The Abbey

I hated doing next of kin notifications. Most people guessed why I was there as soon as they opened the door. They put on airs of fortitude and strength, but almost all fell apart in front of me. I could see it in their eyes. They looked at me and knew something, too. I’d go home afterwards as if nothing was wrong. I might hug my family a little tighter than usual, but the world would go on for me without much of a hiccup. Most hated me for what I had to do, and I couldn’t blame them. My Islamic faith told me that drinking to escape their stares was an abomination in the sight of God, but I didn’t care as long as it helped me sleep without dreams.

I pulled my department–issued Ford Crown Victoria to a stop beside the mailbox in front of my sister’s house and took a deep breath, stilling myself as a familiar anxiety flooded over me. I knew as soon as I had volunteered for the duty that I was going to have one of those nights I’d need to forget, but it took that moment for it to become real. It tore at my gut like barbed wire.

I opened my car’s door. My sister and her husband lived in a 4000–square–foot, historic home that could have comfortably housed my entire extended family. As a resident of the poorer, smaller neighborhood next door, I was glad that it didn’t. My brother–in–law Nassir smiled when he opened the front door, but stiffened when I didn’t return the gesture.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“We’ll talk in a moment,” I said. “Where’s Rana?”

“In the kitchen,” said Nassir, not taking his hand from my shoulder. “Come in.”

I walked in, and Nassir shut the door behind me. The house’s first floor was typical of well–kept historic homes. The woodwork was straight and clean with a rich patina that could only come from eighty years of polishing while the rooms were open and bright. Nassir half–led and half–pushed me down the home’s main hallway to the kitchen in back. Rana was in front of a gas stove large enough that it would have been at home in the kitchen of a Las Vegas strip hotel. The air smelled like garlic and yeast.

“Ash,” she said, smiling at me. “I thought you and Hannah were going out tonight.”

“We were,” I said. “I need you both to sit at the table. We need to talk.”

Nassir and Rana did as I asked. In return, I broke their hearts as gently as I could.

Nassir and Rana had taken the news about as well as anyone could expect. They hadn’t cried in front of me, but they told me they wanted to be alone. If I went home, though, I’d have to tell my wife why I canceled our wedding anniversary plans. I didn’t think I had the strength or stomach for that yet. Instead, I drove to my office. It wasn’t my case, but I had enough friends in my department that I had a stack of eight–by–ten photos and notes on my desk when I arrived. They made my stomach turn.

I read through the timeline quickly. The call had come in at six in the evening. The caller described her as a female victim, approximately sixteen to eighteen years old, in the guest home of one of Indianapolis’s most wealthy citizens. The first officer on the scene checked her pulse but found nothing. He called in a probable homicide, and that’s when the gears started moving. Within half an hour, five forensic technicians were documenting the scene, and Detective Olivia Rhodes was interviewing potential witnesses.

I flipped through the photographs. Each picture was numbered and had a written description. The first few were wide–angle shots of the scene. The photographer had snapped pictures of a kitchen with light maple cabinetry and a living room with a television, lounge chairs, and pool table. A vase of calla lilies rested on the counter beside the stove. They were my niece’s favorite flower; my wife and I sent them to her on her birthdays.

Rachel, my niece, was in the center of the room. Her skin was pale, indicating that her blood had already begun to pool beneath her, and her arms were pressed against her sides like a supine soldier at attention. I stared at the picture for a moment, my stomach twisting. She didn’t deserve that.

I skimmed through the next few pictures. The photographer had snapped more shots of the kitchen and living room. They were helpful for orienting someone in a crime scene, but not particularly interesting to me. I stopped when the photographs started focusing on my niece. The photographer had started with wider shots of her placement and then continued by photographing her closely from her head to her feet. She had no obvious external injuries and nor could I see puddles of blood around her. That was comforting. Unfortunately, I knew without even reading the crime scene report that her body had been staged.

I turned through the stack of photos until I found one focusing on Rachel’s neck. She wore a light–blue Polo shirt with an open collar. I couldn’t see ligature marks on her neck, but the bottom button on her collar had been popped off, leaving a pair of strings in its place. The detective in charge might not have thought much of it, but that wasn’t like Rachel. She was as meticulous about her clothes as anyone I had ever met. She wouldn’t have worn that shirt until she had a new button sewn back on.

I shifted on my seat and flipped through a few more pictures until I saw one focusing on her waist. Rachel wore a denim skirt with buttons instead of a zipper on front. The buttons were misaligned, though, so the skirt would have ridden uncomfortably against her abdomen. She wouldn’t have done that to herself.

I continued turning over photographs until I saw one I couldn’t explain. It looked like a shot of the carpet. Puzzled, I scanned through the notes that accompanied the photographs until I found the appropriate one. The photographer had tried to capture track marks. I looked at the picture again, straining my eyes until I saw two long strips where the carpet’s matte was flattened in one direction. Rachel had been dragged in there with her feet dangling behind her.

I could feel bile rise in the back of my throat.

I stared at that picture for a moment, thankful I hadn’t seen it before going to my sister’s house. Since I had come right from home, I hadn’t been able to tell her much about her daughter’s death. That was probably good.

The rest of the pictures focused on something odd, a glass vial full of a brownish–red liquid. The technician’s notes said someone had found it on an end table in one of the bedrooms. It was roughly the size of a cigar, and when the technician picked it up to catalog it, the liquid inside coated the glass like cough syrup. There was pink lipstick on the rim that appeared to be a match to Rachel’s.

What were you into, honey?

My desk phone rang, startling me. I glanced at my watch. It was after ten, well past my regular hours, so I doubted it was a casual phone call. I picked it up.

“Rashid,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“Yeah, Detective Rashid. This is Sergeant Hensley at
IMPD
downtown. Olivia Rhodes brought in somebody in your niece’s case, and I thought I’d give you the heads up.”

I nodded. Hensley was an old school watch sergeant and had been on the force before we had civilian oversight committees or cameras in every room. When he was my age, interrogations had included rubber hoses and phone books. I envied him. Justice may not have been pretty, but shit got done.

“Suspect or witness?” I asked.

Hensley chuckled.

“Fuck if I know,” he said. “They don’t tell me anything. If you want, I could do some poking around.”

I almost snickered. Hensley was as well connected in our department as anyone alive. He probably knew exactly who Olivia brought in and why, probably before she even entered the building. He wanted a handout.

“Don’t bother,” I said. “When’d she bring him in?”

“Just walked by my desk.”

If they had just walked by the front desk, I had at least twenty minutes to get over to
IMPD
. While I was still officially a detective, I was on a permanent investigative assignment with the Prosecutor’s Office, so I shared office space with the prosecutors about a block from the department’s downtown bullpen. In another year, I’d hopefully finish law school and be done with the department completely. I still loved the work, but I could only see so many bodies before I became as broken as the victims I investigated.

“Appreciate the call, Sergeant,” I said. “I’ll be over in a few.”

I hung up before Hensley could respond and grabbed my tweed jacket. My shoulder ached dully when I twisted my arm inside. I was thirty–four and generally too young to have arthritis, but I had been shot with a hunting rifle four years earlier while serving a high–risk felony warrant. I was the lucky one; my partner had been shot in the neck and bled out before paramedics could stabilize him.

The concrete outside my building radiated pent–up heat from earlier that day. My throat was dry and scratchy. One of my favorite bars was just a block away, and for a brief moment, I considered stopping. I decided against it, though. The station wasn’t far, and I could probably find someone inside willing to give me a pick–me–up if I needed it.

I reached the building quickly. IMPD’s downtown station was at least fifty years old, and it smelled musty. The front lobby was large and clad in white marble polished to a mirror shine by footsteps. A middle–aged couple clung to each other in the waiting room. They were well–dressed and looked nervous. My guess was that they were picking up their delinquent kid for his first
DUI
. That happened a lot. I’d see them again.

I walked to the front desk. Sergeant Hensley sat behind it, reading Sports Illustrated. He dropped his magazine and looked at me with green, rapacious eyes.

“You look like shit, Rashid.”

“Feel like it, too,” I said, reaching over the counter for a sign–in sheet. I scribbled my name and rank. Detective Sergeant Ashraf Rashid. I had been named after my father, although I hadn’t ever met him. He had been a history professor at the American University of Cairo, but one of his students shot and killed him before I was born. Apparently that kid’s family took grades seriously. The remnants of my family immigrated to the US shortly after that.

I pushed the sign–in sheet toward Hensley and pulled out my wallet. I took out two twenties and put them on top of the counter.

“I think I missed your kid’s last birthday. Buy him a football for me.”

Hensley slipped the money in his pocket and smiled.

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate this,” he said. “Detective Rhodes is in interrogation room three with Robert Cutting.”

If Hensley thought that earned him another payoff, he was wrong. I nodded to him and headed toward the elevators to the left of the desk.

The homicide bullpen hadn’t changed much since I had left it. Unlike most regular office buildings,
IMPD
didn’t have individual offices. At least not for peons like me. It had desks in open rooms. The administration justified the arrangement by arguing that separate offices would impede communication on sensitive investigations. In actuality, I’m pretty sure they were just too cheap to spring for the extra materials when they last renovated the building.

I weaved my way through desks and columns of file folders. The interrogation rooms were designed to be oppressive and to give a suspect the feeling that there was no escape. They were cramped, they had no windows, and the airflow inside them was carefully regulated depending on the interrogators mood. If a suspect looked around before going in, he’d even see a well–labeled express elevator that went directly to the holding cells on the top four floors of the building.

I walked until I came to interrogation room three. The door was shut, but Detective Olivia Rhodes stood outside, a cup of coffee in hand. She nodded at me when I drew close. Olivia was a good detective. I had been in homicide for six years before being transferred to the Prosecutor’s Office. I spent one of those years as her partner. From what I had heard earlier, she fought to be assigned to my niece’s case. I liked her.

“I thought you might be up,” she said, turning down the hallway. She opened an unmarked door beside the interrogation room and held it for me. “Come on.”

Police interrogations have come a long way in the twelve years I’ve been on the force. Our station no longer had the infamous one–way mirror overlooking the interrogation room. Instead, we had a sophisticated set of hidden video cameras and microphones around the room. Everything was recorded from the moment a suspect walked inside to the moment he walked out. I had heard those recordings could disappear if the right person got the right incentive, but I had never had the need to take advantage of that. It was nice to know the option was there if I needed it, though.

Olivia turned on a flat–screen monitor attached to the wall. The picture showed a kid in jeans and a blue T–shirt. He had curly, brown hair and one of his arms was handcuffed to the wall, keeping him upright. He stared at the steel table in front of him, apparently unaware that he was being filmed.

“Is this Robert Cutting?” I asked.

Olivia nodded.

“Robbie,” she said. “He’s your niece’s boyfriend. Was your niece’s boyfriend, at least. I appreciate you doing the next of kin notification.”