9. Chapter Nine
Chapter nine
Nash
I finally got through everything in the case file yesterday.
Thursday. I’d hoped to have it done sooner, but I can’t put all my time on this case just yet, so I had other files to go over at the same time.
Plus, I had to go to the warehouse to get the surveillance videos that were submitted as evidence.
Of course, it wouldn’t be easy and they’d be on site.
It’s fine, though. It’s keeping me busy, and this is why I’m here.
There is nothing on the videos that help.
There are five total. Three from businesses in the area, and two from traffic lights.
The masked suspect only shows up on two of them, while the woman shows up on one.
It’s dark. The cameras aren’t the best quality, so they’re no help in seeing her face.
I still have one of the tech guys running the partial of the woman through our database though.
The suspect isn’t happening. There’s nothing to go off of, and no other evidence to show who he is.
All we have is his height and build, but it’s too common to matter.
The woman, though… this could be something if we can figure out who she is.
Maybe she knew her attacker. Maybe she could give us something.
Anything. Right now, that’s where I’m at.
Doesn’t seem like much, but it is something.
The reports showed nothing that will help me either—nothing I didn’t already know. Unlike some of the other cases, they were accurate and not mixed up in the wrong folder.
Ryan was an otherwise healthy young man who died because of a monster. He lost too much blood, and his body just couldn’t fight any longer, and finally gave up after only thirty minutes in surgery. They tried to resuscitate him to no avail.
Ryan Kinsley was pronounced dead at 10:32 p.m. on March 19th. The anniversary is coming up soon, marking the third year Carter has been without him.
It’s still new. Still fresh.
I don’t care what doctors or books say. There is no time limit for grieving a loved one.
Broken Heart Syndrome is a real thing.
Some swans never find another mate if theirs dies. I’ve seen videos of them refusing to leave the bodies of their mates, or even the place where they lost them, hoping they’ll come back.
It’s cruel to tell someone they’ve focused on losing someone for too long. You can’t put a limit on that because some people feel things so deeply that the pain never goes away. And they have to live with that. Telling them it’s been too long just makes it worse.
Some people learn to live with it. Others don’t.
Every person is different, and that’s what we need to remember.
Maybe Carter isn’t living his life to the fullest, but our lives aren’t that different.
Which could say a lot about me, but I’m not getting into that.
I’m not judging how someone else chooses to live their life.
If he wants to be sad about his boyfriend dying, he has every right to be sad about that.
For the rest of his life, if that’s how he feels.
I get up to my office without having to make small talk with anyone, which is a bonus. Makes for a good day when I don’t have to waste brainpower on senseless conversation with people I can hardly remember.
I go through my normal routine once in my office, and when my coffee is sitting on my desk with Ryan’s case file a safe distance away, I pick up my cell and dial Carter’s number.
I’m surprised when he answers. I expected him to be at work and to leave a voicemail.
“Hello?”
“It’s Detective Bennett.”
“I know.”
“Right. I was just calling with an update. Like I said I would.”
“Okay.”
I clear my throat, then continue. “I’ve gone through everything in the file and reviewed the footage, which didn’t give me much.” He scoffs. “But I have the tech team running the woman’s face through facial recognition software. Right now, she’s our best lead.”
“You have her face?”
“Partial. It’s blurry, and dark, but—”
“Doesn’t sound like much,” he says with no emotion.
“I won’t lie and say it is a lot. I’ve had more and still not solved cases. But I’m trying here. I know you are too.”
It’s silent for a moment, then he says, “I am. What else can I do?”
“I’d like to meet again to go over some more details. If that’s okay?”
“When?”
“You tell me. I’ll work with your schedule.”
“I have support group tonight. It ends around seven, unless that’s too late?”
“Not too late.”
“Well, it’ll take me some time to get home. The subway is—”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“You’ll… pick me up?”
“Sure, why not? Just send me the address, and I’ll be there at seven.”
“Uh… okay. I’ll text it to you soon. I’m at work.”
“Have a good rest of your day, Carter.” I try my best to use a tone that tells him I mean it, but I’m not so good with that sort of thing.
“Thanks. You too.”
He ends the call, and I put the phone down on my desk.
I stare at it for a while, just wondering what the hell I’m going to do about solving this case.
Because I have to. I don’t know why I feel so deeply about it when I’ve looked at plenty of case files since being here.
But this one… it’s sticking out. Carter needs peace, and I need to be the person to give it to him.
I get a text from Jericho around three letting me know he’s packing up and will be heading home soon, and he’ll call me when he gets to the airport. He took a three-month “vacation” to clear his head and figure out his life.
I’m worried about him, but every time I’ve spoken to him, I’ve stayed strong. I need to be strong for him. I always have, even before our parents died. That’s what big brothers do.
I spend my afternoon going through case files, making notes, and calling witnesses and people who left statements.
Most of the numbers are wrong because people change them over the years.
I, of course, have ways of finding them, and I will, but not today.
It’s all part of the notes I make for myself, and I’ll get that all done on Monday and start fresh with calling people again.
I can’t start something at the end of the week like this, because then I’ll only worry about it all weekend and end up working.
No matter the case, everyone I speak to is shocked, not expecting a call from a detective asking about a murder that happened a few years ago.
Some people get hopeful, and I have to speak to them carefully.
Just because I’m looking into things doesn’t mean I’m going to solve it.
It doesn’t even mean the case will officially be re-opened, so I have to tread carefully.
I’ve already had plenty of people get angry with me.
Grief will do that to you. I don’t take it offensively.
If I did, I’d never be able to do this job.
But I didn’t get here by having thin skin and wearing my emotions on my sleeve.
I bury them deep down and act like they aren’t there.
I’ve learned a lot about grief from dealing with my own.
I didn’t have anyone to turn to or speak with, so I did the digging on my own.
Learned from my own feelings and actions.
I’ve used those feelings to do what I do now, pushing myself harder to help others since there’s nothing I can do for myself.
I’ve dealt with it the best I can, there is no more resolution for me. I’ve hit a dead end.
My father killed my mother. Then he killed himself. What more is there? He’s gone. There was no arrest, no trial, no jail time. No letters from him begging for forgiveness. No apology. No worries of parole or him coming after me.
So no, I can’t do anything about my story but I can help others get closure.
Nightmares still plague me at times, though not as often as they used to. I’d see my father’s face morph into an actual monster with big teeth and claws, his voice sounding nothing short of demonic as he told me and my brothers to watch or he’d kill us.
Which is exactly what he said that day.
We believed him, so we did. We watched as he shot my mother. The one parent I loved dearly. The only person who ever truly understood me. She was my mother, and I was her baby—her first. He took that from me.
I still remember the way the blood sprayed against the wall and the thud her body made when it crumpled to the wooden floor.
It felt like hours but it was only seconds before he put the gun beneath his chin and pulled the trigger for the second time.
By then, I was so gone I don’t remember hearing a thud or seeing blood spray.
But it was there. Blood was everywhere, pooling beneath their bodies, on the ceiling, the walls, even on us.
I always thought it was funny the way his body fell over hers.
Anyone seeing the scene might’ve thought he was protecting her.
Holding her. Loving her. They wouldn’t know he’d been the one to kill her.
They wouldn’t know that the closest he ever came to shielding my mother was after she was already dead.
But at that point, there was nothing to shield her from because he was the danger.
I’ll never know why he spared us. Why he didn’t just kill us all. Not that I want that. I don’t. I, like Carter, am not suicidal… but it has crossed my mind that I should be. This is just one of those things that fucks you up so hard, so deep, that it’s impossible to get over.
Maybe it’s spite that keeps me going. Maybe it’s the hatred I have for my father, wanting to prove that I am not him. That I’m a good man. That I do the opposite of hurting people. I help them. I heal them. Something he couldn’t even begin to understand.
Then there’s my brothers. I do it mostly for them. Because they’re all I have.