Angels & Sinners: The Motor City Edition (28 page)

“It looks like Mateo. When is the crime scene team coming in to start working?” the other guy asks.
Why is he asking about Matt? Wait, when did the other guy come back into the room?
I was so
lost in my thoughts I didn’t even see him come back into the room.

“Crime scene team? What is he talking about? Why won’t either of you answer me?” Anger is starting to replace the panic as they continue to ignore me. I mean, here are two strange men in my home, looking around and acting like I don’t exist. “That’s it, I’m calling the police.” I head over to the phone and find the keys they used to get in staring up at me on the table. Recognizing the dog tag shaped keychain with the saying, ‘live 4 today Hope 4 tomorrow’ punched into it and the breast cancer symbol with ‘Hope’ on it, I question them again, “These are the keys from my parents’ house. Why do you have them?”
Nothing.
With my blood starting to boil, I scream at the top of lungs, “ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF, OLD MAN?! Why won’t you even look at me?” Not even a flinch.
They really can’t hear me, can they?
Realization starts to set in, but I keep fighting; I can’t give up just yet.

“I’m going to the bedroom, Bobby. CSI should be here any time now,” the tall one calls out. Placing a bagged photo in a box by the door, he turns toward me. With him facing me, I’m able to see his suit jacket is open and there is a badge on his belt.
Why are the cops in my house?

“Why are you here?” I say more to myself as defeat joins my pity party. He walks toward me, and as I look into his eyes, he doesn’t see me; he’s looking through me. I stand my ground, refusing to give up on that tiny bit of hope that both officers are deaf and I truly am still alive. Suddenly, this horrendous pain shoots through my entire body. A pain so agonizingly slow, it’s bone crushing and takes my breath away. But just as fast as pain came, it left, and so did he.

I turn around to find him already halfway down the hall. Stomping up to him, I grab his arm, but end up falling flat on my face. “What the hell was that?” I get up and try again but get the same results. I start to really freak out and my breathing quickens as I watch him walk into my bedroom.
Why can’t I grab him? Why can’t they hear me?
I turn around and head to the kitchen to try and talk to the other guy.

“Hey, your partner in there is ignoring me. Can you tell me what you’re doing in my house?” Bobby, his partner called him, doesn’t even bother to lift his head. He’s looking at my mail. “Hey, you can’t look through my mail.” Trying to swipe the mail from him, my right hand goes through the papers causing the pain to shoot into my hand. I open and close my hand, trying to force the pain away. Shaking it out, I get up in his face, “BOBBY! CAN YOU HEAR ME? CAN YOU SEE ME?”
Again,
nothing. I’m dead? How am I dead? Why am I dead? I can’t be dead.
Grief hits me like a ton of bricks as I realize I will never live again.

The light flickers in and out and an odd overwhelming chill consumes me. I crumble to the ground as the room goes black and I soon find myself in my childhood bedroom. A white canopy bed sits as the centerpiece of the room with matching dresser and desk.
How did I get here?
I walk out of the room and I'm hit with so much sorrow coming from downstairs, I can’t move. That—sorrow—it touches me so deep in my soul that tears well in my eyes, threatening to spill. Not being able to handle this feeling, I slump onto the stairs. Looking through the rail at my parents, reality sinks in . . . I’m gone.

Tears run down my cheeks as I try to come to grips with this fact.
NO! I’M NOT DEAD!
Determined to try one more time, I stand up and yell, “HEY GUYS, I’M HERE!” as I wave my arms in the air and run down to the landing. I still get nothing, not a single person looks at me.

Going over to my mom, I drop to my knees in front of her, “Mom, please look at me, please.” I’m sobbing uncontrollably, but continue to plead, “I’m right here, your angel girl, please, Mommy, see me.” When she doesn’t look up from her lap, I know it’s true—there’s no denying it anymore, I’m no longer alive. I repeat “Please” over and over as I stand and begin to back up and slide down the wall. My dog, Tina, is sitting by my dad just staring at the front door waiting for me to walk in. “Oh, Tina, I’ll miss you.” I love her so much, she was my child. Turning toward me, Tina walks over to my spot on the floor and starts to whimper. “You sense me, don’t you, baby girl? I’m sorry I left you, but I know you will be well taken care of.” I reach out to pet her but she growls and runs away with her tail between her legs.

Heartache wells up into my throat as I watch everyone important to me suffering.
So this is what happens when you die. You get to watch your loved ones grieve your death and not be able to help them.
“Please don’t cry, Daddy, I’m right here. I love you so much.” I stand up and walk over to him, reaching out to touch him but can’t; his pain and grief have stopped me cold.

Rubbing his hands over his face, as if wiping his tears, my dad suddenly cries, “How can my baby girl be gone? God, why did you take her?” My dad’s sudden outburst makes everyone jump and I don’t want to be here anymore. I need to be as far away as possible right now; their sorrow is too much for me to bear. Closing my eyes I think about my cozy little home. It wasn’t much—a one bedroom, one bath apartment—but it was mine, even painted it myself; the living room walls were a blood orange with red furniture, all from the thrift store. Pictures of friends and family line the walls in a multitude of ways. I start to feel that same chill and numbness run over me again as the room fades. The last thing I hear is my mom scream, “It’s not fair! Oh God, I need Faith.”

I’m back in my apartment full of people. They are all wearing uniforms that say DPD on the front and CSI on the back. Nothing is being missed; they are bagging everything I own—all my important papers, computer, flowers . . .
Where did I get those flowers from, anyway, and
why do I feel like I know who gave them to me?
I watch them work—bag and tag, bag and tag—over and over until my whole apartment is bagged and tagged. If I have a secret, they will find out.
I wonder if they found my journal under the floor in my room.

“Yeah, Angelo, we’re going. Once we get everything back to Lansing and inventoried, we’ll start on it,” The CSI tech calls over his shoulder on his way out the door. Being lost in my thoughts yet again, I didn’t realize they were packing up to leave.

“See ya,” Angelo, says as they shut the door, leaving him alone. Actually taking the time to look at him, he looks tired and drained. This officer looks familiar to me somehow, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. He kneels on one knee and makes the sign of the cross before he begins to pray. Saddened and honored at his gesture, I feel a pull toward him. I watch as he finishes his prayer and stands up. Wanting to be seen and hear me so badly, I go toe to toe with him and scream in his face, but all he does is wipe his brow from the invisible sweat and walk out the door.

Falling to my knees, I cry—I cry like a baby to the point I can’t breathe and I’m hyperventilating.
My life was just beginning. I had a great career, but I also wanted a husband, two and a half kids, and a white picket fence. I wanted every little girl’s dream and now I’ll never get it.
Thinking back to last night, I can’t remember anything other than a nasty house and painful wrists. My wrists have become a deep purple with red marks circling them.
Those weren’t there before. Why are they showing up now?
Touching them, I feel nothing. Checking my ankles, I see the same marks there, too.
I was tied up but managed to get out of them once. My freedom didn’t last long, though.
I just sit in my living room for what could have been hours, and with all that thinking I’ve come up with nothing.
Where is heaven? How do I get there? Am I alone here?
Having too many questions and no answers, I wipe my face and walk out the door. There has to be someone out there, right?

CHAPTER 5

ANGELO

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Bobby sighs and opens his car door. We walk into Hope’s apartment building, her keys in my hand. Her mother broke my heart when we delivered the news—she was so calm about it until she picked up the keys, then she fell to the floor, screaming for her baby girl. Looking at the keychain, I can’t help but feel a sense of peace surround me; maybe I’m just tired since I didn’t get any sleep last night.

“All right, Bobby, I guess you can start in the kitchen and I’ll start in the bedroom.” I head through the living room and stop to look at the pictures of her friends and family she has all over the walls. Stopping at big group shot, I study the faces in the photo. About halfway through, I see Hope’s smiling face, so young and carefree. They all look so happy. Moving down the row, I see another face I recognize.
What the . . . !?
“Bobby, can you come here a second, please?” I want to make sure my eyes are not playing tricks on me.

“What’s up, Angelo?” Bobby comes walking into the living room.

“Who does this look like to you?” I ask, pointing out my brother.

“It looks like Mateo,” Bobby replies, shrugging. ”When is the crime scene team coming in to start working?” he asks, walking back into the kitchen.

Taking the picture off the wall and out of the frame, I see Hope has written on the back, “U of M class of 2013 business management” with everyone’s signature. I scan the names, and sure enough, ‘Mateo “Matt” Baldoni’ is there in black and white in the top right hand corner. Making a mental note to talk to him, I place the picture in an evidence bag and seal it with my initials across the seal. I police both Bobby and myself when it comes to chain of evidence. I’ve seen too many veteran detectives lose their pension for a rookie mistake more times than I can count. It’s very important and I’ll never have a case dismissed because I got lazy. I continue to look at the pictures, but no one else stands out. I put the bag into the box by the door and turn toward the hallway. Hearing a faint sound, I listen but don’t hear it again. Shaking my head, I say to myself, “I could have sworn I heard a voice coming from over there.”

“I’m going to the bedroom, Bobby. CSI should be here any time now,” I call over my shoulder. As soon as I hit the entry to the hall, I feel this heaviness that takes my breath away. It sends a shiver down my spine, and the heaviness quickly disappears. Shaking the feeling off, I walk to the end of the hall. With two doors on either side, I take a stab in the dark and open the door on the right and find her bedroom on the other side. It’s a very girly type room, I think it’s. . .nice

The walls are a dark brown with a black bedroom set. The bed is a queen with brown and blue sheets and the dresser matches the bed. On the wall are more pictures, but there are a few nails on the wall which give me the impression there was maybe a boyfriend or someone she no longer cared to see in them, but either way, I’ll find out.

I walk over to the dresser and books sit on the corner. Glancing at the titles,
Mirage
by Ashley Suzanne,
False Fairytales
by Summer Scott and
Flame
by Brooke Cumberland—I’ve never heard of these. I shrug and move on to the next set which are
Psycho
,
The Shining,
and
Misery
by Stephen King—now
these
titles I know. More pictures sit on top of the dresser, friends mainly in these. She seemed well liked, loved even. “Fuck. My. Life today”, finding a picture with a handful of girls, Marianna is looking at me with a big grin.
My sister knows her, too
? Well, if one knows her they all know her. Pulling out the snapshot and flipping it over, she’s written ‘Girls night out with Ashley, Summer, Brooke, and Marianna March 2014’. These names match the books. I bag and tag the photo, add my initials and “bedroom”, and set it on the bed to take with me later. Pulling out my phone, I call Marianna, but it goes to voicemail.

“Hey, Mari, call me back as soon as you get this. It’s important.”

I walk back over to the dresser and pick up a small ornate jewelry box that looks vintage, I’m a bit perplexed because there is no jewelry in the box, instead there are little cards, like flower cards. Looking at them more closely, that’s exactly what they are. Each card different, but all saying the same thing, ‘I see you, Love, Yours.’ On the back is a date. I look at all of the cards and see the flowers started coming more frequently over the past few months, the very first was dated for September 2013 and it said ‘I am yours and you are mine’. There’s no flower shop logo on them, which I find odd, most have a logo or stamp on it. While heading to the kitchen, I turn toward the couch, expecting someone to be sitting there. I have this nagging feeling I’m being watched. CSI is here and is working hard. Stepping into the kitchen, I find Bobby going through papers.

“Hey, check this out,” he says, looking up at me from his spot at the table. He hands me a stack of letters. As I scan them, I’m noticing the same penmanship as the cards.

I hand him the cards, “I found these in a jewelry box on her dresser.” I read the letters and find that they are signed the same as the cards, ‘Always, Yours’. “Maybe they are from a boyfriend.” I try to be a glass is half full kind of guy—I like to look at the positives—but more often than not, the glass is half empty.

“Keep reading, they get interesting,” Cory, the lead CSI tech, says to me as he walks into the kitchen.“How’s it going, Cory?” Bobby asks. Their conversation fades into the background as I’m skimming the letters. I’m noticing a pattern here—all of them start out normal, talking about the weather and seeing her around, but never saying exactly where they had seen her. But then about halfway through, the writing starts to get mean and rude—telling her she’s acting like a slut, how she shouldn’t be teasing him like she does. She is his and he is hers and that talking to other men is disrespectful and she’ll be punished for her indiscretions. But then the letters all end sweetly with, “I love you, always, Yours.”