I stop at all the stores on the way to the smoothie shop and show them a picture of the girl I’m trying to find, but everyone says they haven’t seen her.
My last chance is the smoothie shop. Right as I go to open the door, I cock my head when I spot a small drop on the ground. Could be anything.
Could be everything.
I squat next to the cactus and tap my finger against it, then slide it between my fingers and bring it to my nose. I sniff and my stomach turns when the familiar smell of rust hits my nose.
Blood.
I take out my phone and snag a picture, then check to see which direction the blood is traveling.
Looks like I’m going straight.
I follow the trail of two or three more drops, taking pictures of each of them for evidence. I take a right, and then see several more drops.
“Oh no, come on, don’t let it be like this,” I beg to whatever god is listening to me. The horrible gut-wrenching feeling returns, the one I used to get when I was a cop. I want to run away but sprint forward instead as the drops of blood get more frequent.
She’s bleeding quicker. I come to the end of the street. To my right is an alley. It’s dark, lined with trashcans and fire escapes, but the blood leads right to it.
“Let it be an animal,” I whisper to myself, wiping the sweat off my brow as I head into the alley. My boot lands against a stagnant puddle that has a wrapper of some kind in it. I hear the scurry of rats, their nails scratching against the pavement and their chitters of hunger as they look for food.
And then I hear a cry.
It’s soft, weak, definitely struggling. I hurry around the dumpster but don’t see anything, then slowly focus the trash bin itself.
No.
Another cry tries to wail, and I flip the lid of the dumpster and hop up, then flip on the flashlight in my phone.
What I see will give me nightmares for as long as I live.
“Fuck!” I call 9−1−1 immediately, then jump into the dumpster, careful to miss the body of Morgan Lillard.
Her baby is lying on her chest, her abdomen cut open from side to side, and the baby is still attached to the umbilical cord. Before I do anything, I take pictures for evidence, then I shrug off my shirt and gently cover him. “You’re going to be okay,” I tell him, which is more than I can say for his mother.
I have blood all over me. I swear, I can still feel the warmth against my legs as it soaks through my jeans. Morgan stares up at me with vacant eyes.
“Hello? What is the nature of your emergency?” a woman’s voice brings me back to reality.
“This is Private Investigator Forrest Walker. Damn it, I didn’t even check the street I was on. You’re going to have to trace my phone. I’m working a case. I have a body, but I need an ambulance right away. Her baby was cut out of her.”
She inhales a sharp breath and starts typing quickly. “Responders are two minutes out.”
“Thank you.” I hang up and tuck the phone in my back pocket, bending down to push the hair out of Morgan’s face. “Who did this to you?” I ask softly, the color of life still pinching her cheeks. I press my fingers against her neck. As the baby cries, a shiver of familiarity nearly has me recoiling.
She’s gone.
I was stupidly hopeful.
I want to hold the baby, but I’m afraid to touch him. What if he is injured?
The sirens come closer and I hear the steady stampede of boots against the pavement. “Walker? Did I hear that correctly? Is that you?” a familiar voice calls out.
It’s an old buddy of mine on the force, Utah.
He peers inside the dumpster and curses when he sees me. “Fucking hell. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“Me either,” I say sadly. “Fuck, I have to call my clients and tell them I found their daughter.”
“We can do that, you know. Technically, you’re working with us now too.”
The medic interrupts us. “Is there enough room for me in there?” she asks before she steps up on the dumpster and peers in. “Damn it. Is the infant still attached by the cord?”
I nod. “Yes, he is.”
“Probably why he’s still alive. Okay, I’m tossing you the scissors.”
“No.” I shake my head and climb out of the dumpsters, blood all over my hands. “No. I’m not cutting the cord. Don’t fucking ask me why. You climb in and do it. It’s all on you now.” I can’t cut another baby’s cord.
“Alright,” she says without argument and hops in the dumpster. She comes back out seconds later with a baby boy wrapped in her arms. “Thanks for the shirt, Walker. It helped keep him warm.”
“Yeah, no problem.” I stare up at the sky and place my hands on my hips, trying to take a few deep breaths.
I can’t do cases like this. I just… can’t.
“Is he going to be okay?” I ask the medic.
“He has some fluid in his lungs, but he is strong. Does he have anyone?”
“I’m calling the grandparents now,” I say.
She closes the doors of the ambulance as another one pulls forward to take Morgan’s body. She was only twenty years old, and someone cut the baby out of her. Why?
I take my phone out and hover my thumb over the call button. I know it needs to be done. The cops are in motion around me, crime scene investigators and forensics do their job by taking samples and pictures. I suddenly realize that I can’t tell them this over the phone. This is something they deserve to hear in person.
But I’m covered in their daughter’s blood. I can’t go back to their house now to inform them.
“Utah!” I call out for my old friend.
He begins walking over to me from where he was standing next to the dumpster. “What’s going on, buddy?”
“I’m sending you an address. Please pick them up and break the news to them, then take them to the hospital so they can I.D. their daughter and meet their grandson, okay? I can’t go covered in blood. Tell them I sent you.”
“Sure thing, Walker.” He begins to walk away then stops. “You know, I can’t imagine how hard this is on you. I’m glad you’re back in the game. It’s good seeing you where you belong, Walker.”
Utah is one of the few people who know about Amber. I stupidly told him while I was drunk one night because it would have been Amber’s birthday. She would have been all grown up.
“Can you give me a ride to my truck, actually?” I shout after him.
“Not until after we get pictures and take those clothes in for evidence.” The CSI snaps a photo and I grumble as I begin to undress until I’m down to my damn briefs. “Now can I go?”
“Yep,” he says all too happily.
Nearly naked, I climb into Utah’s police cruiser, and he drives to my truck.
“What made you come back?” he asks.
“I needed to get back out here. I just didn’t fucking expect my first damn case to be a young girl, murdered, with her baby cut out of her stomach. How the fuck are the parents going to take that?”
“Job ain’t easy,” he states.
“Yeah, but I expected my first job to be finding a cat or something.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a second to gather myself while he parks next to my truck.