Face Value

3. The Aftermath

The more I stared at the disheveled room before me, the less incomprehensible today's events seemed to me. Alice was gone. I had killed a man. I have already decided to find her. But did I really understand what finding her could lead to? As an officer, sworn to uphold the law, was I willing to completely contradict everything that I stood for to bring her back to me? Was I willing to maim another person-- kill another person even, to get the answers I sought after?  

Honestly, I had no real answer to those questions.

The room was a total mess: half of the ivory carpet was covered in glass and mangled pieces of wood from where I'd thrown that freak into the coffee table. The other half was stained crimson by his blood. Donald's lifeless body was a bloody mess, laying on his back with one ankle twisted in an odd direction--probably twisted it when he fell after I struck him the first time. Most of the damage was to his face but there were a bruise or two on his upper arms. I had bashed his skull in. His face resembled mushed play dough on the right-side, with a huge gash on the left. Some of the bones in the forehead were crushed, causing the skin to cave in on itself. It looked like the handiwork of a deranged lunatic in a horror movie.

"Damn it," I knelt on the hardwood floor next to the body, careful not to step on the carpet. I hadn't meant to do this much damage. Although in my state,  I hadn't been paying much attention to any screams or cries for help that he might have made. I imagine that it must have sounded pretty hellish so it surprised me that none of the neighbors had come over to investigate. No one had found me out and I had to use that to my advantage. I couldn't find Alice if they caught me here.

Getting to my feet, I picked up the bloody baseball bat and walked around the perimeter to the other side to pick up the velvet box from the unstained half of the carpet. A small part of me believed that the depravity in there, covered in purple satin would be useful to me but another large part could not bare to leave any part of my Alice behind. I put the box in the inside pocket of my trench coat.

In the kitchen, I found a plastic shopping bag to stuff the bat in. There was no point in leaving the murder weapon here, not if I wanted to buy time for myself. It would be covered in his blood and my fingerprints and skin cells. I knew how things worked in homicide--I'd been there for 8 years. That bat had all the evidence they needed. The idea of my squad mates, including my partner, conducting a homicide investigation that involved me, a fellow homicide detective was... unsettling.

If anything could be said of the men and women of my precinct, it was that they were loyal to their own. So the impending investigation when someone finally stumbled upon the body in my home would be the ultimate test of their commitment to another officer but I would never ask them to go against the books on my behalf. I intended to pay for what I'd done but not until after I find my wife and there had to be something else in this apartment that could be useful to me in that regard.

"That video..." I thought. It was still paused on Alice's laptop. Unsure of how it would be perceived if I took the laptop with me, I decided to make a copy of it. My office was on the left hand side of the downstairs hallway; I stored my blank disks in there.  Stepping inside, the room seemed untouched. There was large mahogany desk centered in front of the room's large bay window with a fax machine, office phone and desktop computer. My reclining office chair had not been removed from behind the desk either.

Just as I came around the desk to reach the bottom drawer, the phone rang...

Immediately, I was on edge; rising  from my crouched position. The phone in my office was on a private line, completely separate from the other phone lines in the rest of the house. There were things in my line of work, especially during an open investigation, that couldn't be openly discussed. It wasn't that I didn't trust my wife but I couldn't afford to expose Alice to anything work related that I had to discuss over the phone. However, that wasn't the reason why the ringing surprised me. Rather it was because that particular phone line had only been set up yesterday; I hadn't circulated the number to anyone yet. I glanced quickly at the caller ID: private caller; unknown number. 

Who could be calling this number?  What were the odds that this was just a harmless accident; that someone had mixed up a few digits and called my line by mistake?  As an officer, I hadn't learned to simply regard such things as 'coincidences'. However, in the midst of my debating whether or not to take the call, the ringing stopped. And then it started again but this time, from the fax machine. My right hand instinctively found its way down to my holster to draw my gun. Feeling the weight of the Browning Hi-Power in my hand helped to steel my nerves. This  most definitely was not a coincidence.

Only a single sheet of paper came through with a message that appeared to be typewritten on a quarter of the page:

Il est sept heures, Damian Crusoe...

Donald's four hours late, so I'm assuming you exacted your...'justice' where he is concerned. I had him make you a souvenir of sorts. Check the bottom left drawer.  You have 70 hours left.

The perp spoke-- or rather he wrote-- in French again; as if he's more comfortable using that language. Translation: "Its seven o'clock, Damian Crusoe.' Either this person knew I spoke French enough to understand these messages or I was dealing with a French immigrant or someone of French heritage. Someone of French heritage who knew where I lived; who knew who I was. The thought didn't sit well with me. This perp also used a type writer which was pretty bizarre considering all the advanced technological aids available in this day and age. It was a small abnormality but something I was not willing to dismiss. Returning the gun to its holster, I hesitantly reached down into the drawer as the note suggested. There was another velvet box, slightly larger than the first one I'd received.

My pulse sped up. I would be remissed not to admit that I was afraid to look inside, especially given the surprise inside the first velvet box. I had no idea what this perp's idea of a souvenir was but if this person wanted me to find Alice, whatever was in this box had to be a clue. I lifted the lid cautiously to find a CD disk resting on a purple satin sheet with the title 'Fun with the Misses' written with a blue marker on it in crude handwriting.

The title itself was descriptive enough. It was disgusting but something that could be potentially useful. 

I found the downstairs bathroom to be empty: just a damp towel carelessly thrown across the sink. I washed the remainder of the dried blood off my hands in there. The master and guest bedrooms on the second floor were also devoid of any hidden treasures-- just things that reminded me of her: her scent still lingered on the linens, the towels, the clothes. It all brought emotions forward that I refused to acknowledge at the moment. The house or my life simply would not be the same without her here with me. As I made way back to the front door, I passed a picture of Alice hanging on the wall; her blue eyes glimmering with mirth.

"I'll find you," I whispered. "I promise. I just need a solid lead. Please God, I just need a good lead."

The frigid November air beat against my face as I opened my front door. Both cars and people oblivious to each other because they're far too busy being busy. The chances of me getting information about my wife's whereabouts amidst so much self absorption were slim.

But I nearly tripped over the answers to my prayers-- a small brown cardboard box, on my way down the front steps.