Often
you have to root around in flotsam and jetsam to illuminate a truth that could
change the world.
The
rescue team had her bagged by the time I arrived. Fisherman’s Wharf’s not an
ideal place to dredge up a floater. Bad for business. I pull back the zipper for
a cursory look, then zip her shut again. We’ll become intimate at the morgue,
she and I.
The
fisherman looks like he’s just lived his worst nightmare.
“Detective Terrick…Central
Division…so, where’d you find her?”
“About
ten miles off Black Point. Rope caught my propeller.”
“Tell
me what you saw?”
“Well, she was just floating there, hair
floating straight out like spaghetti. Something around her neck, dog collar
maybe…rope tied on. Yanked her right up to the boat. 'Bout it. Called
the Coast Guard.”
Questioning
the Coast Guard doesn’t add much to the fisherman’s tale. Now it’s my job to
discover her story. They all have a story.
***
I’m
ringing the morgue when the wharf begins to fill with people carrying signs,
their panties all in a bunch, arguing about “the greater good.” Our State Senator,
Peters, suffered an “incident” recently, after signing this mandate making it
legal to vaccinate people’s kids without their consent.
He and his wife looked
up from their sushi one night to see a baby crib blazing like a supernova on their
front lawn. Press painted it as an anti-vaxxer stunt akin to terrorism. Never
mind that this tool’s asserted his own authority over the masses with his own
little Tuskeegee Experiment. Wife was scared as hell, but this guy’s got
pockets so deep the stunt kinda’ made my heart sing a little. I love it when
the peasants rise up.
“Samuels, City Morgue.”
“Sammy,
heading your way to sit in on the floater.”
“Bring
tacos.”
***
“So
tell me,” I say, juggling fast food.
“About
thirty, fish got at her but Grave’s wax hasn’t set in. Something snapped the
rope or she’d be worse. About two weeks floating…had a baby recently.”
“Think
she offed herself?”
“Well...could
have weighted herself down…...blond hair in the dog collar…likely retriever.”
“Hard to imagine, suicide that far out…”
“Hard to imagine, suicide that far out…”
“Leaving
that to you.”
I’ve
been on the trail four days. I crush out my cigarette in a planter before
knocking on a door in the Tenderloin District. A fair-skinned woman with
frightened eyes peers out. I can’t pin down the accent.
“I
report Marisa missing two weeks ago. Police call her runaway. Now, don’t return
calls. Marisa cry all the time since her beautiful baby, Ilianna die. Doctors
say not their fault, but Marisa said liars.”
“The
father?”
“She
get mad when I ask. But she is good girl.”
She
shows me her daughter’s room. “No crib?” I ask.
“Marisa
drag crib away. Say sadness sleeps there. Found this on bed,” she says, prying
open a silver locket to reveal a beautiful girl cradling a baby. “All I have
left.”
I
exit with Marisa’s hairbrush and the address of her employer. The lab confirms a
match. I’ll pay the girl’s boss a visit before breaking her mother’s heart in
the morning.
***
A
breeze blows from the southwest as I face the front door of the Nob Hill
mansion, listening to the dog bark. A well-kept woman scrutinizes my badge and
lets me in.
“I’m inquiring about your maid, Marisa,” I begin.
“I’m inquiring about your maid, Marisa,” I begin.
“She’s
no longer employed.”
“Oh?”
“No,
she just stopped coming. Frankly it’s a relief. She really hasn’t done a
thorough job since becoming pregnant last year, but the senator refused to let
her go.”
“The
senator?”
“Senator
Peters. Didn’t you know?”
Holy
shit. I’m slipping.
“Ma’am,
is the senator in?” I reach out to pet the neck of the golden lab breathing on
my knee.
“No,
he’s in the capitol.”
“I’m
sorry to ask, but do you have any reason to believe Marisa and your husband
were…involved?”
“Certainly
NOT!”
I
give her a hard look.
“I
do think the little bitch tried to blackmail him. She went crazy after that baby
died. Called here all hours, crying. No
money to bury the child, Richard said. I know he gave her money, but she
probably wanted more.” She dug out a notepaper with some scribbled numbers. “I
found this on his notepad. Imagine her wanting
this kind of money. Richard’s kind. Blamed it on grief. Said to let it go.”
“Have
your husband call me,” I said, pocketing the paper. “Dog lost his collar, huh?”
“I
hadn’t noticed.”
***
Numbers
swirl like the ice in my Scotch. What kind of threat moves a powerful man to make
a sad little girl disappear? The word “sad”
hits me like a bludgeon...“Sadness sleeps
here.”
I
grab the phone, and dial dispatch. “Senator Peters burnt crib…where is it?” Numbers
were found carved into that crib. Same as on the notepad. The girl sent him a damn warning. Set it
ablaze for all the world to see and nobody did.
***
Marisa’s
mother collapsed into my arms, her locket striking my chest like a firebrand. On a hunch, I pry the pictures out. On the back, her mother deciphers the same numbers. Marisa’s phone number. Damn. She took out insurance.
“You’ve reached Marisa Sven. If you are
hearing this, I’ve lost the ability to speak. Senator Richard Peters wrote a law that kills babies. I told him
to stop it before it hurt more babies and he called me crazy. The doctor said
if I didn’t give Ilianna the vaccines, he would sign a form saying I was a bad
mother. I had no choice. They murdered her. The doctor said no, but a mother
knows. Later, I heard the rich men talking and I know they know too. What if everyone
found out he made a law that killed his own baby? The baby he made when he
raped me. My evidence is sweet, like your cookies, Mama. It's all here. I love you.”
Mama Sven understands. She walks to her cookie jar and pulls out Marisa’s phone.
Mama Sven understands. She walks to her cookie jar and pulls out Marisa’s phone.
***
Marisa’s
story played out nationally. I watched with smug satisfaction as the ex-senator
was led away in leg-irons and handcuffs.
Sometimes
the peasants do win.
~ by taree Belardes
7/24/16
NYC Flash Fiction Contest 2016
Times; 48 hrs.
Word limit; 1,000
Prompts;
Genre; Mystery
Object; A dog collar
Location; A wharf
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