Memphis Streets 4: Skeletons

Chapter 8- Hydeya

Thirty hours.

I've been up for over thirty hours, working this new case. My hubby has long since crawled into bed, probably annoyed that once again I've brought my work home with me. Not because I want to make an impression with the new police chief, Yvette Brown, but because the horrific idea of someone cutting a baby out of a woman's body has pushed all of my buttons.

I've been a cop a long time and I've never seen no shit like this before. I've heard of a few cases in other places, but I never had one hit my desk. Sighing, I fish out the forensic photos of the two women discovered way off Peebles Road in south Memphis in advanced stages of decomposition—two months according to the coroner.

The expregnant woman's corpse still has a bag over her head and plastic cuffs locked around her wrists. There's very little skin left or biomass for insect colonization. It's mostly bones and connective tissues. Crows and other animals had their feast and destroyed most of the crime scene evidence. I've lost track of the number of homicides I've worked, but this heinous crime will be forever burned into my memory.

On the surface, this case looks like a hard nut to crack, but so far, the forensic team has been phenomenal in getting good tire-track molds, fingerprints, and footprints. The discarded silver Terrain is registered to a Monica Terry.

There was also a cell phone with a strange text that read: Ticktock. We traced the number the text came from back to one of those cheap disposable phones that could be purchased from any big-box store. Monica Terry was no stranger to the Memphis Police Department. When I typed her name into the system, a lengthy arrest record scrolled onto my screen and ran for at least five minutes. Off the bat, one of her addresses was on Shotgun Row.

That told me that she was gang affiliated: Vice Disciples to be exact. Her previous arrests consisted of charges for trespassing, prostitution, and narcotics. In her mug shots, she was an attractive girl, but in the end, she was a product of her environment. It takes a lot to overcome your station or circumstances in this world.

When I talked to Monica's mother earlier, a Ms. Turner instead of Terry, I was stunned by her total lack of reaction. If in anything, she gave me the feeling that I was annoying her by interrupting Family Feud. I glanced around the room and noticed that there were no pictures of her only daughter. The place smelled like mothballs and Bengay. When I asked her whether her daughter had any enemies, Bettye claimed not to know anything about her daughter's business.

She added that whatever trouble Monie, as she called her, got into, she probably brought it onto herself. "God don't like ugly," she kept preaching to me.

Evidently Monica had chased off her mother's man a few decades back, and she'd never forgiven her for it. I got lost in her conversation and logic, but I went ahead and nodded like she made all the sense in the world.

Only when I was about to head out the door did the older woman ask, "What about the baby?" I froze with my hand on the doorknob, a sudden sickening dread curdling up in my gut.

Ms. Turner said that Monie had been nine-months pregnant. I got back on the phone with the forensic team and we took another look at the body and crime scene. Time and the environment had done away with a lot of evidence and we couldn't find a corpse of a baby anywhere. The coroner called back and said that, upon another review of the body, they had discovered there were crude knife marks around the pelvis of the handcuffed corpse.

The baby had been cut out. Was that the reason for the murder? And what about the other body? Cause of death: a single bullet in the center of the skull. No ID. Time, environment, and scavengers had done a number to her body as well. For now, she'll be toetagged as Jane Doe until we get lucky. If I had to put money on this shit, I'd bet my pitiful salary that this whole mess was gang-related—like everything else in this city.

There's a lot of shuffling going on at the department. The accelerated crime rate and angry citizens demanded change. For the first time in more than twenty-five years, the polish on Captain Melvin Smith's shield had tarnished and to the surprise of the whole department Mayor Wharton tossed his beloved super cop into early retirement. If Captain Smith can go down, then that means none of our jobs are safe.

I came to Memphis from South Chicago, which is in worse condition than Memphis—that includes the gangs and the politicians. I review the reports over again. At some point I must've fallen asleep because the next thing I know, I jolt upright, disoriented.

Riiinnnggg.

My gaze falls to the smartphone lying on the paper-covered table. I rub the sleep from the corners of my eyes and try to remember how to answer my new fancy phone.

Riiinnnggg.

"You want me to answer that for you?" Drake asks, sounding irritated and amused at the same time.

"I got it," I tell him, swiping the screen to answer the call. "Hello." My voice is scratchy so I cough to clear it.

"Yeah. This is Lieutenant Hawkins." I reach for my coffee cup, and then groan at finding it empty.

Drake, like the sweet angel I've always believed him to be, appears by my side, coffeepot in hand, and pours me a refill. Thanks, I mouth to him, while taking a moment to appreciate the black silk boxers hugging his V-cut hips.

At six-one, my Italian husband is at an average height, but he definitely has that GQ cover model look with his shoulder-length, ink-black hair. We pissed a lot people off when we got married. My black militant stepfather refused to walk me down the aisle and, to this day, my mother still has a bet going on with my aunts on how long our marriage will last.

It's been five years and counting. Silence hangs over the phone. I'm embarrassingly aware that my caller has stopped talking and I have no idea of what was just said. "I'm sorry. What was that again?" I sip my coffee for the caffeine kick.

"We need you to come in. We have a one-eight-seven out at 530 Frank Road," the officer repeats. One-eight-seven—homicide. Of course there's a homicide. This is Memphis.

"I, uh, where is—"

"It's been a busy night, Lieutenant. The chief knows that you've already worked a double shift, but she requested that you come in on this one."

"All right." I look around the table for a pen. "Give me the address again." When the officer repeats it, an odd feeling comes over me.

"Why do I know this address?" I whisper, but the caller hears me.

"Because it's Captain Smith's home. He and his wife have been murdered."