Title: The Cracked Shadow
Author: E.A. Petrick
Genre: Paranormal Mystery
Gina picked up her stalker less than five minutes after she left the WPPO-TV building.
It was still three weeks to Christmas, but Marquette Avenue was already frantic with hungry gift shoppers, sacrificing their lunch hour. The elaborate lights, wrapped around every tree, and blazing day and night, gave the avenue the look of a runway. It was another wet, snowy day in Minneapolis. All the weather stations advised to stay indoors. Drowning in slush was the new buzzword for peril.
Gina had no one to shop for and would have gone to the cafeteria, but ten minutes to lunch-time, Mariel from productions came to ask for a ton of favors.
Three police officers from Downtown Command had come this morning to see Joel Parwick, the Productions Manager. His assistant, Mariel, ended up with all the “action” items they had worked out.
“Those cops left me a ton of material.”
Mariel poignantly staggered under the armload of files. “I have to go through all this. I have to find motivating factors that’ll increase awareness in the community. Then outline factors that reduce crime.” She dropped the load unceremoniously on Gina’s desk, in order to be able to bring her thumb and forefinger together, then continued. “I was this close to telling those cops, that if they wanted to reduce the fear of crime, they’d better get cracking and catch that son-of-a-bitch who’s been doing these serial killings.”
The moment Gina heard those words she knew that her lunch would not be eaten in the cafeteria. A force stronger than anything else, even fear, made her rise. She mumbled an inarticulate apology and bolted out of the office. She grabbed her blue parka, finished dressing in the elevator and barged through the revolving door.
The temperature hovered just above freezing. She slung her knapsack over her shoulder, cleared her lungs, and followed her feet along Marquette Avenue.
In place of a Christmas bonus, her boss, Source and Research Director Frould Nystrom, gave each of his staff two hours for lunch for the last week of November and the entire month of December. Most of her colleagues were so pissed-off with this gesture that every day a few of them didn’t bother to return to work after lunch. She didn’t mind. She was still new. Two weeks ago she had circled Loring Lake and got back before any of her colleagues returned. The next day, when she did it again, she realized someone was following her. She turned around so often that passersby started to stare.
An elderly man touched her arm. “Are you all right, dear? Is someone bothering you?”
She managed a tight smile. “I’m looking…an aunt from out of town. I haven’t seen her in a while. Is that lady down there carrying a blue suitcase? I don’t have my glasses.”
The man followed her eyes. “It’s hard to tell these days…the way young people dress, but I think that group down there is all young men.”
“Right next to them, standing by the lamppost, looking this way.”
He stared again, shaking his head. “I don’t see anyone…I’m sorry, dear. I probably need new glasses.”
She thanked him and hurried up the street.
If the stalker persisted, she’d have to go to the police. She couldn’t tell anyone at work. They would turn her concern to the new hot topic for gossip. And if she was wrong…she needed her job. If she lost it, Mrs. Gold would call her caseworker. Letta Brown was overworked and stressed out. She’d get angry. She’d start asking her whether she was taking her medication, if she was having flashbacks again, and if she was keeping her appointments with Dr. Simpson. And once Dr. Simpson’s name was mentioned, she knew that words like re-lapse, setback, instability, delusions, would come down faster than the fat, wet snowflakes, plastering her hair into a glistening cap. So, she spent her two-hour lunches walking the downtown streets, admiring displays. In reality, she was checking to see how far behind her stalker was.
Last Sunday she had volunteered to work so her boss wouldn’t miss his weeklong Christmas vacation. She’d gone out for lunch and stopped by the Gap window. It was a brilliant, sunny day. She had tilted her head to give the impression that she was avoiding the sun and spent a few moments studying her stalker.
The woman had stopped fifty feet down the street and half turned, to study a tinted window. She was dressed the same way she had been every time during the last ten days since Gina had first noticed her. She wore a light beige, vinyl jacket, three-quarter length, and tied with a belt. On her feet were brown shoes, heavy-looking, old fashioned. Mrs. Gold, the supervisor of the Cramden half-way house would call them clunkers. Her light brown hair was long and frizzy, suggesting a cheap, bad perm. She wore brown-rimmed glasses, pointed at the corners. Gina felt these were not products of the renewed interest in sixties and seventies fads. Her face was ordinary, but in a strange hazy way that gave one nothing to focus on. It had no outstanding characteristic features.
She rubbed her eyes and resumed walking.
She stopped at the Neiman Marcus window. The woman next to her was talking on the cell phone. She waited until she finished and then leaned over. “Excuse me, I left my glasses at work. I’m supposed to meet a secretary from our client’s office and pick up a package. She said she would be wearing a beige coat. Is that lady down by the phone booth carrying a package?”
The woman frowned but turned where she indicated. “Which phone booth?”
“On the corner, just before the bus bench.”
“There’s no one on the bench.”
“Up from the bench, by the phone booth.”
“There’s no one in the phone booth.”
“Just beside it. She’s standing there, looking this way. She’s wearing a beige jacket….”
“There’s no one there.”
“How can you not see her? She’s looking straight at us…in that shiny vinyl jacket.”
The woman started backing away, suspicious. “Where do you see vinyl? It’s freezing.”
“That’s what I was wondering,” she grimaced.
“I’ve got to go,” the woman hugged her purse, turned and rushed away.
She stopped three more times. Each time she pretended to turn away from the sun’s brilliant glare and studied her stalker. The third time, she stopped in front of Grafton’s Gifts. As she stared at her, the woman slowly turned her head, and for the first time, smiled. It was a slow smile, which seemed to glide across the face without any effort, without moving the rest of the features. It grew like ripples in the water and spread….
She felt the sudden urge to retreat. Just as she turned, she noticed something on the woman’s jacket that she had not seen before. She must be a messy eater, she thought, as she noticed a palm-sized brown spot on the front of the jacket. Or maybe someone spilled coffee on her, and she couldn’t get the stain out.
Her urge grew stronger. She turned and hurried around the corner so fast that she was almost running. However, because it was Sunday and sidewalks were crowded with shoppers, she had to slow down. She couldn’t afford to draw attention to herself. She didn’t look back as she headed along the Fifth Street. It was only when she saw the sign announcing the Minneapolis Police Department on a building a mere five feet away, that she realized it was time to talk to someone who might believe her – who might be able to help her.
Six months ago, Mrs. Gold had called the police because of a rash of thefts at the half-way house. Gina remembered the kindly sergeant who had come to take down the complaint. His name was Cedrick Worth. She hoped that Officer Worth wouldn’t turn her away.
***
“Glad you two could make it today for my wife’s cookies and punch.” Sergeant Mesker slapped Terri and Max on their shoulders.
“They smell delicious.” Terri closed her eyes and took a big whiff of the spicy-sweet aroma of cinnamon, vanilla and what Joe’s wife liked to discreetly put into her cookies – Jamaican rum.
“A month with Special Investigations and you already have two nasty strikes, Max,” Joe said, handing Terri’s partner a glass of punch.
Max raised the glass, nodded, drained it and said. “Our serial killer is shy. He doesn’t leave prints at the scenes of his crimes. A crime scene without killer’s prints doesn’t figure in the FBI’s rulebook. Clasp put out a special bulletin that his evidence must not be contaminated by foreign fingerprints because that would create more work for our crime lab.”
“And how is one supposed to handle the evidence if, God forbid, something has been overlooked?” Joe’s voice colored with incredulity.
Terri spoke up. “Max asked that dangerous question. He nearly earned his first nasty strike with Inspector Clasp.”
Max shrugged. “Clasp said to use tweezers.”
“Ah,” Joe breathed out. “On the evidence that fits into baggies. What about the victims’ clothing – shoes, knapsacks, coats?”
“Clasp said tweezers,” Max grinned.
“So you improvised,” Joe pursed his lips.
“My parents have these industrial size barbecue tweezers,” Max deadpanned.
Even though Joe had heard the story several times, he shook with laughter. “And then you have to speculate about the killer, with your boss standing ten feet behind. We were thinking of putting it into our holiday bulletin. What was it? Since we don’t have any physical clues, the killer is a naked man, wearing a condom and walks on air.”
“Terri says I never learn.” Max glanced at his partner.
She shrugged. “We spent three days on the desk, preparing bulletins, because you like to speak your mind.”
“Keep up the good work and don’t bother applying for a job with the FBI,” Joe tipped his hand to his head in a light-hearted salute.
Just as they turned to leave, he called after them.
“I need a favor. It’s not rightfully yours to handle. But I’ve just about run out of options. I have this…this…” He grabbed Max’s shoulder and forced him to turn.
“Over there.” He nodded towards a girl sitting in the waiting area. Terri had the impression that he didn’t want her to know he was talking about her. They followed his nod and saw a young girl, huddled in a navy blue parka, sitting in a visitor’s chair. She must have walked quite a distance in the snow. Her black hair was wet, plastered to her head. She sat at an angle, in profile, as if trying to shut out anyone who might approach her. She kept tapping her hands on her knees with nervous energy.
“She came in last Sunday. I was on duty,” Joe said. “She was agitated, frightened. She wouldn’t tell me what she wanted other than she wanted to speak with Cedrick Worth.”
“Didn’t he retire around the same time my dad did?” Terri asked.
“That’s the problem. Nearly everyone who comes in here has stopped and asked her what she wants but she won’t say. Go talk to her. Maybe she’ll tell you what she wants.”
“All right. Let’s see what ails this stubborn citizen,” Max sighed.
Joe touched him on the shoulder. “I think she’s frightened of something. If she’ll talk to you, use one of the quiet rooms in the back.”
“We’ll be careful. Don’t worry,” Terri assured him.
The two of them slowly approached the girl.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Terri Vilnas. And this is my partner, Max,” she indicated with her hand without taking her eyes off the girl. “Sergeant Mesker told us you want to speak with Sergeant Worth.”
“He said he retired,” the girl said. Her voice had a dream-like quality, like a lingering echo.
“He left for Florida. If he was still in Minneapolis, we would try to reach him, but given the circumstances….”
“I’m being followed,” she said, suddenly lifting her head.
The two detectives found themselves staring into clear green eyes that seemed almost crystalline in their purity. She had a heart-shaped face, enchanting, achingly beautiful. If innocence needed a visual definition, her face would have been a perfect template image. Her features were defined with feather strokes. They seemed so tender and yet at the same time, Terri felt that this girl’s character would not be so soft etched. There was certain hardness in those incredibly expressive eyes.
The girl blinked and broke the spell. She unclasped her hands and wrapped them around herself.
“Someone is stalking you?” Terri’s voice changed to business tone.
“I think so.” The girl rocked herself.
“Did you get a look at him?” Max asked.
She sighed. “It’s not a man. It’s a woman.”
“Would you like to tell us about it in one of the rooms?” Terri asked. “There’s too much traffic out here with the holidays and all.” She was relieved to see the girl rise. She stood up as if her chair was spring-loaded.
“I only have half an hour left,” the girl said. “I’m on my lunch break and I have to be back by two o’clock.”
“If you’re being stalked, then your safety is more important than your job,” Max said.
“And what if I’m wrong? I can’t afford to lose my job.”
“Did you tell anyone about this stalker? A friend, relative…?”
“No…well, yes…sort of. I just wanted to make sure I was not imagining….” her voice trailed off.
“Were you?”
She averted her eyes. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I asked a man…and a lady on the street, but she didn’t want to be bothered.”
“Where do you work?” he asked.
“WPPO-TV.”
“We’ll give you a ride back,” Max said.
Terri looked at him with astonishment. He drove a cherry-red Mustang, decked out better than the Christmas tree at the City Hall and loved his car. The first two weeks she had sat in her partner’s toy, she all but had to take a tranquilizer to remain calm for fear she might touch something that would eject her in the middle of a ride. He never, ever offered citizens, no matter how threatened, a ride in his hi-tech chariot. The car was his alter ego. Had it been able to speak, that Mustang would have told Inspector Clasp where to go and what to do with his detailed procedures a long time ago. Detective Renford might offer to call a taxi for a citizen strapped for a ride, but his wild pony was off limits to Minneapolis subjects, no matter how much in need.
She had heard a story circulating through their division, when they were still in Robbery, that one of his girlfriends got sloshed and started throwing up. He promptly called the girl a taxi because he didn’t want to take a chance that she would throw up in his spirited beast. The story was probably a little too harsh, but Max didn’t rush to deny it either.
An hour later, after they dropped the girl off in front of her building on Marquette, they rode in silence.
Finally she spoke. “Do you think we have something here?” She was still in shock. Not only did Max give Ms. Gina Adams a ride back to her work in his Mustang, but he also made his partner sit in the back seat. It was a first for Terri – and a first for Max.
“Maybe more than we should take on – maybe nothing,” he mumbled.
“If that’s the case, why don’t we stay with it until we’re sure – one way or the other,” she suggested. She hoped that he wouldn’t dismiss everything Ms. Adams told them as the product of an unbalanced mind. Gina had mentioned that she was under the care of a psychiatrist and it didn’t help that she also lived at Cramden House, a half-way shelter for troubled young women. It was well known that many of the clients that came out of Cramden House turned out to be repeat offenders.
“Hillary Simpson practically lives either at Central or at our precinct these days,” he commented.
“I don’t know any criminal psychiatrist who would pass up a chance to work with a special team on a serial killer case – and, of course, with Inspector Clasp.”
“She was frightened of something else than just her stalker.”
“Gina didn’t say so outright, but I have a feeling that she spent some time in a psychiatric institution, and not the minimum security kind either.”
“She reminds me of someone,” he murmured.
“Gina?” She was surprised. Gina, beautiful and ethereal in an otherworldly, innocent way, was unlike any of the girls Max dated. Nor was she like any of the girls he picked up when he was between girlfriends, a frequent occurrence, because he treated his girlfriends the same way he treated Inspector Clasp.
“Yep. She reminds me of a girl I used to know in grade school. Abigail was in my fourth grade class.”
“Did you have a crush on her?” she teased.
He shook his head, eyes fixed ahead on the road and the traffic lights. “No. I never had a chance really. She only stayed for two months in my class.”
“Well, you know what it’s like. Parents move. Kids are transferred. A love that could have been, never gets a chance to bloom. Maybe you’ll find each other some day.”
“Maybe. But she didn’t move. She had a vivid imagination, and told a lot of strange stories, a lot of lies. The kids laughed at her.”
“They didn’t expel the poor kid from school for fibbing, did they?”
“No. One of her lies killed her. We attended her funeral. I thought it was pretty fucking grim.”
It wasn’t until he was already pulling into the precinct parking lot that Terri shook off the shock of his calmly surrendered statement and spoke up again. “What exactly killed your classmate, Max?”
“Nice Mr. Pruitt, the school janitor, who liked to take her places when no one was looking. Including the maintenance room.”
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