Face Value

1. No Place Like Home : Flashback Part 1

Turning the key in the lock, I took note of the fact that I feel absolutely nothing. The thought of confronting my demons doesn't arouse any feeling in me whatsoever. However that fact is undoubtedly a bad thing. Most of the scumbags and convicts that I've ever met have all eventually had what I like to call a moment of clarity: a period of time where they not only finally feel remorse for what they had done, but they are faced with the magnitude of the offence they have committed. Nothing turns grown men into wailing bitches like seeing the crime scene photos.

The only bunch that I'd ever busted that were immune to their handiwork were the sickos who by all accounts and all methods of psychoanalysis, were considered to have one too many screws loose. If the thought of walking back into the room where I had just beaten a man to death didn't make me cringe, either the adrenaline hadn't worn off yet or my sanity was about to abandon ship. God knows I didn't want to become anything like those monsters.

Broken glass crunched and crackled beneath my shoes as I reentered the hallway. It looked like something impossibly large and terrible had torn its way through the room. I continued to walk; past the broken picture frames and what was left of our coat tree stand which lay in the entrance to the living room until I came to battered lump lying near my armchair.

Looking down, I saw for the first time what I'd done to the man. A small pool of blood had accumulated around the head that left the blond crown of hair almost completely soaked. A deep bloody gash tore through most of the left half of his face from forehead to chin and parts of the skin looked sunken in somehow; like the bone underneath was shattered. The right arm was bent at an impossible angle and some of the fingers looked mangled. It looked like this man had been attacked by an animal.

"Oh my god.." that was all I could manage to say coherently as slowly the memory of the event came back to me.

Two Hours Prior....

"Alice, honey?" I called, hanging my trench coat on the coat tree. After working non-stop all week, his was the first night that I would actually be home for longer than the time it took me to change clothes. Alice respected my line of work since I had become an officer before we met but that didn't mean she was always fond of the long hours. I'd been promising her a week to ourselves for the last month or so and I had finally followed through with it. It was a particularly special because this was our nine-year anniversary weekend and I was determined not to make the same mistake that I made last year.

Last year, after not being home that entire week, I missed our anniversary dinner because I ended up in the interrogation room with a stubborn, suspected homicidal-rapist for 7 hours. When I got home after apologizing profusely on the phone from the precinct, Alice refused to speak with me. That meant that no sex for the next 3 weeks (one of the most painful periods of my life); she wouldn't let me kiss her or hug her. She wouldn't even look me in the eye. When she finally gave in, my wife confessed that the whole thing made her feel unappreciated and devalued. Technically speaking, it wasn't entirely my fault, I mean, its not like I could declare a city-wide crime- free day on the 24th of January every year. Nonetheless, I understood and I didn't want her feeling as though my job or anything in my life was more important than she was and we came to a compromise. This year for our anniversary, I'd stay home with her the entire weekend without any interference from anyone or anything.

In her words, her only demands of me were, "Forget your partner, forget your precinct, forget your captain: you leave those outside of this house. No cellphone, no guns and no clothes for the entire weekend." I was looking forward to the next few days to say the least.

"Baby, where are you?" I continued to call and headed toward the kitchen, unknotting my tie at the same time. Expecting to see her blond locks, I rounded the corner and came into our kitchen but she was not there. Alice was obsessed with cooking. The floured dough and rolling pin on the granite countertop was proof that she had been in here. Our kitchen was modelled entirely to her liking.

The entire space was decorated in white and pale blues from the delicate ornate designs around the central window and wooden cabinets. Two convection ovens stacked one atop the other, a stove top with six burners and a refrigerator large enough to contain everything she cooked or baked. When I first met her, she told me about her growing up in Italy in her grandmother's home but it wasn't until after we got married that I understood that that meant large family dinners every Sunday after mass that morning. Most nights when I came home, she was in the kitchen diligently working over a cutting board or covered in flour.

But it wasn't like Alice to abandon her work.

Beginning to panic, I continued to call out to her as I headed toward the staircase. She was not in the master or guest bedrooms or in either of the two bathrooms and I could feel my heart in my throat as I descended the stairs. I had dealt with a lot of missing persons cases but I had never had to consider what I would do under these circumstances where the love of my life had seemingly disappeared. I was prepared to call her cellphone when I heard a clicking, like the sound some video players make when you play back whatever it was you recorded. What sounded like a female whimpering was coming from our dining room and I reached for my gun at my waist.

With the pistol trained at the air directly ahead of me, I made cautious, calculated steps toward the archway. The whimpering got louder and louder as if the woman was distressed.

"Look into the camera, bitch." The voice was low and gruff, like it belonged to a chain smoker.

I was instantly on alert. I had no idea whether or not whoever was in my house was armed or if the woman who was whimpering was my wife but even the thought that someone was here and possibly hurting her, made my stomach turn. Regardless of what was around that arch, I planned to confront it.

But no one was there. The room was empty apart from a laptop that I didn't recognize that was sitting on the dining room table and opened with the screen facing away from me. I crept around the large mahogany table slowly, switching to a one handed grip of the pistol. The whimpering continued.

" Look into that camera, like you're looking into his eyes."

I came around to face the screen and I nearly dropped my gun. In the video, they were standing in front of the same table that was in front of me where her apron was laying.

The male voice belonged to a man I'd never seen before: sandy blond hair cropped short and a scar splitting his left cheek. He had a hand around Alice's waist, keeping her pressed against his body as he stood behind her and a gun pressed to her left temple. Tears streamed down her cheeks. The torn remains of one of my white button ups that she had been wearing hung from her shoulders and left her bra visible. She was still wearing the pencil skirt I remembered seeing her in this morning. The man trailed the barrel of the gun down, along her face and neck, tracing the silhouette of her exposed cleavage.

"Now its our job," He whispered, resting the gun on the table. "..to put on a good show." Bony fingers disappeared behind her back and soon her bra came loose. "We need to give that husband of yours a reason," he peeled it away to bare her breasts, looking into the lens of the camera as if he could see me behind the screen. ".. to come and find you."

With a hand against the small of her back, he pushed her upper body against the table, forcing her to bend at the waist and began fumbling with the zipper at the back of her skirt.

"Nuh-uh uh," he chided, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking sharply. " always maintain eye contact with your audience."