Chris Culver - The Abbey

The Abbey

By Chris Culver

The Abbey

Copyright 2011 by Chris Culver

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the authors imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Chapter 1

I hated doing next of kin notifications. Most people guessed why I was there as soon as they opened the door. They put on airs of fortitude and strength, but almost all fell apart in front of me. I could see it in their eyes. They looked at me and knew something, too. Id go home afterwards as if nothing was wrong. I might hug my family a little tighter than usual, but the world would go on for me without much of a hiccup. Most hated me for what I had to do, and I couldnt blame them. My Islamic faith told me that drinking to escape their stares was an abomination in the sight of God, but I didnt care as long as it helped me sleep without dreams.

I pulled my departmentissued Ford Crown Victoria to a stop beside the mailbox in front of my sisters house and took a deep breath, stilling myself as a familiar anxiety flooded over me. I knew as soon as I had volunteered for the duty that I was going to have one of those nights Id need to forget, but it took that moment for it to become real. It tore at my gut like barbed wire.

I opened my cars door. My sister and her husband lived in a 4000squarefoot, historic home that could have comfortably housed my entire extended family. As a resident of the poorer, smaller neighborhood next door, I was glad that it didnt. My brotherinlaw Nassir smiled when he opened the front door, but stiffened when I didnt return the gesture.

Whats wrong? he asked.

Well talk in a moment, I said. Wheres Rana?

In the kitchen, said Nassir, not taking his hand from my shoulder. Come in.

I walked in, and Nassir shut the door behind me. The houses first floor was typical of wellkept historic homes. The woodwork was straight and clean with a rich patina that could only come from eighty years of polishing while the rooms were open and bright. Nassir halfled and halfpushed me down the homes main hallway to the kitchen in back. Rana was in front of a gas stove large enough that it would have been at home in the kitchen of a Las Vegas strip hotel. The air smelled like garlic and yeast.

Ash, she said, smiling at me. I thought you and Hannah were going out tonight.

We were, I said. I need you both to sit at the table. We need to talk.

Nassir and Rana did as I asked. In return, I broke their hearts as gently as I could.

***

Nassir and Rana had taken the news about as well as anyone could expect. They hadnt cried in front of me, but they told me they wanted to be alone. If I went home, though, Id have to tell my wife why I canceled our wedding anniversary plans. I didnt think I had the strength or stomach for that yet. Instead, I drove to my office. It wasnt my case, but I had enough friends in my department that I had a stack of eightbyten photos and notes on my desk when I arrived. They made my stomach turn.

I read through the timeline quickly. The call had come in at six in the evening. The caller described her as a female victim, approximately sixteen to eighteen years old, in the guest home of one of Indianapoliss most wealthy citizens. The first officer on the scene checked her pulse but found nothing. He called in a probable homicide, and thats when the gears started moving. Within half an hour, five forensic technicians were documenting the scene, and Detective Olivia Rhodes was interviewing potential witnesses.

I flipped through the photographs. Each picture was numbered and had a written description. The first few were wideangle shots of the scene. The photographer had snapped pictures of a kitchen with light maple cabinetry and a living room with a television, lounge chairs, and pool table. A vase of calla lilies rested on the counter beside the stove. They were my nieces favorite flower; my wife and I sent them to her on her birthdays.

Rachel, my niece, was in the center of the room. Her skin was pale, indicating that her blood had already begun to pool beneath her, and her arms were pressed against her sides like a supine soldier at attention. I stared at the picture for a moment, my stomach twisting. She didnt deserve that.

I skimmed through the next few pictures. The photographer had snapped more shots of the kitchen and living room. They were helpful for orienting someone in a crime scene, but not particularly interesting to me. I stopped when the photographs started focusing on my niece. The photographer had started with wider shots of her placement and then continued by photographing her closely from her head to her feet. She had no obvious external injuries and nor could I see puddles of blood around her. That was comforting. Unfortunately, I knew without even reading the crime scene report that her body had been staged.

I turned through the stack of photos until I found one focusing on Rachels neck. She wore a lightblue Polo shirt with an open collar. I couldn't see ligature marks on her neck, but the bottom button on her collar had been popped off, leaving a pair of strings in its place. The detective in charge might not have thought much of it, but that wasnt like Rachel. She was as meticulous about her clothes as anyone I had ever met. She wouldnt have worn that shirt until she had a new button sewn back on.

I shifted on my seat and flipped through a few more pictures until I saw one focusing on her waist. Rachel wore a denim skirt with buttons instead of a zipper on front. The buttons were misaligned, though, so the skirt would have ridden uncomfortably against her abdomen. She wouldnt have done that to herself.

I continued turning over photographs until I saw one I couldnt explain. It looked like a shot of the carpet. Puzzled, I scanned through the notes that accompanied the photographs until I found the appropriate one. The photographer had tried to capture track marks. I looked at the picture again, straining my eyes until I saw two long strips where the carpets matte was flattened in one direction. Rachel had been dragged in there with her feet dangling behind her.

I could feel bile rise in the back of my throat.

I stared at that picture for a moment, thankful I hadnt seen it before going to my sisters house. Since I had come right from home, I hadnt been able to tell her much about her daughters death. That was probably good.

The rest of the pictures focused on something odd, a glass vial full of a brownishred liquid. The technicians notes said someone had found it on an end table in one of the bedrooms. It was roughly the size of a cigar, and when the technician picked it up to catalog it, the liquid inside coated the glass like cough syrup. There was pink lipstick on the rim that appeared to be a match to Rachels.

What were you into, honey?

My desk phone rang, startling me. I glanced at my watch. It was after ten, well past my regular hours, so I doubted it was a casual phone call. I picked it up.

Rashid, I said. What can I do for you?

Yeah, Detective Rashid. This is Sergeant Hensley at IMPD downtown. Olivia Rhodes brought in somebody in your nieces case, and I thought Id give you the heads up.

I nodded. Hensley was an old school watch sergeant and had been on the force before we had civilian oversight committees or cameras in every room. When he was my age, interrogations had included rubber hoses and phone books. I envied him. Justice may not have been pretty, but shit got done.

Suspect or witness? I asked.

Hensley chuckled.

Fuck if I know, he said. They dont tell me anything. If you want, I could do some poking around.

I almost snickered. Hensley was as well connected in our department as anyone alive. He probably knew exactly who Olivia brought in and why, probably before she even entered the building. He wanted a handout.