The Body Reader (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

G
ot a woman who insists she works here.” Officer Myra Nettles stood in the doorway of the Minneapolis Police Department, homicide division. “She was trying to get past the front desk.”

Detective Uriah Ashby didn’t have time to deal with a crazy person. It was like a damn apocalypse out there. Not Uriah’s job to delegate tasks, but Chief Vivian Ortega had left him in charge while every available cop hit the streets. “I think you can handle it,” he told Nettles.

Emergency lighting had kicked in, the way it had kicked in previous times the city experienced a blackout—blackouts that had begun a year earlier when a major substation exploded and caught fire, leaving them with one less source of power. The ramifications were deep and widespread, the blackouts recurring due to the overtaxed remaining stations, each outage an open invitation to loot and burn. Similar behavior had been seen across the country over the years, the worst being the New York City blackouts of 1977. More recently, New Orleans after Katrina. Darkness brought out the criminal opportunists. For Minneapolis, it wasn’t over yet. The new substation wasn’t expected to be up and running for another six months.

“Says her name is Jude Fontaine.”

That got his attention. “Fontaine? You sure?”

Shrug. “I’m just the messenger.”

“Escort her to my desk.”

Returning with the woman trailing behind her, Myra said, “She was armed with a Smith & Wesson.”

Uriah had never met Fontaine, but he’d seen photos and enough media coverage to know the person standing in front of him wasn’t the missing detective who was presumed dead. “This is not Detective Fontaine,” Uriah said.

Fontaine would have been close to his age, around thirty-five or so by now. This woman had to be much older, and her hair was white, not brown.

A homeless person, then. Someone who was mentally unstable, and since this particular unstable person had tried to enter the building armed . . . “Put her in Holding,” he said. “Get her food and a blanket. I’ll deal with her later.” It would take further questioning to determine whether she should be booked, and the Hennepin County Jail was at capacity—a new situation for the city, a by-product of the power outages. And God knew that over half the people in custody really needed to be under psychiatric care and not in jail, but thanks to the closing of state mental institutions years ago, that wasn’t going to happen.

Myra pulled the woman’s arms behind her back, slapped handcuffs around her wrists. The woman seemed oblivious as she stared at Uriah. “Did you replace me?” she asked.

With one twirling finger, Uriah motioned for Myra to take her away. Enough raving lunatics outside to deal with. Reports were coming in of neighborhoods being torched, far more than their fire department could handle. It was now a question of which houses should be allowed to burn to the ground. A story that had become too familiar.

“Wait.” It was common knowledge that kidnapping victims, hostages, could change drastically. When they returned to civilization, they no longer looked like themselves and sometimes even family couldn’t ID them. “Bring her back.”

Myra turned the woman around and pushed her forward.

“Where was your desk?” Uriah asked. “Show me.”

She strode past him in boots that thumped and dragged.

The chief’s office was private, as private as an office of glass could be. The rest of the department amounted to a scattering of desks throughout the room. Open, no cubicles. On a sunny day, light poured in from the row of windows that overlooked the city street below, and if a person had a green thumb, plants could do well. A couple of officers even grew herbs alongside the typical array of framed photos.

Nodding to a tidy desk that held no pictures and no framed photos, she said, “Grant Vang, my partner.” Nodding the other direction, “Jenny Carlisle.” Kept going, stopped. “Right there.”

The desk belonged to Detective Caroline McIntosh. She was fairly new, a single mom, someone they probably wouldn’t have hired if they hadn’t been desperate. After Uriah’s partner had retired, the chief suggested Caroline step in, but Uriah had declined. Caroline’s head wasn’t in the game. She was actively dating, often late for work. He couldn’t deal with her undependability. Sometimes he suspected she was flirting with him. He couldn’t deal with that either.

“Have you met anybody new yet?” his mother was always asking whenever they spoke on the phone. A relationship was the last thing on his mind.

A homeless person off the street wouldn’t have been able to point out Fontaine’s desk. Uriah stared at the woman in front of him, looking closer, his mind putting together another scenario as he took in her ill-fitting coat and boots, along with her filth and smell. God, did she smell. Like that sour-sweet stench of a person who hadn’t bathed . . .
in years
.

The eyes. Hollow and defeated.
Shut off. Dead inside.

“Remove the handcuffs.”

The woman glanced at him in surprise, and he got the sense she’d picked up on the hint of emotion in his voice, but that was ridiculous. He was good at keeping it together. He’d been keeping it together a long time.

Once the cuffs were removed, Uriah pulled out his phone, opened an app. “Hold out your hand.”

Her nails were broken, every crevice of her palm lined with grime. The bones of her wrist were covered in a thin layer of transparent skin, and what flesh remained bore evidence of abuse—deep red lines, swelling, and signs of infection. When he looked back up, he found himself staring into the face of starvation.

He pressed her finger against the screen, capturing the print, hit a few buttons, and within a minute he had a match. In horror and fascination, he stared at the photo of a dark-haired, attractive woman. Not your standard department headshot—the person on the screen looked vibrant and mischievous. Detective Jude Fontaine.

He knew her story. One evening she’d left her house to go for a jog and never returned. A team of detectives, many no longer with the force, had failed to solve the case.

He glanced back at the sunken cheeks, cracked lips, skin the color of paste.

Squinting as if the weak emergency lighting hurt her eyes, she asked, “What did that tell you?” Her words were thick and breathless, as if it hurt to breathe, hurt to speak. He took note of her swollen jaw, and looking back down at her hand he saw that some of her fingers were slightly crooked, possibly from old breaks. Evidence of torture. He swallowed.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

She’d read him again. Of course, this time his reaction would have been apparent to a blind person.
Don’t feel sorry for me.

He’d witnessed unspeakable brutality in his line of work, and this woman in front of him was nothing new when it came to victims. In fact, she was doing better than many.
She was alive.

Maybe it was because she was one of them. A cop. Maybe that’s why seeing her this way bothered him so much. Maybe that’s why he felt something even though he hadn’t allowed himself to feel anything for a long time.

She’d asked if he’d replaced her. It was close to the truth. He’d been brought in a few months after she’d gone missing. Grant Vang had been in charge of her case, but Uriah had been briefed on it, enough to know there were few clues left behind other than a witness claiming to have seen a woman fitting Fontaine’s description being pulled into a van. Nothing ever came of that story. Tip lines were half bullshit, but abduction had always been the most likely scenario. Uriah had figured her for dead. They’d all figured her for dead. It had the hallmarks of a pro job, the conclusion being that she’d been murdered the night of her abduction, her body disposed of. Probably a revenge killing. Unfortunately not unheard of when it came to cops.

“How’d you get here?”

“The power went out. I escaped. I walked.”

He had a million other questions. The who, the how, the why. But this wasn’t the time. Right now she needed medical help, not an interrogation. “I’m going to have Officer Nettles escort you to the Hennepin County Medical Center. Later I’ll stop by to talk to you. How does that sound?”

“Will I be able to lie down in a bed?”

A hospital, the thing most people dreaded, sounded appealing to her because it would have a bed. He felt that tightness in his throat again. “Yes,” he said quietly.

CHAPTER 3

W
hat are her injuries?” Uriah asked. “Other than the obvious.”

In the hospital hallway, the doctor stuck her hands deep in the pockets of her lab coat. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

Six hours had passed since Jude Fontaine’s appearance at the police station. Power was back, and streets were calm. She’d been examined, cleaned up, and given a private room. Uriah had made it home long enough to grab a few hours of sleep and a shower. He’d also contacted Chief Ortega, who’d put him in charge of Jude’s case, her reason being that it might be easier for Fontaine to deal with someone she didn’t know. Uriah agreed.

The news of the escape had hit Ortega hard, and guilt was going to weigh heavy on the entire department. Yes, years had passed since Jude Fontaine’s disappearance, but that didn’t change the fact that they’d given up on one of their own.

“She’s had broken bones that were probably never set,” the doctor said. “Concussions. Scars over much of her back and chest. Less serious, but needing immediate attention—some questionable teeth. A dentist will address those issues once we get her stabilized. Everything about her blood is off, and she’s deficient in almost everything—understandable in someone who’s been starved. You say she escaped by herself? And walked to the police station?”

“That seems to be the case.”

“Honestly, I don’t know how she did it.” A pause. “Look, you can go into the room, but try not to upset her.”

He nodded. “I need to find out where she was being held. I need to find out what went down. Her life could still be in danger, for all we know.”

“I’m just saying handle her gently, and don’t push if she’s unwilling to talk to you right now. She might break, and then you’ll end up with nothing.”

“I understand.”

The doctor left, and Uriah tapped at the open hospital-room door before entering.

Now that she’d been cleaned up and dressed in a hospital gown rather than a heavy coat, she looked worse—if that was possible. He could see the bruises, old and new, on her bare arms, scars and lesions on her thin wrists. It appeared someone had made an attempt to wash her hair, then given up. He had the urge to grab a pair of scissors and cut out the mats.

“Hi.” He dragged a chair next to the bed. “Remember me?”

She pushed a button on the lift control to raise the head of the bed several inches. “My replacement.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Detective Ashby, right?”

“Yeah, right.” He was surprised she remembered. “I need to ask you some questions.”

The brittle morning light fell across her face, revealing eyes that were an intense blue and a gaze so direct it made him uncomfortable. In stark contrast to her hair, her brows were so dark they looked almost black. He crossed the room and reached for the curtains.

“Don’t.”

He paused, arm in the air.

“Leave them open.”

“The sun’s in your eyes.”

“I want it in my eyes.”

He let the full meaning of that sink in.
Of course.
Judging by her pallor, she probably hadn’t seen natural light in a long time.

He took a seat beside her, thrown off by her unexpected composure and alertness. But then he wasn’t dealing with somebody who’d been held captive for a short time. She’d had years to shut down her emotions, years to rewire her brain to accept whatever presented itself. Even freedom.

“Don’t feel bad,” she said.

Was he that obvious? Uriah prided himself on remaining at least outwardly unaffected. Not in a cold kind of way, but a controlled way. It had gotten him through a lot of tough situations, including the last year. His personal ordeal was different from the horror Fontaine had suffered, but maybe not so different when it came to coping.

“Don’t feel bad about the questions you have to ask me,” she said. “Don’t feel bad about what I’ve been through. Talking about it isn’t going to make things worse. It’s not like I’ve
forgotten
and discussing it will bring it all back.”

“Yeah, well . . . that’s exactly what I was thinking,” he confessed.

“I’ll make it easier. I can tell you that I don’t know where the house is.”

“But it was a house.” Statement. “Not an abandoned building or storage facility. Anything like that?”

“A house. In a neighborhood.”

And then they got down to her escape. The how of it. She told him about killing the man who’d held her for three years.

“With the gun you had when you showed up at the station.”

“Yes.”

The weapon’s serial number had been filed off. The gun, along with the coat, hat, and boots she’d arrived in, had been sent to the crime lab. Uriah was hoping for a print or DNA match. “The man—are you sure you killed him?”

“I’m sure.” But her eyes clouded in doubt. “It was dark.”

Uriah once again had the urge to close the curtain. The sun was too bright. It revealed too much, from her sharp chest bones to her transparent skin to the bald spot on one side of her head—either she’d pulled out her own hair or someone else had done it.

She could be wrong about her captor being dead. The moment would have been highly charged and had probably felt unreal. She would have been terrified and in flight mode.

“Would you recognize the house if you saw it?” he asked.

She didn’t look at him but instead concentrated on something in her mind. Digging. Trying to remember. “No. I never saw the outside of the house. I have no idea what it looked like.”

“And you walked straight to the police station.”

She faltered. They always faltered somewhere in the story. Here it came. The lie. He’d been interrogating people long enough to see it forming. But to her credit, he saw her toss the lie aside to settle for what he hoped was somewhat the truth.

“I went home.”

“Home.” He frowned, trying to understand, filling in the blanks with what he knew of her personal history. Single, but she’d had a boyfriend when she’d vanished. “What happened when you went home?”

She swallowed. “I’d rather not talk about that right now.”

“Okay, we’ll save it for later.” He recalled the doctor’s warning about pushing her too hard too soon. “How about we start at the beginning? The day you vanished?”

That seemed to be something she was willing to discuss.

“I don’t remember the abduction,” she said.

Understandable. Emotional trauma aside, she might have suffered one of the concussions that day.

“The first thing I was aware of was coming to on a basement floor, in a room with no windows. Not big enough to lie down in. I had to curl up to sleep. I never saw anybody but the man I killed last night. And I’d never seen him before that moment when he opened the cell door three years ago.” She paused, and he could see they’d reached another place she didn’t want to go. But he’d eventually have to get a full statement of what happened in that basement so the man who’d held her against her will could be prosecuted if still alive.

“I’m going to send a sketch artist to see you today. Are you okay with that?”

“Yes.”

She was tough, but his short visit had worn her out. He’d get more when she was fresh. “Let’s finish this tomorrow.” In the meantime, he’d talk to her ex-boyfriend and get cops on door-to-door canvassing of areas she might have walked through, even though the chance of anyone having seen her seemed remote considering the blackout. Relevant case information would be pushed to the entire Minneapolis Police Department. Maybe a neighbor heard shots fired. Maybe the sketch artist would be able to give them something to go on.

Now that the questioning was over, at least temporarily, her body relaxed.

“If you’d rather talk to a female detective about the details of your ordeal, I can arrange that.”

“You’ll see my official statement anyway, right?”

“Correct.”

“And you’ll be handling the case?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’d rather talk to you.”

He put the chair back and was turning to leave when someone rapped at the door.

Uriah was surprised to see a man he recognized from local media stories. Adam Schilling. Expensive leather jacket. Slacks that cost a month’s salary, glowing skin, and a deliberate five-o’clock shadow, along with plucked and sculpted brows. He was a playboy and one of the city’s most eligible bachelors. Then Uriah remembered what he’d somehow forgotten in all this. Jude Fontaine was Governor Phillip Schilling’s daughter, and this guy was her brother.

Uriah wasn’t from the Twin Cities, and he didn’t follow celebrity gossip, yet he recalled something about Fontaine emancipating herself when she was sixteen. Apparently she had nothing to do with the Schillings anymore and had even taken a new name. Judging by the horrified expression on her face, it looked like her feelings toward her kin hadn’t changed all that much over the years.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked.

Schilling frowned. “I wanted to see you. Chief Ortega contacted us about your escape, and Dad wanted me to make sure you were okay.” He swallowed, his eyes glistening as he continued to stare. “My God. You look like hell.”

“Get out,” she whispered.

Upsetting her would not be helpful to the investigation. “You’d better leave,” Uriah told him.

Schilling raised his hands, giving up. “Okay, okay.” He backed away, turned, and vanished out the door.

Jude fumbled for the bed’s lift control, gave up, closed her eyes, arms limp at her sides, face ashen.

Afraid she was going to black out, Uriah grabbed the control, hit the button, and lowered the bed.

“Curtain,” she whispered breathlessly.

He pulled the fabric across the window, darkening the room. “You okay?” he asked. What a question.

Like someone afraid to move for fear of throwing up, she gave him an almost-imperceptible nod.

“Need a drink of water?”

“No.”

The subscript being that she wanted him to go away. He’d stayed too long. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

In the hallway, he found Schilling leaning against a wall. Upon hearing Uriah’s footsteps, he straightened.

Uriah introduced himself and flashed his badge.

“She looks like a different person,” Schilling said, openly disturbed by what he’d just seen. “I mean, I knew she’d probably look rough, but . . .” He shook his head. “Wow.”

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” Uriah asked. It was a polite gesture, meant to open up communication.

Five minutes later, they were situated at a corner table in the cafeteria, white diner mugs in front of them.

“I really can’t tell you much of anything.” Schilling measured out two teaspoons of sugar, then stirred noisily, stainless steel against ceramic. “I’ve had no contact with Jude since she was sixteen. None. I guess it was stupid of me to come. I thought maybe she’d be happy to see family, you know? I thought she might need somebody with her.”

“Obviously not you.”

Schilling flashed him a look of irritation, then launched into an explanation of their situation. “She was diagnosed with mental problems back when she was a kid. Honestly, if she hadn’t looked so bad today, I would have said the last three years were fake. Something she concocted. Her disappearance.” He shrugged. “Just to get back at us for whatever she thinks we did to her. But seeing her like that . . . I guess it was real. And I feel bad that we didn’t try harder to find her.”

This was the first Uriah had heard of Fontaine’s mental instability. She would have had to pass a psych evaluation to join the department, but Schilling had known the child, the teen, not the adult. And teenagers were volatile. “Does she have any family she associates with? Somebody who can help her through this?”

Schilling shook his head. “Not that I know of. She was living with a guy when she was abducted, but I’m pretty sure he’s moved on. I’ve seen him with somebody. And who can blame him?”

Uriah had an uncomfortable thought. “The guy she was with before? Does he still live in the house they shared?”

“No idea.”

How messed up would that be, to get out of the place you’d been held captive for three years, go home, only to find another woman in your house?

“Just remember,” Schilling said. “She was unstable before any of this happened, and you just saw her in there. That wasn’t the reaction of a rational person.”

Any decent detective knew better than to trust one person’s version of any story. “Are you younger? Older? Any other siblings?”

“Just the two of us. I’m four years older. Our mother died in a gun accident when Jude was eight and I was twelve. Jude didn’t see it happen, but she was on site, staying in the family cabin up north. She saw the aftermath. Everybody freaking. My dad out of his mind. I’m sure seeing adults lose it like that, seeing her own father fall apart, had to be tough on a kid. I think that’s when she started getting weird. Understandable, right? Shortly after that, she became paranoid. Delusional. She started saying our father killed our mother. She just wouldn’t let it go.”

Adam Schilling’s mention of the tragic loss of their mother recalled something else: he was the one who’d accidently shot her. That omission to his story said something about his character, and yet it was probably a dark event he didn’t like to talk about, especially with a stranger.

“I feel like a gossip,” Schilling said, his eyes somber with what seemed like sincerity, “but this is personal history I think you should be aware of so you know what you’re dealing with.”

“The more information I have, the better.”

“Could she tell you anything?” Schilling asked. “About the day she was abducted? Or where she’s been? Who kidnapped her? How she escaped?”

“So far, we know nothing. And if I did know more than nothing, I wouldn’t be able to discuss it with you.” Uriah pulled out his card and slid it across the table. “If you think of anything you might have forgotten, no matter how slight, give me a call.”

Schilling read the card, then pocketed it. “Keep an eye on her, will you? Regardless of what she might think about me, I believe in watching out for family. If I can help, even under the radar, let me know.” He gestured vaguely. “Money, whatever she needs.”