Baby Girl Doe (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 5) (18 page)

May 2000

Thax moved slowly, taking an inordinately long time to get into her bed.
She had just gotten home from the hospital and now had two amputated fingers to go with her three amputated toes. Her skin was yellow and covered with bruises—cirrhosis and diabetes, not a great combination.

“Stop scratching," Raven insisted. “Your skin is raw.”

“I can’t stop,” Thax said. “It’s driving me out of my mind.”

“No. It’s driving me out of
my
mind.”

Thax was a big-boned woman, but had wasted away and was now down to a mere ninety pounds. Stretched out on the bed with her bloated belly and spindly arms, she looked like a frog pinned to a dissection tray. Her chin whiskers now extended down past the base of her neck. “The pain is killing me, Raven. Did you refill my prescription?”

“You know I did,” she replied impatiently. “I’ll go get it. Beer chaser?”

Thax nodded. “Yes, honey, and please hurry. I can’t take it anymore.”

Raven walked purposely out of the bedroom and down the stairs to the kitchen. She picked up an amber prescription bottle and read the label again, even though she’d read it three times since returning from the pharmacy.
OxyContin: one pill orally as indicated for pain.

“Finally!” She had been waiting many long years for this moment—ever since the day Nurse Margo dropped her off at Thax’s foster home. She crushed ten pills with a mortar and pestle and dissolved the powder in a glass of beer. She shook one additional pill into the palm of her hand and went upstairs.

“Oh good, honey.” Thax eagerly picked up the pill, placed it on her heavily coated tongue, and washed it down with a gulp of beer. Raven had been abusing Thax’s food for years, adding in almost anything she could think of in order to get even with the woman who treated her like the dirt beneath her fingernails. At first the infusions and mixtures were harmless but grew more insidious over the years.

How does the old bitch survive?
“That’s a good girl, drink it all down. You have to stay hydrated.”

The old lady’s appetite was nothing like it had been. Thax forced down the rest of the beer and was breathing heavily by the time the glass was empty.

Not this time,
Raven swore to herself.
Die, you old bitch. Die!

Thax began to yawn almost immediately.

“The surgery has taken everything out of me,” Thax said. “I think I’ll close my eyes.” She began to snore in less than a minute.

Raven watched the old woman attentively as she walked out of her bedroom. She took the beer glass downstairs to the kitchen and washed it thoroughly before placing it in the rack to dry. She wiped out the pestle and put it away in one of the cabinets. She checked the time and then went inside to turn on the TV. A half hour had passed before she realized that she was not paying attention to the program.

Raven knew that Thax’s time was running out, but how long would it take? Raven wanted closure and she wanted it now. She turned off the TV and went back upstairs to check on the old woman. Daylight was ebbing. Thax looked as if she was dead, but the faint sound of air whistling through her nostrils told Raven that she wasn’t. She stood around waiting and hoping that the sedative would do the work on its own.

But it didn’t.

Several minutes passed. Raven put her ear to the old woman’s mouth and heard the faintest sound of breathing. She jostled her shoulder, but Thax did not stir. “Goodbye, you miserable old monster. This is for all the years of hell and all the years of being your slave.” She pressed a pillow over her face, not hard enough to bruise her, just hard enough to suffocate a weak and heavily drugged old woman. It didn’t take long. Raven held the mirror from Thax’s compact over her mouth to see if it fogged. She found the carotid artery and checked the pulse on her neck. “Burn in hell, you old misery!”

Raven took a moment to prepare herself and then began to scream. Almost immediately she heard doors opening and feet on the stairs. “Oh my God,” Raven stammered as soon as one of the other foster kids entered the room. “I think she’s dead.”

May 2000

The medical examiner sat on a stool next to the autopsy table where Celeste Thax rested.
He picked up a microphone and began to dictate his findings.

“These are the autopsy notes for Celeste Thax, identification number 336754. The individual is female. Her age is seventy-three years old as ascertained by public records. A study of the internal organs shows that—”

The door to the morgue swung open. A clean-cut and immaculately dressed man walked briskly through the door. He was carrying a soft-sided leather briefcase. “Hi, Doc,” he said as he pointed at the body of Celeste Thax. “I caught you just in time—I see you’ve got my Auntie Celeste on the table.”

“Detective Smote,” the ME said, confused. “What’s going on? Are you related to this woman?”

“My mother’s older sister.” He crossed himself and looked toward the sky. “Now they’re together,” he said with a frown. He examined the body. “God, I haven’t seen her in years. She’s withered away to nothing. Except for the whiskers . . . they’re long enough to string a Fender guitar.”

The ME chuckled. “Eighty-seven pounds exactly.”

“What did you find?”

“Her medical history is well documented—advanced diabetes, advanced cirrhosis of the liver. Her heart arrested following a surgical procedure. She died in her sleep. All in all, not a bad way to go. She wouldn’t be in the morgue at all if she hadn’t just had a surgical procedure.”

“Any serology or toxicology studies?”

“I didn’t plan on doing any.”

“I think you should,” Smote said with a note of certainty in his voice.

“And why is that?” The ME sounded as if he was curious and irritated at the same time.

Smote reached into his briefcase and removed a white porcelain mortar and pestle contained in a plastic evidence bag. “Routine sweep of the kitchen.” He handed the evidence bag to the ME. “Opiate residue on the tip of the pestle, I’m sure of it.”

“The police report stated that she was taking OxyContin for pain. Maybe she had trouble swallowing the tablets.”

“Maybe and maybe not. Auntie Celeste was a bit of nasty bitch. She ran a foster home, and I’m sure any number of her kids would have loved to see her dead. I’m going to drop this off at the crime lab. If it tests positive, I’m going to open a homicide investigation.”

The ME rubbed his chin. “No problem, I’ll run blood and tissue studies just to play it safe.”

“Thanks, Doc. I appreciate the help.” He winked at the ME and then stuffed the evidence bag back into his briefcase.
Now who’d want to go and kill old Auntie Celeste?
he mused
. I guess just about anyone.

June 2000

Terry O’Neil was busy pressing his suit slacks.
It was the third time he’d hit the creases with steam, and when he finally lifted the pressing cloth, the creases in his slacks were razor sharp. He slipped into them while they were still warm and was buttoning his shirt when the doorbell rang. He stepped into his wingtip shoes and walked to the door without tying the laces. “Yes?” He pulled aside the white, lace curtains and looked through the glass door panel. A man held up a gold shield. O’Neil opened the door with urgency.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Mr. O’Neil?”

“Yes.”

“Detective Sullivan Smote. Can I come in?”

“Of course.” O’Neil’s eyes were wide as he stepped aside to give Smote room to enter his home. “What’s going on? Did someone get hurt? One of my kids?”

“No. The kids are fine as far as I know, Mr. O’Neil. This is in regard to another matter.”

“Oh thank God. You’ll have to excuse me,” O’Neil said. “I was in the middle of getting dressed.” He shut the front door and gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat, Detective.” He sat down in a side chair and tied his shoelaces. “How can I help you?”

“I’m investigating a homicide,” Smote said.

O’Neil’s mouth opened. He covered it with his fingers. “My God. Who?”

“You may not remember the victim’s name but she was a foster parent like you, a woman named Celeste Thax. One of the children from her home is living with you now.”

“That’s terrible. You think she was murdered?”

“Possibly, not definitely, but I have enough evidence to conduct a homicide investigation. There were six girls living in her foster home. I’m making the rounds, talking to all of them.” He flipped open his notepad. “The child’s name is Raven Gallagher.”

“Raven?”

“You seem shocked.”

“I am. I’ve only known Raven a short time, but she’s a real sweetheart and doesn’t give me a lick of trouble. She’s out shopping, running errands for me right now—very helpful girl.”

“Out, huh? When do you expect her back?”

“An hour or so. Shouldn’t be longer than that.”

Smote smacked his lips.
“Okay.”
He seemed displeased as he reached into his pocket and handed O’Neil his business card. “I have three more girls to talk to today. I’ll come back. Call me as soon as she returns.

“Yes, of course,” O’Neil said in a cooperative manner. “I’ll get in touch the minute she gets back.”

“Great.” Smote was clearly unhappy. He stood. “Hush, hush on this, understand? I prefer to question persons of interest without giving them time to prepare for me.”

O’Neil nodded. “I understand.”

Smote saw himself to the door and left.

Raven: January 2003

Terry O’Neil crossed his legs and picked up a rainbow cookie.
He nibbled at the corner of the confection and then dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. He checked his slacks to make sure that he hadn’t dropped any crumbs and brushed them with his hands. He was sipping at his tea when the doorbell rang.

“Mr. O’Neil?”

“Yes?”

“Paul Bisbay,” the visitor announced. “Suffolk County Department of Social Services. I made an appointment to see you. I’m the new case officer.”

“Oh yes,” O’Neil said with a wide smile. “Do come in.” He saw Bisbay into his home and closed the door. “I was just having a cup of tea. Would you like some?”

“No thanks. I’m going to grab lunch as soon as we’re finished.”

He watched Bisbay from behind as he walked into the living room. Bisbay was short, with a large paunch, and pants that bagged beneath his rear end.
Eww.
O’Neil pretended to shudder.
Not with Donald Trump’s dick.
“Help yourself to some cookies. I bought them for you.”
Chubby
.

“Rainbow cookies,” Bisbay exclaimed as he glanced down at the coffee table. “I love these. How did you know?”

“Everyone loves rainbow cookies.”

Bisbay sat down and immediately picked up a cookie. “These are too good to resist. Thanks.” It took but a moment for the first cookie to disappear. “Is Mrs. O’Neil home?”

“No. She’s out at the moment, but I’m sure I can answer any questions you might have.” Mrs. O’Neil hadn’t been home in years, not since Terry began to indulge his sexual curiosity. She was living with a fisherman in Naples, Florida. She and Terry had never officially divorced so that Terry could continue to run the girls’ foster home and collect revenue from the state. O’Neil sat down and crossed his legs. “Now how can I help you?”

“Just checking in,” Bisbay said as he released the clasp on his briefcase. He opened a portfolio and clicked his ballpoint pen. “I’m taking the opportunity to visit all the foster families that have been assigned to me.” He shuffled through his folders until he found the one he was looking for. “Here it is: O’Neil, 88 Leeward Lane. So how are you doing with the kids, Mr. O’Neil?”

~~~

Raven opened her eyes when she heard the front door close. It was after eleven, but she was still in bed, groggy with sleep. She and O’Neil had been up late, smoking pot and screwing. The frilly undergarments and stocking that O’Neil had worn were on the bed beside her. They were both into role-playing and gender experimentation. Dressing as a woman while being with a woman was one of O’Neil’s favorites. Raven was into just about anything that was fun. She put O’Neil’s discarded underthings on beneath her jeans and T-shirt and went into the bathroom to make sure that she looked presentable. She had a command performance to give to the caseworker, and she did not intend to disappoint.

~~~

“Are you ready to take in more children?” Bisbay asked.

“Maybe in a few months. The three girls keep me pretty busy,” O’Neil said.

Bisbay flipped a few pages and looked up. “You do know that Raven Gallagher will be aging out of the system soon. Her ninety day notice will be going out any time now.”

O’Neil saddened. “Raven is aging out?”

“Yes. She’ll be too old for foster care and will have to transition to living independently. I assume that you know how it works.”

“Can’t she stay here a little longer?” O’Neil asked.

“Not on the state’s dime.” He flipped a few more pages in his portfolio. “She’ll have to find a fulltime job and a place to live.”

“Can she stay with me if I stop billing social services for her care?”

“Yes, of course, but I don’t recommend it, not long term at least. It’s better that they learn to take care of themselves. Delaying the process isn’t going to do her any good.”

“But it can be done?”

Bisbay nodded. “Yeah. I guess so.”

O’Neil heard footsteps on the stairs. “Here’s Raven now,” he said with joy. “I’m so glad you’ll have a chance to meet her.” He turned toward the approaching teen and smirked. “Raven, tell Mr. Bisbay just how well we’re getting along.”

Raven: February 2004

Margarita Tejada stood in front of 88 Leeward Lane readying herself to ring the doorbell.
She had been recently promoted and had only made a handful of onsite inspections. The process still intimidated her. The last home she visited was a mess, and she wondered how her predecessor had allowed it to keep its state charter. The house itself was in shambles. It was filthy and, in her mind, presented an unhealthy living situation. The foster parents did not keep adequate records and didn’t seem to know where any of the children were. By contrast, 88 Leeward appeared to be a well-maintained property.
I hope this one’s not a zoo like the last one.
The house was quiet when she rang the bell.

It took a moment for the door to open. The woman who answered the door appeared young, perhaps still in her teens or early twenties. She was dressed in jeans and a pretty top. Her hair was short and brushed to the side in a sweep. Her makeup was dark and dramatic. “Hi, can I help you?” she asked.

Tejada handed the young woman her business card. “I’m Margarita Tejada with the Department of Social Services. I’m here for a scheduled inspection.”

“What happened to Mr. Bisbay?”

“Paul’s been reassigned,” Tejada said.

“That was quick—I think he only started last January.”

Tejada shrugged. “I’m really not sure. And you are?”

“I’m
Ray-lene
,” the young woman announced as a flashbulb went off in her head. “Terry’s daughter. Come on in.” She showed Tejada into the living room. “Have a seat. I hope you like rainbow cookies. They’re my dad’s favorite.”

“I’m not hungry, but it’s hard to say no to one of these.”

“Something to drink?”

“No thanks. Is your mother or father around?”

“My dad will be right down. He’s just washing up.”

Tejada looked around while she munched on her cookie. “This is a lovely home. Most of the foster homes I visit aren’t as well maintained.”

“Dad’s very handy,” Raven said. “And he’s got great taste.”

“Do you live here, Raylene?”

“No. I’m just visiting.”

“Hello,” O’Neil said from the top of the steps. He descended holding onto the oak banister. He was dressed in a charcoal gray three-piece suit and a white shirt. He carried a tie in his other hand. “Sorry to keep you. I was just about to put on my tie.” He extended his hand. “Terry O’Neil. So nice to meet you.”

Tejada stood and took O’Neil’s hand. “Margarita Tejada. I’m Paul Bisbay’s replacement. So nice to meet you.”

O’Neil’s eyes widened. “Replacement? That wasn’t long at all.”

Raven put her arm through O’Neil’s. “That’s what I said,
Daddy
.”

Tejada smiled. “Your daughter Raylene is delightful. She’s been very welcoming.”

O’Neil’s eyes twinkled at Raven’s quickness. “I’m glad. So, you were saying something about Mr. Bisbay?”

“It’s the old social services slip-and-slide, Mr. O’Neil. Paul has been reassigned to a different area. By the way, thanks for the cookies. They’re delicious.”

“Everyone loves rainbow cookies,” O’Neil said with confidence. “I just adore them.”

Raven kissed O’Neil on the cheek. “I’m gonna run, Daddy. I’ll call you later.” She turned to Tejada. “Nice meeting you.” She grabbed her bag and went out the front door.

“Lovely girl,” Tejada said. “Is she in school?”

“Not right now. She’s kind of in between things.” He sat down on the sofa and crossed his legs in an elegant manner. “I’ll look forward to your visits, Ms. Tejada. Where do you want to begin?”

Tejada opened a folder. “I told your daughter that it’s a pleasure to see a foster home that’s as nice as this one. The one I just came from was a real pigsty. I don’t know how Paul allowed it to stay open.”

“I’ve heard about some of those places,” O’Neil said. “I’m just trying to provide a nice home for a few needy kids. I’m not interested in running a dormitory.”

“That’s good to hear, but I do hope I can talk you into taking on a few more.” She smiled at O’Neil trying to coax him into agreement. “You’re down to just two.”

~~~

The apartment that O’Neil had arranged for Raven was only a few blocks away from his home. “I’m on my way over,” O’Neil said over his cell phone. “The social worker just left.”

“Did she give you any trouble?”

“No. Your name never came up.” O’Neil replied.

“I’m looking forward to your visit,
Daddy,”
Raven said toying with O’Neil. “Who would you like to screw today?” she giggled. “Raven, Ray, or Raylene?”