Page 66 of Retribution
Chase and I show him our badges, and he lifts the tape, allowing us entry. Stepping inside the waiting room, I clock a young woman sitting in one of the several chairs, sobbing into a tissue as Detective Latham sits beside her, murmuring quietly to her.
“I don’t know!” she wails, hiccuping at the end. “Doctor Ortega originally had a busy morning, but all of her patients called in to rearrange.”
Pulling a vacant chair over, I sit down across from her, needing to hear what she has to say. She’s the first witness we’ve had, which makes it even more important.
“All of her patients canceled?” I reiterate, needing to be sure I had heard her correctly.
She nods, her blonde ponytail swinging as she dabs her eyes.
“You didn’t find that unusual?”
“Well, yes. But what was I going to do? People cancel their appointments. It happens. Usually not the whole morning, but what can I do about it?” She waves her hand about, despair and shock written across her features.
Chase leans in. “We’re going to need the names and phone numbers for the canceled patients. We might be able to discover why they all did that. Seems a bit convenient, if you ask me. Making sure they had the morning to themselves?”
I nod in agreement. It’s like it was planned that way. How was Charlotte managing all this?
Looking over at the receptionist, I ask, “How did the killers get in? Did they have an appointment?”
She looks puzzled for a moment, then says slowly, “I honestly don’t remember. The whole day has gone past and I’m not sure how. The last thing I remember was coming into work this morning. Then nothing but some hazy feelings. I can’t explain it, but you have to believe me, I didn’t have anything to do with the doctor’s death!”
Chase and Detective Latham try to soothe her, assuring her she wasn’t a suspect. Getting up, I wander around the room and notice a teacup sitting on the desk. Tilting my head at the officer, he comes over, and I point to the cup. “Please get this bagged as evidence. Get it tested for drugs.”
Nodding, he does as I ask. Chase is finishing up the interview and sends her on her way with a warning not to leave town as she might be needed to answer more questions. Grabbing her bag, she nods in understanding, then hurries out the door.
Poor thing. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear she changed careers after this.
Wandering down the hallway, I enter the examination room, coming up short when I see the scene laid out before me. The CSI tech is dusting for prints, while another one is photographing everything. They give me the room when I request it, leaving me with my thoughts.
Holy fucking Jesus Christ superstar.
The doctor lays back in a chair, her arms outspread in a parody of a cross. Her legs are up in stirrups, her genitalia on show. Her face is contorted, fixed in a death mask of pain and terror.
Her throat is a mottled red, thick and distended, her mouth held open by a spreader. A silver-colored metal blocks her mouth, and I shiver at the horror of her death.
Seeing this, I’m not sure Charlotte can be saved.
Snapping on gloves, I pick up the tablet that is the same generic one found at most of the crime scenes. Quickly skimming through it, I find payments between the doctor and the D’Angelos, and the puzzle pieces snap together. Doctor Ortega was a gynecologist. Hundreds of thousands of dollars paid.
Anger snaps through me like a live wire. My thoughts about what Charlotte is doing are ping-ponging back and forth. I can understand why she’s doing it, but killing is wrong. Horrific things were done to her, and she deserves justice—but was torturing and killing the way to go about it? Did that not make her just as much of a monster as they were?
“Auntie Sannah! You’re here!” Charlotte wraps her little arms around my leg, squeezing tight. “I missed you. Why do you have to go to school all day?”
I stumble back, catching myself on the doorway. My throat clenches up when the memories I had worked so hard to keep at bay start rushing through me.
Charlotte twirls around, making her yellow costume dress float out around her. “Auntie Sannah, look! I’m Belle!” she exclaims, then looks me over. Digging in her costume box, she pulls out her Cinderella crown and plops it on my head, breaking out in a toothy smile. “There! Now we can both be princesses.”
“I love you, Auntie Sannah. You’re my bestest friend.”
I hold the tears back, my chest tight and aching with the remembered pain.
I need to stop letting my conscience get in the way. I can’t let her down, can’t think of her as being a monster like them. She was a beautiful, loving, carefree child that did nothing to deserve the evil she’s been forced to endure.
And then I come to one very startling realization when I think about the people she’s killed. Earl Johnson—cop. Charles Rankin—senator. Mitchell Easton—judge.
She never would have gotten justice. If Charlotte had somehow escaped, gone to the authorities, told them her story—they would have quashed it. It never would have gone to trial. She most probably would have been killed, buried in a grave, most probably side-by-side with the other bodies found.
How can I judge her for demanding retribution for the crimes committed against not only her, but her children? All of the children caught up in this horrific game these people were playing with innocent lives?
