Page 26 of Her Last Whisper
Looking around, she saw two neat piles of reports along with a thick clipboard filled with identifying numbers. Everything appeared neat and organized, which was a good sign. Even the trash can had been recently emptied.
Katie pulled the small piece of paper out of her pocket—PAY321—and decided to search for it herself. The clipboard had similar identifying numbers, each with three letters followed by three to four numbers.
She wasn’t sure of the protocol, but didn’t think that pulling an evidence container would cause any problem, so she entered the storage room: a huge area with specially made shelving units that went up two stories. Boxes and large plastic containers with lids sat on the shelves.
Katie wandered down two rows until she figured out which section matched the number she was looking for. Moving a ladder attached to the ceiling, she climbed up to the fourth shelf and found a box identifying as PAY321. She hauled it down and took it to a narrow metal table at the end of the row.
Flipping over the lid, Katie peered inside. There were two plastic evidence bags, each with a garment of clothing inside and an evidence receipt taped on top detailing the chain of custody. They were Amanda’s tank top and panties, which had been sent from the South Street Psychiatric Hospital where she had been taken after the night of her alleged escape. She rummaged through the rest of the box finding several forms signed by Detective Petersen who had checked the box stating, “not to process.” He had claimed that the victim retracted her original complaint. There was a note indicating if more evidence came to light, including witnesses, then the items would be processed.
Katie let out a breath, put the clothes back inside the box and closed the lid. The first thing she needed to do was get the garments tested and to visit the South Street Psychiatric Hospital.
Katie left a note on the desk for the evidence and property manager identifying herself and stating that she had taken the box to her office to have forensics test the evidence.
“Hi,” said a stocky man in his thirties. “What can I do for you?”
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Detective Scott and I was just leaving you a detailed note.”
He looked at the box and eyed the identifying number.
“I’m sorry if I’ve broken protocol. I’m working cold cases and I got caught up in some new evidence that needs to be tested right away.”
The property manager stared at her for a moment. She thought he might take the box from her. Instead, he smiled. “Don’t worry about it. It’s totally understandable. But, please don’t make it a habit. I’m responsible for all the evidence.”
“Of course. What’s your name?”
“Bob.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, heading out the door.
He nodded as he took a seat at his desk, carefully writing down the information on the clipboard.
Sixteen
Thursday 1550 hours
He reveled in crowds, taking in each individual identity—everyone had a story to tell, a truth they were hiding in the way they dressed, a secret look, even a particular smell. Most people paid little or no attention to him. He had always been overlooked. That worked well in his favor and let him go about his work in peace.
He opened the lower cupboard in his small bathroom and pulled out every type of cleaning solution he could find—from hand soap to heavy-duty disinfectants. Each smell brought back vivid memories that he didn’t want to forget. At last he found what he was looking for: a jasmine pump soap. It had always been his favorite scent, reminding him of a much different time in his life.
Turning on the hot tap in the sink, he waited until steam rose and the temperature was as hot as it could go before putting his hands under the water.
Scalding.
Red hot.
Burning his already-weathered hands, he marveled at how red his fingers became. Almost unbearable, but that was the way he liked it. He wanted to wipe away everything.
He pressed the hand soap dispenser three times for a generous lather. Washing his hands for nearly a minute, he slowly rinsed them under the hot water.
Taking a paper towel, he dabbed his skin dry, wanting to keep the integrity of the scent alive.
He smelled his palms, taking in a deep breath and savoring the scent.
He put the soap away, lingering a bit, before he turned off the light and left the room.
Seventeen
Friday 0930 hours
