Page 1 of 4th Silence
1
Charlie
* * *
The ghosts of the dead haunt me night and day. They don’t take vacations or holidays.
As I pull into the icy parking lot behind Schock Investigations—the business I run with my sister, Meg—my phone dings with a message from my mother. Helen Schock doesn’t take vacations or holidays, either.
Snow falls thick and heavy on my windshield. While the lot has been plowed by the service the building owner employs, the asphalt is disappearing under the phantom white flakes at such a speed that it’ll need another pass within the hour. Meg’s battered minivan sits under at least two inches of the wet stuff, telling me she’s been here for hours.
She doesn’t sleep much, my sister. The ghosts haunt her, too.
My fingers are stiff from the cold as I tug off my gloves, shut off my Christmas playlist, and read the message. I made the news! A video is attached.
My mother is as obsessed with bringing closure to victims and their families as Meg and I. It’s probably where we got our love for the hunt. Maybe ‘love’ is the wrong term. This passion for our work is all-consuming.
The psychologist in me knows ‘passion’ isn’t accurate either, at least not for my mother and sister. They are obsessed. Fixated. Addicted, even. Solving cold cases is a compulsion for them.
For me, it’s more about vengeance, plain and simple. Justice. If I let myself go down the emotional rabbit holes they do concerning the victims, I’d never get out of bed. To hold on to my sanity, I fixate on the killers instead. I profile them, find their triggers, and track them down.
My view of the back entrance to the building vanishes as the snow blankets the windshield. My thumb hovers over the video. I should check on Meg first. Make coffee if she hasn’t already done so. I’m doing what I can to cut costs, and buying my usual cup of wake-up-and-act-like-a-human-being latte on the way to work isn’t in the budget this month. With Christmas comes bonuses and raises for our meager staff. While I can afford the peppermint latte from the place down the street, every dollar I save takes pressure off me to keep the business afloat.
Helen Schock, however, is a handful. If I don’t respond in the next five-point-oh seconds, she’ll call. If I don’t answer that, she’ll show up here, D.C. snowstorm be damned.
Haley, our receptionist, texted earlier to tell me she’ll be late—her car is dead. Matt Stephens, our part-time investigator, is stopping by her place to give her battery a jump. Neither of them will be here to run interference if Mom shows up, and I’ll have to delay our required Monday morning meeting.
I’ve got to nip the Helen Schock apocalypse in the bud.
First, coffee. Driving, I text back. Will watch when I get to the office. I pray it’s enough to satisfy her for five minutes.
Inside, I flip on the lights, remove my coat, and shake wet droplets of melting snow from my hair. “Meg?” I call.
No answer.
We closed a case over the weekend, thanks to her diligence in reconstructing a skull, along with an unexpected lead I uncovered. One of her ‘girls in the basement’ now has a name—Galishea Tern.
JJ Carrington, the U.S. Attorney for the District of Columbia, is contacting Galishea’s family today. Her remains will be home for Christmas. Her family will find some closure, and JJ, the Emperor of Cold Cases, has a killer to nail.
That means Meg is onto another case. The next John or Jane Doe. The next girl in the basement. Although we close numerous missing persons and cold cases, her collection of lost souls continues to grow. As does her obsession with it.
When it comes to my family, being a psychologist and former FBI profiler sucks. I know what’s ‘clinically’ wrong with each and every one of us. And I can’t do a damn thing about it.
I wipe dirty sludge from my black leather boots and slip into the small kitchenette that doubles as our lunchroom. No surprise, my sister hasn’t made coffee. Yesterday’s leftover dregs, the same color as the sludge, have stained the inside of the pot. I go to work to clean it and start a fresh pot.
How long has she been here, obsessing over her reconstructed skulls that still have no identities?
While the coffee brews, I consider whether I’ll need to shovel the sidewalk. Our landlord has the service plow the lot, but we’re responsible for clearing the walkways ourselves. I glance at my three-inch-heeled boots, more of a fashion statement than a practical winter choice. Matt can do it. A former police officer, Matt “Mad Dog” Stephens, has more muscles than The Rock and likes to show them off. He’s also got a classic “save the damsel in distress” personality. On a day like today, I’m not above putting both of those traits to good use.
I text him, but I get no reply. He’s probably driving or already at Haley’s, monkeying with her car. A second message from my mother comes in: I’m on my way.
What? Cursing, I hurriedly type back, Why?
If you’d watch the clip I sent, you’d know.
Sighing, I tap the screen. The sound of “Silent Night” issues from my phone’s speaker, and a reporter from Channel 4 News stands in front of an iron gate surrounding a majestic, historic home from the early twentieth century. “This is Denise Brown. I’m here in Wesley Heights tonight at the Hartman family home where eight-year-old Tiffany Ashley Rugers-Hartman was brutally murdered thirty years ago on Christmas Eve.”
The Silent Night Murder. I lean against the cabinet and sigh again, rubbing my temple. One headache coming up. Of course, my investigative reporter mother would champion the revival of this old case.
