The Sarah Roberts Series Vol. 4-6 Page 37

  She was no longer the victim.

  Sarah became The Enigma.

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Imagine Press Inc.

  ISBN: 978-1-927404-18-8

  The Victim

  Copyright © 2012 by Jonas Saul

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The Enigma

  by

  Jonas Saul

  Chapter 1

  His mood dampened as he peered through the downpour at the lights of the Las Vegas Police Department. The front of the building shone through the wet evening, every window emitting light, hope.

  But there was no hope.

  At least he didn’t feel any. The picture in his breast pocket told him hope was fleeting. The darkness in his soul overwhelmed him as he took a step toward the bright building. How could he go through with it? What he had found out would change his life forever. It would put him in the spotlight, which he had worked tirelessly to avoid for the past two years. But if he didn’t move forward, too many people would die.

  When his daughter was killed, his life as he knew it had ended.

  Then the changes came. He took pictures. Things got better. But nothing would ever be the same without his little Penny. Nothing. Ever.

  In front of the police station, the American flag hung limp and soaked on its pole, giving him reason to pause and reflect on his lovely country. The violence, the weapons, and what it all meant for future generations, what it meant for him in the coming days.

  After a moment, he wiped his eyes and walked to the shelter of the front doors where he slipped inside and dripped on the tile floor. His stomach twisted in a sick dread at what he had to do.

  Why me?

  He shook off his overcoat, brushed back his dark brown mane and wiped his face. A uniformed female officer sat behind a glass partition, like one found at any ticket booth at a bus or train station. People waited at various spots throughout the room. Two men were reading, and two stared into space. One older man, who didn’t look like he had showered in months, sprawled out on two chairs, biting his fingernails.

  Russell Anderson moved farther into the room until he was close enough to the little booth that the female officer looked up from whatever she was doing. She didn’t smile or nod. Not exactly impolite, just all business.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  Her teeth were so white and perfect he couldn’t help but stare at her mouth as she spoke. It helped to avoid eye contact.

  He cleared his throat. “Detective Collins, please.”

  “I’ll see if he’s in.”

  She typed on her computer, paused, then typed again.

  “Looks like he’s in a meeting upstairs.” She turned to face him. “Can I have another officer come speak with you? Or do you want to leave Detective Collins a message?” She blew through the corner of her mouth at a loose strand of hair and flipped it out of her face. The bun at the top of her head had lost its shape. He wondered if he should pull his camera out and take her picture, but it didn’t seem right.

  He admired that she looked him in the eyes. She didn’t gawk at the four-inch scar that ran from his temple to his jaw on the right side of his face.

  “No message. I’ll wait.” Russell turned and started for the chairs.

  “Excuse me,” the woman said behind him.

  He stopped but didn’t turn around.

  “Sir?” the woman said again.

  He pivoted on his heels in slow motion until he was facing her.

  “Your name?” she asked.

  This was the part he had dreaded. Letting the cops know his identity was not in the plan. Giving Collins the message was what he needed to do because Collins knew him and he wanted to keep it that way.

  Russell had taken six pictures over the last two years and mailed them to Collins. The last thing he needed was for all the cops to know who he was. It would only complicate things and make it too difficult to live in Vegas. He abhorred the spotlight. But if he offered a fake name and was found out, it was a crime. He didn’t come here to be arrested.

  If that happened, people would die.

  “I need a name,” the woman tried again. “Then I’ll send a message to Detective Collins that you’re waiting for him.”

  “Very well. Do you have a pen and paper?”

  He stepped back up to the window.

  The officer rummaged in her desk and produced a pen and paper a moment later.

  “Is your name too hard to spell or something?” she asked.

  As he took the proffered pen and paper, he caught her quick glance at his scar.

  Just like everyone else.

  He wrote his name down.

  Russell Anderson.

  “I don’t want it spoken out loud,” Russell said as he capped the pen and handed it back under the glass partition. “Others may hear it. Please respect my wishes.”

  The woman reared her head back on an angle, her eyes wide, more hair loosening from the bun and framing her pretty face. “Ohhh, I get it. Right. Okay.” She leaned closer to the glass partition and whispered, “Then I’ll type my message to Collins. I won’t say it out loud either.”

  “Thank you,” Russell said and stepped away from the window. She could make fun of him if she wanted, but this was his life. The more the police knew about him, the worse his life would become. As it stood, when everything was over in the coming days, he would probably have to leave Las Vegas. It had been his home for six years. Soon it would be a memory—a painful memory. He was being called to Toronto, but he didn’t know why yet.

  He sat in the waiting area, rubbed his hands together, and kept an eye on the others lounging in their chairs. Maybe he should’ve called first. Perhaps he could’ve set up an appointment with Collins. Met him in a Starbucks. Told him what he needed to tell him there. That could’ve worked. But Collins would have been too suspicious because his mission over the previous two years has been to put Russell behind bars for murder. He had been unsuccessful in that endeavor, however relentless he had proven to be.

  Outside, the rain insisted on cleansing the city. On the one night Las Vegas gets blasted with rain in the middle of August, which was rare, he had to walk to the police station.

  Smart. Real smart.

  He looked down at his hands. After a moment he glanced up at the clock on the wall. Time was running out and that scared him. He didn’t want anyone else dying because of him. He’d lost his daughter and still had the scars to prove how hard he fought for her. But it was his fault and no one could take that away from him. He would own it until the day he died, which he hoped was soon. He wasn’t suicidal, only wishing God would see it in his plan to take him early.

  Please forgive me, God. Then take me home …

  “Anderson,” someone shouted in the cavernous room making Russell bounce in his chair. It echoed a few times before he could say anything.

  “Is there a Russ—”

  “Here!” Russell shouted loud enough to drown out the cop’s voice as he faced the man, his arm raised.

  They locked eyes. He could tell the cop was perturbed at being cut off, but Russell didn’t care. It was his name and to have it shouted in a room full of strangers was not only disrespectful, it was downright rude. Russell had to remain anonymous and he would cut the cop off again if he tried to speak his name out loud.

  The cop dropped his arms to his side and gestured with his head. “Come on.”

  Russell followed the cop through a winding maze of hallways and endless doors.

  The man was dressed like Russell would expect a detective to dress, the nice collar shirt, tie, and dress pants. He had a folder in his hand, but Russell had no idea what that could be since no one knew he was coming. Maybe the police brought one into every meeting with new visitors so they could start a file on them.

  The man opened a door marked number
four and gestured for Russell to go inside.

  “Can I get you a water or a coffee?” the man asked.

  Russell shook his head and walked to the far wall of the small room, taking it all in as the cop shut the door, leaving Russell alone. The table, the two chairs, the window on the side. A little speaker-like thing on the wooden table had a wire that exited its base and dropped below the table where it connected to a box that was plugged into the wall.

  They’re going to record this. Holy shit.

  He could never let that happen. They would commit him for psychiatric assessment if who he really was became public knowledge.

  Russell walked around the table twice, studying the walls, the mirror and finally, the microphone. He unplugged the unit from the wall and settled down a little, breathing better.

  After what felt like ten minutes, he tried the door. It was locked.

  What the hell?

  He tried it again, this time putting his shoulder into it. The door wouldn’t budge.

  He wasn’t a prisoner. He had come of his own free will. What the hell were they doing?

  He backed away from the door and faced the mirror. No doubt they were watching him. But for what? They had no idea why he came tonight. No idea what was coming. Only he did. It was a favor to them that he had come here this rainy evening.

  Or rather a favor to Sarah Roberts. But he didn’t want to think of that yet. Not until Collins arrived.

  He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples as he leaned against the back wall. Breathing rhythmically, he forced his heartbeat to slow below a hundred beats a minute. It wouldn’t serve anyone to hyperventilate or pass out. He came here with a purpose and he intended to fulfill it.

  The door opened. He lifted his eyelids.

  A man stepped in, followed by a pretty woman.

  Do the Vegas cops only hire pretty women?

  They held Dixie cups filled with coffee. This man held the same file folder, unless the cops all used the exact same brand and size.

  “Please, have a seat,” the male said.

  Russell stayed against the wall.

  The man closed the door and moved to stand beside the woman.

  “I’m Detective Bruce Collins and this is my partner, Detective Mara Munro. I understand you’re …” he paused to twist the file in his hand and read something. “Russell Anderson?” He looked back up to meet Russell’s eyes, an expectant look on his face. “Did I get that right?”

  Russell nodded.

  The detectives exchanged a glance, then looked back at Russell.

  “Well, you got me,” Collins said. “You walk in here, ask for me by name and now that you have my attention, you don’t say a word. Is there a joke somewhere or are you just wasting my time?” He stopped and glanced away like a thought struck him. Then he met Russell’s eyes again. “Do I know you? There’s something oddly familiar about you. Except for the fact that I’m the investigating officer on the murder of your daughter, Penny Anderson.”

  Russell waited. He had no idea where to start. No matter what he said, they would deem him insane. They wouldn’t believe him. This had been a waste of time. But there was nothing else he could do. He had to try.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath while he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  Something smacked loudly in the room. Russell opened his eyes. Collins had tossed the folder onto the table.

  “That’s you,” he said.

  Russell shivered under his coat. The air conditioners were relentless in Vegas during August. It felt like none of them had stopped as the sun dropped and the rain had started. His clothes were damp and his skin coated in moisture, which felt like a thin layer of ice now that he was victim to the cooler inside air.

  “What’s me?” Russell asked.

  “That folder. Everything we’ve got on you.”

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  The detectives exchanged another glance.

  What’s with the looking at each other?

  “What do you mean by surprise?” Collins asked.

  Russell adjusted his coat, fixed his hair as it had fallen down over his forehead with the dampness, and moved to take a chair.

  They waited as he sat and got comfortable. He interlaced his fingers together on the table and looked from Collins to Munro, then back at the table.

  “What I have to say cannot be recorded.”

  He watched as Munro followed the cord on the floor to the wall and then back to Russell.

  “It’s unplugged,” she said.

  “What about behind that mirror?” Russell asked, unlocking his fingers to point.

  “There’s no one there,” Collins said. “You came to see us. You’re not a suspect in any crime at this time. At least none that we’re aware of. Not even your daughter’s anymore.” He looked at his partner again.

  “Don’t do that,” Russell said.

  “Excuse me?” Collins gasped.

  “You two keep exchanging glances like two teenagers in a high school math class. You’d think the both of you would be comfortable in your relationship as partners by now.”

  “Before I arrest you for something, or kick your ass back out into the rain, you mind telling us why you came tonight. Was it just to waste our time?”

  Collins was irritated. Russell hadn’t planned for that, but he couldn’t, nor wouldn’t, hold back anymore. The world was shit. People were shit. The only thing stopping him from a bullet in the mouth was he couldn’t off himself. Therefore, he had no reason to bullshit, take any, or let disrespect go unanswered.

  Fuck them if they didn’t like it.

  Russell opened the folder and scanned the first page. Police reports on the murder of his little girl. For a brief moment, he felt the urge to slam the folder shut and storm out of the building. How could they know it was him so fast? His name alone? His facial scar? He wondered if they had facial recognition cameras installed in the new police building. That must have been the reason for the delay in meeting with Collins. They wanted to know who they were talking to and record the conversation if anything had to do with the case that many thought didn’t get properly handled. The case of the murder of Penny Anderson, Russell’s only child, mother deceased at the time of Penny’s birth.

  He flipped the page and the eyes of the dead woman who stole his baby stared back at him from when she was alive and well. Or maybe not well.

  Was she ever sane?

  He closed the file. He couldn’t look at the sick fuck who had stolen his daughter and used a knife on his face and his daughter’s body. He hadn’t come here for that and he wouldn’t discuss his life or the death of his child with strangers anymore. That chapter of his life was closed as his heart.

  The detectives had been patient as he looked in the folder. Munro had eased a chair back and sat while Collins chose to stand, but now he leaned against the two-way mirror, his arms crossed.

  “You gonna tell us why you came here today?” Collins asked.

  “I have a message for you.”

  “Oh, yeah? From who?”

  “Me.”

  Collins uncrossed his arms and pushed off the wall. He was a good cop, Russell decided. He was ready, alert, smart. This would give Sarah Roberts a chance. Collins’ partner, Munro, seemed like a good backup.

  “I am your mystery man.”

  Collins frowned. “Mystery man? I’m not following.”

  “You get mail here. Typewritten addressed envelopes. Inside, you find a picture that is time-stamped and dated. You also find a typed note explaining the picture. From the newspapers, I can tell you put it all together and solve the crime.” Russell looked down at his hands. “All except that one with the suicidal banker.” He looked back up at Collins, his eyes rimmed in tears. “How is that? Huh? Cleaning that man’s brains off the hotel room wall? Oh, I would guess detectives don’t do the cleaning, do they?”

  Russell wiped his face and composed himself. His outburst didn’t seem to affect either cop. />
  “How do you know about the pictures?” Collins asked.

  Munro appeared confused. She looked back and forth between Russell’s and Collins’ face like an exaggerated and long version of denial.

  “What’s this about pictures and suicidal bankers?” Munro asked under her breath.