Down To The Needle

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Book excerpt

Chapter One

A fireman waved an arm to catch a police officer’s attention and then pointed toward the flames. He shouted to be heard over the clamor. “The perp torched himself!”

Angry red and orange flames from the still burning back half of the warehouse licked at the night sky. Glowing yellow embers, blown by April’s night breezes off the nearby ocean, took flight. Fire trucks encircled the building. Firefighters scrambled over strewn equipment. Men wearing Army camouflage uniforms darted about. Two ambulances waited for the injured.

An officer cupped a hand around the side of his mouth and yelled. “The perp’s inside?”

Abigail Fisher and Joe Arno nudged in closer to hear the conversation between firefighters and the police. The roar and crackling of the fire drowned out most other sounds.

A fireman pointed to the front section of the building where the flames had been doused. “Burned himself into a corner.” He shook his head. “Still got the gas can in his hand.”

The officer took a step toward the building, trying to see. “How soon can we get in there?”

“You aren’t going to ID this one right away. He melted like wax.”

Abi carried some of Joe’s peripheral filming equipment, though only to make her look acceptable so she could tag along. Doing this was not new to her. Joe was a part-time stringer for Seaport’s major TV station and could be called out at any hour of the day or night to cover breaking news. Abi stayed on his heels. She would indeed help now that they were there.

The work they did when called out to cover a story was meaningful, if not demanding. Yet, these events paled in comparison to what Abi envisioned should happen for her when the greatest personal predicament in her life would be solved. It was a calamity with effects lasting for decades and was taking a toll on her health. While anticipating a happy and momentous culmination to a personal tragedy, she always helped others when called upon. The hope she held inside never dimmed but seemed detached from her everyday life. Presently, she worried about the reason for the numerous fires. Seaport and neighboring Creighton had an average number of fires greater than most same-sized cities.

Spectators had gathered, held back by police. From where had they all emerged, considering this was a building at the edge of the industrial section of Seaport? The crackling of the fire and rumbling of the building collapsing drowned out most other sounds.

“Look out!” Abi screamed to be heard over the chaos. She gestured frantically as a portion of the front wall began to shift.

“Coming down!” The Fire Captain yelled through a bullhorn as everyone fled.

Two firefighters dashed out of the building just as the outer wall and some roof beams collapsed, propelling a gust of air that sent sparks flying. Choking smoke billowed.

Caught off-guard, Abi and Joe wore dinner clothing when unexpectedly called out from the restaurant to film yet another burning. Abi frantically dusted hot embers off Joe’s jacket and then noticed a couple holes had burned through.

“Say so long to this Ralph Lauren.” She almost smiled. She dusted ash from her silk slacks and knew she would soon be shopping to replace them as well.

This wasn’t the first time their clothes had been ruined at a crime scene. But it was just clothing, replaceable and not forever lost, like a human life snatched away.

Tin sheets began sliding off the collapsing roof. Firefighters jumped out of range of the razor edges.

Joe kept the lens directed toward each new event and moved about quickly. He whirled around suddenly, looking for her. “Abi?”

She had paused to snuff a hot ash that had settled on her sleeve. “Over here.” She could barely hear herself over the noise.

Joe pulled her aside. “I ought to hire you. Where’s the rest of my crew?”

“You give new meaning to the term dinner and a movie.” She shook her head and grinned at the hilarity of such a serious situation.

“Glad you could help again.” He flashed a ridiculous grin. While their lives were anything but normal, they did their best to find something to laugh about to rise above the negativity.

This was not the first time Abi and Joe raced to a news event. Actually a photojournalist, Joe picked up jobs whenever he could get them. Crews covering breaking stories in the fast-growing towns of Seaport and Creighton were often unavailable. Way too many fires had happened over recent years, way too many. Though Abi found it stimulating, even rewarding trailing along at Joe’s side, only one occurrence yet to happen could provide the fervent excitement for which she hungered. It would be the highlight of her existence and would heal a heartbreaking tragedy and set her life back on course. Excitement filled her days, but hope was what kept her alive.

“Look at us.” She laughed at her clothes. “We’re ruined again.” She swatted at ashes in both his and her hair. He had ash stuck in his nose hairs. She checked her own.

“Wouldn’t want life to be too dull, would you?” His humor helped keep her emotions on track, always buoyed her when her own problems seemed overwhelming.

They picked their way through the area and got a few shots of the gutted ruins. From a distance, Joe zoomed in on the charred body.

“All these fires, Joe, I’ve even thought about moving back to Lawton again.” She looked around at the all too familiar scene and shook her head in dismay. “The gang violence here, it’s gotten way out—“

“Ha!” He pulled back his chin and gave her a questioning look. “You haven’t lived in Lawton in five years. The gangs there are worse than here now.”

They climbed into Joe’s Range Rover, finally, on their way to the TV station. Seaport had not enough news to employ full-time stringers like the hotshots down the coast in Lawton who used satellite power to relay their video clips.

“Strange, Joe, how the Army guys cleared out so quickly.”

“Why stay?”

“A lot of people wear camouflage these days. Does the Army really send people to help?”

Chapter Two 

News of the warehouse fire aired as yet another in a string of mysterious arsons. The fire had been so hot that the remains of the only charred body found were beyond recognition. At best, they had only the teeth, skull, and bones with no telltale marks on them. The best clues to the person’s identity would come from the coroner’s examination.

Two days later, as Abi and Joe watched a newscast, Abi became intrigued by police photos of an angry-looking young woman with a shaved head that appeared in the upper corner of the TV screen. Abi paused from setting the table to watch. Joe crossed the room behind her carrying a hammer.

The commentator spoke. “Upcoming on Top O’ The Hour News, more about the abominable plight of inmate Megan Winnaker, one of the growing number of women sentenced to death in the United States.”

Abi stepped forward, studying the photos. Joe stopped to watch, too, but then a commercial intruded. She muted the TV and turned to Joe. “Suppose a radical like her turned out to be my daughter.”

“It’s a sad world.” He shrugged. “Anyone could be standing beside a murderer and never know it.”

“Pity that poor girl.” Abi resumed placing utensils on the table.

“Yeah, if any help was coming for her, it should have happened by now.”

They had placed a small occasional table and chairs directly in front of the fireplace, their favorite spot to enjoy meals, instead of in the dining room. Glow from the embers cast flickering shadows over the dinner table and danced through prisms of the crystal water goblets. Half-spent logs crackled and popped in the fireplace, the heat staving off the nighttime chill. The smell of burning oak was synonymous with shelter from winter’s ragged edges.

Daily rains and a lingering bite in the air dashed all hopes for an early spring. Still, Abi felt changes stirring, similar to the spring fever she felt when she and Joe met five years earlier. The excitement of a new relationship had triggered metamorphoses on all levels.

Abi paused beside the table, deep in thought.

Joe came to her side. “Want some help?”

“Her eyes were too close.” Abi mumbled to herself as Joe turned and headed for the dining room. “Nose…too long.” She had never seen a close-up of Megan Winnaker in all the years the case had lasted.

From the day her five-year-old was abducted, Abi vowed never to stop searching till her daughter was safely returned to her arms. Twenty-three years had passed without a trace of Becky Ann. Multiple fruitless searches had caught up with Abi and worn her ragged. Over the years, she had gone so far as to become involved in several missing-person cases. She stayed involved till each young girl was reunited with family, or whose skeletal remains were identified. With each disappointment, alone in bed at night, she ached for the families and suffered their tragedies with them. In luckier cases, she felt their elation and triumph. Those inspirational reunions gave her hope toward an eventual happy ending with her daughter. They were rehearsals, meant as a sign that she and her daughter, too, would be re-united. Abi’s need to find her little girl intensified until, at times, she found herself grasping at the most intelligible of clues.

As the years passed, when weariness took over, Abi sometimes thought that her gifted child had slipped through the cracks of society. That’s why she had to look everywhere, including the most unlikely places, and at every young woman. As time wore on, clues diminished. Fewer and fewer cases turned up with girls the same age as her daughter.

Not until recent years did Abi learn to tone down her desperation. She had grown envious to the point of resentment each time she heard of someone else’s joyous reunion. Morose had been her state of mind when Joe Arno happened into her life. He was a breath of sanity she so urgently needed. So she suppressed her despair, yet kept alert to any possibilities, still determined to leave no clue untested. She had never disclosed all the details of Becky’s disappearance to Joe, only enough to help him understand.

Stirrings of renewal brought on by an unexpected relationship helped her change her image and outlook on life. She cropped her thick dark wavy hair so it required minimal care, and exercised to tone back the firmness she once had. She shed a few pounds and looked younger than her forty-eight years. How could she have let herself go? Soon after her renewal, pseudo-friends drifted away, taking morbid curiosity and pity with them. It was just as well. Abi needed to stay strong, healthy and focused both physically and emotionally. She never knew when a clue to Becky’s whereabouts might appear.

“No, thank heaven.” She exhaled not realizing she had held her breath. “That one’s not my daughter.”

Suddenly Joe was standing beside her again and touched her shoulder, interrupting her reverie. “Abi, what did you just say?”

She had to think a moment. “The inmate.” She gestured toward the TV with the utensils in her hand. “She doesn’t look a bit like me.”

Joe seemed instantly repulsed. “That one’s not your daughter.” His voice was exaggerated, misdirected, and made the idea seem ludicrous. Such a gesture was not typical of his gentle, oftentimes-humorous nature, but he did have a way of making a point. This special man was a pillar of strength and carried himself more like a stately baron than a hotshot photographer. He seldom raised his voice but all evening had seemed much distracted. What could be eating at him?

It was times like this that reminded her of the private hell she suppressed. When Joe suggested they have dinner at her home that evening and watch his documentary, Abi had thought to finally explain the secret she kept hidden in the spare bedroom upstairs. He had not seen all the rooms of the house since just after she remodeled. With him definitely edgy about something else, it would not be an opportune time to divulge skeletons in her closet.

“How can you say that?” She was mostly curious about the tone of his words. “I have to look at everyone if I’m to find—”

“Sh-h-h!” He grabbed up the remote as if angry, turned toward the TV and brought up the volume.

“This just in.” The news anchor said.

Joe laid the remote on the tabletop. “Listen, Abi!” He took a step closer to the TV as the insets popped up again.

“As we continue our coverage of inmate Megan Winnaker in these final months....” Now the anchor’s voice droned, as if holding back emotion, playing the part of an unbiased newscaster. “Rachter Valley Prison psychiatrist, Dr. Gilda Sayer, reports that Winnaker is deeply despondent and has succumbed to pneumonia yet again.”

A photo of the inmate in prison appeared over the newscaster’s shoulder. Abi stepped closer trying to get a better look at the young woman’s face. What was the purpose of showing images and then flicking them off within seconds?

Joe still held the hammer and tapped the head in his palm as he watched. “Damn it! Why hasn’t something happened for her?”

The newscaster continued to speak without showing emotion. “The psychiatrist states that although Winnaker maintains her innocence, she will be put to death immediately should she lose her final appeal. She is both physically and emotionally exhausted, which is probably the cause of her failing health.” Other photos of the inmate flashed across the screen.

Several motorcycles rumbled past on the street outside Abi’s home. The air itself seemed to vibrate. The noise was intrusive. She strained to hear the newscaster till the outside noise abated.

“Winnaker’s mental state is also deteriorating.” The newscaster’s expression had not changed. “Dr. Sayer claims this is caused by a repressed wish to die, an unconscious effort to extract her from a situation she can do nothing more about.”

Abi glanced at Joe, whose gaze was glued to the TV screen. “Joe…?”

“Wait, Abi!”

The wind howled. The patio door windows that Joe was repairing in the dining room rattled. He seemed as if he might go back to work on them but couldn’t break away from the news.

A picture of the state capital building appeared as the newscaster continued. “Winnaker’s appeal is now before the state Supreme Court.” The building in the background disappeared and the newsroom showed again. “But due to the backlog of cases, their decision is not expected till early next year. Though Winnaker has been adamant all along about proving her innocence, all the lower courts upheld her conviction. The Supreme Court’s favorable decision would be her final chance for a new trial and an attempt to overturn the sentence of death by lethal injection. However, her case has been examined and re-examined through appeals, which were all denied.”

The newscaster’s expression changed somewhat. “As we all know, Winnaker’s is the most sensational women’s case since back in the 1950’s when vice girl, Barbara Graham, cried out, ‘I want to live!’ as she was being escorted to the gas chamber.”

The Winnaker crime scene flashed across the screen: a night sky lit by a home engulfed in flame and paramedics loading a man receiving oxygen into the back of an ambulance.

The newscaster continued. “If you’ll recall, Winnaker was convicted of the deaths of three people under heinous circumstances, the attempted homicide of another, and all other related charges in the gang-style torch burning of a home outside Creighton over eight years ago. Her accomplices were never apprehended because, to this day, Winnaker insisted she had nothing to do with the fire and, therefore, could not name names. Winnaker claimed she had been drawn to the Seaport area after seeing pictures in a travel magazine.” A magazine page with photos flicked onto the screen for less than a second then dissolved back over the newscaster’s shoulder. “At the time she was arrested and all through court proceedings, Winnaker stuck to the story that the Nazi memorabilia found in her possession was all her father left behind when he died unexpectedly. Prosecutors alleged she migrated westward, enticed by the number of insurgent gang members living in Creighton.”

Joe kept shaking his head. What could he find so interesting about an arson-murder case?