Cellar Full of Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery #2 Page 6

  “You get to town and already you’ve got a soapbox,” Cole chided with a smile.

  “I just think there’s more to this than the police are willing to admit.”

  “How did she survive the attack?”

  “Nobody can quite figure that one out. A friend of her brother’s found Camilla and brought her home. They’re a poor farm people who immigrated from a tiny village in Guatemala. They’re scared to death they’re going to be sent home. When the father found out she was raped, he beat her. Cole, she’s only eight, and he blames her for the attack! The mother brought her into the ER because of vaginal bleeding. Her other injuries were discovered on examination. The father beat her up pretty bad, but he beat her with his belt. No way he caused the neck injuries.”

  “Has she said anything?”

  “Nothing that makes much sense. She keeps repeating “como las manos de una mujer” over and over. It means “like a woman’s hands.”

  “Woman’s hands?” Cole repeated.

  “I was wondering if you know of a database that cross-references or logs these types of cases. Maybe some patterns we could look at. I don’t know, maybe I’m nuts, but I just think the cops are slacking on this one.”

  “How about I make a couple of calls and see what I can find out. I think I’m going to move up my timeline for moving out there, so I’ll probably see you in the next couple of weeks. It would be nice to have a little down time before I jump from one frying pan into another.”

  “That would be great. I’d love to give you a tour of the hospital. I’m pretty proud of where I have landed.”

  “There’s a kid at the Chronicle that I’ll have turn up something. In case he gives you a call, his name is Randy Callen. He can get you whatever you need. I’ll give my buddy Tom Harris a call, too.” Cole paused, considered a thought bouncing around in his head. “Ben, what if I wrote about this? It could get the public to set a fire under the police.”

  “Something needs to.” Ben sounded defeated.

  “Best case, the police will figure out the cases are unrelated, and there won’t be any more killings.”

  “Worst case?” Ben asked.

  “We’re too late to help the next little girl. We don’t dwell on worst cases. You’ve got the ball rolling on this thing, so let’s see how fast we can get some action.” Cole felt that his words were shallow, and he wished he had taken longer to respond. “What kind of doctor would you be if you didn’t care?”

  “Is that why my mom keeps calling me Ben Casey?”

  “Vince Edwards and Sam Jaffee, 1960s doctor show,” Cole said, proud of his trivia effort.

  “Gunga Din,” Ben said stoically.

  “What?”

  “Sam Jaffe played Gunga Din in the movie with Cary Grant.”

  “That’s right! How do you know this stuff?”

  “Thanks, Cole, let me know what you find out.” The pleasure of one-upping Cole was evident in Ben’s voice.

  “Yeah. Talk to you soon.”

  Cole set the phone down. He stood for a long moment, looking down at the mess on his desk. He looked over the tops of the grey, carpeted cubicles. Here and there, people stood talking, just heads and shoulders floating on a sea of grey. As he stood silently, taking in the scene, Cole realized how noisy the newsroom was. Phones ringing, keyboards clattering, people talking, and the whirring undertone of copy machines, printers, and computers.

  His talk with Mick Brennan, followed by Ben’s call, once again showed Cole how fleeting life was. He thought of the old warhorse sitting upstairs alone in his office waiting for the clock to run out on a life of words and deadlines. His thoughts shifted to a filmy shadowy figure—a fleeting image, really—a dark, unseen someone in San Francisco taking the lives of young girls. Then he thought of his granddaughter, Jenny. The little girls whose lives were ended so brutally were not much older than Jenny.

  EIGHT

  Cole ran his finger over the top of his Rolodex. He flipped to “H” and dialed the first number in the section. The number was answered on the second ring. “Lieutenant Harris, Homicide.”

  “Hey, Tom. It’s Cole. Got a minute?”

  “Hey, buddy, what’s up?”

  “My son-in-law, Ben, just called from San Francisco. They have a case at his hospital that’s bothering him. Do you have any inside dope on child abuse or child murder, abductions, stuff like that that I could look at? I’m thinking of doing a feature piece on it.”

  “What kind of case?”

  “Little girl about eight. Somebody tried to break her neck. Two other little girls have been found with their necks broken with a similar injury. Ben said it was like their heads were twisted until their necks snapped, like ringing a chicken’s neck.”

  “Jeez.”

  “San Francisco PD so far isn’t seeing the connection. Seems there’s a big gang war brewing, and they’re all tied up with that. Can’t scare the tourists off. I guess the pathologist is an acquaintance of Ben’s, and he claims it’s the same MO on all three victims.”

  “Where were they found?” Harris asked.

  “Not sure exactly. Different parts of the city, though.”

  “Sometimes we’re our own worst enemy. What are those guys thinking?”

  “Limited resources and pressure from on high.” Cole cleared his throat. “Something else I want to talk to you about, too.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I took a job at the Chronicle while I was in California.”

  “You’re kidding,” Harris said in disbelief.

  “Nope, start in about six weeks. You’re the first to know.”

  “Wow, what brought that on? Stupid question. Does Erin know?”

  “Oh, yeah. She’s the reason—well, her and Jenny.” Cole was finding it hard to tell his old friend that he was leaving. “The crazy thing is Ben took a job in San Francisco, too. I didn’t even know it. Big teaching hospital.”

  “When are you going to tell Brennan?”

  “I can’t work up the guts. Would you believe he just told me I should go find a job someplace else before he dies?” Cole swallowed hard to get rid of the lump coming up.

  “Seems to me that was your big chance.”

  “I don’t know. It seems like I’m abandoning him. He has done so much for me over the years.”

  “Man, this is a surprise. Who will I have to abuse now?”

  Cole laughed. “We’ve come full circle.”

  “Nice way to change the subject. There is an organization called—here we go—National Center for Missing and Exploited Children in Virginia. You should give them a call.” Harris read off the phone number. “One of their people spoke at several department meetings a couple of years ago. They probably know more about child abuse than anybody, except maybe the FBI. They’re real good about sharing, and their website is pretty good. Trouble is, this guy’s M.O. is not bringing up any clear matches in the system either geographically or in the way he’s killing the girls. There’s just not enough data yet.”

  An uneasy silence prompted Cole to end the call. “Yet. Well, all right, that should get me started. Thanks for your help, Tom. I’ll call you later. Maybe we can get together.”

  “Sounds good.” Harris cleared his throat. “I’ll miss you, Cole.”

  “Yeah,” Cole said softly, and hung up.

  Cole ran his finger over the buttons on the phone. He was going to miss Tom Harris. They had been through a lot together. The death of Tom’s first wife, Laurie, his getting shot, Cole’s “dark years”. They were there for each other and laughed and fought and cried together. A friendship was forged that Cole cherished. Tom Harris was perhaps the best friend Cole ever had. He’d be hard to replace.

  There was no putting off telling Mick Brennan about the job in San Francisco now. He would do it after lunch. The idea for the story on child abuse would be a way into the office, and then he would tell him. Even though Brennan practically ordered him to find a new home, Cole felt a deep sense of betrayal,
guilt, or maybe it was disloyalty. He needed comfort food before facing this task. He’d go around the corner to Phil’s Place and have meatloaf. That always helped.

  Call it a bad omen, bad luck, or bad timing, but Phil was out of meatloaf. Cole ordered a hot turkey sandwich, but it didn’t do the same magic he was anticipating from meatloaf. As he made his way back to the Sentinel, Cole looked around and wondered what it would be like not to walk these streets. For so many years he crisscrossed the city, chasing down leads, interviewing its people, and watching the 20-year evolution of a place where he lived but never felt at home.

  Olajean Baker shot Cole a look he recognized as the precursor to an interrogation.

  “Turn around, let me see the seat of yo’ britches.”

  “What for?” Cole asked.

  “The way you dragging yo’ ass, I would expect to find two big ol’ holes worn through. What’s eatin’ at you, Cole? You look awful.”

  Cole couldn’t help laughing. The sound of this 300-pound Black charmer kicking into her Afrocentric street jive for the sole purpose of lifting his spirits never failed. The former militant revolutionary known as Tashira was one of the wisest and most articulate people Cole ever had known. Widely read and self-educated, she was a resource that was untapped and completely wasted at a receptionist’s desk.

  As far as Cole was concerned, she was as qualified and capable as anyone at the paper. Yet she chose to stay year after year, answering phones and taking messages, greeting visitors and signing the UPS log.

  Of everyone in Chicago, he would miss Olajean most of all. She was part friend, part confidante, part mother-protector, and someone who he loved and who loved him unconditionally. Through all the fat and lean years they knew each other, they laughed and argued, cried and danced, and always told the truth.

  “I have something to tell you,” Cole began, “and it hurts worse than I thought it would.”

  “We ain’t getting’ married after all?” Olajean’s wisecracking was shadowed in the realization that something was coming that she really didn’t want to hear.

  “I’ve taken a job in San Francisco, at the Chronicle. I leave in two weeks.” Like tearing off a bandage, bad news always seemed to hurt less if it was done in one quick shot.

  Olajean pursed her lips. “When did this come about?”

  “When I went out at Christmas. Chuck Waddle called just before I left, and I met with him in San Francisco before I went to see Erin. He made me an offer—and I took it.”

  “Just like that?”

  “No. Well, yes, just about. I need a change, and now that Ben and Erin have moved to San Francisco, it just seems like it was meant to be. I’ll be close to them and Jenny.”

  “You told Brennan? He ain’t gonna like it.”

  “I’m on my way up right now. I just felt like I needed to tell you first.”

  “What am I gonna do without your sorry old self in my life?”

  “Maybe find that Prince Charming you’ve been avoiding.”

  “I’d have to kiss a whole swamp full of bullfrogs to find a prince big enough to handle this!” She gave a sweeping motion to introduce her girth. “Serious, now, what are you gonna tell Mr. Brennan?”

  “This morning, he told me to go out and find a new job. He said things would change after he’s gone and that this was my chance to make a new start. I clammed up and didn’t tell him I already did. I chickened out.”

  “It’s kind of a tightrope with him. I know you. You think you’re deserting him. You can’t look at it like that. Too many times, we do things thinking we’re helping somebody, and they die anyway and there we are. Look what all I did for my mama. I don’t begrudge her, but just the same, she died, and those 15 years are gone and ain’t comin’ back. When he goes, you’re on your own around here. There’s folk layin’ for you, and you know it.”

  “I am going to miss you, Queen Jean.” Cole reached across the reception counter and patted Olajean’s cheek. She took his hand, held it to her cheek, and closed her eyes.

  “I will miss you, too,” Olajean said softly. “Now get out of here before I start bawlin’ and ruin my new $20 eyelashes.”

  Cole grabbed the door handle as Olajean buzzed him through. Telling Olajean he was leaving broke down a barrier. He felt a relief and finality to his decision. Telling Brennan would not be easy, but it must be done, and Olajean’s reaction softened the dread.

  Mick Brennan was sitting at his desk, his head down and his hand on his forehead.

  “Got a minute?” Cole said, tapping lightly on the doorframe.

  Brennan’s head jerked up. “Yeah, sit down.”

  Cole approached the desk and remained standing. “Got an idea for a story I want to run by you. My son-in-law Ben called, and he has a strange case of an abused little girl. Sexually assaulted and somebody tried to ring her neck. She’s in pretty bad shape—”

  “What’s a beat-up kid in San Francisco got to do with us?” Brennan interrupted.

  “The angle was more child abuse in general. She would just be the hook. The weird thing is, there’ve been two other little girls murdered with the same MO. Ben thinks they’re connected.”

  “Dr. Ben, amateur detective, huh?”

  Cole didn’t take the bait. Brennan’s surly response would not detour him from a story that he knew would make strong copy.

  “So, I think it would make a good feature piece.”

  “Everybody’s doing child abuse stories. Everybody’s got their angle. How many of these stories do you think have been written by people who’ve been molested?”

  “I don’t know, Mick. That’s not the point.” Cole was trying to keep in mind how sick Brennan was. The old power dance and locking horns when the editor didn’t immediately take a liking to one of Cole’s ideas just didn’t seem to be the natural response now. The words and posturing were there, but neither of their hearts was in it.

  “I just thought it was topical, timely, and has an interesting twist.”

  “And you’re the guy to do it?”

  “I am what I am.” Cole did a bad Popeye impression.

  “Well, what you’re not, son, is a survivor, an abuse victim, someone who knows the shame and anger year after year, the nightmares, the impotence, the questioning who you are and why someone would do unspeakable things to your body.” Mick Brennan stared into Cole’s eyes.

  “What are you saying, Mick?”

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll go to my grave with the secret I’ve carried for nearly 60 years.”

  Cole could hear his heart pounding in his chest. He bit his bottom lip and breathed slowly through his nose. He was at a complete loss for what to say. He stood frozen looking at a man he thought he knew. For 20 years, this man lectured him, guided his career, and acted as a father figure to him—and never once did Cole have the slightest hint that he held such a dark secret.

  “So, are you going to stand there staring at me like some freak in a sideshow or interview me?”

  Cole scratched the side of his head, reached into the old Hershey’s Cocoa can on Brennan’s desk and took a pencil. He glanced around the room and saw a yellow pad on the arm of the sofa. He flipped over the top sheet on the pad and sat across from Brennan’s desk.

  “When was this?”

  “I was eight.”

  “Who did it?”

  “What’s this, the five Ws and the H? I taught you better than that.” Brennan made what should have been an ironic jest into a plea to draw him out.

  Cole’s mind raced. He did not want to know what was to come. This was too personal, too naked, too far inside the soul of someone he had always held as a superior being.

  “Mick, I don’t—”

  “Don’t what? You only deal with stories of people at arm’s length? Strangers who you play now-you-see-them, now-you-don’t with? Come on, reporter! Here’s a scoop! Do it.”

  “Why now?”

  “That’s easy. I’m dying.” Brennan gave a soft chuckle.

/>   “So, we’re talking the end of the war. What? About 1948?” Cole asked.

  “Summer 1948.”

  “I know you grew up in Kansas. Were you living there?”

  “Yes, but it didn’t happen there. We went to see my mother’s oldest sister. She and her husband lived on a small farm just outside Burlington, Iowa. My Uncle Marlin never came back from Italy. Never found a body. My dad always said he just decided to stay, so he disappeared.

  “It was a great little farm, as I recall. The kind of place where a kid can run wild all day and never get into any trouble. We’d been there about a week when a cousin of my mother’s showed up. He was a draft dodger. Never could stay in one place too long for fear of being caught. The war was over, though, and the threat of being caught was pretty much forgotten.”

  “What was his name?” Cole didn’t take his eyes from his yellow pad.

  “Larry. Lawrence, actually. My Aunt Ruth called him ‘Lawrence.’ I remember a lot of whispering in the kitchen when he first arrived. I don’t think my mother was too happy to see him. Aunt Ruth seemed to like him a lot, though.” Brennan cleared his throat.

  “What do you remember about him?”

  “He was ugly. He was tall and skinny with big crooked teeth and ears that stuck straight out from his head. He looked like he was made up of parts left over from normal people. His face and neck were covered with big deep burgundy acne welts. I remember walking past the bathroom, and seeing him wearing just his undershirt and trousers. His shoulders looked like a horrible lumpy disease was eating him. I remember he was leaning over the sink and looking in the mirror. He was using a sewing needle, trying to pierce a huge acne bump in his ear lobe. He turned and looked at me and asked me if I would like to help ‘pop the weasel.’ I just ran off.”

  “Sounds like a charmer.”

  “That’s the funny part. Years later, my mom and aunt were still joking about Larry the Lady Killer. He was always talking about the beautiful girls he went out with and how they were crazy about him. My mom and aunt always joked that they must have been crazy.” Brennan gave a soft huff out his nose.