Ridley Pearson
The Angel Maker
I am a sort of phantom in life who has lost all beginning and end, and who has even forgotten his own name.
The young woman's pale, lifeless expression cried out to Daphne Matthews from across the room. Nearly all of the kids who sought out The Shelter were high on something. The hollow cheeks and dirty hair were common to all the runaways, as were the torn jeans, the soiled T-shirts, and the disturbing smell.
The windowless basement room in the King Center Baptist Church on South Jackson held thirteen beds and was void of any color except for the odd assortment of unframed art posters. The beds, arranged in perfect rows, were each covered with a gray wool blanket atop which had been placed a white towel and a dull green cardboard box containing a toothbrush, comb, bar of soap, a package of condoms, and a leaflet on AIDS.
The boys' dorm, across the hall and next to the room where the choir robes were kept, held only eight beds, because teenage boys were less likely to seek help from such places and because girls between the ages of thirteen and eighteen accounted for a larger percentage of the runaways who wandered Seattle's streets.
The other volunteers at The Shelter welcomed Daphne's expertise as a psychologist as much as her being a member of the Seattle Police Department, though this latter qualification was rarely called upon and never mentioned in front of the girls. For Daphne, each young woman who passed through The Shelter's door represented a challenge, each had her own unique, often terrifying story. By coming here they called out for help. Homeless. Penniless. Distrustful. Addicted. Pregnant. Filthy. Diseased. The job of each volunteer was to reverse all of that, to connect the runaway with counselors, doctors, halfway houses, government funds, jobs, housing, recovery programs and safety. To rescue and rebuild a life.
Daphne sat down quietly and slowly on the bed opposite the girl and forced a welcoming smile that made her feel cheap and dishonest: There was nothing to smile about here. She noticed a tiny scab on 'the inside of the girl's elbow joint and felt her heart sink. To her relief, she didn't see any other needle marks. Perhaps this was the girl's first time. With any luck, her last.. The girl never looked at her; she just stared off into the room in a catatonic daze.
Daphne suggested gently, 'Would you like to lie down?'
The girl nodded slightly. Daphne moved aside the towel and box and supported her head as it traveled to the pillow. Some of the drunks felt this hot, some of the druggies, but this contact gave Daphne a sickening feeling in her stomach that told her this was something worse. Exactly what, she wasn't sure. She wasn't even sure she wanted to find out.
The girl cried out sharply as she leaned back, clutching her side.
Daphne cleared the tangled hair from her face, wincing as she noticed a pink circle on the girl's temple. Without looking, she knew there would be an identical mark opposite this: electroshock.
'Cold,' the girl complained in a dry, raspy voice. Daphne covered her with a blanket, told her she would 'be right back,' and hurried over to Sharon Shaffer, who had just arrived. Sharon, a remarkably petite woman with large gray eyes and an oversized mouth, a former graduate of The Shelter, was now its spokesperson, working the circuit of Rotary Clubs and ladies' luncheons in fund-raising efforts. To both the volunteers and the community, she was a symbol of everything right about The Shelter, its leader and patron saint. To Daphne, she was a dear friend.
Daphne asked one of the other volunteers to check the hospitals for a psych ward discharge or escapee. She briefed Sharon on the recent arrival as the two of them crossed the room: the needle mark, the evidence of electroshock therapy, the girl clutching her side. 'Are you thinking restraints?' Sharon asked. She had a way of reading Daphne's thoughts. Before Daphne could answer, Sharon said, 'Let's hold off on that, okay? There's nothing more frustrating than a tie-down. It's horrible. I've been there.' Daphne didn't argue. Reaching the girl, they perched themselves on opposite sides of her bed. 'Where am I?' the girl wondered aloud. 'Why am I here?' 'The only requirement for being here,' Sharon explained in a comforting voice, 'is your desire to be off the streets.' She hesitated. 'Okay?'
The girl squinted painfully. It hurt Daphne to see that kind of pain-psychological or physical? — and it worried her too: The druggies usually felt nothing. Again, the combination of electroshock and that needle mark warned Daphne of an institution. Her policewoman instincts kicked in-this girl could turn violent without warning.
Sharon said calmly, 'You're safe now. My name is Sharon. I'm a runaway. This is Daphne. We're all women here. Okay? We can keep you warm. We can feed you. We want nothing from you.
Nothing at all.' The girl began to cry. 'We are not going to notify the police or your parents-you're home. You're safe here. Whatever you have done is behind you. Here, you are safe. If you need medical attention, you will have it. We want nothing more of you than your name. Something to call you. A first name is all. Can you tell us your name?'
'Cindy,' the girl answered. 'Can't you stop them?' she asked desperately.
Sharon repeated, 'You're safe here, Cindy.' She reached out and took the girl's limp hand.
The girl attempted to sit up. She cried out painfully, once again clutching her abdomen, and then shielded her ears. 'Can't you stop them?' she pleaded.
The blanket fell away from her. A wet bloodstain colored her side. A stabbing? Daphne wondered. How had she missed the wound earlier? The girl pleaded, 'Do you hear that barking? Can't you stop that barking?'
Daphne reached out and lifted the girl's shirt. Her skin was colored an iodine-brown from surgery. At the center of this stain was a three-inch incision laced with broken stitches. It was so fresh, it had yet to scab. She was losing an enormous amount of blood. 'Call 911!' Sharon shouted across the room. 'We need an ambulance, pronto!' She caught eyes with Daphne then and whispered, 'What the hell is this?'
Daphne's fingers gripped the handle, but she couldn't quite bring herself to open the door. From inside the nightclub came the muted melody of his jazz piano. She had carefully avoided coming to The Big joke because new lives came at a price, and that price was distance. Two years had passed since that evening spent with him. A single evening, a single event long since over, but her nearly tactile memory of it remained. She had her feet firmly on the ground now; and he had a family. Why challenge any of that? She answered herself: She needed the best cop available; she needed Lou Boldt, retired or not.
A car pulled up. A young couple climbed out and approached. She had to make up her mind-turn back or go through with it. There were other people to whom she could turn. Not as good as Boldt, but certainly qualified.
To hell with it! She went inside. A short, stocky doorman with no head hair but a mustache waxed like an airplane propeller requested a two-dollar cover charge for the piano player. The piano player, she thought. The sergeant, she felt like correcting. The most celebrated cop in this city to ever walk away from the job-so important to Homicide that his departure was still technically termed an extended leave. She intended to play upon that fact. She handed the doorman the money. Cheap, at twice the price.
The club was dingier than she remembered. Its low ceiling hung over a roomful of small, cigarette scarred tables and an army of armless chairs. Inset into the brick wall was a handsome fireplace. It was fake. So were the bricks.
The piano's sounds filled a pair of overhead speakers. To her left some guys were busy playing video games. To her right the piano, and the man behind it, remained hidden on the other side of an imitation Chinese screen, perched on the far left of a small stage where comedians performed stand-up on the weekends. She crossed the room toward the tables, nervous and even a little afraid. A single blue light shone down on him, his head trained on the keys in strict concentration. He shouldn't be in blue light, she thought, because it makes him look older than his forty-five. So did the thinning hair-a shade more gray if the light could be trusted. If there had been any question about the identity of the player, the half-empty glass of milk answered it. With his eyes in shadow, he looked kind of like an owl up there. This was how she thought of him, she realized as an owl up on a branch, out of reach, wise, silent, even majestic. Terrifying to some, inspiring to others, he was both to her.
