he patted my arm. "All right, Sandburg, all right. Let's go see what we can find." He pulled me to my feet and we started across the yard again. "But tonight," he added, "I want to know what's going on."

I was sitting on the couch while Jim cleaned the kitchen. I was supposed to be working on a paper that was due next week, but my computer sat untouched in my lap. I'd tried to eat, but my stomach just hadn't wanted to cooperate and all I'd managed to do was worry Jim. He hates it when I don't eat.

But between the scene this afternoon and what I knew was coming tonight, there was just no way I could have managed to get anything down. I think Jim understood. I tapped out a few more lines, then went back and read what I'd done so far. It was gibberish. Complete and utter gibberish. Half of it didn't even pertain to the paper's subject and the other half was so poorly written, it caused me to stare at my fingers as if they had betrayed me. I sighed, deleted it all, and shut down.

Apparently this was a lost cause tonight.

All I could think of was -- the belt.

And then I started to shake.

Jim must have picked up on my heart rate, or maybe he could smell something different. Hell, it may have been my shaking was making vibrations in the air, but whatever it was, he was suddenly right there. He pulled me to my feet without a word, and engulfed me in his arms, holding me tight against his chest. I was trembling all over and I felt dizzy, but Jim just hung on to me and slowly, it all went away. First the dizziness, then the shakes, and finally, the fear. I was with Jim.

I was safe.

"He used to hit me with a belt," I said, my face buried in Jim's shoulder. He nodded, a movement I felt rather than saw, and slowly moved us to the couch, pulling me down to sit by him.

"I don't know what I did," I said in confusion. "I tried so hard to be good. I was quiet and I'd sit still when he told me. I tried not to ask questions or talk or anything, but he'd still get out the belt. I never could figure out what I was doing wrong."

"Shhhh, Chief," Jim soothed. "You didn't do anything wrong." He tapped my head gently. "You know that here. You were just a little boy."

"I was bad -- he told me."

"You were a child. He was bad. Not you. He was wrong. It wasn't your fault."

"I tried to be still -- I really did. But it was so hard." I looked over at him. "Sometimes, when you or Simon tell me to be quiet, to be still, it's like my heart just seizes up. I want to do what you tell me, but I know I can't and then I get all scared that I'm screwing up."

Jim's face fell -- there was no other word for it. Pure despair stared at me for a long minute, then was chased away by guilt. He closed his eyes and I watched as his neutral mask slipped on but he couldn't hold it. When he opened his eyes, there was nothing but pain and sorrow in them. "Aw, shit, Chief," he whispered, leaning over me so that his forehead was pressed against mine. "I had no idea ... Simon had no idea." He was still, just holding me, touching me, and then he murmured, "It won't happen again." His hand stroked my arm, comfort in every touch. I shifted and leaned against him again, letting his arm surround me and protect me.

"Naomi used to tell me, 'Be a big boy for Don,' but I didn't want to be a big boy. I wanted to be a baby and have Bear, and I didn't want to have a lot of boo-boos all the time." I pulled away from Jim as my face flushed. "I hated it there! Hated it!"

I stood up -- consumed with rage. "He beat me, Jim. I was just a little kid, and he beat me." I yanked my shirt off. "Are there scars?" I demanded, turning my back to him.

He stared for a moment, then his hand gently traced over my back. "Nothing visible," he said, the words ground quietly out through clenched teeth. "But here," a touch, "and here," another touch, "and here," his hand traced a short line, "I can feel them."

I fumbled at my belt and dropped my pants, my back still to Jim. I dragged my boxers down until my pants were at my knees. I should have felt ridiculous, but all I felt was fury. I had been a child! I had been beaten when I was just a child! "Well?" I demanded. "Go ahead. You can touch."

There was a long, long silence and then Jim said, "I don't have to. I can see them."

"How many?"

"Two -- on your ..."

"My ass."

"Yeah." He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. "Three more on your upper thighs. Two on the left, one on the right."

The rage had run its course and I was starting to shake again.

"Get dressed, Chief," Jim said quietly, but my hands didn't want to cooperate. He was there, as he always is and before I knew it, my pants were up, my shirt was back on and I was safely tucked up on the couch, wrapped in the afghan and leaning against him with his arm around me.

I wasn't crying. I couldn't figure out why I wasn't crying this time. It felt like I was done -- I'd told Jim; he'd seen the scars. "I knew I hadn't invented it, or made it up." I looked up at Jim. "I tried to tell, but no one would believe me. They said I -- lied." My face flushed again -- and I was furious at the people who had turned me away. Friends of Don and Naomi's, a teenage babysitter, a neighbor. "I was four fucking years old -- I didn't even know how to lie. But after Don had his little talk with me, it didn't matter. And then -- I was afraid to tell."

A name and a place flashed through my head, and suddenly, I remembered it all. "I tried to tell my mother Don had hit me and she wouldn't listen," I said as the tears finally began to fall. "Then Don told me he'd kill her if I ever told her again." I was clutching Jim's shirt, my hands fisting the material as I hung on for dear life. "I was terrified every time Naomi left me with him, even before we moved in. And it was impossible to avoid him once we lived there."

I was crying and shaking and Jim was holding me, letting me cling to him and patting my back and stroking my hair and murmuring those nonsense sounds I would never have imagined him to know how to make.

"I remember," I said, as the shaking eased and I felt the sleepiness of a post-adrenaline rush threaten to drag me under. Finally, after all those years, I was safe and nothing could harm me here. It was okay to remember. I snuggled in close to Jim, breathed in the scent of his shirt, my tears, his body. I was safe. I could do this.

"We lived in Elizabeth City, North Carolina," I said, my head pressed tight against his shirt. "And his name was Don Stanley."