Blessed Are Those Who Weep

 

Dedication

For Father Seamus Genovese

 

Contents

 

Chapter 1

A
T
FIRST
I think she is a doll. Sitting there so still on the floor in her pink dress, chubby legs sticking out from her diaper, big black eyes unblinking, staring at something I can't see. A ribbon hangs loose in her hair. Something that looks like chocolate is smeared around her mouth and one cheek.

The front door is only open wide enough to frame her small body in the dim light. I can't see the rest of the room.

“Mrs. Martin?” The words echo in the silent apartment. At my voice, the baby turns her head toward me in what seems like slow motion. Even though the apartment door was ajar when I arrived, something stops me from pushing it open more. My hand hangs in the air, frozen. The rhythmic drip of a faucet is eerily loud. And something smells funny. Off. A smell I recognize but cannot place. A smell that increases my unease.

“Are you in there, Mrs. Martin? It's Gabriella Giovanni from the
Bay Herald
. We spoke yesterday.”

Silence.

As if my voice has flicked a switch, the child moves and talks, babbling. “Mamamama. Maaamamama.” She picks something up. Something floppy and pale and long. Something with short red fingernails. An arm.

A wave of panic rises in me as I figure out what I smell.

Blood. Urine. Feces. Death.

I nudge the door open. My hand flies to my mouth.

Blood oozes across the floor, seeping in puddles around bodies lying helter-­skelter. Seemingly too many bodies to count. But I do. Clinically. Subconsciously. Five dead bodies. Because for sure they are all dead. No one could survive those gaping, slashing wounds.

I don't turn my head. Only my eyes dart around the room, taking it all in. My legs turn into mush, and I grab the doorknob to support myself, worried I'll collapse onto the floor. The sound of the dripping faucet seems magnified and is suddenly, extraordinarily loud.

The girl chants, “Mamamamama.” She drops the arm, and it makes a slapping sound as it hits the scratched wooden floor. I nudge the door wider with my knee. The arm belongs to a woman in a green dress lying face down. The child tugs at the woman's shiny black hair, as if trying to wake her or get her to lift her head. A sticky pool of dried blood ripples out from the woman's torso.

Directly in front of me, another woman, older with white hair, is spread-­eagle on her back, her stomach slashed open, insides strewn on the floor beside her. One arm reaches toward the door. Across from her, an elderly man is slumped on the couch. A wide gash across his neck yawns open, revealing pink and red and something white. What looks to be a teenage boy's body is propped up against the far wall, as if he were taking a break, resting, but the top of his head is matted with something awful looking. Bloody slash marks stripe the boy's arms—­
defensive wounds
. The clinical term jumps into my mind. There is also a blond woman slumped in the corner, eyes staring at nothing.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The noise from the faucet sounds distorted. Everything seems to be in slow motion.

I've lost track of time. My feet remain planted in the doorway, stuck, frozen. Fear crawls up my neck. How long have I been standing here? A tiny part of me is tempted to get out my notebook and take notes, but I push it aside.
Get the baby
.

She holds up a bottle and looks at me. “Baba?”

The word releases me from the spell, making the drip of the faucet sound normal again. I carefully choose my footing, stepping over the body of the white-­haired woman. Her eyes stare up at me as I pass.

Up close, what I thought was chocolate on the baby's face is dried blood. Her tiny fingers are covered in it. She holds up her bottle to me again. “Baba?”

Good God, how long has she been here? But I know it can't have been more than a day. I spoke to Mrs. Martin yesterday afternoon. At the time, I heard a baby in the background squealing with delight. Maria Martin apologized for the noise, and laughed, saying her ten-­month-­old was just learning how to use her vocal cords effectively.

Scooping the child up in my arms, I head to the bathroom. The shower curtain is open. Inside the tub is a large open window without a screen. Cold air hits my face from the ocean breeze streaming in.

Wetting a washcloth I find near the sink, I dab at the child's face. She shakes her curls to get away, but I scrub until her cheeks are finally pink—­not black with dried blood. I work on her tiny fingers one by one. Even though she tries to pull them away, I soap them until the basin is full of pink suds swirling down the drain.

Once the water turns clear, I dry her face and hands and head back into the kitchen. Balancing the girl on my hip, I tug on the refrigerator door with a trembling hand. Vaguely, I realize I'm leaving my fingerprints all over a murder scene. I smell the milk before rinsing out her bottle and filling it.

Once it's full and the nipple is screwed back on, the girl snatches it and gulps, her head tilted back, eyes on me. At the same time, her other hand reaches up to my hair, tugging on a strand until she has it wrapped and twirled around her chubby fingers.

With her balanced on my hip, I head for the bedroom, crowded with a bed, a crib, and a dresser. The girl watches me solemnly with big black eyes as I lay her on the bed and change her diaper. She lifts her legs to make my job easier. “It's okay, baby. It's okay,” I coo as I gently wipe away all the dried feces stuck to her legs. I strip off her bloody dress and maneuver her into a tiny pair of flowered footie pajamas lying near the crib.

All the while I'm blocking out what is in the living room. I'm pushing back the reporter voice in my head describing the scene. I ignore what else I should be doing.
Something important.
Once I get the baby changed, the smell reminds me.

The bodies.

But first I need to get out of here. I focus on the front door. With the child in my arms, I step across and around bodies, making my way through the carnage. Finally, after what seems like forever, I'm in the hall.

I close the door to the apartment and slump to the floor. I bury my face in her curls for a moment before reaching into my bag.

My fingers are shaking as I punch in the numbers. 9-­1-­1.

It is all I can manage. I don't even hold the phone up to my ear as it rings. A sign above me on the wall shows all the emergency exits in the building. I stare at it, wondering which one the killer took to escape. Beside me, a small box has the UPS logo on it. It is addressed to Maria Martin. The return address is Babies“R”Us.

The girl snuggles into my neck and chest, slurping the rest of her bottle with loud sucking noises. She holds a strand of my hair, twisting it in her fingers and pressing her body close to mine. In the distance, from what seems like a place far removed, I hear a small voice.

“Nine-­one-­one . . . nine-­one-­one? What is your emergency? This is nine-­one-­one . . . State your emergency, please.”

 

Chapter 2

E
VERY
ONCE
IN
a while, I catch a Spanish word I recognize.

Baby. Police. Blood. Grandparents. Knife.

A uniformed officer holds back a crowd clustered at the end of the hall shooting alarmed looks my way. One officer comes into focus, kneeling right in front of me. He asks my name. When I answer, my voice sounds like it's coming from a distance. The child starts to cry when he attempts to take her out of my arms. I cling tighter to her as she thrusts her fists into my hair, holding on so hard my scalp stings.

I come to life, gritting my words. “Leave us alone. She doesn't want to go to you.”

He gives me a look I've seen cops give drunken ­people, then heads toward a petite woman in a brown suit. The woman, whose hair is cut like a boy, stops her conversation, looks at me over the top of her cat-­eye glasses, and presses her lips together. I look away. Instead I focus on the army of legs moving past me. Cops come and go out of the apartment. Some cast sideways glances my way, but most ignore me.

After a few minutes, the petite woman comes over to me. She crouches down to my level.

“Heard you found them inside. I know you are shaken up from what you've seen, but the EMTs need to check this little guy out.”

“It's a girl.”

The woman reaches out to the baby, who buries her face in my neck and shakes her head, murmuring, “No no no no no no.”

“You heard her,” I say.

Annoyance flashes across the woman's face, but only for a second. “Hey, I'm not in the business of traumatizing little kids, but this one needs to be checked out. Please give me the girl.” The woman is persistent, staying crouched down a few inches from my face. “The EMTs are waiting outside.”

I close my eyes and nod, my brown hair falling in a curtain across my face. “I'll carry her. She needs me.”

As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I know they are true.

I stand, murmuring into the child's hair. “It's going to be okay. I won't let them take you. Let's get you checked out.” As if she understands me, her grip on my hair loosens, but she doesn't let go.

“Baba?”

I reach down and pick up her bottle. She holds it with one hand, chewing on the nipple. Her other tiny hand is still wrapped, tangled, in my hair.

The woman in the suit nods and stands, running her palms down her slacks. “Follow me. The reporters have descended like vultures. I'll take you around the back.”

A strangled laugh makes her turn and give me a questioning look. I shut my mouth. She obviously doesn't know I'm one of those “vultures.” They are my ­people. Okay, maybe not the TV reporters.

The bright sunlight outside the building makes my eyes squint and water a little. A camera guy from one TV station spots us and scrambles closer, followed by the rest of the mob of reporters, leading with their microphones and leaping toward the yellow crime-­scene tape separating us.

“Miss? Miss?”

“Can you tell us what happened?”

“What happened to your baby?”

The words stop me dead in my tracks.