Charlie’s Web

The flash from the crime scene photographer's camera blinds me for three seconds as I approach the grizzly scene. Radio chatter disturbing the quiet farm . My partner Hokaka is already documenting the scene. Her jet black hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail that would give me a headache. She looks up and our eyes meet. They tell me what I already know. Charlie has delivered his next victim.

The body is hoisted by the ankles. The rope allowing it to suspend is tied to a banister over looking the barnyard. Like all previous victims she is sealed in plastic wrap from the neck down. Her face is ghostly white. The medical examiner will find two punctured wounds on her right thigh. Cause of death will be exsanguination. A gust of wind dances around the rustic barn. The breeze allows the scent of strawberry shampoo to tickle my nose. I recall that her hair was wet when I saw her a few hours ago. Red ringlets clinging to her forehead and neck. Her waving goodbye from the doorway, smiling ear to ear, excited for her self-care Sunday. My sister-in-law isn't smiling now. The skin is taught across her forehead, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, a single ringlet still clinging to her forehead.

"She doesn't match his normal victim pattern."

Hokaka breaks the silence. She stands on the other side of my sister-in-law. Her body hanging between us, an unmoving pendulum. Hena was a thirty-four year old married housewife, mother of one and a redhead. Charlie's other five victims have been between the ages of twenty and twenty-five. Single, no children and all brunette.

"No she doesn't. This was a message just for me."

I reply.

"I'm so sorry Wylma."

Hokaka says. Her eyes similar to those of a Precious Moments Angel, deeply swimming of empathy.

I nod and turn to leave the barn. Given that Charlie has now made his sick game personal, Hokaka will now be point on the murders. I pull out my cell to call my brother.

Fernick's voice breaks as he tries to hold in a sob. Despite his best efforts, a few whispered gasps escape. My heart again breaking along with his.

“What am I going to tell AJ?”

He questions, more control in his voice now. His tone lets me know this is rhetorical. AJ would be sleep at this hour. Soft snores releasing from her seven year old frame.

I start to say more when familiar head beams steal me away from mine and my brother’s grief.

"I'll be home soon Nicky. I love you."

I hang up just in time to see Temora Jones arriving. The flashing red and blue lights dye her signature white patch of hair. I've moved closer to the police barricade during my call. Temora only has to take five steps from her car before we're eye to eye.

"Detective Nelson I understand Charlie's newest victim a Mrs. Nelson is of relation to you?"

She pretends to shuffle through her notepad for Hena's name. My jaw tightens. When I find the leak in the department, I’m personally going to cram my fist down their throat.

"You know how this works Temora."

If the coldness of my voice chills her she doesn't let it show.

"You really need to be more open to sharing Wylma.

She reaches a gloved hand in her knapsack and pulls out a letter and hands it to me. Just like the other letters the paper is creamy white, thick, and expensive. All previous communications from Charlie have been channeled through Temora. The penmanship is crisp. Handwriting analyst will say the author is educated, male, and of high socioeconomic status. Most likely white given victimology and between the age of twenty-five and forty.

I slide the letter into a clear evidence bag. Temora watches my face as I briefly glance It over. Letters before have described his victims as radiant beauties. His killings are to be viewed as terrific works of art. The tone of this letter however differs. It’s angry. He states that I must think of myself as some detective, and that he plans to humble me. Temora interrupts my reading.

"Sounds like he didn't take to kind to the last encounter you two shared."

She's trying to bait me with this comment.

"No comment Temora."

She shrugs.

"I'm just saying a man with his size ego wouldn't go quietly."

I walk away. Hokaka has exited the barn and heads towards me. I hand her the new letter she begins to read it over. I continue my stride. Hena's body is being loaded into the corner's van.

"Let me see her."

My request is quiet and earnest. The zipper is crisp as it's slips down to the top of her collarbone. The return of gravity has de-puffed her face from whatever fluid had gathered there. She resembles the only picture I have of my mother.

Temora has known me my whole life. Given her age one may have thought I would see her as a maternal figure. That lady doesn’t have a mothering bone in her body. Her cutthroat-ness has led to her successes in journalism. The clout her name carries is exactly why Charlie started sending his letters to her. It was the article she wrote about me that truly gave her the buzz she had been dying for. I have a worn copy of the article pressed in my favorite book along with the autopsy photo of my mother.

On July 16th 1989 at 3:15 P.M. a pregnant woman between the age of nineteen and twenty-four stumbled in to the ER at Hopeful Light Hospital. The woman was described as gaunt, barefoot, and obviously swollen with child. Her only words before collapsing were

"My baby is coming."

My mother had no identification nor could the authorities locate any missing person's reports on a pregnant black woman. My adoptive mother worked at the hospital. Her and her husband fostered me until enough time had passed and they could legally adopt me. She always told me I reignited the love between her and my father which allowed them to conceive Fernick. Once they passed it was just me and him until he found Hena. Like most cops I'm married to my work and I was thankful that Nicky had someone. Now because of Charlie it’s me and Fernick again and another little girl without a mother.

It's been a while since I've been to the farm at night. On the few occasions that I've kept AJ, I've always arrived midday and returned her before dusk. I volunteer to watch the scene for the first night in-turn breaking my promise to Nicky. Besides not being able to face him and AJ right now, I need to gather some of their things for their extended stay in the city. I sit on the hood of my issued vehicle listening to the once still farm vibrate with the nightlife activities of grasshoppers and frogs. I walk back to the old barn. Fernick had been going on for years about how he was going to tear it down. Hena wouldn't hear of it. She said it held too many fond memories. She would blush as red as her hair after saying this.

Before it was turned into their love nest, me and Fernick created memories here as well. We had the childish notion of becoming pirates. We even hid booty under the barn. I don’t switch the light on. The layout is engrained on my brain. I want the innocent memories of childhood to stay at the forefront of my mind; the leftover crime scene materials will darken that. I’m running my hand along the far wall when I first hear it. It’s faint and any other person would chop it up to intangible background noise from the farm. But I know this place. The constant swish that the pond makes as it searchers for the path to the ocean. The soft crack of rejected nuts sailing from the trees that didn’t live up to squirrels exception's. Yes I know every sound in this farm’s ecosystem. This faint groan I’m hearing is out of place. The deeper I move into the barn, the louder in volume it increases. The inharmonious sound is coming from the hidden door to underneath the barn.

My gun and flashlight are drawn and guiding me down into the known darkness. The walls are cold causing the temperature to dip three degrees. I shiver slightly. In the back of my mind I ponder on how the cold never deterred Nicky and I from venturing down here. This area was not part of the police search. Did I forget about my childhood hiding spot in all of my grief, or had I initially heard the sound earlier? Even with all the police procedure chaos happening. Did the sound my burrow in my subconscious? I leave these questions unanswered as the beam from my light reflects on a puddle of fresh blood.

A pair of black beanie eyes glare up at me. The hate behind that glazed would likely hold more fervor had he not loss so much blood. I glide the light further up revealing the full length of Charle’s body. He is white like our profile predicted. Age, which of course is the hardest to pinpoint, I would say thirty-five. He's in shape, a man of his work would need to be in order to lift deadweight. All those hours in the gym seem to have failed him in his current predicament. One of his legs is twisted around the middle of the ladder that leads to the second entrance of the cellar. The other leg is hanging in an unnatural angle away from the rest of his body. The pull from gravity must be excruciating. A large lump forming where his had ricocheted off the ladder. We stare at each other.

"Help me Wylma."

He croaks. I bristle at the sound of my name on his lips. No other sound emanates from my body. I continue to stare.

"You're a detective, you have to help me."

His voice in coated in fear now. He licks his chap lips. The looming reality of his mortality causing him to break out in sweat but the coldness and loss of blood causing him to shiver.

It will likely take the ambulance twenty to thirty minutes to get here. I will have to carefully untangle Charlie from his web and check for broken bones. In the back of the ambulance, the paramedics will fight to stabilize him, as the van travels at speeds three times the legal limit. He’ll be rushed into surgery, and given all life saving measures without bias. Over the next few months he’ll be healing. His lawyer will issue continuous request due to his oscillating health that interferes with his inability to assist in his own defense. The media will hound the victim’s family without remorse. Snapshots of AJ’s sad face plastered all over news outlets. Temora fucking Jones traveling across the nation on a book tour about this sick fuck.

My gun warms in my hand. Since we’ve been in our stare-off I haven’t lowered it from his head. He reaches out toward me one last plea for help. I assist the only way I can.

Fernick is drinking coffee at my kitchen island when I arrive home. I can tell he hasn’t slept. AJ is unsurprisingly awake in the living room watching cartoons. Like me she prefers to eat her cereal without milk. We both head into the living room to sit with her. Fernick takes her in his lap while I mute the tv. The animation depicting a brave hero saving a destress damsel from a spider by squashing it with a boot.