I reach the apartment complex across the city in record time. After bullying my way through the mob of curious onlookers and reporters, I flash the shield I wear around my neck at the beat cops, then duck under the yellow tape once getting the go-ahead. Jimenez waits in the doorway of the small apartment, his ebony eyes focused on my approach. He dons his usual attire of a dark button-up shirt and black slacks. He never wears a tie, which makes me appreciate him even more. Alec, my craptastic ex-husband, wore them. He owned a tie for every single day of the month and even when I loved him; I found that pretentious.
The fact I came dressed in my white tank-top, spandex pants and tennis shoes doesn't seem to faze him, thank you Jesus. I feel pretty damned vulnerable right now and am longing for a long billowy flannel. Or a titanium shield. Whatever.
As I remember how odd he sounded, I rush to him, nodding my head in his direction in a quick, silent greeting before following him deeper into the shadowy apartment.
The strands of my long hair have escaped the ponytail and stick to my sweaty face and shoulders, a reminder of how uncovered I am. A few cops rubberneck in my direction, and I wince. I usually dress in tailored suits, my hair pulled back, while wearing an emotionless stare. I look like a normal woman now, and that doesn't bode well with me. My suits are barriers, my tight buns are high walls, and my expressionless stares are weapons. That cool demeanor is how they're used to seeing me.
How I function rationally on a normal day.
Ah, but life likes to throw you a swift kick to the nuts, figuratively speaking, and for the next few hours I'd be exposed to my coworkers.
Just grand.
Lorenzo places a hand on my shoulder, postponing our descension into the crime scene and leans in close, his gaze burning into me. "The vic is a kid, Lindsey," Lorenzo murmurs. "Are you ready for this?"
The walls are closing in and the shadows are elongating around me while I struggle to breathe. I'm certain my heart has grown blades and is stabbing my insides with every palpitation, His features are all I can make out through the haze of near panic, and I can sense he's monitoring every expression crossing my face. I bite back the urge to ask him how fucking stupid he is. Even if I didn't have a past, who the hell is ready to face a kid vic whether it be their first time or fiftieth?
But I know I gotta hold myself together if I want to succeed in this new life the department has given me. I waited my whole damn life to be a dick and I can't let anything stop me.
"Yeah." I whisper back, holding his stare with more bravado than I feel. I haven't been a dick long, just over a year, and this will be my first kid case. I've been lucky enough to avoid child homicides, but my luck just ran out.
He must believe me, because he nods and hands me a pair of latex gloves before leading me to the scene with a determined stride. I've no choice but to follow him, all the while wondering if I'm getting in over my head. Should I have told him the truth? Told him about why I can't handle dead kids, and serve him up the condensed version of my past? If I did, they'd send me home and reevaluate my position in the department. I fought too long, lost too hard to give up my ambitions now. Even though I feel as if I might vomit, I keep walking. Everything is riding on this moment.
Shit.
This is my job, I remind myself, mentally demanding that I stop acting like a nutcase and focus, so I take in my surroundings, searching for anything I find out of place.
The apartment is ground level, next to the complex pool. The place is meticulously clean and decorated in a mishmash of southwestern and Mexican style furniture and artwork. Whoever cares for the home keeps a nice place, but the appearance of the apartment exhibits financial issues, which can be a concern. At the most, she purchased her wall hangings and paltry furniture at second-hand stores. Not that there's anything wrong with that, however, financial difficulties can cause stress and lead to a person to act out in ways that they normally wouldn't. But I don't know the details yet so I don't want to form an opinion until I can see for myself what's what.
There are crucifixes of all colors and sizes hanging in every room that I walk through, so there's no real surprise to see one in the child's room as well. Dark, satirical thoughts spread through my mind. Pretty defective those damn things seem to be when his body lay dead not ten feet away from the sad icons of protection and salvation.
Wonder if God gives refunds?
On his chest of drawers lay a shrine of lit spiritual candles, a rosary, and various religious saints. Not being Catholic myself, I couldn't tell you which saint represented what, and how it all worked. However, I can tell you it looks like a saint reunion on the dresser, for there were so damn many of them.
I'm certain the mother put this shrine together to protect her child, but it seems like overkill. Paranoia, maybe? What the hell was she protecting him from?
And then, as my eyes rest on the tragedy in the room, my entire world implodes, suffocating me as I approach his small bed covered in Scooby Doo sheets. He lies on them, still frozen in time. Another child lost. Another innocent light snuffed out by cruel hands.
His empty brown eyes stare at the ceiling in his death state. His shiny black curls and mocha colored skin are clean and soft through the latex of my gloves. Within the eerie chill of death, there lingers a sense of the warmth he once exuded, and one could envision the child he had once been.
There is nothing amiss on or around him. His little blue polo shirt and black slacks are perfectly clean and dry. His shoes lay neatly by his bed and his bright white socks still cover his tiny feet. I can feel my heart splintering inside my chest. I wasn't even aware I still had one until now. This is my first kid case since becoming a detective, and I expect it to wretchedly kick my ass.
Kids are my kryptonite.
According to Lorenzo, the boy's name is Diego Montes. He is four years old at the time of death. Nausea's wicked claw grips my guts as he explains everything in raw detail.
"The boy's blood has been drained from his body, fast and careful. Not one drop has been found on or around him. Sheets, clothes, and carpet, all clean."
I manage to swallow back my emotions, keeping my eyes averted to the boy, my every movement full of apparent purpose. I become cold as death inside and struggle to not draw attention to how disturbed I am by this. Not only because he's a child, but his manner of death. It's chillingly familiar, but I find the idea plain impossible.
I must be wrong!
"There are two puncture wounds, side-by-side on his left wrist. Presumably, that's where the perp, somehow, syphoned Diego's blood," he says, trying to sound matter of fact, but the sadness in his eyes gives him away. I gently touch the boy's cooling limp hand, turning it slightly to see the bruised punctures, and my fractured heart skips.
Just like her and two others in Brooklyn not so long ago, I muse to myself.
Just like Rose.
Her memory threatens to expose me before my partner and the other cops wondering about the dark halls. Her hair, her smile, her freezing cold little body…
My eyes burn, then grow so dry they become gritty as I carefully lay the boy's hand back down on the bed and brush my fingers along his knuckles. Brooklyn is far away, I remind myself. But this method of killing isn't an everyday occurrence.
Unable to look at the beautiful boy any longer I glance away and make quick work of examining the room for answers, needing to move. I'm a bitch. I comprehend this truth and I'm down with it. But this bitch used to be a mother and that maternal side of me mourns Diego. Heavy emotion threatens to spew forth like vomit, but I fight the impulse winning for the moment.
"The father is convicted of domestic violence and battery on a household member." Jimenez says. He whispers, as if afraid of disturbing the child. I look to Lorenzo with interest, walking around the bed to check out the mysterious Catholic shrine.
"Is there a restraining order on file?"
Jimenez joins me at the dresser and nods, "Yeah. It was court ordered six months ago, preventing him any contact with his wife and son. We have a BOLO out for him. Hopefully, we will get him soon."
"Who found the boy," I ask. I turn to face him directly, grabbing my dick-side with both hands, while hoping it will keep me afloat. I need the cop in me to put a cork on the mother I used to be, which is threatening a hostile takeover. The mother can't handle what's happening.
But the dick can.
"The mother, Angelica Montes, came to wake her son from his nap and found him dead. She claims she didn't hear any sounds from the boy's bedroom and there's no sign of forced entry. The lock on the window is still in position," he says, nodding his head toward the only window in the room. "The mother's hands are clean, no sign of blood or defense wounds on the boy. It's all so," his jaw works as he struggles to keep his anger silent, but black sentiment laces around his last word, "sterile."
I bite back a scoff. It may appear that way, but killing kids is some dirty, dirty shit. And as badass as I want to be right now, I just don't know if I have the strength to face this case. But if I want to keep my job, then I gotta do this. I lost my choices when I chose this work.
Goddamn it.