Reprisal (8 page)

Her friend was having a party to celebrate Independence Day.

Once the sun set and the fireworks over, Sydney was due back at home. When she didn’t
arrive, her mother, Gloria Watkins DeCarlo contacted her friend’s parents. Mrs. DeCarlo was
informed that Sydney never arrived at their house and had not called.

Immediately, Mrs.
DeCarlo set out on foot in the neighborhood along with her other children
to look for her. After three hours, Mrs. DeCarlo contacted the Lincoln Park Police and a search
party was dispatched.

The search party located a pink tennis shoe belonging to Sydney and foul play was then
suspected. The Federal Bureau of Investigations and the Illinois Bureau of Investigations were
called to the residence.

A tracking device was installed on the
DeCarlo telephone and detectives were placed at the
residence. The exterior search continued, but detectives had reason to believe that a possible
kidnapping had taken place.

Detectives had reason to believe the incident stemmed from an outside source. The family’s
financial status and social status were investigated. The family was comfortable, but not overly
wealthy and it did not appear that any family member had any known enemies.

Approximately seventy
-two hours later a call came in to dispatch of gunshots fired at an
empty house on South Halsted Street in Chicago.

Once officers arrived on the scene they located Sydney
DeCarlo naked, unconscious and
bleeding profusely from the neck and throat area. Her bare skin exposing bruises, cuts and dried
blood. In her right hand was a .22 Calibre Ruger revolver. Her ankles bound to a metal chair
laying on its side.

As detectives inspected the area, the body
of a man, approximately thirty-five years old was
discovered lying on the ground, a single gunshot to his head. EMT’s and rescue personnel
examined the male body and pronounced him dead at nineteen hundred hours.

Rescue personnel examined Miss
DeCarlo and treated her wounds accordingly, quickly
loading her in to an ambulance.

The Chicago-Cook County Coroner arrived and loaded the male body in to a hearse and
transported him to the coroner’s office for an autopsy and identification. The entire face and
head had been damaged by the single bullet that visual ID was not possible. The left eye socket
and nasal cavity completely shattered.

Jesus, this youn
g girl was subjected to so much that I can’t even read anymore. I make my way to the kitchen and grab another beer, enjoying the cold malt as it travels down my parched throat. My mind disappears to the house where this happened and I envision being the one to discover the scene. I’ve seen some gruesome things in my tenure as a cop and even more so as a detective, but the vision in my head is horrendous. I glance at the clock and realize its ten o’clock and I have to be back at HQ by nine, so I have a little more time to delve into these files.

The crime scene was scoured and the following evidence collected:

Wire cutters

Six rolls of duct tape

Approximately sixty-five feet of barbed wire

Sixteen discharged medical syringes

Twenty four unused syringes

Fourteen bottles of Chloroform

Three blankets - sent to the crime lab

Seven Automotive rags - sent to the crime lab

Two old mattresses

Approximately sixty-
five feet of nylon rope

Various pieces of torn clothing - sent to the crime lab

Hair samples - sent to the crime lab

I sit here shaking my head. He tortured her. He beat her and raped her, his own flesh and blood. She was thirteen vulnerable years old. In anger, I throw my beer bottle across the room, the glass shattering against the wall. I stare at the hole now in the sheetrock and that makes me angrier. Suddenly
, I have the urge to see what this man looks like, so I can memorize his face. I plan to go to Heaven one day, but in case I end up in Hell - I want to make sure I kill him again.

I
shuffle through the stack of photos and come across a photo of Sydney, after the attack.

Her face is swollen and bruised, the skin cr
acked in places and a zig zagged, bloody line across her neck. No wonder she freaked out when Chuck mentioned the wire, I probably would have too.

I scan the Medical Report for Sydney and take in all of the information there. Most of it I already knew, but what I find there is startling. She was repeatedly raped and sodomized, semen found everywhere, including her stomach. Good Lord, what did he do to her? Well, I can figure it out but how does a father do that to his own daughter? I’m thankful she shot him, killed him in cold blood. He deserved it.

But then something else catches my eye. In one of the other photos, I see the number four tattooed to her right hip. Fuck, I’m glad he’s dead or I would be hunting him down and torturing him. Then something dawns on me. The other girls had also been marked on their hips with a number. Something about these tattoos has me concerned and I wonder if she had hers removed, or if it’s still there. Tattoos. Something about tattoos. Could the creep be a tattoo artist? Nah, too easy. These predators don’t make investigations easy, so I doubt it. But it’s worth checking out.

Then I gather the DNA reports. I lay Sydney’s report, Sofia’s and Samantha’s side by side and stare. Holy shit, can this really be happening?

The nucleotides match in all three reports. How is this possible? Sydney’s attack was years ago, Sofia and Samantha more recent, though a month apart. So, the theory of a copycat killer was just thrown out the door. Now we have something bigger.

The sun shining through my blinds draws me out of my slumber. Thankfully, I made it another night without the nightmare. Sad really, when I get excited about a good night’s sleep. I stretch and roll over to my side to see what time it is and jump when I see it’s almost noon. My head hits the pillow again and I roll to my back and stare at the ceiling. Sunday. Sunday is me day, though my thoughts are far from me. They are with those two young girls that were brutally raped and killed. My body tenses up when I think back to the day that
it could have been me.

Should have been me. I wanted to die back then, just to get it to stop. The pain and the humiliation of being tortured. The embarrassment suffered when I wasn’t strong enough to stop it.

I know now, that I was strong enough. And I did stop it, but only because I refused to give my father the satisfaction of killing another girl. I saw the opportunity to grab his gun and I took it. I didn’t think before I did it, I just did it. And, I knew I wasn’t the first, he made sure I knew that. In fact, he branded it in to my skin. I was number four. The first three bodies were never found, that I know of. And if they were, they weren’t connected to me at the time. I made sure the authorities knew it afterwards, though. The families of those young girls deserved closure.

My fingers absently trace the thick black number carved in to my skin. I’ve thought about having it removed, but decided to keep it as a reminder that I am a survivor. That I made it through a
grueling experience that no one should have to go through. Ever.

But inside, I kind of envy those girls. They didn’t have to go through life living with this nightmare like I have. It follows me everywhere I go. Sure, the memories have faded over time, but the pain is still there. Especially when I’m involved with a man. I’ve only had a few relationships over the years, because of that very reason. Being intimate is.....scary for me. After having been raped over and over, in more ways than one, it leads to severe intimacy problems.

Leslie has been great, but some things I have to overcome on my own.

That is why I chose this profession. I want to do what I can to prevent any girl, or boy for that matter, from ever having to suffer through what I have. I’ve managed to avoid explaining the tattoo on my hip for
most of my life, and when a man starts getting too close I shove him away. Just so I don’t have to spill my history. Hell, any man would run for the hills if they knew what I’ve been through. And, having to explain the nightmares.....well, that’s another situation all together.

I finally kick the covers off and pull myself out of bed. Once in the kitchen I start the coffee and focus on waking up. And then it hits me.

Gabriel Torres.

What is it about that man that gets my blood pumping? I don’t even know him, or much about him other than he’s a true New Yorker, and a cop. I’ve never dated a cop and......no, I shake my head. Why am I thinking about this? I have a case to work on and shouldn’t be thinking things like this. But it’s been so long.......And those eyes. Those lips......stop it!

“Ugh, girl. Get a grip. You need to focus on these young girls that keep washing up, not on your sex life, or lack thereof. There’s no time for that right now.” I say to myself as I take a tentative sip of my coffee.

I grab the newspaper outside my door and glance around outside. All is quiet here today, which is good. As I open the paper, I almost knock my cup over.
Great, the two murdered girls have made the front page. This is not good, as we needed to keep this a secret for a bit while we figure out what’s going on. “Must be a leak at the police department.” I whisper to myself as I scan the article. At least they’ve left out the major details and only stated who they are and where their bodies were located. Anything else could totally jeopardize the investigation. We don’t need the perp to know we’re on to him. But are we on to him? Not yet, I don’t think. Not unless Gabe has come up with something.

Deciding I need to get busy, I shower and get dressed to head down to the station. So much for ‘me day’. I should have been there earlier, but now is as good a time as any I guess. No one specified what time to be there, hell - they didn’t even tell me to come back. But I am because I plan to do whatever it takes to bring this asshole down, quickly.

My hand hits the door knob and I freeze, suddenly feeling a little nervous and scared. Today could be the day we bring this bastard down and I realize I am no longer safe. I head back to the bedroom and pull the metal box out from under my bed. I slowly open the lid, my fingers toiling with the canvas covering. I wrap my fingers around the S&W 9mm handgun and confirm that it is in fact, loaded. I slide my carry permit out of the envelope and the holster, and head back out into the living room.

Putting the permit in to my wallet
, I strap the holster on, slide the gun in and cover it with my jacket. Now, I’m ready to face the world. If someone messes with me, all of those shooting classes will pay off. I can hit a bulls-eye from a hundred feet, so any potential attacker would be messing with the wrong girl. I learned my lesson early in life and I will never be unprepared again.

Heading in
to the busy New York streets, I head towards the station. It’s not as windy today, but I snap the bottom two snaps on my jacket so that the wind doesn’t expose my gun. Even though I have a permit to carry it, I don’t need to draw attention to that fact, nor do I want to freak everyone on the streets out seeing some broad with a gun. People draw too many conclusions in this day and age and all I need is a scene with someone thinking I’m a terrorist or something.

Within a few minutes I’m on
LaFayette Street gazing at the entrance to NYPD Headquarters.

I realize I’m blocking the sidewal
k when some douche bag slams into me, shoving me forward.

“A
SSHOLE!” I scream back at him. He doesn’t turn around but....wait. That’s the same guy that knocked my coffee out of my hand yesterday. Surely......no, it’s a big city.....and the chances of running into the same person two days in a row is unlikely, unless you know them personally.

His head is down and his hands are in his pockets, almost like he’s trying not to be noticed.

“Well, then don’t slam into people for no reason if you don’t want to be noticed.” I whisper to myself. But then the uneasiness hits me and I rush through the doors in to HQ and slam head on into a hard body. “I’m sorry.” I say as I look up. Looking down at me are dark brown eyes and a smirk at the corner of his lips. “Gabe, hi.” I say shyly.

“Sydney, are you all right?” He asks softly as he brushes a tendril of hair away from my face.

It’s a tender gesture and totally takes me aback. I’m frozen to the spot and all I can do is stare up at him. He doesn’t say anything else, but must see something in my eyes that I’m trying desperately not to show. He pulls me in to his arms and wraps his arms around me.

As my body presses up against his, his warmth spreads through me. But he releases me quickly and steps back, a major change in his facial expression. He looks at me now with concern, almost anger. He reaches forward and takes the
hem of my jacket in each hand and forcefully rips it open. His eyes travel to my waist where he sees my 9mm Smith and Wesson secured to my hip. He stares at it for a moment and then brings his eyes up to mine, which are glued to his.

“What is this?” He asks as his thumbs caress the canvas strap holding the gun to me.

“It’s a 9mm Smith and Wesson M&P9c hand gun. You like?” I respond while swinging my hips.

“I know what it is, Sydney. Maybe I need to rephrase the question. Why do you have it?” He asks, even more concern in his eyes.

“I told you yesterday, I have a gun. I decided.......” And I drift off, because I’m not sure I want to disclose my insecurities.

“What happened, Sydney?
Tell me. Now.” He demands.

“Nothing, Gabe. Nothing yet anyway. I just felt a little...I don’t know, uneasy this morning.” I say as I step back and refasten my jacket. “Don’t worry,
Detective Torres, I have a permit to carry it.” And I turn to head towards Chuck’s office.

But before I can get my body completely turned, he grabs my arm at the elbow and spins me back around. “Are you trained to shoot it?” He asks, like he doesn’t believe a girl can shoot a gun.

“Would you like to join me at the shooting range, Detective?”

Another smirk curls his lips and the
n turns into a drop dead smile. “You’re on, Doctor DeCarlo. Let’s go.”

“Wait, now?” I ask.

“Yes, now is the best time. I want to see what you’ve got before I allow you to carry.”

“Before you ALLOW me? Who do you think you are?”

“I am a cop and I’m committed to public safety, I need to make sure you know what you’re doing.” He grins.

“You’re an ass, Detective. And yes, it’s on. Let’s go.”

“We make our way to the basement area of the old building and check in at the front desk.

Typically civilians don’t get to use the range here, but Detective Torres checks us both
in and we make our way to the range.

After donning our protective gear, we move to the lanes. I look down and s
ee a paper target hanging from a clothes line. I hear it catch behind me and I prepare myself. I can feel Gabe behind me, watching me and I know I’d better nail this or I’ll never hear the end of it.

I pull the gun up and aim it right towards the target. As it starts moving, I start firing. After I empty the cylinder
, I lift my goggles to check out the results. Six out of seven shots blew a hole right through the heart. The seventh one piercing the head area. “Very nice.” I hear Gabe behind me.

He steps in
to his firing lane and brings his Glock up and waits for the target to move. Once it starts, he fires off two shots, totally destroying the target. I hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Well, you have a bigger gun, Detective.” I smile back at him. “And you only let off two shots. The others may have missed completely.” I tease.

He laughs and steps beside me, pressing his Glock in to my hands. “Let’s see how you do with the big guns.”

Always being up for a challenge, I take the gun and examine it. I’ve never shot a
Glock before, but it can’t be that hard. As I aim the weapon and pull off my first shot, my body jerks back about three steps. He laughs again. “Uhh huh, too much for you?” He teases.

“Never too much.” I snap back, determine to not let this gun get the best of me.

The target moves again and I plant my feet firmly on the ground and lock my knees. I refuse to let him win at this little game. I fire off three shots, hitting the center of the target dead on and manage to remain standing. The target is in pieces, with half of it hanging off.

“Wow.” I hear Gabe whisper. “That’s hot.”

I pull the cans off my ears and the goggles off of my face and look back at him. “What did you say?”

He shakes his head as he takes the
Glock from my fingers. “Well done, Sydney. You’ve proven to me that you can handle a weapon. Now, let’s go handle a murderer.”

And he walks off. Is he pissed? Yeah, he’s pissed that I can shoot as good as he can, or better.

Arrogant bastard. But I follow behind him, smiling from ear to ear. That’ll teach him to challenge me. He thought I would go all girly on him and not hit a damn thing. I laugh as I follow him up to Chuck’s office, where the fun is gone. It’s all business in here.

Gabe and I sit down and stare at Chuck for a
few minutes. He’s nose deep into his computer and doesn’t appear to even realize we’re sitting here. But neither Gabe nor I speak, we just sit there in silence until Chuck finally looks up.

“Ah, you’re here. Good. Let’s get busy. Gabe, what did you find in those files last night?

Anything we can use?”

Gabe shifts uncomfortably in his seat but says nothing. I see him glance at me like he doesn’t want me around for what he has to say.

“Gabe?”

“Um, yeah. Um....well, I......shit.” He stumbles on his words as he looks at me.

“Spit it out Gabe. We don’t all have day.” I say, probably a little meaner than I should, but I can tell he’s uncomfortable around me and he needs to know that if I’m going to be a part of this investigation, he needs to keep me informed.

He takes a deep breath and looks at Chuck. His eyes don’t even glance towards me, like he doesn’t want me to see what he’s thinking.

“I went over all of the photos and reports and a few things struck me.” He then finally turns and looks at me. “Sydney, we had your file pulled from Chicago PD, and I’m afraid some things just don’t match up.

I suck in a breath and release it slowly. I’m pissed that he pulled my file without telling me, and now he knows everything. But, I realize that he is just doing his job and frankly, I was afraid of the same thing.

“What do you mean?” I say calmly, though I am far from calm inside.

“Well, the obvious similarities. The barbed wire for one. And.....” He drifts off again.

“Spit it out, Gabe.” I prod him.