I need, no matter how my brain screams at me, to stop, and brief myself on her case. After her death, and my break, I never read the files on her…never wanted to see the findings because I was certain I couldn't handle it. Truthfully speaking, I haven't come to terms with the fact that my child is a murder victim. I remember giving birth to her, never once considering that I would end up burying four years later. That I would see her lifeless body lying in the backyard, stripped of life...drained of every drop of her blood. I only say my beautiful girl, imaging her growing up, and making a life for herself, not being murdered.
That should have never been in the cards for Rose Marie Lindsey. She would be in fifth grade now, learning school shit had some fuck not killed her. She would be in fifth grade right now if some fuck hadn't stolen her blood. She would be in fifth grade had I been with her...
I stop, close my eyes and swallow hard, pushing the thoughts of her from my mind. I must focus, and deal with this whether or not I want to.
Although I'm still not ready to get acquainted with all the details, I recognize that if I'm to make heads or tails of this assignment, then I will need to endure the torment. I remind myself that I'm doing this for her.
Quickly, I soak up the tainted words regarding my child's death, a sort of emotional self-flagellation. A sick purification ritual which beats my brain in a diabolic rhythm. It ain't easy doing this shit. It feels like I'm reading an old Penny Dreadful, complete with trauma and horror, but it isn't fiction. It's my baby. With every disturbing word I absorb, it's like a stab to the chest, and I force myself to take in every hellish word. I take inventory, consumed by the eeriness of how similar her case is to Diego's.
As I sat in my black office chair, taking in the words through moist eyes, I hear a noise coming from my living room, pushing into my consciousness and pulling me from my thoughts. It resembles an amped up scratching sound, as if someone's running their nails leisurely along my walls. I freeze, heart in my throat, listening to the strange noises.
What the hell? Mice? It better damn well not be, considering how much I paid for this condo!
Then the scratching grows louder, more urgent, as if someone was edging their way closer to the hallway and I realize I need to act. This is not a drill. Someone is in my domain and it's no fucking rodent!
There are footsteps, soft but sure, accompanying the scratches.
In a flash I draw my weapon, and look towards the doorway, my heartbeat going rampant in my chest. The noises keep going, drawing forth my anxiety, but the cop in me comes on guard and I slowly rise to my feet. I take my 9mm semi-automatic weapon off safety and get ready to create some blood spatter.
Methodically, I ease my way into the hallway once I see it's clear. I raise the nozzle up as I side-step down the corridor, looking behind me and in front for any signs of danger. The scratching stopped once I left the office, but I know the presence remains in my home. I can sense it, a rippling invasion of what is mine gripes me. My bitchy senses are tingling, and I'm trying not to imagine the worst. I'm so exposed right now, and wish I have Jimenez her to back me, but I've never been the damsel in distress sort, always handling my bullshit myself. But damn, there are times I wish I wasn't so put off by the notion of asking for help. I know I could text him a 911 and he would come. But I can't find it within me to do that, gripping the butt of my weapon tighter instead, pushing forward to meet whatever danger lurkers beyond the corridor.
The closer I get to the living room, the more I notice the absolute worst aroma I've ever had the misfortune of smelling. It gags me, and I clamp my teeth together, hoping to keep the bile boiling around in my throat at bay. This odor is like nothing I can explain other than it resembled the stench of rotting flesh. But this isn't like a dead mouse, cat, or even a neighbor drifting through the open windows. This is more like a decomposing army festering directly in my living room, and it burns my eyes like tear gas.
As I reach the edge of the corridor, I pause, certain I see movement out of the corner of my eye. It seems as if someone just strolled past the kitchen window that is in front of the sink where the early afternoon sunshine is breaking through. The long, hunched over silhouette shifts, projecting along my walls and looks crazy as fuck. Who walks around all hunched over like that other than the evil stepmother in Snow White? Did an old, insane person with claws break into my home?
What the fuck is happening?
"Alright," I call out in my best cop tone," you just broke into my home. I am a police officer and I am armed. I urge you to lie down any weapons you may have and put your hands on your head. If you do not do this, I will shoot you between the fucking eyes! "
I'm scared. I can't help it, but I will shoot. Taking a life is something I've never done, despite my ten years on the force. And I can't say I won't feel bad for killing whoever is stupid enough to break into my home. But I can say, if I have to choose between their life and my own, well, I win.
Suddenly, the air shifts and what sounds like loud white noise erupts from the other room. The resonance grows louder and louder all around me, sending panic through me like a poison in my bloodstream. My lips draw back in a snarl from the pain in my head and the adrenaline that's pumping through my body. Although it seems never-ending, the experience only lasts a half a second and soon the static transforms into a strange hair-raising scream, forcing me to cover one ear with my free hand, wincing in pain. The shriek reminds me of a rabbit in pain, amplified by a microphone. It's chilling, this sound, and makes me long to run away, and hide for self-preservation.
But before I decide how to react, it fades, then the condo goes silent.
Rage kicks in right along with the sudden silence and with my weapon aimed to murder I fly around the corner, no longer willing to hide in the shadows. I walk boldly through my home ready to kill anyone I see. Fear incites violence. I feel fear and so I might have to incite violence. It makes perfect sense to me. This is my home and like everyone else in the world, I need to be safe in my home.
Even if I have to shoot a bitch.
After making my way through the condo, I find myself trapped in a state of confusion. The doors are locked and the window screens undisturbed. Whoever had broken in left, but how? Star Trek beaming? Nothing about this makes sense!
I wonder back to the living room in complete shock. My heart still pounds as I scan the room, seeking any sign that I'm not crazy. I experienced all of that. I smelled, but it was all gone, vanished, as if it hadn't been there at all.
The sudden sound of my cell ringing bursts through the uneasy silence causing me to jump and choke on my fear. The Darth Vader theme song startles me so much I nearly release a stream of bullets through the ceiling. Fuck!
I answer anxiously, hands trembling despite knowing it's my partner calling.
"Where are you, Lindsey? Angelica is waiting to be interviewed," Jimenez bites out on the other end unaware I'm swamped in mayhem.
"Right. Sorry. I'll be right there," I respond quickly through numb lips, then end the call, uncaring that hasn't hung up yet. I can't focus on him right then, for something on my chocolate brown couch has captured my full attention. I'd smile in relief if the situation wasn't so damn unnerving. It's evidence that someone had been my condo. I'm crazy.
"Halle-fucking-lujah," I murmur, leaning down to study the evidence of my dubious sanity.
There are several long strands of curly blond hair on one arm of the sofa. I have shoulder length, straight as an arrow, walnut brown hair and my only recent visitor was my upstairs neighbor who is a short-haired Asian woman. With bated-breath, I lift the hair and frown at the rough, almost straw-like texture of it. It isn't like any hair, real or artificial, I've ever touched. Grabbing a small sandwich bag from a kitchen cabinet, I place the materials inside before rolling it up and stuffing it in my jacket pocket. I'll find time to give it to the lab. But right now, I need to get gone because I had a date with a grieving mother.
And probably a pissed off partner.