CHAPTER 22
Melissa
Declan leans back into his office chair, rubbing his jaw as if it will somehow remove the ire cloaking him like death itself.
“Tell me what happened,” he says.
Chief Lee and Detective Melo exchange glances from where they’re seated in front of Declan. Like me, they sense his anger. But they’re doing a better job of masking their fury. Declan . . . my God. If I didn’t know him, I wouldn’t dare approach him right now.
“Escobar was being transferred to a different jail because of threats against him by the other inmates,” the chief answers. “Based on your reputation and your unwillingness to plea bargain, he knew he was headed to prison. He and three other transfers overpowered the guards and escaped. The other three headed south and away from the city.”
“But not Escobar,” Declan finishes for him.
The chief doesn’t speak. Not right away. When he does, it takes all I have not to cry. “No. He went to the victim’s house and killed her.”
“How’d he do it?” Declan asks, his stare drilling a hole into the picture Rosana drew of him.
“He choked her with his bare hands,” Chief Lee answers. He’s been in law enforcement for decades, witnessing the evil people are capable of firsthand. But behind his jaded stare, I see it. The sadness we all feel when someone this young and innocent dies.
Brenda, my victim services worker on call can’t take it. She breaks down, sobbing into her hands, her cries the only sound in the room.
I put my arm around her. I want to cry with her. But if I start, I won’t stop.
Rosana, a sweet kid with an even sweeter smile and a gift for art, who had a horrible life that no one deserved died in a way no one deserves. Life is so unbearably cruel.
“Come on,” I whisper to Brenda, helping her to her feet.
Declan and the chief need to form a plan, and for that they need quiet. They can’t have quiet with Brenda here. She’s in full-blown hysterics. As much as I empathize with what she’s feeling, an emotional breakdown won’t help anyone.
“Do we have any idea where Escobar is?” Declan asks.
I pause at the door to hear the chief’s answer. “No. The neighbors heard the victim screaming and called 9-1-1. Three people saw him as he fled the apartment, including the responding officers. One of badges ran after him, but lost him a few blocks away, they’re combing the area now. The other badge ran into the apartment, but the victim was already dead.”
I step out and close the door quietly behind me, guiding Brenda down the hall and past the row of cubicles. A few of the on-call staff came in when they heard what happened. They watch us in silence, their expressions somber.
It’s only Valencia who speaks. “I’m sorry, Melissa,” she says.
“I am, too, Valencia.”
Law enforcement personnel, attorneys, and even the clerical staff employed here, often become cynical and numb to the brutality we’re frequently exposed to. It’s survival, and what it often takes to do the job. But the cases like this one trigger our emotions and remind us how human we remain.
I lead Brenda to my office, motioning her to sit in one of the chairs. I sit beside her and wait for her to calm.
“I can’t keep doing this,” she finally says.
“Brenda, this is a tough job,” I begin.
“No,” she says, cutting me off. “A tough job is getting up at three in the morning to haul garbage like my father did. A tough job is driving a tow truck like my brother does. A tough job is working as a teacher in the inner city school system like my mother has for the last twenty-nine years. This is hell!”
I lean back, letting her yell because she needs to. “I quit this unit,” she says. “I’m sorry, Melissa. You’ll have my official transfer request on your desk tomorrow.”
I don’t ask her to reconsider or to think things through. Bottom line, she can’t do the job. Eight months on my staff and she’s already burnt out. “That’s not necessary. I’ll just take your resignation.”
She blinks back at me with red, swollen eyes. “Can’t I just transfer to another unit?”
“Not without my recommendation.”
“And you won’t give me one?” she asks.
She didn’t even know Rosana and lost all semblance of control. “No,” I reply quietly. “This isn’t where you belong.” I’m not trying to be insensitive or mean. I’m being honest. Someone this fragile can’t work here. Victims of crime deserve better.
Tears stream down her face. She knows I won’t change my mind. But before she considers cursing me out, I hope she remembers the riveting speech she gave me during the interview process, about how passionate she is about victims’ rights and how social work was all she had ever wanted to do.
“Just go home,” I tell her when she doesn’t move. “Leave your phone, and your keys, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
She doesn’t argue, but she does release a few more tears. She places the cell phone and keys on my desk. “The pass code is 1-2-1-4,” she manages.
I don’t bother to thank her, I simply watch her as she slips out the door and shuts it lightly behind her.
I rub my tired eyes the moment she’s gone. It’s Sunday morning. The weekend is almost over, and we have an entire week ahead of us. But there’s no time to rest.
Rosana is dead.
That lovely girl is dead.
There’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” I say, trying not to lose it.
Valencia opens the door. “How are you?” she asks.
I shake my head because that’s all I can do then.
She leans back and looks down the hall. “Brenda quit?”
“Pretty much,” I answer.
“Fine by me, she was baggage anyway.” She walks in and sits in the chair Brenda had occupied. “If I have to comfort my victim services rep, no way in hell should she be within ten feet of this office.”
“I agree.” I adjust my position and cross my legs, knowing I need to get back to business. “Did the patrols have any luck finding Vilma, Rosana’s mother?”
“Yup. Just got the call.” She huffs. “She was cleaning someone’s house for extra money. When the local cops showed looking for her, she knew her daughter was dead.”
“Oh, God,” I say.
“I know,” she mutters, likely picturing how it all played out. “She’s at Temple University Hospital. She was admitted after she lost her shit. I know you’re going to reach out to her, but don’t plan on her sticking around. She’ll be on the first plane back to Honduras the second she’s discharged.”
“I know, I think so too.” I can’t erase Rosana’s face from my mind and I’m struggling not to picture the last few moments of her life. She must have been terrified.
I hug my body, fighting not to cry as I speak. “Vilma told me she came to this country to make a better life for her and her daughter, and this is what she gets.”
“I know,” Valencia says. “Was Rosana her only kid?”
“To my knowledge,” I answer softly. “You know, for all Vilma wasn’t a perfect mother, she loved Rosana. I can’t even imagine what she’s going through.”
“I can’t think about it,” she confesses. “And I don’t even have kids.”
Detective Melo pokes his head in. “Melissa, the press is ready. Declan wants to see you before he meets with them.”
Valencia and I stand and hurry down the hall, trailing detective Melo. “Are you going to meet with the press, too?” she asks me.
“No. This is all on Declan,” I respond. “I have to call the principal at Rosana’s school and make sure they have counselors in place to support the students.” My voice cracks. I’m ready to break down. Somehow, I manage to keep it together. “She was well liked. She’ll be greatly missed.”
“Yeah. She will.” She gives my arm a squeeze when we reach Declan’s office. I try to offer a smile, but it doesn’t quite come.
She and Detective Melo watch me walk in, but neither follow, recognizing we need a moment. I’m not sure what to expect. I only know it won’t be anything good.
Declan waits for me alone. He stands with his arms crossed in front of the picture Rosana made him, his anger as tangible as a punch to the stomach. I close the door behind me and carefully move toward him.
“She was just a kid,” he tells me quietly.
I come up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, the only tear I’ll allow dripping onto his shoulder. “She was supposed to be an artist,” he rasps. “She was supposed to get her chance and grow up and be happy. She was supposed to fucking live.”
“I know.”
It’s the only thing I can say.
“She was just a kid,” he repeats, staring back at the picture.
There’s a rap at the door. “Declan?” the chief calls from the hall. “The press is waiting.”
I drop my hands away and step away. Declan reaches for his suit jacket and shrugs it on, his expression so lethal I can barely stand to look at him. God, wasn’t it just last night he met with the press to accept his endorsement?
Now he faces them to discuss a little girl whose life ended too soon.
He passes me, pausing with his hand over the door knob. “Where will you be later?”
“Wherever you need me to be,” I reply.
“All right,” he says. He doesn’t tell me where he wants me, maybe he doesn’t know. He simply walks out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
I start to clean up his desk for something to do. I can’t bring myself to leave. When I don’t do more than stack a few files, I return to my office to gather my purse and coat.
I step onto the elevator, ready to head to the parking deck when I change my mind and hit the button to the next level. I’m wearing the clothes I’d left at Declan’s apartment all those weeks ago: jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and ankle-length boots. I didn’t have time to run back to my place and change, and while it’s not appropriate attire for a press conference, this time, I’m not the one in the spotlight.
My feet move fast when the doors part and I step out onto the fourth floor. The conference room is just down the hall, but already I can hear the clicks from the cameras and the questions being thrown Declan’s way. I slip into the room packed with wall to wall people. Thankfully Valencia is standing near the door. She scoots over, making room for me along the back wall. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“There’s a state alert for four fugitives at large,” Declan says. “Law enforcement will be working around the clock to assure they’re brought in as quickly as possible.”
“District Attorney O’Brien,” a female reporter calls out. “Who in your office will be handling the charges against Iker Escobar―the suspect accused of murdering Rosana Secco provided he’s apprehended?”
“I will,” he bites out. “I swear to you, I won’t stop until Iker Escobar is caught and he gets everything he deserves.”
I straighten as the team of reporter jumps to their feet. “Did you know Declan was taking over?” Valencia asks me.
“No,” I say, struggling to hear. “I had no idea.”
Another reporter shouts a question I barely make out. “How do you expect to try a murder case as the head of the Sexual Assault and Child Abuse Unit?” he challenges.
“I’m no longer leading SACU,” Declan grinds out. “You’re looking at the new Head of Homicide.”
My stomach bottoms out. In the span of three days Declan managed to get everything he wanted.
Including me.