Fatal Secrets

Dean was halfway to FBI headquarters when Sonia got the call from Detective John Black that “Ann” was awake and coherent. Her prognosis had been upgraded from critical to serious and the doctors were optimistic.

He turned off the freeway, then looped around and headed back downtown to the hospital. Sonia was optimistic that Ann could help them. The man who tried to kill her had used the same type of knife that had been used to kill Greg Vega; there was a connection but they needed more information. Information that Sonia was certain Ann could give them. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking on her part. But right now Sonia needed every last detail she could get to find the Chinese girls before they disappeared.

If it wasn’t too late already.

Ann had been moved into the psychiatric ward, which had the best security in the hospital, for her protection. Used only for assessments, Ann was the only patient in this wing.

“I need to warn you,” John Black said when he greeted them, “she can’t talk, and Dr. Miller doesn’t think she’ll regain her voice. But there doesn’t seem to be any brain damage. The problem is she doesn’t read or understand English or Spanish.”

“She doesn’t need to read anything,” Sonia said. “I’ll ask yes-and-no questions.”

“But if she doesn’t understand-”

“She knows a language. We just have to figure out which one.”

“How many languages do you know?”

“Enough to get by. I’ll figure it out. Unless it’s Russian. If that’s the case we’ll find a translator.”

A Sac P.D. cop was stationed at both the nurse’s station and Ann’s door. Dean and Sonia showed their identification, and entered Ann’s room. Black followed.

The patient’s bed was tilted up and she was watching cartoons on television. The white bandages on her face stood out against the dark bruising on her cheek and nose. Her neck was grotesque, a dark, swollen purple. Her white-blond hair had been washed and brushed. She looked younger now, though based on her teeth and bone growth Dr. Miller had said Ann was over fifteen but not yet eighteen.

The nurse in the room rechecked their identification, which pleased Sonia. The staff was taking this matter seriously. The nurse said, “Dr. Miller doesn’t want her to try to talk. There’s a dry erase board on the table next to her bed. I don’t know if she understands anything we say. She does enjoy cartoons, though.”

“How is she emotionally?” Sonia asked. “Nightmares?”

“She woke up last night in a panic. I wasn’t on duty, but the night shift told me she pulled out the IV and jumped out of bed, then collapsed. They sedated her, monitored her, and played classical music. When she showed signs of waking again they spoke softly, assuring her she was safe. She was better this morning. She kept pointing to the television until I turned it on, and she’s been hooked for two hours.”

Ann had been watching them from the moment they came in. Sonia smiled at her. Ann didn’t smile back, but continued to watch with distrustful blue eyes.

Sonia sat down on the edge of the bed. She started in English. “I’m Sonia Knight, and my partner is Dean Hooper. We’re here to find the man who hurt you.”

No recognition.

Sonia pointed to herself and said, “Sonia.” She pointed to Dean and said, “Dean.”

She handed Ann the whiteboard. Pointed to her chest and then put her hands out and motioned to the board.

She got it on the first try. She wrote in sloppy letters with her right hand.

KIRSTEN

“Kirsten,” Sonia said.

The girl nodded and pointed to herself.

Kirsten was a common name in Scandinavian countries. If she didn’t speak English, she might speak French. Sonia said in French, “Do you understand French?”

The girl perked up a bit, nodded tentatively. She understood well enough to know what Sonia had asked.

“Where were you born?” she asked in French.

“suriname,” Kristen wrote.

“Suriname? Wouldn’t they speak Spanish?” Dean asked.

“They have several dialects, but Dutch is the official language.”

“Dutch?”

“Suriname was colonized by the Dutch. It’s had an interesting history, but there are few Boers left. They were the descendants of the Dutch settlers. They teach English in the schools, as well as Dutch. There are many languages spoken. Most of the population is trilingual.”

Black asked, “Does that mean she didn’t go to school? Because she doesn’t understand English?”

“Maybe she’s been gone for a long time,” Sonia said, her voice tinged with sadness.

“Kirsten, how old are you?”

Kirsten wrote on the board: seize.

“Sixteen.” Sonia smiled at Kirsten. “Good.”

Sonia then asked a harder question. “Do you know when you left Suriname?”

Kirsten wrote, “Six or seven years. Don’t remember.” She frowned and averted her eyes.

Her heart went out to this poor girl. “Kirsten, you’re safe now. If you want, we can find your family.” She waited for the response-if her family had put her in this situation, Kirsten wouldn’t want to go back.

But her eyes looked into Sonia’s with hope. Her mouth opened but no sound came out.

The nurse said, “Tell her not to try to talk.”

Sonia did what the nurse asked and Kirsten nodded, her expression pained. She erased her last message and wrote in another language-Dutch, Sonia suspected. She said, “I don’t read Dutch, Kirsten. I’m sorry.”

Kirsten erased it and wrote in French, with enough misspellings that Sonia had to guess what it meant.

“Sonia?” Dean prompted.

“I think she’s telling us how to find her family.” She nodded to Kirsten. “I’ll find them,” she said.

Now for the hard part. Sonia would give her right hand to spare the girl the pain of this conversation, but it couldn’t be avoided. She touched her wrist, covering the tattoos with her hand. “When did you get these marks?”

Kirsten started shaking. Sonia tilted her head and made Kirsten look at her. “It’s okay. Kirsten, I know you’re hurting. I know how you feel. I want to find him. I want to put him in jail. But I need your help. I need to know who did this. I want you to look at some photographs for me, okay? You tell me if you recognize any of them. They cannot hurt you. I promise you are safe here. Understand me? You are safe.”

Kirsten nodded almost imperceptibly, but she understood.

Dean handed Sonia the stack of photographs and sketches they’d compiled of everyone involved in the Xavier Jones investigation.

Sonia first showed the picture of Xavier Jones. Kirsten didn’t respond.

The nurse said, “She has a hard time moving her neck, and the doctor wants her to minimize movement while she heals. He tried a neck brace, but it terrified her when she woke up.”

Sonia wasn’t surprised after Kirsten had nearly been choked to death.

She said, “Sonia, if you recognize the man, touch the picture. Okay?”

She gave a weak nod.

Sonia asked about Jones again. No response. Then she put a picture of Craig Gleason up. Nothing. She had the picture of Charlie Cammarata that she’d showed Andres. Nothing. Greg Vega. No. Kendra Vega. No. She ran through the other photos of Jones’s key people and no one popped. She finally showed the picture of the nine men.

She pointed to one of the men and frowned.

“That’s Thomas Daniels,” Dean said. “He’s dead.”

“Kirsten, this man died four years ago.”

The girl motioned for the whiteboard. She wrote in a combination of Dutch and French:

He took me from Mama.

“Smitty kidnapped her.” She asked Kirsten, “He took you from your mama in Suriname?”