

DISCIPLINE

A. BITTER

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by A. Bitter

This work is fiction. Places, names, and events are the author's creations.

Any similarity to actual persons, places or events is coincidental.

Front cover photo by Michael Albany Photographers

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1493705504

ISBN 13: 9781493705504

Table of Contents

THE DAY

THE WEDNESDAY BEFORE THE MLK WEEK-END

THE TUESDAY AFTER MLK WEEK-END

BEFORE MLK MAITRESSE MUSES

AFTER MLK--THE SCHOOL SECRETARY

BEFORE MLK -- MAITRESSE

AFTER MLK -- SCHOOL SECRETARY

PHILADELPHIA -- MAIN POLICE STATION

AFTER MLK WEEK-END

LATER TUESDAY AFTER MLK WEEK-END

AFTER MLK

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

AFTER MLK WEEK-END

AFTER THE MLK WEEK-END

LATER STILL AFTER THE MLK WEEK-END

AFTER MLK

AFTER MLK WEEK-END

BEFORE MLK-- MAITRESSE

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

BEFORE MLK

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

THE BALLROOM‎

AFTER MLK

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

DIARY BY NATALIE-- MIAMI BEACH

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

DIARY NATALIE SATURDAY JANUARY 18

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

BEFORE MLK

AFTER MLK

AFTER MLK

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

KEISHA

PIERRE

BEFORE MLK-- MAITRESSE

AFTER MLK

THE SCHMIDTS

AFTER MLK

AFTER MLK

LATER AFTER MLK WEEK-END

AFTER THE MLK WEEK-END

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

AFTER THE MLK WEEK-END

BEA'S THOUGHTS SATURDAY NIGHT DURING THE MLK WEEK-END

SUNDAY DURING THE MLK WEEK-END

LATER SUNDAY-- THE MLK WEEK-END

MONDAY OF THE MLK WEEK-END

DIARY BY NATALIE

MARIA THE DISPATCHER

AFTER THE MLK WEEKEND

AFTER MLK WEEK-END

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

BEFORE MLK--AUNT PENNY

BEFORE MLK-- MAITRESSE

MURPHY

BEFORE MLK WEEK-END

EDITH SCHMIDT

DIARY BY NATALIE IN FLORIDA

DAMARIS

AFTER MLK

AFTER MLK

AFTER MLK

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

AFTER MLK

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE SATURDAY AM

AFTER MLK

AFTER MLK WEEK-END

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

BEFORE MLK -- MAITRESSE

AFTER THE MLK WEEK-END

AFTER THE MLK WEEK-END

FRIDAY THE START OF THE MLK WEEK-END

LATER FRIDAY -- THE START OF MLK WEEK-END

SUNDAY OF THE MLK WEEK-END

SUNDAY MLK

THE THURSDAY BEFORE MLK WEEKEND

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

SUNDAY OF THE MLK WEEK-END

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

AFTER THE MLK WEEK-END

THE MLK WEEK-END

JUST BEFORE THE MLK WEEK-END

SUNDAY MLK WEEK-END

SUNDAY THE MLK WEEK-END

AFTER THE MLK WEEK-END

AFTER MLK

AFTER MLK

AFTER MLK WEEK-END

AFTER MLK

THE MLK WEEK-END

THE PURDYS

AFTER MLK WEEK-END

LATER THAT NIGHT

AFTER MLK

PENNY RETURNS TO MIAMI BEACH AFTER MLK

WHO IS SHE?

AFTER MLK

SCHMIDT

AFTER MLK

DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

The security guard crouches on his knees his body huddled against the house trying to elude the feathery flakes that saturate the air and blot out even the closest trees. Soon the cold wet will penetrate his clothes and chill his body.

He can't leave. He'll stay and peer into the house; see the girls' fun morph into agony.

But he is not alone.

DISCIPLINE

### THE DAY

Pierre is the security guard hired to watch 2204 Green Street. Tonight he witnesses the monster entrap three young girls. Watches the evil one undress them, rape them, sodomize them, and does nothing.

He knows his place, knows his job. All he can do is hunker down outside the picture window, riveted by the goings on in the teacher's brightly lit house. He is cold and wet and wishes he could leave. But he'll stay and watch the girls entertain themselves while he waits for his boss to arrive.

The youngest wears Maitresse' red ‎patent ‎heels, toddles precariously on the stilts. The lassies mimic their French teacher, make fun of her walk, the "Maitresse walk," the ‎pendulum ‎swing of her buttocks.‎

Dior powder ‎shrouds ‎their faces. ‎ Hot ‎Pink blush paints circles on their cheeks. Magic Noir pummels Channel No. 5, each seeks power over the other. The ‎mixture fails.‎

They emulate their teacher's eccentricities, jab Maitresse' canes at the imaginary students before them. Hurl commands and derisions just as their French teacher does.

"Dite moi!"

"Bête!"

"S'il vous plait!"

"Maintenant!"

They drew lips outside the lines with Lancôme Ruby-Red. Innocent eyes are ebony ovals. Auburn tresses are french knots á la Maitresse. Their bodies are gowned in swishy satins of amethyst, pink, and ‎black, the fabrics studded with rhinestones and semi-precious jewels.

All is wonderful.

Until...

His eyes round with astonishment. When Pierre was a child, he witnessed rape, murder and torture. Today is beyond that.

The girls realize the danger. But it's too late.

Evil has appeared wearing a Mardi-gras mask. He augurs death.

The devil calms them so they will participate. He assuages their fears, massages them with kindness, suggests they indulge in girly fun.

"Sashay! Model Maitresse' clothes! Dance! Pirouette! Perform for the rolling cameras!"

Pierre watches the monster seduce the three to acquiesce. Their fears subside. They believe they are safe. They are not. Pierre can see that.

The fiend bellows, exalts in his manliness, controls, subdues, shackles, and defiles the youngsters. The innocents ‎have become his pleasure.‎‎

WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP...

Sounds pound...the sweet lambs are killed.

The guard observes-- and does nothing.

How could he? ‎

Wails and yawls hammer his ears. The memory of this horror will repeat in his mind, play again and again, a youtube loop that refuses to close its endless re-runs. Nothing will ever extinguish this nightmare.

Aghast, his unblinking eyes are consumed by what takes place in the brightness inside just beyond the naked glass‎. ‎ He feels today's onslaught as if to his own body.

But he performs his job.

He observes...

...and does nothing.

### THE WEDNESDAY BEFORE THE MLK WEEK-END

Maitresse Henriette's body shrivels. Hunched over, she feels powerless, angry that she can't change her status. She needs to relieve her pressure cooker situation. If not--she'll explode.

"Tomorrow we'll dip our toes in the warm Mediterranean. No more snow to shovel, poop to scoop, floors to mop, no more horrid, thankless, students, and no rotten administration. They'll be sorry we're not here to suffer their abuse. Mom can watch the house, and while we're gone, she won't be able to pull our strings to manipulate us-- her two marionettes. How selfish she is. It's her house, but that doesn't give her the right to discipline us. We're adults, after all."

"Right Sis? Answer me!...... I'm waiting!"

"Do this. Do that."

"Mom says, 'Now! No, not after you grade the exams. Now!' Maybe she'll die while we're away. How delicious that would be. Merveilleuse n'es pas? What do you think, Sis? Sis!"

"Sis, you never answer when I talk to you. Answer me!"

"\----------------------."

"Oh, you 'don't want to hear what' I 'have to say?' Okay. Be that way! I don't care what you think either."

"\---."

"That's right, Sis, I just have to drop out for awhile. I'm sure Administration isn't happy that we'll be gone for such a long time, but I gave them more than sufficient notice. We're to take off Thursday, right after our language classes, the day before the Martin Luther King holiday week-end begins."

"\-------------------------------------."

"What do you mean, you 'don't remember why'? Sister, you're the one who said, 'The children don't accomplish anything the day before holidays, so let's leave early and have the extra time to enjoy ourselves. And anyway, there are no classes Thursday afternoon or Friday. All they do is show movies about Martin Luther King and have assemblies so the boys and girls can listen to his speeches about the plight of his people."'

"\----------------------!"

"Yes, you did say that. Then you said, 'What a loss when productive time is squandered. Shameful! The board has a duty-- every school minute should be worthwhile. Teachers should teach, and students should learn. They won't do that, so we won't bother to stay.' Then you said, 'Let's skedaddle like everyone else! Let's vamoose!"'

"\-------------!"

"No. I didn't say it! You did!"

"\----------------!"

"Yes you did!"

"Don't misquote me. What I said was, 'Philadelphians make a big deal about the MLK week-end and it's not even historical. On top of that, King was a philanderer. I said there are better role models than a man who couldn't even keep his pants zipped. Sis, I know you hate when I talk like that but I have to tell it like I see it. Can't help myself. You say, 'Henriette, learn to hold your tongue; it's going to fetch you big trouble someday, and there are already plenty of people who whisper that we're crazy.' We're not crazy. But anyway, I don't care what people think. You shouldn't either!"

### THE TUESDAY AFTER MLK WEEK-END

School is back in session at the Benjamin. Students chatter, pack the hallways, anxious for class to begin. The din clangs against the walls. Rebounds from the ceilings. Drums the ears.

The school secretary, Jane Simmons, sits at her desk filing her nails. She doesn't believe she is in control of much of ‎anything, but it is Jane who must engage the school's gears. She's in charge but views her job as ancillary, dismisses her duties as unimportant and ignores her obligations like the one today.

She disregarded the note delivered in June, the end of the last school year, the one from Maitresse, the French teacher; that her sabbatical would begin in January, just before in the Martin Luther King holiday. No one read the note because at the exact time it was delivered, Jane was distracted by a call from her friend. She failed to open the envelope before filing it in the folder labeled, "Future Reference." The contents were not examined until long after the murders. Because she ignored it, some considered Jane accountable for the horrors that transpired.

Today, the day after MLK week-end, the blonde secretary observes the empty line on the Sign-In Sheet. Maitresse Henriette has not arrived. She wonders. Who's to teach the language classes?

It's Jane's job to do something. What is she supposed to do? She struggles to decide but can't come up with anything easy.

Her mind drifts. Elizabeth Judd would solve this crisis but the young girl disappeared last Thursday. Friday the police came to investigate, but hardly anyone was here. Most had left for the MLK holiday.

Jane is sure Elizabeth would be in school if she were all right.

Where could she be?

Gone forever she fears and wonders whether she will see her sweet clever helper again?

The secretary had dialed Maitresse Henriette's phone over and over ever since Jane arrived this morning.

No answer.

The language teacher is always the first in. Not today--an ominous sign.

Jane must decide what to do about the absence, but decisions are difficult so she postpones them into the future with the expectation that time will solve every dilemma.

Perched on her high task chair, legs crossed. The short skirt exposes grey stockinged thighs and the fastenings that attach the garter belt. She is clothed today as usual in sparkling sequined cocktail attire and shiny black high-heeled patent pumps. Teachers at the Benjamin Academy gossip that her manner of dress is inappropriate for daytime wear.

Jane often clck clacks back and forth in the business area to check for the arrival of anyone of interest. She likes the exercise. Never complains because the ballroom dance three times a week is not enough to keep her in shape.

She doesn't call to obtain a substitute for Maitresse' language classes until nine-thirty.

First try. No answer. Second, "I'm sorry I got sick just this very morning. Call some other time when you need someone but please give me some notice."

Jane bristles. "I would if I'd had any. What do you think? Do you think I'm stupid or something? What's the matter with you? Do you maybe want me to take you off the sub list? That what you want? Ya don't have to be rude!"

Jane bangs down the phone.

The third is home. She'll come even with this short notice.

"Be there toute de suite. I live right around the corner."

Jane sighs with relief. To land a substitute in advance is an achievement; to scare one up on the same day rates a gold star.

The secretary has learned from experience that subs are lazy, independent, and unavailable when you need them most. She'll reap brownie points because the staff is unwilling to take on extra classes, besides, none of the teachers speak French or Latin.

Done. Arranged the most important job of the day. What else? Jane sighs and settles into her chair to weigh what actions or inactions she might have to take.

She wishes Elizabeth were here. Tears well in her eyes and she falls into a funk.

Her mind focuses on Maitresse whose attention to punctuality never wavers unlike the others whose absences attack like computer viruses. We expect Maitresse Henriette to be in school--on time. She's trusted. Today her presence is missed.

But Jane has her priorities and decisions are not high on that list. She does nothing to check on Maitresse' well-being.

### BEFORE MLK MAITRESSE MUSES

"I did so agree with you, Sis. You said one note was not enough. The first gave the school sufficient time to obtain substitute French and Latin teachers to cover our classes during our sabbatical. I even included the names and addresses of several with excellent references who live nearby. Remember?"

"\--------------------."

"Yes. I did, too! I handed the first one to the secretary in June, the end of the last school year. It had the dates and times of our planned ‎ absence. ‎I thought that was all we needed to do. Not you. You said I better send a reminder--'just in case.' You said, 'Administration, including the secretary, is very incompetent. They likely forgot.'"

"\-------------------------."

"Sis, you know I always do whatever you say, so today I gave another note to little Susie Purdy to take to the office. It says we leave tomorrow, right after our morning language classes. Says we'll be out from Thursday, January 16, return by April 15. My memorandum was as clear as crystal. As you know, I am very exact."

"\----."

"Listen Sis, Je suis très heureuse, happy about our decision to take time off in the dead of winter. You suffer from the cold more than I do, and Philadelphia is very cold of late. Horrid! We used to have mild winters until 'global warming."'

"\------------------!"

"Sis, I know you know. What can the scientists be thinking? It's upside down reasoning and this is a prime example. They announce that it will cause steamy weather. Instead it's cold."

"\--------."

"'All political?' Sometimes we bicker but on this we agree.

"\--."

"You know, Sis, I'm not sure we should ever come back. I hate this place. I despise Philadelphia, the school, the children, the teachers, the administration, and the parents. But most of all, I detest Mother and her awful house. Sis, you and I see eye-to-eye on that too."

"\--------------."

### AFTER MLK--THE SCHOOL SECRETARY

Jane opens her compact, inspects her reflection in the tiny mirror, observes that her platinum hair and make-up are perfect. She smiles, likes her reflection, the blue eyes, the full lips, the unblemished white skin. Jane knows she is pretty. Everybody says so. She's also aware that staff whispers that she wears too much make-up and over-dresses. Jane doesn't care what they think so long as she keeps her job.

She swivels around, plants her heels on the wooden floor and straightens her body to the full extension that her five foot five will allow and boogies off.

Jane is a dancer. She doesn't walk. Her knees flex and her buttocks roll with each step‎. Today she shimmies a bolero ‎accompanied by Besa Me Mucho via her omni-present I-pod headset.

She undulates into the teachers' lounge, a dusty space somewhat brightened by the floor-to-ceiling windows that face east. The morning sun lights up the motes suspended in the air enlivened by an invisible ghost. Tan rings mark yesterday's coffee cups. This room is never cleaned.

She drips a pot of coffee, pours herself a cup, adds cream and Splenda, and takes a sip. She crunches into a crisp juicy apple which sprays ‎onto her blouse.

Jane takes a long restroom break to scrub off the stains, returns to her desk and shuffles papers in case someone's watching.

Sandy the sub arrives at ten‎. Jane greets her with joy, not sure until this minute whether the woman would show. Subs are notoriously unreliable.

Jane had eyed the woman's application but only to check her age. Sandy has filled in the number "35" but the secretary decides Sandy must be older by far. Dark curls circle her face. Deep dimples, bow shaped mouth, and a pixie round face all combine to give her an impish look when she smiles. She bestows a broad one on Jane.

Sandy exudes a positive attitude which seems ‎strange for a teacher about to be confronted by twenty-two ‎boisterous out-of-control kids. What's wrong with this picture? Jane thinks there must be something up with this woman. Is she a brainless dolt to be so carefree? Has she no idea what she's up against?

That's when Jane begins to wonder how ‎many times, if any, this sub has taught. The secretary had neglected to read ‎the Experience Section of the application or maybe that part wasn't filled in. ‎Truth is--Jane had read none of it.‎

The secretary discards her concern. Sandy is a body and that's all the school needs today.

The sub beams a happy "Hi!" at Jane who returns the same.

"Hello I'm Jane, the secretary. I'm the one who called you this morning. Thanks for coming on such short notice."

"I'm Sandy Rosner. You're very welcome. Glad to help."

Jane wonders how this woman can afford the Hermes Birkin Chocolate Brown purse she carries. They go for fifteen thou new! Curiosity piqued, she makes an effort to find out.

"Married?" Jane asks innocently.

"Was...Divorced now. My husband's an accountant...well...he was...I mean my ex--a total bore, but his clients are sooo rich. Sometimes I keep him company, you know, tag along when he goes to their houses to do their books but I only...you know... when no one's home. He likes my company. It works for me. I love to snoop in their closets, you know...at the clients' clothes, their jewelry, shoes and such...Blows my mind the quantity of designer stuff in there, things they forget they have. I've seen shoes and bags, still in boxes, tags attached. Unopened. You can tell it's been years since they were purchased. I'm interested in that kind of thing...you know, designer stuff."

Jane murmurs, "Oh? Really?"

"Oh yes absolutely! One of his richest clients is Edith Schmidt the billionaire banker's wife. Wow! What an enormous condo they have...and her clothes\--to die for! But is her husband a doozy. Fatter than a pig and a dick as tiny as a chicken's. I saw him naked as a baby once. The Schmidts weren't supposed to be home. I'm still not sure if he was expecting me to go into that room, the one where he was. I think...I'm not sure but I think he wanted me in there so I would look at him, at his...you know. What I, ah...I believe is...he's a... an exhibitionist. It was weird! He just stood there in the doorway waving his tiny thing at me. Needless to say, I was out of there in a flash. I told my ex to make sure Mr. Schmidt is out of the apartment when I visit."

‎Jane surmises that's where Sandy picked up the Birkin. Sticky fingers. Better watch my stuff.

"Did you bring lunch?" She smiles at Sandy.

"No, I'll stop by home during my break... Remember? I told you I live nearby."

"Sure, that's how come you got here so fast."

"Yeah. I do get a lunch break...Don't I?"

"Sure, sure, you just have to be quick about it."

"At least an hour...I mean...I should. After all, subbing is hard work-- common knowledge. Right?Right?"

"I wouldn't know about that. I'm not a teacher. Take the hour when you're hungry, between classes, that way no one will figure you're away." She hands Sandy her class schedule, helps her fill in the required forms, then escorts her through the hallway to Maitresse' classroom where Sandy will teach for the day.

Jane hopes it's only for the day.

The room is chaos. Rowdy students circle the desks, send a cacophony of voices out into the hall; not unexpected when there's no authority figure. Kids perch on their desks, laugh and point at the chalkboard where student "artists" stand, concentrated on the caricatures they've drawn of Maitresse. Each depiction includes a beret, high heels, and a walking stick. None display her as the attractive woman she is. Other than that, the renditions do have a semblance of talent.

Jane claps her hands twice and raises her voice a notch to attract their attention. She's too ‎genteel to shout. The students look up and quiet down, curious about this smiling brunette who accompanies the sexy secretary.

Jane introduces Sandy. "Boys and girls... this is your substitute teacher, Mrs. Rosner. She will teach French and Latin today because Maitresse Henriette is not here. Now children--I insist that you return to your seats." She can be strong-willed when the situation warrants.

The students smile and whoop unable to contain their joy. A substitute in place of Maitresse spells happiness. They follow directions and head to their ‎assigned seats, all except one.

"‎Natalie! Natalie! Please take your seat."

She lowers her voice. "Listen up Sandy, that ‎red-head is out to Mars. Look at her, just stands there and stares out the window. What can she be thinking? Try to keep an eye on her ‎so she doesn't wonder off. I should tell you, if you haven't heard, kids have disappeared from here, from the Benjamin."‎

"‎Sure, I know. I'll watch out for her." ‎

### BEFORE MLK -- MAITRESSE

"I still say people should celebrate all the brave French soldiers who helped this fledgling country break free of England. The U.S. would still be a colony if not for France and their brave men who fought and died for us. A French sculptor made the Statue of Liberty the U.S., but nobody talks about that. I'll bet if I ask my students, not one would know it was from France. Well, maybe Natalie Krill would; that's if we could break into her reveries long enough to get her attention. She's smart, but the pretty fifth grader is lost in her own private world."

"\----------------."

"C'mon Sis, she's in your Latin class. You do so know her!"

"\----------------------!"

"Sorry. You're right; I am too serious. Of course you know Natalie. It was a silly question. But maybe you can't figure how smart she is because all you teach is Latin."

"\---------------!"

"Sis, it's true. Latin is worthless. Stop fuming. I just want to tell you what I know about her; that she's well-read, and remembers everything she hears, but sadly, she lives in her own private dream world. We have talked about this. I remember now. We try to draw her out, but nothing seems to work. Au contraire, whatever we do, makes it worse. She continues to gaze out of the window or down at her desk or anywhere else, never at me or up at the blackboard, a perpetual dreamer. You think so too?"

"\---------------."

"Thought so. She's detached, focuses off into... I don't know where. When I call on her, she responds with exaggerated resentment and fear-- yes fear. I feel provoked? You too?

"\---."

"We have to correct her, not to punish, but to encourage the child to assume responsibility for her education. What else can we do? We have to try. Why is she afraid? Is it school? Authority? Of her mother when Natalie receives less than perfect grades? Maybe she thinks she'll be kidnapped. As you know, it happens even at this school. And her parents are not together."

"\------------!"

"Of course you knew that. I'm just thinking out loud. You're so short-tempered, Sis. Anyway, as I was saying, that's the norm these days. People no longer view divorce as the ultimate disgrace. Couples used to have self-respect. How one lived one's life was important and children could count on their parents."

"\----------------."

"Remember at the parent-teacher conference, when I suggested to her mother that she obtain counseling for Natalie. The woman became furious, her face mottled with red splotches I was sure she'd have a seizure. Said not to meddle where we don't belong. Then she turned and stepped right in front of me--really close--not more than an inch away. I could feel puffs of air when she said, 'Pay attention to your own problems.' Wonder what she meant by that. There was no pleasant, 'How do you do,' smile. And that was even before we made our observation that Natalie see a psychologist."

"\--------------."

"Yes, I remember. I gave up on the mother. You did too. So we work with Natalie ourselves. We have not been successful so far, but we will make the effort. We have to. It is our job."

### AFTER MLK -- SCHOOL SECRETARY

Her work accomplished, Jane returns to her office, makes some calls then uses the microphone in the main office to read the announcements for the day.

Good morning boys and girls. We hope you had a very nice Martin Luther King, Jr. week-end and you are ready to settle down to work.

Fun Day is Saturday. Mark your calendars.Tickets may be purchased from your teachers. Make sure to tell your parents about it. There will be amusement rides, even a roller coaster, hot dogs and hamburgers, fries, cotton candy, and ice cream. You'll be allowed to make your own sundaes with chocolate sauce, sprinkles, and Smoores. We'll have target shooting and all kinds of other activities including the parade and band playing. Members, remember to practice and bring your instruments. Don't miss the fun.

Oh, and don't forget, along with Fun Day is the bake sale. Please tell the pastry chef in your family to prepare something special, a fudge cake or brownies or even store-bought will help our school.

Have a wonderful productive day.

Jane heads to her desk, sets her beauty parlor appointment for Saturday, polishes her nails and calls her lunch date to make sure the time has not changed.

Her lunch date is George, the supply salesman, one of her regular benefactors. Jane makes sure he gets to see the Headmaster, that it is his company chosen to fill the ‎school's ‎paper needs. In exchange, the secretary receives a generous commission under the table.

It will be lunch at The Palm. A fillet mignon, medium-well, Caesar salad, no croutons (Jane watches her weight), fresh strawberries with cream and a very fine Chardonnay, all on her admirer's dime.

Later, back in her office, she yawns, wishes she could nap but there is no place for that. Instead she picks up the phone to chat up her gal pals and detail her latest male conquest and newest handbag purchase, a blue leather Fendi half-price at Macy's.

"How do you find those bargains and how can you afford them on your salary?" Her friends ask, jealous of her good luck. They ask, but they already know. She proudly admits to using her feminine wiles to elicit expensive dates from her admirers. In addition she is compensated by the vendors she aids.

‎The other plus is that she works downtown proximate to the shops. She can leave school whenever she likes, ‎free to make a bee-line for bargains at first sniff. Her ‎cushy job is no secret to anyone.

Jane remembers to up-date her face-book, twitter, and email accounts.

Young Elizabeth would have handled the office drudgery which has become a mountain atop her desk.

Where has that sweet young girl gone? Jane sobs. She knows the truth. It can't be good. Doldrums set in.

She calls one of her friends, tells her that Maitresse Henriette has not shown up.

"You need to call the police! Now! Unless you can find someone else to go over to Maitresse' house."

There's no one to send and she won't go herself.

Despite her friend's advice, it's not until mid-afternoon that she makes the call.

### PHILADELPHIA -- MAIN POLICE STATION

The pulse of the city radiates out from this place. Any crime worthy of newspaper notice is investigated in this antiquated building that houses the ancient unworkable useless system of justice, an anachronism, same as the city.

The new Police Commander took the helm a year ago. Chief Elijah White is an ebony black man sandbagged to relocate to Philly. The bait-- the down-payment on a house large enough for his seven minor children, the wife, and her parents.

Not until the moving van was parked out front, did he become aware that the house was as old as the city and in dire need of major repairs from years of neglect. The restoration would be his financial responsibility and more complicated than any run-of-the-mill house because of its location in the historic district. All repairs must meet the design and special building code set by the Philadelphia Historical Commission.

Poor Elijah is saddled with mortgage payments, high city taxes, and ‎humongous repair costs. ‎ No one informed Chief White about any of that before he'd pulled stakes and resigned from his ‎former job as Chief of Police in Jefferson.

White is ‎stuck.‎

Philadelphia's city fathers insist on diversity, and the list of candidates had been bereft of competent local African-Americans. Truth is--no one wanted the thankless stressful job.

The Commission had put out a search for anyone with a clean record of professional service. Chief White was happy to come to Philadelphia to be near his mother and sister who had moved to Philly from Jefferson ten years earlier after a schism between some relatives. Elijah isn't sure what caused the break but he'll try to renew his family's ties.

Chief White had no idea what was in store for him-- no inkling that his new city would be nothing like the small town tranquil atmosphere where he'd presided as chief for the last fifteen years. Jefferson is close to the Panhandle in Georgia, pop. 7,120 where there'd been no murders since the Civil War.

The new head took his required first steps. He reduced the number of cops and sacked some non-union ancillary staff. He put limits on overtime and vacation accumulation. It was all to ingratiate himself with the City Commission but specifically at the behest of the Mayor who demanded that Chief White make those cuts to save money for the city. At their initial meeting, the Mayor used the term, "request." White realized it was an order.

Later, some would say that the Mayor and the Commission are at fault for the murders because of those policies, that there was insufficient man-power available to follow up on the disappearances. Others protest that the guilt rests squarely on the new Chief.

Commissioner White instituted procedures to handle crime, same as the ones used by the Police Department in Jefferson. That's what he knew. That's what he did. White was not prepared for Philadelphia--not its crime--not its politics.

In many ways Philadelphia functions the same as it did when the city was built hundreds of years ago.

Except for some clamoring by the Union; that the cutbacks were an affront to the syndicate's hierarchy; White's measures did not cause much of an outcry. Everyone just went along.

That's what people do.They just go along.

### AFTER MLK WEEK-END

In due course the school secretary does call the police but not the emergency number, not the one the dispatcher would recognize as a 911 Emergency.

"‎Hello? Hello? Please go see if something's wrong."‎ Jane utters ‎in her quiet voice.‎" ‎

It falls to Maria Rodriguez, the pleasant when not harassed fat dispatcher, who works the 7 to 3PM shift. She hovers behind big brown-framed glasses under a helmet of mousy brown hair.

The intense cold inside the building has given her face a shriveled look, drained of color. Her girth overflows the chair in her little station behind the shatterproof glass, just off the main access to Police Headquarters. That location places her in the coldest part of the building, the unprotected NW corner where the unrelenting north winds of winter blow in between the cracks in the bricks.‎

An historic building, ‎ the Police Station comprises a half block directly across from a delightful green park and the Rodin. Not one of the staff ever partakes of the elegant grounds nor the Museum.

In an effort to stay warm, the police dispatcher wears several layers of sweaters underneath her blue uniform. Doesn't help. After work she returns to her small apartment, sets the thermostat to 85, and eats a hot dinner, but remains chilled for much of the evening. Nonetheless she loves her job and tells her friends she wouldn't change it for any other.

Maria waits on the line, sick of people who expect the police to be mind-‎readers. She decides she'll bother the bitch; wait for the ‎woman to explain; waits and doesn't say a word.‎

The caller says nothing either.

Annoyed, Maria gives up the game-- asks, "Huh? Go where? Why? Who are you?"

"I'm Jane Simmons. You know...the secretary at the Benjamin School."

"No. I don't know! Why are you calling? Is this an emergency?"

"No...I don't think so...not an emergency...I'm not sure, but ...a...a... ‎teacher didn't show up for work today. We're all so worried about her."‎

The dispatcher has handled more such calls than she can count. Every one of them turned out to be nothing. She decides to ask Jane leading questions to give Maria a reason‎ to disregard the call, and avoid the abuse from whichever cop to whom she'd have to assign it.

"Teacher call in sick and you forgot?" Maria suggests.

"No... I would have remembered that--"

"People forget. Maybe she just over-slept."

"Maitresse never over-sleeps!" asserts Jane.

"Does she drink? Could that be why? Maybe she has a hangover."

"No."

"No? How can you be sure?"

"I AM SURE!" Jane's voice rises, reaches a shrieking crescendo. Fear and frustration replace her usual stoicism because she senses the dispatcher is about to table her petition.

"Maitresse Henriette is never absent! This is serious!" Jane shouts.

"Okay, okay settle down Missy. I'm with you. What's her full name and address?"

"Henriette Heugot 2204 Green Street. It's in the Museum--"

Maria cuts her off. "Don't have to tell me. I know where 2204 Green is. What's she like? I mean... what's she look like?"

"Forty-five-ish, five foot four, nice features, blonde, hair slicked into place, neat, no strays, that look. Wears a beret. Always. Never saw her without it. Teaches languages at the Benjamin School. Very diligent person.

"Yes, yes, okay. Got it!"

By now Jane is in a panic. She could be in real trouble with Administration. Why? Because she didn't call the police earlier. The worst would be to lose her plum job with all its perks.

The secretary never underestimates the connections her job affords; gourmet lunches at Morton's and Bris, vacations at the seashore gifted by lustful administrators and the salesmen whose products the school buys thanks to Jane. And when their wives go off to visit children or sick mothers, their men need to be consoled. Jane steps right up and in return they indulge her in luxury at an ocean resort, Caesars, even Borgata when she's lucky. Jane tells her friends there is no other sensation like the high she feels when she gambles with other people's money. She would be shattered to lose all that.

The secretary's not about to gossip to this lazy bitch on the other end of the line but reflects about Maitresse. Everyone mocks the teacher behind her back, what she wears, how she acts, what she says. They label her hat an "appendage."

Maitresse Henriette wears Couture or at least, what looks like expensive one-of-a-kind tailored dresses and suits. Cerise red lipstick and heels complete the uniform.

The staff treats Maitresse as a joke, not only because of her looks, but because they dislike her. She's arrogant and ‎haughty. Never smiles, never chats up the other teachers.

Nor is she a favorite of the students. She's like an SS guard who barks commands and brandishes her stick like a weapon.

Jane becomes aware of the silence on the other end of the line.

"Do you need anything else?" Jane asks.

"No, that's enough for now...I'll call if we do. We can find you Miss Jane. Thanks. A patrolman will be right out to check on Ms. Henriette."

"Please hurry! Everyone's worried about her." The fib was to get the dispatcher to act. Jane has just begun to worry about her own job security. Truth is, no one cares at all about Maitresse but the language sections must be staffed. The Headmaster wants his teachers in school, in their classes. He wants order and discipline. Jane's friend has, only just today, clued Jane that it is Jane's obligation, and that if she fails, she might be laid off. Jane will do anything to keep her cushy job.

### LATER TUESDAY AFTER MLK WEEK-END

At the Police Station, Maria's quills rose during her conversation with Jane, the school secretary. The dispatcher hates pushy people. Nevertheless she grasps the message; she'll have to expedite this one.

She'll bequeath it to Murph, Murph the smurf. She cackles, then shudders and blanches, fears the confrontation ahead. She'll have to tell him to go to the teacher's house. Maria abhors that cop and likes to bother him but he scares her too. He'll be in the cafe. He's always in there. Thinks maybe they should rename it, "Murphy's Place."

I'll get him! Hah!

"Hateful bastard!" hisses Maria.

But she has higher priorities and today there's no boss in town to watch her. Chief White is off to see his wife's brother in Atlanta. The Chief tells everyone in the Precinct that that city celebrates Martin Luther King Day like people should. Everyone performs in parades that honor the great man.

Nobody does much around the Station when the head honcho is away, so Maria will postpone what she should do. What she should have done right away; that she should have told a cop to go to the house. That's what she should have done.

But today, Maria has no idea that the missing language teacher is dependable; that something must be wrong for her not to show up for work.

The Dispatcher sets down the phone, and texts her kids' baby sitter to make sure Damaris arrived. What with all the snow, the sitter might have a problem. Maria might have to leave work and go home.

She met the young Cuban when the girl tapped at Maria's apartment door, the 'help wanted' notice clutched in her hand, the ad Maria had pinned to the cork board at the Acme Food Store near her house.

Unlike most teens from the impoverished island nation who dress to allure, Damaris' clothes are nondescript. She wears no make-up except for a touch of blush and the lipstick that reminds Maria of what she used as a teenager, Tangee that turned lips pale pink or orange. Whenever she recalls that brand, nostalgia for the good times kicks in, the era before she had children, when she was slender and nick-named, "flakita" because she was so thin.

Damaris answered Maria's questions then looked her straight in the eye, said "Missee Rodriguez: I want very much to work for you. I take care for your children. I always do for my little brothers. I live here in your wonderful country only few years, but I learn much. Please Missee."

"References. Do you have any references?"

"I work full time for Mrs. Schmidt. I clean the house but I no like Mr. Schmidt and I tol Mrs. Schmidt. She say I work when Mr. Schmidt not at home. I go in the morning after he leave for work and I clean few hours every day."

"Can you get a letter from Mrs. Schmidt?"

"She know I need other work so she give me a paper, say I good worker and honest. Here." She handed over the document.

Maria read it and breathed a sigh of relief. In order for the dispatcher to be able to work, she would need a reliable sitter.

She knew of the millionaire Schmidts and meant to question Damaris some more but somehow never got around to it.

That was six months ago and Maria never regretted the hire even though she's sure Damaris is in the country illegally. The girl learned English ‎but retains a heavy accent.

The sitter is soft but firm with the children. They love her but more important was their behavior, grades, and Spanish have improved under her tutelage.

Her cell chimes. It's Damaris.

All is well, she's arrived.

"De ninos have come safe from school." I give them pastillitos de guava and some leche. I help dem with their lessons and also español. Iss okay, Missee?"

"That's very good. I'm glad you got there. Can you stay until after dinner?"

"Cierto, I be happy to stay."

Because of the worry for her children, Maria forgets about the call from the school secretary until after her dinner break when she looks over her call log and sees the one from the secretary at the Benjamin Academy. Not until then will she go get Murphy. Several cops are on duty but Maria is on to Murphy, knows he's in the cafeteria stuffing his face.

She swivels her chair around, stands up and smooths down her blue uniform slacks which have crept up into the crack of her wide ass. She barks at herself, "Stop wolfing down fried foods. Start 'Weight Watchers'! Yes. Again! Maria Rodriguez, just do it!"

She weaves her way across the large imposing expanse quicker than you'd expect from a woman almost as wide as she is tall.

The government facility was built long ago, never remodeled since, except to divide the upstairs and the offices off this main reception area. Safety features such as bullet-proof glass and explosive detectors were added as well as security checkpoints, given the dangers of today.

She waves to the tall black man in charge of the detectors. As she approaches him, Maria isn't sure whether he's sleeping. His upper body lies sprawled out over the counter. The arms form a large V stretched out before him. Luther sleeps when it's quiet. Maria suspects anybody could bypass Security just by going around behind him. Luther wouldn't notice but no one has so far as anyone can tell.

She wants to stop and exchange recipes, something they do on a regular basis but that will have to wait until later after she's finished the unpleasant task at hand.

As she passes, Luther raises his head from the counter, rubs his eyes and looks around.

Maria calls over to him.

"Hey Luther, "I need the ingredients for that 'too rich for humans' corn cheese bread that your Mom bakes for Martin Luther King Day. Okay if I stop by later for it? All right?"

"Sure, ah be here 'till seben. I'm gone call to my Mama, make sure I don forget anything. But didn't you promise yo self you was gonna start wit you program to lose weight?"

"The cornbread? Nah. It's not for me, I'm having company for dinner tomorrow. You going to the dance Saturday, Luther?"

"Sho nuf. You gon dance with me or just witcha boyfriend?"

"I love to dance with you, Luther, you're the best partner. It's just...you...I... He's jealous. You understand. Maybe when he goes to the bathroom or for a coffee-- That's when. See you on my way back from the grease joint. Have to tell Murphy to do something."

"Luck wi dat. See ya."

Peeking around the corner she spots Murphy in the Café. His feet to the side as he rocks his body forward and backward then forward again to achieve the momentum he needs to catapult himself to a standing position.

Murphy's table is empty except for the grease-stained white paper plates and cup. His cheeks are full; his jowls jiggle. He chews then swallows the last of his dessert, uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth then swipes it down across his trousers, leaving grease marks, white meringue, and yellow dye on his blue uniform.

When he spots Maria, he stretches his body up to its full six feet and leans forward to tower over her--a bear on its hind legs. He roars.

"Uh, oh. And what__do__ you__want? Sure an you're not here to eat. Sure an it's only to bother me. Ain't it! Ain't it!"

Maria cringes, retreats a few feet. She hates to be the butt of anyone's anger.

But she can't leave, not until she gives him his marching orders. She must stand her ground. She turns sideways, concentrates on the stained wall, so she won't have to look up at him. Expects to feel his ire less if she makes no eye contact.

In spurts she tells him he will have to go check out the house of the missing teacher to make sure she's okay.

"How do you know she's missing?" He barks.

"School secretary called."

"When?"

"Few hours ago."

"Few hours ago? Why didn't you send one of the other cops? Why did you wait for the rest of the dumb fucks to go off shift? Were you waiting so it would have to be me? Why me? Why is it always me?"

Maria presses her lips together. Best to stay quiet.

"It's colder than a polar bear's ass out there. What're ya crazy! Tell that god-damned bitch'in secretary to go fuck herself. This is not police work. Fuck em!"

She sets the slip with the address and the description of the missing teacher on the table, turns and waddles out the way she came in, hoping to avoid any more onslaught from Murphy.

Now that there's no one around to abuse, Murphy heads to his desk to plan his outing. He sits. He closes his eyes.

Why me? I'm not the only one in the Station today. Why am I always picked to do the scut work?

He mutters to himself. "Maybe it's because I'm Irish, not a Hispanic like her? That's what she has against me."

He mumbles, head down, and talks at his little metal desk as if to find some answer in its dull greyness. Walled into his tiny cube by semi-transparent Plexiglas, he's afforded little to no privacy-- not a hide-out for sure.

He thinks of Helen, his wife. Bless her. It was the end of his first year of law school when she got pregnant and miscarried. He couldn't field that sadness deep in her soul. Couldn't bear not to be with her, try to soothe her pain. He had to quit school.

He loves his wife even more than the day of their ‎wedding ‎when he couldn't wait to put his hands on her. He ‎would do anything Helen asked, anything that would ‎please her. ‎Murphy wakes in the middle of the night enthralled by her soft cheeks and lips bathed by the moon that shines into ‎their bedroom window. ‎

The recent snowfall means he'll have to drive over semi-cleared roads. Side streets are impenetrable. Murphy knows that from personal experience. Not easy, not safe. You can't see what's covered by the snow. Could be garbage cans or tree branches broken by the storm, flung to the ground, buried, lying in wait for him to come along and destroy the undercarriage of his car.

On the other hand, he contemplates the positives. Might be nice to spend the afternoon relaxing, almost like a day off. Murphy's sure all he'll have to do is go to the teacher's house, knock on the door and wake the sleeping or drunk woman--probably both, sleeping and drunk. He pictures himself in the teacher's house, Murphy and the teacher ensconced in a plush sofa, warm and cozy. They fill out the paperwork, Scotch in hand and shoot the breeze and maybe, if he's lucky...

The downside is later, at the office, when he'll have more reports, time-consuming drudgery. Not so bad though, his day would end soon and he could go home.

Murphy hikes up the collar of his uniform and draws the blue plaid scarf around his neck. The woolen wrap is the gift his wife gave him for his birthday last year. His arms tunnel into his policeman's heavy-duty overcoat. He dons his white cap with the blue visor trimmed in blue and white and places it jauntily upon his head.

He's sure the AWOL teacher is nothing more than a woman with a hangover. He knows because the cops in his precinct and the teachers from the Benjamin elbow in to share space at the local bar. Those cops and teachers seek solace at Joe's. Tonight Murphy would prefer to be enveloped in its warm smoky haze rather than outside in the cold. Maybe he can stop by later if he doesn't get it on with the teach. Wishes he were there now.‎

Enough! He can't delay any longer.

He curses loudly so people will hear him, "That cunt Maria, it's all her fault!"

He's sure it's going to be as easy as the pie he just ate.

Soon he'll find out ‎that the opposite is true.

### AFTER MLK

2204 Green Street. There it is. Murphy spots the address, stops his cruiser in the middle of the street, sets it in park, hoists his beefy body out of the police car, and plods to the gate.

As he pulls his hand from his pocket ‎to push at the metal portal, it swings open. Frightened-- he recoils. He can't catch his breath. Begins to sweat. Stands motionless. Paralyzed.

Aware that he can't stay there, so after a minute he steps around to the right of the supporting wall to see if someone's hiding there.

Nothing. No one.

Checks the left side.

Nothing.

Murphy is forced to enter. His mind conjures up a safe possibility; that the metal fence must be operated from inside the house and that the teacher opened it when she saw him arrive.

Somewhat reassured, he breathing settles down. He steps beyond, letting it fall shut with a metallic clang. The cop slugs through the courtyard on up the snow-laden walkway, chopping valleys into the high banks left by the storm. Poor Murphy is distressed that galoshes are not part of the official uniform. His shoes are ruined and his socks are soaking wet. He'll be damp, cold, and miserable for the rest of the day.

Murphy pats the door.

No answer.

He strikes gently at the wood of the frame so as not to break the red glass insets.

Nothing.

He bangs at the door.

No answer.

Calls out. "Anybody home?"

No answer.

Again louder. "Anybody here?"

Nothing.

Murphy tries to recall the official procedure. Asks himself why he hadn't thought of that before he arrived; hadn't considered the 'what ifs'.

Police policy states "...not to enter unless..." certain conditions were met.

What conditions? He tries to remember.

What would allow him to break in? If he hears cries from inside? Or sees from outside that someone's injured‎? Or hears shots? Or...?

He wishes he'd read up on the law or paid attention when that Continuing Ed. course was given.

He reaches out to touch the red doorknob, encloses it in his palm, rotates it a quarter turn to see whether it's unlocked. The handle moves easily, too easily. He spins it all the way round and pulls. The door opens out.

Club Music blares, the beats, incessant, driving minor chords out into the cold air. Sounds pound but don't resolve.

Murphy pushes the door closed. It blots out the noise.

He stands still.

He waits.

He hears no cries for help, no smoke, sees no flames. There are no explosions. No reason to go inside.

Murphy goes around to the side of the building, fractures canyons into the smooth fluffy surface. Shoes sink, compress the white stuff. His steps squeak in the snow-muted silence.

The cop glances in through the picture window. The drapes are open to display the horror inside. He lunges away from the window.

A joke?

Can't be real. A dream? A nightmare? Is it the scotch for emergencies he drank out of the flask on the way over?

If wishes were truth...

He steps forward again to look back in.

Nude corpses sprawl amid congealed red. Swirled strands of white, globs of browns and greens float in the ponds of red. Gaping wounds ooze.

The naked girls do not evoke sexual arousal (his usual response). Instead the horrific scene inspires shock, revulsion, and nausea. Murphy is scared stiff.

Is it real? Could it be real?

Has to be.

Murphy calls dispatch, requests back-up, struggles to lower his voice, keep it calm, doesn't want to sound like a hysterical woman who yowls when she calls 911. The idea is to maintain a monotone, a serious subdued policeman type delivery.

Doesn't work. His words stick in his throat then jumble out one on top of the other. Murphy is hysterical.

Maria in Dispatch has to pry out the essentials, that it is indeed the teacher's house.

"Say again. I didn't get it."

"They're dead. All of them."

"Murphy. Who's dead?"

"They're all dead."

"How many, Murphy?"

"Three. Yes, I think it's three."

"Three what?"

"Three bodies."

"Women? Men?"

"Women.....I guess."

"Murphy, are you sure they're dead and you don't even know what sex?"

"Pretty sure they're dead."

"Go see."

"No... can't.... Send back-up. Now!"

She promises, "Someone'll be out there in a jiffy."

Maria clicks off and sniggers, muttering to herself. What a joker, that Murphy. Thinks I'd fall for that old one and continues downloading music for her I-pod.

Not reassured and fearful that the murderer might still be in the house, Murphy lowers his body to the ground and crouches on all fours below the window.

Too faint-hearted to budge, Murphy stays still a very long while, cowering in the wet snow.

Silence.

He's miserable, wet, cold, and in pain. Thinks he can't stay here. Murphy squat-walks his way alongside and close to the outside of the house, staying low to avoid being seen by anyone who might be lurking inside. His thighs, knees, back, and buttocks all ache. He anticipates that tomorrow ‎he'll experience the torment of his pain-wracked muscles. Today the torture in his body is the fear that makes his heart flutter irregularly in his chest. He prays he will have a tomorrow.

Where are they? Where's his back-up?

He raises himself up onto his knees, leans his body against the house just at the lower corner of the window and peeks inside.

Must have happened a good while ago. He catches a whiff of the sickening almost sweet proof of human putrefaction, a unique one that always makes him gag.

Inside, the emanation must be so concentrated as to make the air unbreathable.

He looks in and sees nothing has changed since he'd arrived. The call from the school secretary had come mid-afternoon, so Murphy concludes the assassins must have made their get-away.

But then again, maybe they are still here, asleep or somewhere else in the house where he can't see them? Will they stay quiet only to pounce and dispose of him the same as they did the others?

Spooked, Murphy settles back down in the snow to contemplate the possibilities.

He likes the first one the best; that the scene is contrived, a "splatter film," a horror movie that incorporates special effects for shock value. The movie industry can disguise substances to give the appearance of blood and other body innards. The cop hopes that's what this is.

Worse. He might be a fall guy on Candid Camera or some other stupid show. People love to make fun of cops.

He'd be relieved if the blood and gore and death inside the house were not real but not sure he could tolerate the embarrassment if that were the case--if he were being had.

He pictures the cops run out of their police cars and on up to the house, guns drawn, they enter only to learn that the bodies, blood, and gore are all fake.

Could also be a joke by the cops. Wouldn't be the first time he'd be the victim of their jests at his expense, a distinct possibility since no back-up has arrived.

But the smell is real.

He stiffens from the cold that penetrates from his soaked shoes and socks to his feet. He is wet and terror stricken.

Where is everybody? He knows that today the Precinct has a skeleton crew, but ‎that's no excuse.‎

The Philadelphia Police Department is short-staffed due to a lack of funds, prompting the recent personnel cuts. Today it's also because there are so many cops out on vacation.

No one wants to work the MLK week-end. Young hoodlums go "wilding" after "whitey" because MLK, Jr. was black.

Murphy ruminates about his reality. You would think a black man in the White House would motivate black youth to be better citizens, commit fewer crimes.

People predicted Obama's example, his intact stable family, would increase marriages and lessen out-of-wedlock births. Didn't happen. It's worse now. Maybe that's because the President is not black, just half black. Murphy sighs in frustration.

Murphy stews. This holiday encourages the worst crimes. Once it's over, we spend years investigating those committed during the long Martin Luther King holiday. After all the time and effort, the elected officials and the media pressure us to let the juvies go unpunished.

But still. Three dead nude women murdered in a large estate. Shouldn't that draw the interest of the police?

How long could he stick around out here? What if someone were alive inside who needs saving?

Murphy tells himself to be brave, not to lie here. He tells himself to go in.

He unclamps his legs, straightens them and massages the stiffness from his ankles. He rolls onto his hands and ‎knees and uses his arms to climb his stiffened body up against the wall then leans against the rough red bricks and rights himself in the snow.

He stands once more. Slides. Slips down again. Stands up off-balance, jerking forward and backward like a passenger in a car, short-stopped by a light too quickly changed to red.

He draws his Glock and strides toward the front door. Frost plumes of his breath lead the way.

Too fast! He slips on the steps, slides down onto his side.

"Fuck snow!"

He might have broken his hip, positive his injury is serious.

Can't dwell on that now. Have to spur himself on.

He holds onto the stone facing alongside the steps, inches sideways against the brick wall, grasps and turns the knob, throws open the door.

Nothing.

Silence but for the driving music and the door that bounces back and bangs against the outside wall.

He enters, praying that his back-up will be along soon.

What happened to 'partners'? Cops used to make calls with sidekicks. Eliminated because of cut-backs, he muses. Partners-- that was a good thing. He notices that every great idea is discarded.

Murphy impresses himself with his own bravery or stupidity; can't decide which.

He flattens himself against the wall where he again smells that this is not a set-up. The combination of the stench of death and body excretions proves it's all real.

His stomach heaves from the onslaught to his senses, runs out the door and vomits over the side of the steps.

Outside, he leans against the wall next to the doorway and wipes his mouth with his hands then kneels to plunge them into the snow on the far side of the doorway. The wet stuff feels cold as he rubs his palms together to clear off the remnants of his disgorged meal, happy that the vision of his original lunch rather than the partially digested one, flits across his mind. The cheesesteak, fries, and lemon meringue pie tasted better going in than coming out.

Now that he feels better, he re-enters the house, but to be cautious, he presses himself against the vestibule wall.

Silence.

Now inside Murphy pastes his body against the paneling. He watches. He listens, dazed from cold and fear.

A sound?

Something move?

He tenses--rigid. Waits.

Minutes pass like hours.

He prays for himself.

Nothing.

Maybe the sound was his imagination.

Murphy inch-worms his way along the wall until he reaches the corner of the living room.

Turtle like, he juts his neck forward, his body safe in the alcove.

Safe?

So far.

He can see into the living room. The reality of the scene explodes his senses.

Blood, lakes of it from the bodies, puddles red on the floor, soaks into the rugs. The gore, the nudity, the youth of the victims is too much even for this jaded policeman.

They're all dead; no doubt about it. This is authentic.

Murphy calls the Station again. No answer this time. He lets the phone ring and ring.

How could that be? Where is everyone?

Last straw! He'll request a desk job tomorrow if he lives 'til then.

Afraid he might throw up a second time and fearful that he might happen upon the murderers, he goes back outside and calls the Station again.

No answer.

He should stay and wait for back-up, but he should go in to protect the innocent. Other victims might be alive, not likely but...

A vision of Helen crosses before his eyes. Oh God! How he wants to be home with her.

It could be a hostage situation, people in danger.

No search warrant necessary; that's a given now.

But his death is a distinct possibility should he re-enter. The sound when the front door slammed against the wall alerted the perps of his presence.

Tough decision. What to do?

At last he decides. He'll throw caution aside and go back in.

Has to.

To prevent another upchuck he pulls his scarf from his neck, wraps it around his face, ties it loosely behind his head.

His Glock in his right hand, finger on the trigger, "high-ready" position tight against his body to prevent someone who might try to pull it out of his hands.

It's cocked.

He's set.

He slides against the wall, a shadow, then moves into the living room. His eyes dart ahead, to each side, to the back, now to the front.

Anyone in the shadows? Some crazy person who waits do him in?

The women still alive? Are they? He needs to find out. Either way it would give him an excuse to call again.

Murphy peeks down at the bodies, a glance, just enough to ascertain that no one could be alive. He can't move any closer. More than that and he'd be out the door to retch again.

He draws in a lungful of air then unwraps the scarf to call again.

Crshhh.

Something fall? A metal tray or some other heavy object? At the same time a sound springs from the floor in front of him, from the bodies.

...A sigh? ‎

Murphy cringes; steps away, backs into the wall.

Should he look closer to make sure there's no one alive?

Can't bring himself to do that.

They're dead. But...

Murphy can't stay. Fear is paramount. He flies to the front door then strains to listen for any more noises from inside the house. His legs give way, can't hold up his weight. He pees himself.

"Out of here!" he orders himself. The door rebounds, slams all the way open behind him.

Outside in the cold evening air, he calls, leaves a voicemail, advises dispatch that he needs back-up.

"NOW! Hurry. There are dead people here!" He barks.

Outside is not so sickening. Though he quakes from cold and fear, he will stay to wait for the other cops. No way will he re-enter that house. He assures himself there's nothing he can do for the victims.

Maria in dispatch calls, "A squad car is on the way."

At that moment one arrives, and four burly cops pile out of the cruiser. They roar loud enough to paralyze any murderers who might be here. Glocks at the ready, they storm the house.

Four big tough cops charge inside. Couple of heartbeats later, all four tumble back out, stumbling over each other to reach the front steps where they all throw up.

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

I'm going to bare my soul. I'll tell you everything. You'll just die‎! ‎

I live in Philadelphia and I attend the Benjamin Academy ‎ I'm tall for my age. Everyone tells me I'm too thin. I have long red hair so the kids make fun of me. They call me "red" or worse. I hate that!

My brother and I live with Mom in a box-shaped house. Mom painted each room ‎a different color. Mine is purple even though I wanted ‎blue. Mom likes purple for a girl's room. The ‎spread is violet with silver stripes; the sheets and pillow cases ‎are magenta with tiny purple flowers. Mom thinks she's an artist. She oiled a mural on the wall of big white flowers with ‎purple centers and enameled a hummingbird near my bed with its ‎proboscis stuck into a white honeysuckle blossom.

Mom let me ‎paint a tiny ant just above the baseboard near the floor and said I could write my name next to it. See. I ‎drew it on the next page. It does look like an ant I think. Don't you?

Mom's room is black, all black, even the linens, walls, curtains, ‎and the rug on the floor. Her bath has black ‎tiles, black walls, black back-splash, black toilet, black sink, and black tub. Sometimes I wonder how she can find herself in there.‎ The ceiling is white, thank god.

My brother, Steven's room is yellow, all yellow, same as Mom's is black.‎‎

We live with her and spend lots of time with Dad, some with Aunt Penny, and not much with Grandmom.‎

Daddy's sister, Aunt Penny, lives in Florida. I love it there, the best. She tries to help me with my fears, suggests ‎that I pretend I'm in Florida when things turn bad here. They are ‎awful in Philadelphia. When it works, I can feel the ocean ‎breeze and smell the salt air and hear the waves hiss; ‎then ‎I'm not afraid.‎

The very worst most horrible terrible things ‎in my life are the language teachers, Maitresse Henriette and her sister Magistra.‎

The kids at school are confused and scared by those two.‎ They swear they're sisters. I'm not so sure. They don't even look alike, and they ‎don't act the same either.‎ Maitresse tells us they're inseparable but I've never even seen ‎them together.‎

Maitresse teaches French and Magistra teaches Latin. They tell ‎us they're the same age. How could that be? ‎

I study French and Latin. I had no choice. My school requires all students in the 5th grade to study both languages at once.‎

How dumb, you declare. I agree.‎

Maitresse and Magistra share a classroom. The front is a big chalkboard surrounded by a thick dark wood frame hammered ‎into the wall by six-inch long gold nails that stick out.

Those two are crazy. I'm sure of it. Did you know there are ‎more insane people in Philadelphia than any other city? It's a fact. ‎I swear. Aunt Penny told me so.‎

On the side wall is a huge poster of ‎the Eiffel Tower. Next to it, on a bench, are three ancient wind-‎up ‎clocks. One was made in Paris in 1787, another came from Rome, and the third was manufactured in Philadelphia.

Did I already tell you that I live ‎in ‎Philadelphia? Yes, of course I did. Sorry. Mom says I'm ‎repetitive. Guess she's right.

In the ‎most prominent place, in the center of ‎the chalkboard, suspended from two gold ‎nails is...well...What do you think? I'll let you guess.

Guess!

Nevermind, you couldn't possibly know so I'll tell you. It's a flag with red white and blue bands.

Guess ‎what country.

Guess! Go ahead!‎

If you answered, "the United States," you'd be wrong.

It's not.‎

It's the flag of France.‎

You might ask and the answer is, "No"; there is no flag of the United States here. Not one.‎

Every single morning, first thing, Maitresse winds two of the ‎clocks--the French one and the one with the time in Philadelphia. ‎It takes ‎three long minutes to twist tight the stems. Can you ‎imagine? ‎We have to wait in silence with our hands folded together on ‎top of our desks ‎and must sit up very straight like good ‎little ‎mademoiselles et messieurs to show proper respect. Respect ‎for ‎what? You ask.

"For France," Maitresse says.‎

What about that? Don't laugh. It's true.‎

After the clocks are wound, we stand and salute the Eiffel ‎Tower and the French flag and sing accompanied by a disc that plays ‎‎La Marseillaise, the French National Anthem.‎

Not only sing--Oh no, we have to shout out the words just like they did during the French Revolution. Maitresse is ‎a true Francophile says Aunt Penny.‎

Did I tell you that Maitresse has a big stick she leans against the ‎wall in the corner, a guard to menace us when we don't answer her questions ‎properly? That's when she implies that she'll strike us with that stick. Sometimes she ‎slams it down hard on our desks--crack. She screams, "Écoute ‎moi! Vite! Vite! Réponde! Maintenant!" As hard as we try, most often we answer wrong; can't help it. We become petrified and our brains and mouths are ‎mush. Our response--

Silence.‎

She did use the stick on some students. Susie told me. She ‎said Maitresse spanks and prods with it during detentions. That very ‎cane crashed down on my desk many times when I couldn't answer. ‎One time Maitresse put her whole body behind the blow and it crashed ‎down so hard I was sure my ‎desk would break in two. I wasn't paying ‎attention. That's when Maitresse gets the most angry.‎

Maitresse Henriette carries the weapon with her when she walks the halls. She pretends it's a cane.

She hit me with it in the ‎hallway this morning. Well maybe I exaggerate a wee bit. She ‎didn't actually hit me, she signaled that she would. Anyway she ‎wouldn't strike anyone in front of the whole world, but I suspect she would in ‎private.‎

‎ Strange things are happening at my school. I'm certain Maitresse and ‎Magistra are the fault. I'll tell you and you decide.‎

‎

### AFTER MLK WEEK-END

Detective Bob Savrini sports a week-end's growth of beard which masks the handsome face many say resembles a fat Gene Hackman. He wears a torn police-requisitioned tee shirt and lies sprawled next to his wife Bea. Both are reclined, comfortable in their worn deep red velvet squishy sofa. Four bare feet rest on an oblong maroon hassock that doubles as a coffee table.

His right hand is busy inside his pajama bottoms. He reeks of sweat and stinky feet, she of stale Jean Nate which her aide, Keisha, spritzes on Bea from time to time as a substitute for bathing her. Cheap horrid, thinks Savrini, but he hesitates to tell the aide to use something different or to send himself out to buy some other scent.

The cozy house overflows with bric-a-brac Bea purchased from the flea markets in her better days.

Their faces flicker, lit by the TV. Jeopardy blares but neither watches. This audience has no answers.

Savrini pretends he's someplace else, tries to enjoy the last of his time off. Bea is just-- not.

He turns his head slightly to view her sweet features, the small perfect nose. White curls bob at the collar of her old pink housecoat embroidered with red roses. She faces straight ahead. At what, he wonders, but never asks.

Bea is gone, so is he.

RRRng. The phone jolts their reverie. Dispatch beckons them into the "now."

"What? Got to be kidding! Maria. Slow down! Three of them? Nude? Address? Be there."

He helps his wife into their bed and tucks the blanket around her frail body. He does it himself because the aide is asleep.

Bea still wears her duster. Says not one word. He does not kiss her good night.

The detective takes his clothes out into the hallway where he intends to dress so Bea could not question him. She won't, but he doesn't want to take the chance. He pulls on his shirt and trousers over the pajama bottoms and tee shirt, picks up his Tablet, keys, holster, and revolver.

Stooped, he favors his aching back, drags himself back down the stairs, grabs‎ his blue blazer and threadbare overcoat from ‎the closet, ‎and he's out the door.

The snow has stopped, but his street is not cleared. He'd anticipated that he might be called to go out, so he'd scraped and salted his front steps and walkway.

The cold car surprises him when it springs to life at first go. Once in gear he turns on the heater and the radio and putts his way down the street to the sounds of the Mozart Sonata #11, The Turkish March. He remembers when, as a child, he played that piece on the piano. It soothes him. Today he fingers the steering wheel as if keying the music.

The crime scene is a ten minute drive from the Savrini house. He could have walked it in nice weather.

He connects with the dispatcher to learn what she's heard back from the cop who'd been sent to the house.

"Murphy's out there. You met Murphy, right?"

"Ain't had the pleasure."

"No? Okay. Well anyway that's who was to check on the teacher. School called, said she never showed. So when Murphy got there... said he found three corpses, youngish, all nude-- all murdered and all together in one place in the teacher's living room.‎ Said the bodies were there some long time maybe a few days. Said he was surprised that the interior lights were full on... lit up like a party and bodies like Swiss cheese... holes everywhere. That's all of it and we don't know who they are....Oh, and Murphy clued everyone...be prepared for something really fucked up. And oh, by the way, the perp or perps don't seem to be around anymore."

Detective Savrini is sure the motive is sex but the ferocity suggests some other provocation.

Anger?

Early in his long career, he'd learned not to jump to conclusions. First impressions can be dead wrong. This one might be different.

He runs his hand across his cheek, feels the growth of hair. Wishes he'd shaved earlier. Savrini isn't used to it; it itches.

Poor Savrini, the heavy snowfall ruined his city and although many of the roads had been cleared, driving is still hazardous.

Here's 2204 Green. The clock on his dashboard shows 5:30 P.M. Have to make a note of it. Gotta be a question at the trial, to be asked over and over. Savrini wants to be ready for anything stupid the defense might throw at him. Doesn't want this murderer to avoid the death penalty.

He approaches the street, then the house, and remembers he'd been here before--recently. He envisions himself here, just this past Friday--knocking at the front door.

That's all he can remember.

Anxiety kicks in. He sweats. Self-doubting demons poke at his brain. Is he becoming Bea?

Why was he here Friday before the holiday? Can't remember. Not unusual for past actions to disappear into the abyss.

The detective begins to rationalize. A few days of vacation would make dust collect in anyone's brain. At his age, he can't be expected to function like a young dick.

He doesn't fool himself. He knows his mind harbors black semi-opaque clouds that bury what he needs to recollect, but Savrini excuses himself for the momentary lack of recall. He tries to prevent the angst which would push him into another dark depression. Today he can't avert the fears, the certainty that he will become like his wife whose memory is...going, soon to be gone completely.

Nah, he decides, it's just because there's too much on his mind.

He parks his clunker, hears it heave a few gasps, burps then dies. He sits and continues to listen to the music he loves, the recordings his mother played most waking hours when he was a little boy. The music settles him. Those were the good times, the ones sandwiched in between the crap.

No more disquiet; it had subsided. His mind is a passive river. He remembers; infinitely happy that his brain still functions. He exhales and smiles. Even though his memory is not always available at the exact moment required, he is more than content that his brain holds tight, jubilant that he's still in the world.

That Friday on Green Street, he was here because a young girl named Elizabeth Judd had been reported missing. Her parents were in a panic because she'd not returned from school Thursday. Savrini was to interview one of her teachers to see if she could shine some light on where the girl might be.

My God! That's almost a week ago. Is she still missing? He'd had no contact with the Precinct and no one had bothered to update him--not unusual, but he wishes his associates were more conscientious. Savrini carries on about that at the morning briefings, says everyone should be in the loop about the serious cases.

Dispatch calls him, "You know...the missing kid? The girl who never came home from school?...Well...she attends the same school as the absent teacher."

Savrini knew that, why else had he gone to her house this past Friday? Would he go interview a teacher at some other school? Who's missing a screw now?

"So what do we have Maria?" He tries to assimilate all this, "a missing kid, a missing teacher, and three dead women."

"Savrini, you got your job cut out. Good Luck."

"Thanks Maria. Care to join me? It's your kind of case. Right?"

"I'll skip the blood and gore, thanks anyway-- maybe next time. Have fun. I'm off to the Ballroom. Like to throw in with me later? It'll be fun."

"This'll be an all-nighter. Take a rain check. Thanks. Who's going?"

"Oh, my boyfriend and...oh...remember I told you about that real sexy blonde, the one who lives nearby? Actually I think she lives near you; she'll be there tonight."

"Yeah, yeah, the one you said is a real looker."

"Right. Well. I'll introduce you if you come next week. You don't have to dance but it helps. Think about it Savrini... You need a respite from...well...Oh, gotta go. Call's comin' in. Bye for now."

"So long Maria. Thanks. Have fun tonight. Watch out for the slippery snow."

Savrini conjectures that the two missing females are two of the dead women, today's absent teacher and the young girl, Elizabeth, gone from before the holiday.

But Maria said three corpses. Who's the third?

A rushing river opens the closed floodgates of his memories. Now he remembers more about the girl named Elizabeth Judd. He reaches into his pocket for her photo, the one ‎Jane the school secretary gave him. He took it from her and forgot about it. Thinks he'll hold it alongside the dead women to compare--See if any of them is Elizabeth.

He will soon learn that there will be nothing to compare.

Dispatch reminded him that the teacher works at the Benjamin School, a Philadelphia institution with a history that dates back centuries. The Academy is reputed to be an excellent private school.

Not anymore. Not after this crime. He wonders whether it would continue after all this notoriety. Doubtful. Most parents likely will withdraw their children as quickly as possible.

Everyone considers Savrini lucky to live in Philadelphia so near to work. How convenient is that?

Not!

He's contacted for all the urgent calls because they know he lives nearby.

Self-pity sets in, always one thought away.

The detective remembers that Elizabeth Judd is the math teacher's daughter. He teaches at the same school.

All these coincidences.

Savrini has met most of the staff, anyway the ones who have been at the school for several years.

He had run into Judd at the Benjamin Academy Street Fair where the PTA hoped to amass a good amount of donations. Each year their optimism is reborn, believing the income from sales will be enough to cover the cost of scholarships for the needy bright children who live nearby but outside the immediate area. It never is, so they have to pressure the rich parents and local businesses to kick in.

He grows nostalgic about the Fair; springtime, soft air, cotton candy, the school parade, kids marching in uniforms, the band, ‎ beating drums, and blowing trumpets, flutes and clarinets. ‎ Savrini chokes up when he hears patriotic songs. Little girls in skirts so short they flip up in back, pastel colored days.

Judd impressed him then as a weird sort, an off-putting skinny runt of a man in pressed slacks, vests, and white button-down oxford shirts, topped off with a trim grey mustache and a fairly full head of hair. Not someone Savrini would choose for his math teacher.

The detective marvels at our small interrelated community, one which now harbors a house of murder in which Maitresse Henriette lives or lived. He'd gone to that house just a few days earlier about the disappearance of Elizabeth Judd, the student whose father teaches math right down the hall from Maitresse.

He wonders. Hate crimes? A plot against the faculty? A disgruntled student or teacher? Angry parent?

The Friday before Martin Luther King week-end, the missing person's preliminary report about Elizabeth Judd was finalized. Snail-like, it had worked its way from desk to desk, up the chain of command. Takes time in our slow-paced bureaucratic police department. After a bit, it reached his desk and the detectives could begin to try to locate the child.

These days once the report reaches the correct desk, homicide picks it up and runs with it. Savrini tells everyone that precious time is wasted shuffling papers. Follow-up should be immediate and without rigmarole.

No one listens.

This MLK holiday has limited staff. Clerical delays squandered precious time. Homicide does not investigate until Friday afternoon when detectives went to the school to ascertain who knew what, about Elizabeth, but most students and teachers were gone, cleared out to start the long Martin Luther King week-end.

Should have known. Savrini stews over the shitty police policy that dictates we not go into full force search mode when the report is first logged. No. All must hold off for twenty four hours after a "child missing" call. The wait period and paperwork requirements pushed the inception of the investigation into the long holiday week-end. The delay was certain to thwart a happy resolution-- like maybe to find the girl before she's killed.

It's too late for detectives to enjoy what should have been an easy interview procedure, warm and cozy inside the heated school building. But no--policy fucked us up-- again!

Who loses? Elizabeth, that's who.

They planned to question the teachers and students at the school but with the late start and because schools close early for the MLK week-end, detectives were ordered outside in the cold to interview potential witnesses. They couldn't wait for the teachers and students to return to school after the holiday; had to get started right away.

What happened? We ended up with our dicks frozen, pounding the pavements outside, this freezing Philadelphia winter.

That Friday before MLK, Savrini had hoped the language teacher would offer something about the child's habits, maybe about her after school activities? Friends? Anything.

He'd knocked. No one answered. He concluded she'd headed out of town along with everyone else.

He knocked again, then rang the bell.

No response.

The interview would not happen--not by him.

He had vacation days coming and policy dictated he must use them or lose them. He'd be out on leave until the Tuesday after the long MLK week-end.

Savrini was finished with this case for now.

What to do? ‎What everybody in Philadelphia does-- assign the case.

The rest of the interviews would go to the dumb fucks with less seniority, those stuck to work the holiday.

No one except the missing child's family was concerned. After all--That Friday the girl had been gone just the one day.

True, Savrini admitted, a "missing" child might re-appear at a friend's or aunt's house. The darling would arrive home, "I forgot to tell you I'd be at Annie's house. Sorry."

Sometimes it's the parent who doesn't remember that the child had informed them that she would be at a slumber party at Mable's. Not missing at all.

The parents answer the door when the police arrive. The red-faced ‎embarrassed couple in their plaid flannel pajamas,‎ contrite because earlier that day they'd berated the cops, grumbled that the police had not begun the search right away.

"We're so sorry. We didn't know."

Anger, Savrini's constant companion, has grooved permanent frown lines into his face. He has residual good looks but haggard has taken over.

Savrini would have persisted with the interviews had his days off not interfered. He would have been back at the teacher's house the very next day or even later that night.

He knows other detectives are not as diligent. Savrini learned much later that his comrades had not followed up on anything, least of all the interviews. They had done nothing. He didn't pick up on that until he'd returned to work and after the murdered females were found.

Savrini is livid. He rages on about the lack of work ethic. "Where has our city gone?" He whines--his constant refrain, remarked so often that the other detectives imitate Savrini when he moseys into the Station. They sing different words to the melody, Where have all the Flowers Gone? Instead it's, "Where have all the victims gone?..."

Savrini feels the frustration that comes from futility, but what can one man do?

Today it's the Tuesday after the MLK holiday week-end, his second visit to the house. He drives, staying to the middle to avoid the piles of snow alongside the curbs. Mozart blaring from the radio.

He thinks the child must be dead inside the house on Green Street; his fault because he'd failed to return Friday to investigate. Is she one of the bodies? The Elizabeth who hadn't come home from school Thursday? Is it she? He wonders whether the two crimes are related. Has to be. Right?

Nah. Too coincidental.

On the other hand maybe it's not a long shot.

Somewhat refreshed after the long week-end off, he finds himself in front of the same house but this time not to investigate a missing child. No. Now he's here to survey a murder scene.

Who are they?

The teacher and the student are two of the corpses. Must be.

The third?

What kind of a fucking world do we live in?

Maybe Elizabeth is a runaway, unrelated to these murders, an incorrigible who took off for places unknown; her disappearance not a crime at all.

He continues his mental back and forth. Not going to be easy, given the time wasted.

That Friday, no one answered his knock. Yeah, he muses, the victims were inside. In danger. Or dead.

Or not yet.‎

The guilt is not his alone but belongs to the whole department. His feeling of culpability is short-lived. In a moment he salves it away, reasons that he couldn't have gotten a search warrant even if he'd known something more than he does today. No reason to surmise that Elizabeth was in the teacher's house that evening, just because she's missing, and it's a murder scene.

After all, the teacher's house where he'd gone for information was but one of the multitude of places detectives went to gather information. They'd have to question the rest of the staff, the parents, even the janitors, not to mention relatives and friends. Afterwards, they'd follow all potential leads.

Savrini wonders how many were contacted and if anything was found. He'll have to wait because he hadn't stopped by the Precinct before coming here from home.

Maybe the police officers assigned to the murder scene know the latest.

He would soon learn that the department was remiss. Nothing had been done. No house visits. No phone calls.

Savrini re-visits whether he could have prevented the slayings ‎had he not been forced to take vacation time. ‎He would have gone back to the house, maybe even seen the murderer--maybe stopped him in time.

Savrini and many ‎others will consider that placement of guilt in the days and years to follow. ‎

Tonight, the first day back at work, and except for having to navigate the snow, he's glad for the excuse to quit his unhappy abode.

He pulls into a cleared space and turns off the engine. When he tries to open the door, he can't. He's parked with the driver's side wedged into a compressed mound of the dirty white stuff.

Savrini can't budge.

Plows had cleared much of the snow from the roads but when they moved it off the streets they'd pushed it into heaps at the curbs, and trapped the parked cars. No way out. Drivers will have to shovel themselves out. If they don't have to go anywhere, they'll wait until the snow melts.

Savrini can't wait.

This city's labor force has it in for the middle class. The snowplow operators are perverse. They scheme, contrive mischief against the locals whom they believe are rich and selfish and deserve any maltreatment they can muster against them.

He laughs at the misnomer "labor force."‎

Class warfare. It's always the same‎.

"Good job you fuckers!" You jammed the snow bank onto our cars. The homeowners believe in the tooth fairy and honest government; they trusted that their vehicles would be safe. Their immobilized cars can go...

NOWHERE!

"Union! City workers!" He hollers.

To himself, he accuses, you're the dumber fuck-- You got yourself into this mess!

Rather than move his car, he tries to push his way out. He slams his corpulent body against the inside driver's door, again and again until black reality stares him down-- The packed snow has made him prisoner inside his own car.

Savrini pushes against the door with all his strength, grunts with each shove, sweats even though it is icebox cold. Grunts tend to aid such efforts but not today.

He gives up.

The snow is high. It had partially melted earlier in the day when the temperature rose above freezing. Now it is more solid. The ice on the surface has compressed the white stuff into a condensed mass. The door doesn't budge, certainly not enough for him to slide out sideways. If he could open the door some-- then maybe. Not today; he's become way too fat to even consider it.

Tomorrow the diet begins-- for sure. Promise! The vow is the same one he's made before, this the umpteenth time.

He turns off the motor, sits back and takes a minute to consider a way out of this predicament. His respiration is fast like a runner who's just finished a race. His body has cooled but his underwear is soaked against his skin. He shivers. The car is cold. There is nothing to insulate him from this frigid night.

Philadelphia's brutal winter is one blast of freezing arctic mass after another. One snow storm trails the next as they sweep down from the North into this otherwise temperate valley.

He looks up from his self-pity and takes a gander around him, at the un-cleared sidewalks that lead up to the houses. Even if he can free his car, he'll have to navigate the snow covered walkway. Poor Savrini laments his miserable situation.

He could kick himself when he looks up at the address. The teacher's number is on the opposite side of the street. Should have remembered from just this past Friday.

Damn!

He doesn't fault himself too much, after all, the last time was just before a vacation. That was four days ago.

Besides, that Friday it took but a minute to ascertain that no one was home. So perfunctory that it required no thought. Easy to lose the memory of that visit.

He forgives himself again--as always and sets himself back to the task at hand. How the fuck is he to extricate himself from his car and get over to the crime scene?

A light brightens his mind. Once he's out if he gets out, he'll park across the street with the driver's side clear so he'll be able to get out.

This God forsaken Siberian winter--the snow never has a chance to melt. Hell would freeze first. Hell is Philadelphia but not hot enough today to liquefy the ice. He laughs at his little joke, proud too. How witty is he.

How the fuck witty and how the fuck stupid to put his car into a cave of snow!

Breathe!

Savrini notices the white mountain is not as high on the passenger's side. He slides across the seat to the other door, grateful that he doesn't have bucket seats or the gearshift on the floor to impede his movement.

He opens the window, pushes the cold white fluff away from the car, lunges against the door to open it, and falls out onto his right hip into the snow. He brushes himself off as he stands up, happy that he won't die in his car.

Earlier he'd seen a vision of himself frozen solid in his jalopy. There he'd be in the morning when the snow plow operators arrived. They'd stand by his car, arms akimbo, hands on hips guffawing at him, toothpicks tucked into the corners of their mouths.

He dislodges some of the snow but can't tell which direction to back out. He takes a shovel from the trunk to clear a short path, jerking spastically and teeth chattering all the while. He feels the cold wind against his sweat drenched body.

Back in his car after some back and forth jockeying, right then left, up and back, again and again, at long last, he's freed from the snow bank.

Thank you, you motherfuckers, referring to the men who propelled the snow onto the sides of the streets.

The hate he feels overflows bitter bile into his mouth. He roars, "You dumb fucks!"

On second thought--are they dumb or is it on purpose? Maliciousness, he concludes.

"But I beat you. I'm free, you godforsaken no-good shits!"

He U-turns the car to the other side of the street, but now makes sure the driver's side is not up against the snow bank.

Satisfied with himself but by now exhausted, he turns the motor off, hears it ptt ptt a little longer. It hisses then stops. Savrini waits, always concerned, because he never knows whether his auto will start again. He waits, as if the delay will raise the probability that the motor will turn over when he tries to start it again.

He sits. He speaks to soothe himself. Settle down Savrini.

Not much chance of any cars this hour of night, not after this, the fifth snow storm of the season. People are home from work, snuggled in their dry warm houses, eating their dinner, and watching the evening news.

Savrini thinks his car is pretty safe where he's left it. Traffic would just have to go around.

His "classic" is so old it wouldn't be the worst thing if someone crashed and totaled his jalopy, then he'd have the money to buy the car of his dreams; that's if the driver is insured.

A red convertible Corvette would be nice if he could retire to Florida--not too useful here. Top down in a snowstorm, makes a sorry sight. He pictures the omnipresent street urchins pointing fingers at him, mouths wide open, convulsing in laughter. That makes him sad, Savrini in his cherry colored convertible, roof open, snow filling the seats.

Global warming? Ha! He grins, proud of his of clever sarcasm. Tell me this, you smart politicians; if this is man-made warming, how come there's not a blanket of carbon dioxide to keep us warm in winter? Tell me that! Huh? Huh?

As he stands up, out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of a uniformed policeman. By God that fuck's been watching me drive my shoulder into the door to push it open and never made offer one to help! Savrini sees red.

The ignoramus has a stupid grin on his face. So much of that in the police force these days. Not like when Savrini started out. We were professionals back then. Cops respected the detectives and each other. That was then.

Soon as he straightens, his back spasms-- sheering pain, much worse than yesterday. He promises himself not to shovel snow, not to ferry around the heavy bags of salt, not to spread it on the sidewalks and driveway of his house. He'll hire the kid next door. Pay him a couple o' bucks. And no more yard work! Too god-damn old for that!

He walks away from the car into the cold night air, feels the chill wind whip through the threadbare material that is his coat. The insulation falls out of the lining in chunks. Brown soot trails behind him.

Shit! Forgot my recorder. Got to keep a record of everything. He steps back to his car, opens the door, reaches in for the tiny machine, pockets it, and straightens up.

The pain strikes, the thing that always starts him brooding about his wife. They'd been married for thirty-six years. Bea was supposed to buy him a new coat. Hasn't happened yet. It was always a happy chore for her to care for his needs and with the help of the aide he'd hired, they could manage it for him.

Well maybe he's giving Bea too much credit. Everyone knows his wife has moved away from this world. To where? Is this place so terrible? Has she left to go inside her own mind? Did she want to flee from me?

He wonders what Bea thinks. Is she able to understand at all? Or is her mind a blank filled with incoherent thoughts and memories? Do they float here and there like ice cubes in a glass of water, so unconnected that they are useless?

Her loss to him has been gradual but certain, painful for both, but is she is as unhappy as he. Does she know the entirety of her loss? Of his?

### AFTER THE MLK WEEK-END

Murphy, the too-many-donuts cop assigned to the missing teacher, stands by the side of Savrini's car.

Savrini wonders whether he's here alone. Are there others inside? Maybe they were to go to other crimes. The city is short-staffed, underfunded, and overworked.

Murphy notices that the detective is glaring at him, but all he can feel is cold, wet and shaky from his earlier fright. The anxiety and indecision about whether to enter and stand his ground or remain outside took a toll on him. Left him exhausted.

Notwithstanding the misery of his own wet painful body, Murphy realizes the impropriety of his grin; decides to try some levity; hopes to lessen Savrini's anger. Acting a mime, he places the heel of his hand above his forehead and moves it vertically from there to his chin erasing the insolent smile.

Not funny, Savrini thinks. Murphy's comic act is memorialized in the detective's figurative catalog. The space next to "Murphy" says "NEEDS RETRIBUTION."

Savrini is sure the cop saw Savrini laboring to get his door open into the snow pile, saw him shovel his way out. Must have seemed comical to Murphy when Savrini lugged his sweating bedraggled body out of his car.

The detective makes an imaginary check mark next to what he has just recorded. This cop warrants a double dose of punishment.

Murphy reaches out to shake Savrini's hand, introduces himself as Murphy from the Precinct. Savrini scowls at the proffered hand, grunts then takes it.

Murphy doesn't miss the sign of annoyance, concludes that Savrini is a sullen angry S.O.B.

Not to be out-done, Savrini sees the cop as one of the do-nothing shits, the losers you find in the police force these days.

Savrini experiences another throb of anger. That selfish idiot cop! Was it too much to expect Murphy to help him? Guess so. Murphy is Union--not in his contract. I'm a member too, thinks Savrini but this is ridiculous. Unions have run amok with too much power.

Savrini asks Murphy where the other cops are. "Inside?"

"No. Back at the Station House. Lots of calls. They searched the house. Made sure no one inside. Then left. Said more detectives'll be along with the M. E."

Savrini reaches into his car to grab his tablet, straightens up and pulls his coat around his body but can't button it over his large mid-section. He's become a round caricature of the fat paunchy detective depicted in movies and TV. His overcoat is way too small. No wonder, all he ever does is eat and watch the idiot tube to take away the pain that is his life.

He closes the car door, careful to prevent a slam that might disturb the neighbors. The noise of a car door would attract the attention of those living in what he believes is a quiet upscale neighborhood. If he could avoid onlookers at his crime scene, he would.

Murphy tries to appear worthy of his salary. He rolls the yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter of the property to encircle a large swath of land.

As he slogs in the snow with the tape, Murphy surrenders to reveries about his Helen. They took a tremendous financial hit when he started the security business against everyone's advice. He wouldn't listen, never does. Cops in the know told him the rent-a-cop racket was controlled by Schmidt ever since the rich guy took it over from the Mafia. Murphy never had a chance. Didn't matter to Helen. She still cares for him though she wishes he would accept his station in life and not try to change it. She knows Murphy loves her though he can be abrasive. ‎

They have a long history together, all the way back to elementary school. She'd had a crush on him ‎ ever since the third grade. All he wanted was to play baseball. She would hang out on the bleachers, alone and stare at him. He didn't know she was there. By the middle of the fifth grade he began to make furtive eye contact but look away quickly as soon as their eyes met.

His were deep blue then. Now they're pale, washed by tears and the pain of living. Her Murphy is still good-looking though grey and gone to fat.

She still watches him, adores him, knows there will never be another, hopes he feels the same, pretty sure he does.

He asks for her loyalty, her strength, her backing. He wants her to stand up for him against her mother, wants Helen to tell the woman to go away and stay away unless she can be kinder to him. Helen won't do that. She can't, can't toss her aside and knows the woman will never change.

His wife notices his efforts to please her, the hang-dog expression when he fixates on her. She's grateful that he tolerates her mother, even allows her to stay with them for weeks at a time. That's important to Helen. She can see his kindness behind his gruff exterior.

He lost so much when he failed out of Penn Law the end of his first year. He could never pry his mind loose from the shame of that. It was when she miscarried.

Savrini stares at the cop in silence. Tries to postpone the inevitable. Dreads what he'll encounter inside the house, the horror he's sure is in there.

He studies the building, knows what is covered by snow, come spring will be leafy shade trees and lush greenery. The grass will smell sweet when cut and the flowers will bloom.

And the dead will stay dead.

Savrini turns to the walkway that leads up to the gated house then starts forward.

When he hears the greeting, "Detective," he turns to see Murphy perform a military salute. A sign of respect?

Too little too late, Savrini murmurs but returns a half-hearted salute, turns away, groans, and moves ahead, crunching the snow toward the house. Hunched over, he concentrates on the ground, studies it for any clues he might find there.

Are those blood drops on the snow? Savrini leans over, puts his face close to the ground. Too dark now to be sure of anything. This time of evening color is gone--greys and blacks is all.

Have to go to the car later for the flashlight. Savrini chides himself that he didn't take it with him. Should have thought of it before he left the car. Precautions after the fact are stupid. He used to plan, used to do that.

It will be daylight before they could ascertain whether it is blood unless the crime people have the foresight to bring in searchlights. We'll miss other evidence as well because of the darkness.

He passes through the gate and into the courtyard, up the path to the house, slips on the snow, slides then clumsily rights himself.

The snow could have been a wonderful repository of evidence. Not now. As he moves along, he sees lots of other prints; boots, athletic shoes, and what looks like bare feet. He's sure others were destroyed when the police arrived and will be further compromised when the crime lab personnel take over. All of us messed up any clues the killer or killers left as they entered and left the house. Nothing much to do but try to give the walkway a wide berth and hope the important prints would remain for the lab guys.

Have to make a note of the bare feet. Who's outside without shoes in this icy cold? Someone bring in the newspaper? Perhaps, but he doubts that. Too cold to be without shoes. Too wet.

Which way do they face? Away from the house. He can't see any footprints of bare feet that return.

He takes out his Droid-phone to photograph the tracks. Shoots close-ups of the boot prints and running shoe markings. The detective hopes to preserve what evidence he can. People will trample it later or confuse the prints with those of the crime scene investigators. His photos might provide a match. Lots more people will be here soon. He'll save what he can.

He murmurs to Murphy. "Careful of the footprints. Stay in the street where the snow's been cleared and tell the investigators and neighbors to take precautions."

Murphy nods, "Yes."

Time to go inside. Doesn't want to. Savrini knows what's there.

He's felled by a new blast of pain. He can't ignore the ache in his back as he lumbers up the few steps to the front door.

He halts in his tracks, astonished by what he sees. Large insets of etched ornate red glass comprise the door. Nice taste, though a bit over-the top. Expensive too. Savrini appreciates nice things thanks to Bea.

Why didn't he notice it the day he came to interview the teacher? There was no answer when he knocked that Friday. Maybe he'd gone to the wrong house or...Was it too dark to see the magnificent door?

He approaches the entrance. Damn, he swears. Savrini too creates new footprints in the snow. Damn, damn, damn! Can't be helped though. Can't fly.

Another good one, full of frivolity today. Gallows humor somewhat lessens the horrors of the job.

He reaches out to grab the doorknob, notices it's the same colored glass but now cut to look like a huge faceted blood red ruby. He almost grasps the handle but misses when he slips on the ice and falls backward down the steps to land with all his weight on one side. What else could he do to hurt himself tonight?

Wait, there will be more. Always is.

He concentrates on his body to see if anything hurts. Gingerly presses his fingers into his hip, gently at his ribs. Nothing major, everything seems okay.

He's on all fours when he tries to get back up onto his feet. He slides back down again, then finally is able to stay upright. As he brushes the snow from his clothes, he experiences the cold against his wet body. Savrini feels awful.

The detective glances over at Murphy to see whether the cop laughed at his misfortune. Can't see him in the dark. Doesn't hear any laughter.

But just as he turns back to ascend the steps, Savrini hears the uniform call out to him. He pivots halfway around, annoyed by Murphy's bellow.

"Wait!" Murphy calls. Savrini feels jittery from a combination of cold and anger. Fury supersedes cold.

Stupid! Dumb shit! He'd admonished the cop to keep his voice down. Must talk to Murphy's Sargent.

But what's the point? Lot of good that would do, Union and all. Savrini understands that it benefits the leaders rather ‎than the rank and file. He believes union heads are gangsters ‎who enrich themselves off the regular slobs.‎

Noise will bring unwanted visitors, dogs, even bicycles. Later they'll be welcome. Tomorrow we'll want to talk to them, see if anyone saw anything, knows anything. Not now. Not yet.

Not now.

He freezes! Did Murphy see something? The murderer returned or not yet gone? It happens. They do come back.

Savrini swings around toward the policeman, peers behind Murphy, squints into the darkness beyond. What is it? He can't see anything past the lamp-lit sidewalk. Why did Murphy shout? Savrini's finger is on the trigger of his now unholstered .357. He raises it into position, crouches slightly; expects the worst.

He waits...

"Almost forgot," Murphy trumpets, "When you're inside... Check out the shoes...the shoes! Something you ain't nevah seen before. Betcha dat! Betcha a beer up at Joe's later!"

Yeah sure. Nothing he'd enjoy more than a beer and to shoot the bull with Murphy.

He reholsters his gun.

Furious, Savrini tries to control his anger. So enraged, his fists are clenched; the nails leave indentation marks in the palms of his hands.

He'll have a stroke if he can't let go of this choler. His doctor had enjoined him about his blood pressure. What stupidity! That Murphy. What a poor excuse for a cop!

Back in neutral, he feels a new spasm of pain but this one is in his upper back. Earlier, the ache had been lower. This paroxysm began when he twisted his body to see the "what" when Murphy squawked. That's what started this new agony.

Once home, he'll swallow one of those lovely blue pills that take away all the hurt.

Later.

For now he'll have to deal with the torment, try to drive it way down deep inside his mind so he won't be aware of it. If he can do that, he'll be able to concentrate on the situation at hand. The massacre at 2204 Green Street.

Savrini lets himself into the house and hopes the asshole cop shuts his trap. He pulls the door to. Gently, so as not to disturb the neighbors but also to protect the beautiful glass door.

Whoever the perp, he had left it unlocked. Murphy said so. It had not been forced either. Did the murderer have a key? Was he admitted? Was it subterfuge? Did the killer pretend to be something he wasn't? A salesman? A cop?

He leaves the officer outside in the cold where he belongs. Hopes Murphy will be quiet now that there's no one about to talk to. Anyway, until the inspectors arrive. Maybe they'll suggest to Murphy it would be prudent not to make noise.

Savrini hopes so.

Murphy's steps into the small vestibule furnished with a carved wooden bench. In the corner is a receptacle. Metal and ivory handled umbrellas and two steel and wood walking canes protrude from it. Whose canes? Who needs a cane? Says to make a note to self.

Where are the neighbors? Why don't they come and bang on the door? Why not curious enough to brave the cold, venture outside, approach the cop, and ask, "What's goes?" It's their neighborhood. Don't they care?

Why is it all so damned quiet?

Then again, he's glad they're tucked into their warm houses to watch reruns of Saturday Night Live or maybe, God forbid, Dancing With The Stars? Jeopardy?

He should count his blessings; if they were up and about, there'd go my crime scene.

Detective Savrini is ready. Well, he thinks he is-- handkerchief over his mouth and nose and then--

Sudden music, club music, heavy base, a relentless beat tumbles out from somewhere in the house, a song his daughter likes. Disgusting, he thinks. Get Ur Freak On, she calls it.

Murphy had mentioned there was music playing when he arrived but that one of the cops turned it off. Can music turn itself on? A timer? Have to ask the cop where the switch is. Is someone here now? Have to search the house again when the detectives return with the Medical Examiner. Must be a simple explanation, but the sudden onslaught with no one in the house to turn it on, has made Savrini jittery.

He promises himself he won't allow the frenetic feelings to take hold. Must stay objective. Start with the mundane first, then on to the murder site. ‎

The detective moves into the living room, notices the ornate French provincial decorations and the floor to ceiling Roman Corinthian columns.

Savrini faces straight ahead, doesn't look down at the floor, avoids for as long as he can what he knows to be a horrific scene of bloodshed.

Then, when he can no longer put it off, he confronts the horror.

The blood. So much blood!

He can't control his emotions. ‎

It's always the same. Poor Savrini suffers at every murder scene. Never varies. When the victims are children, he can't endure the anguish. Today is no exception.

Stay calm, he tells himself. Stay uninvolved. Nerve wracking this one. No. It's worse. This one's atrocious.

A young girl lies in the middle between two women. She can't be more than eleven or twelve. Must be Elizabeth.

One is an older female whom he guesses must be the French teacher. Who's the third? His throat is stuck. Can't swallow. The child is face up, her skin--macerated meat. The older women had been dispatched the same way.

Equal opportunity homicide. No one dodged the onslaught. Total butchery!

The now peaceful scene belies what made it so.‎

He's not convinced there could be so much blood from only three people. Could there be more bodies in the red and black semi-solid lake?

The scene resembles an abstract painting; reds melt into maroons then browns. The palette has dabs of white ochre, and all shades of red are splashed onto the white carpet.

Broad rivers of topaz and claret tributaries wind through, pass beneath, and skirt over the top.

Chocolate covers the flesh on their bellies, drips from the hips to melt into globs on the floor, tinges the environs greyish tan to black. Green licks into the brown syrup on their stomachs.

Auburn tresses are sticky with dried blood that covers each strand and clumps the hairs into irregular multilayered ringlets.

Superficial stark splotches of pink blush and red lipstick tint the translucent grey faces.‎

Dark mascaraed eyes open wide. They stare. But do they see?

What did they see?

Savrini wishes there were a way to photograph the retinas to find out what they last saw. Maybe there is. Anyway we have to try everything.

Lives unlived; their children will never be a reality.

He will strike again. We must stop him.

Savrini knows he will never forget this scene. Will the murderer?

Did the killer photograph the dead to make sure he won't forget? Does he have photos of the sex acts? Of the killings?

Savrini decides it had to be multiple assassins. Too much went on at one time.

Tiny bubbles appear at the openings in the throats and chests of the ‎corpses.

An artist's delight. A still-life in death.

A peaceful scene.

He knows what the brown, white, black, green, and yellow substances are. He knows what he sees on the carpet came from inside the girls bodies, exiting the jagged holes. He had seen autopsies. Past experiences don't make it any easier.

The Medical Examiner has not arrived. Can't move anything. Savrini's suspicion that there might be more dead people will have to wait.

He's sure no one's alive. Nothing moves. No sounds except for the hissing and popping of gases that quit the bodies. Except for that--Nothing.

He must wait until the M.E. declares it ready. He'll have to be patient. Patience is not Savrini's strong suit.

The scene looks posed. The two nude women lie on their sides; possibly placed to partially face each other. The child in the center is squeezed in between the two older women. Were they placed that way to appear as if the women give succor to the youngster?

More sinister. Surely a sex thing.

Lots to learn.

So much blood! Red and black and brown everywhere. How dry is it? What depth? Color? The answers will give us information. Savrini isn't a blood expert.

The largest quantities are in between and around the bodies. As expected, most of the gore is there. Shiny red glistens, reflects the lights from above. The overhead spots and lamps aim at the women, point at the mayhem. The rest of the area is haunted by a labyrinth of inky shadows.

Were the dead girls used to play-act the murderer's depraved ideas? Were they kidnapped to include them in the assassin's fetishes? Had they been posed? Before or after death? Both?

He's chilled by his mental images of the horror enacted in this place.

What doesn't surprise him is that he is sexually aroused.

Who turned on the lights? Who directed them so they'd shine on the women? Had to be someone who believed he had all the time in the world. Such people can be bereft of caution. They mess up. He hopes they do today.

His mind strays to his granddaughter, Lisa. He panics, in a cold sweat, overwrought when he views her in this context, in this place. Could something terrible happen to his little Lisa?

He tells people his petite blonde cherubic-faced granddaughter is the love of his life. Just this morning he ran on and on about Lisa to Keisha, Bea's aide‎. The two women listened intently. Well --One of them did.

He prattled on and on about when little Lisa of the huge come-hither eyes stays with them, about how she wakes in the middle of the night and waggles into their bedroom, and climbs into bed with her grandparents. In the morning she's cuddled in between Bea and Savrini. He tells Keisha that it makes him happy when his precious granddaughter is close.

A sudden paralysis overtakes him. The positions of the women in this room in this house on Green Street are just like the three of them in his bed at home.

The sole resemblance is the way they lie together and that they are three. Doesn't matter to him the differences, but the similarities drive into him. He sees himself, Bea and little Lisa in his own house-- the happy threesome in bed together, just like the three women on the floor. He ignores their faces or rather what's left of them. At this moment, he sees his family and the parallels. He begins to sweat and quiver from cold, fear, anger, and revulsion. He staggers then crumples.

He's on the floor convulsing, unconscious.

He wakes befuddled, doesn't know where he is. Drools from his mouth, looks around and over at the bodies, then remembers. He turns over onto his stomach, pushes up onto his arms and knees, a baby again, too weak to stand. He crawls away to the far side of the living room. Tries to shimmy up against the wall. Doesn't work. Savrini crawls back into the room, grabs hold of the arm of a blue and white loveseat, and hoists himself to his feet.

His underclothes are still wet against his body. He sits for a few minutes until he feels calmer and the dizziness somewhat subsides.

Savrini tries to force himself to stand, to look more closely at the nightmare, to smell if not to touch it. He surmises the women were sexually abused, tortured then slain. Has to be that, no other explanation works. Now he must wait for the Medical Examiner. He can't do anything anyway the way he feels.

He slouches his way back into the darkened corner. So sleepy, so drained, he slumps his wet pain-wracked body into a soft beckoning loveseat, lays his head on the cushion, and stretches his feet out onto the matching ottoman.

Just as he lies down, he spots something strange on the floor. Looks to be a mask under a large piece of heavy furniture next to the walkway that goes toward the kitchen. Savrini's able to glimpse the thing because his head is down low in the chair. This vantage point allows him to see what is below the buffet. He would never have noticed it otherwise, because it's hardly visible under the sideboard. The piece of furniture has only a four inch opening at the bottom, between it and the floor.

Savrini experiences an overwhelming inertia. Can't rouse himself to stand up, tries to rock himself to a sitting position so he can go see the thing. Exhausted. He can't. He promises himself he will when he's feeling better.

Does he have a fever? Could be, he answers himself, exhales, and sleeps.

He wakes a short bit later and hefts his exhausted body up out of the chair. Can't stay here. No. He commands himself to concentrate on this crime.

Up and at 'em Savrini, top notch Criminal Investigator. He rolls over bear-like, and puts himself back up onto his feet and over to the blood soaked scene.

Savrini has forgotten what he saw on the floor below the wooden credenza.

### LATER STILL AFTER THE MLK WEEK-END

"The shoes," Murphy had said. Well, they're impossible to miss. Savrini noticed them when he focused his eyes on the havoc. Red patents maybe four inches high like the ones his wife used to wear when she was young. Those spiked heels made her legs look sexy. Bea called them stilettos. But that was a long ago, thirty years maybe. The red shoes were one of the things that wowed him. Bea had been exciting, lived on the edge. She was fun. He pictures her bright smile, the cherry red lipstick. Hears her contagious laugh. Young.

He leans in closer to peer at the dead women, at the shoes. Could it be? One heel is poking out of one woman's mouth. The other is visible too, only because the women are nude. The stiletto is in her rectum or vagina-- can't tell which-- but those are the likely places. It protrudes from between the cleft ‎of her young round buttocks. Have to examine them later. Can't touch the bodies though he wants to.

‎Young? The language teacher? Can't be.

Savrini takes out his tablet, writes, "Heel rd shoe. Where?" He looks but doesn't see any other footwear among the clothes tossed helter skelter around the scene. Tell the Medical Examiner to look for other shoes. Foot fetishist?

Savrini talks himself down some more. Thoughts scurry about his mind, pictures of little Lisa, how she spends most week-ends with them.

His daughter, Pam, Lisa's mom, drops her daughter off with them so the tramp can hit the party scene. The mom likes the clubs, goes whenever she can. Never married. Doesn't know for sure who Lisa's Daddy is. But that's another story.

Think about that later. No wonder the fellas drool for her. None stick around too long. Lucky for Savrini; he can have her close, see her all the time. He visualizes Pam who wears á la mode jeans with holes that tease. Tight blouses and low necklines exhibit tantalizing full breasts.

He knows he shouldn't think about his daughter that way, but he can't help it. Anyway he doesn't ever hurt her. He assures himself that what he does is all right. Even so, when images of Pam caress his mind like now, he's surprised he feels no guilt. Convenient for him, otherwise he might have to stop.

The detective is happy no one knows. If ‎he ‎isn't ‎careful-- should anyone find out-- he'd make the news and his life will be over. ‎But that worry is short lived, and he's back to his pursuit of the assassins who left mayhem resulting in three corpses right in front of him, inches from his feet.

Sex crime? Probably. But it's more than that. It's unrestrained savage wrath. Who's the object? The child? The women? Hard to tell. Have to wait 'til we can shift things around to explore the evidence. Get a better handle on it later. Hope we do. Can't fathom that this heinous crime might go unsolved, unpunished. He admits that most criminals do get off even after we've proven guilt. Our legal system is ridiculous!

Savrini notices schoolbooks stacked on a low lamp-table next to a blue sofa. On top of the pile is one that announces, "My Diary," red leather embossed with gold letters. He leafs through it with gloved hands. Childish writing fills the pages. The book is only a quarter used. A few leaves have amateurish portraits. Of whom?

Savrini is pleased with the find, wonders whether it belongs to the dead girl, to Elizabeth. Savrini has decided that the youngest corpse is the missing student.

Is it her diary or perhaps a journal kept by the teacher? Can't know yet. No name as far as Savrini can see. Have to study it after the blood and fingerprint people finish with it. He writes on his tablet, "Read diary."

Savrini heads across the living room and back outside for some much needed fresh air. As he crosses through the area, he lowers his head to scrutinize the floor around the carnage to avoid an accidental step into blood. He heads out, arrives at the red glass door, pushes it open into the night.

SALVATION! ‎

As the cold air brushes his cheeks and nose and pierces his coat, it chills his body. The noxious fetor of death pervades the air even outside. No way to tell when the onslaught occurred. The house is stultifying. Has to be eighty degrees in there, maybe hotter. Would that help fix the time of death or would the heat make it more difficult? The warmth must be to blame for the overwhelming stench of putrefaction, of rotten garbage, and from what oozes from the corpses.

He muses. Where are the calls from neighbors? Savrini wonders why not even one has called in a complaint about the bad air.

"What's that awful smell?"

"What do you mean? What awful smell? We ain't got no reports about any bad smells. Don't know about it."

"You don't know? I pay good tax money for you to know! Find out!"

Or maybe. "I...I...I don't know what might be wrong but... you need to send someone... the police."

Wouldn't matter to the caller that the roads are unnavigable or that there might be more urgent things to take care of to protect their city.

"Just send someone. Please... right now! Seems to come from my neighbor's house. Come! Hurry!"

Not at all. No such calls. Instead-- the late afternoon request for a police officer instead, came from the school secretary requesting a cop to go see about a missing teacher.

The detective feels sorry for himself. So damned cold. The coat doesn't keep it out, not at all. Damn Bea! ‎ He promises himself, first thing tomorrow, he'll hit the Chestnut Street Macy's and buy himself a coat.

She won't notice if he walks in with a new one. Well. Then again, maybe she would. Can't help it. I'll die of a frostbitten dick if I don't replace this decrepit piece a shit. The garment has outlived its expected life by twenty years. I'll buy the same color, so she's sure not to notice. He hopes she won't. He loves Bea but living with his wife has become a burden, wears him down. As pretty and exciting as she had been, now she's flat and peevish.

As he looks about, he observes his city, winter dull. The snow on the streets, at first bright white, is dirty and the season's sunless sky of grey, casts an unpleasant aura over everything.

He notices that the houses adjacent to the murder scene, even the opulent ones across the street, appear unoccupied. From where he stands, none are lit, neither inside nor out. He's surprised that he hadn't noticed their darkness when he arrived, and worries again that he's losing it. Must have been thinking of something else--the missing child, Lisa, maybe even his daughter Pam.

His thoughts are capricious wild horses that gallop off wherever they desire. He has little control over his fantasies.

And we don't have the missing Elizabeth, unless she's one of the corpses.

But maybe we have solved her disappearance. Maybe she's been found, and he hadn't been told. Better find out since he'd been away from work for a few days.

He spots Murphy flailing his arms out and back across his chest. Severely cold? That's okay. Murphy warrants all he has coming and then some.

"Tryin' to stay warm?" Savrini calls out as he approaches him, a snicker in his voice.

"What do ya think Detective? Ain't seen no planes around for me to guide in, least ways none so far as I know. You?"

Savrini steps into the white cloud of Murphy's breath to better hear him. The fog of his water vapor is redolent of lemon but overpowered by the stink of rotten onions, meat, and vomit. Savrini backs up-- Too late. Tries to control his gag reflex. Succeeds.

"What about the missing kid, Elizabeth Judd? That her name? She turn up yet?"

"Nope." Murphy can't open his mouth to talk.

"Anything come of the interviews?"

"Nope."

Monosyllables-- That's all. Murphy's face must be frozen stiff. Can't move. More likely can't think. Dumb shit!

That answers Elizabeth's status. ‎

Savrini looks around. No cars parked in front. The closest house has a notice attached to the front door. Same for the one across the street. One is affixed to the front wall but he can't make out what it says--too dark and no outside house lights to help.

The detective sees no graffiti, no garbage, not even abandoned furniture or mattresses, no old rusted appliances, and no "for sale" signs.

Why haven't these houses become dumps for other people's litter? In Philadelphia, when properties are abandoned, that's always the case. Doors and windows get smashed and the homeless and druggies take refuge inside. Neighbors discard their unwanted, no longer useful items in front, a broken washing machine or ratty bug-infested furniture. Much easier to drop them on the street than cart them away to the dump. Also-- Most people don't want to wait for a pick-up from the city-- might take 'til spring ‎

Extraordinary! These homes are clean and well kept. Recently vacated? Security? Maybe, but only during the day since he didn't see or hear any rent-a-cops run out to see what the police were up to.

The detective is so cold he quivers non-stop, his body still wet from the earlier battle with the snow stacked against his car. Somehow his handcuffs have worked themselves underneath his trousers and the icy metal freezes his skin.

He knows he should walk over to the other houses to see what's up but his body is numb from the biting bitter wind. If he stays out much longer he'll die for sure.

The thing he dreads is back at the house. The horror inside. All he wants is to go home, warm himself, down a pain pill, eat, and go to sleep.

His cell rings. The dispatcher.

"Hey Savrini, listen, forgot to tell you before, three more kids are missing."

"What're ya talking about? What does that mean?"

"Three girls went missing."

"So now we have three or is it three in addition to the other two?"

"I, uh...uh...I don know anything about that. I guess... Maybe I wasn't ‎on that day. The other one?‎"

"‎Sure you were. You forgot. All the dancing does a ‎number to your memory. Don't you work at the police department? Don't you ‎know anything? Elizabeth Judd? The girl who didn't come home ‎from school last week? What's wrong with you?"‎

"You mean her. Oh. You're right. Guess I jus forgot for a minute. Yeah-- Course I remember. Musta been thinking about something else. Please don't mention this to anyone. Just...I don't know...Promise you won't mention it. Please Savrini."

"Don't worry about it, I won't. Listen-- Everybody forgets."

"My boyfriend is giving me a hard time. Sorry."

"Don't mention it. So I guess this is four? Right?"

"Guess so. Geeze, I'm sorry Savrini. I...I'll try to find out about Elizabeth Judd."

"Just tell me about this one. Murphy told me Elizabeth has dropped out of sight, swallowed by the city I guess. Gone."

"You're right. She's gone."

Maria goes on to explain today's crisis. "It's three sisters named Purdy. Never came home from some friend's. The girls were away for a coupla few days and they shoulda been home by now."

She adds that they're students from The Benjamin School.

Are the three bodies the missing sisters? Is Elizabeth with them? Underneath? Somewhere else in the house? Not yet found?

House of death.

He hopes someone from the Division will inform the Judds and the Purdys that bodies were found and that they might be their daughters, but that we don't know for sure yet. He doesn't want to be the one to tell them. No one in the department volunteers for that heartbreaking task, least of all Savrini, and not in his state of misery.

He calls the on-duty commander, who tells him it will be done. Thank you God, he sighs in relief. He'll be off the hook for that at least.

### AFTER MLK

Savrini thinks of home, of his wife. Is she waiting? Does she forget that he exists when he's gone? Out of sight? He doesn't know. No one does except Bea, and she'll never tell.

His wife had never been a good housekeeper; in fact, she was pretty awful. Bea preferred to read and paint.

What she enjoyed most was to collect curios, especially elephants. She scavenged and brought them all home; fat bodies with colored pieces of glass imbedded on their backs like blankets, clay ones with long trunks, thin ones with thick tails, clay-fired, glazed, or fine porcelain; didn't matter.

Does she still like them? Who knows?

Not only elephants, but beer mugs, junk jewelry, dolls, frames, mirrors, furniture, old music boxes, anything and everything that seemed intrinsically fun and unique. In particular, she loved objects with deep colors.

Bea would love the red glass door with the ruby doorknob on Green Street. Not now, but the old Bea would have freaked out. Maybe he could bring her here to see it after the publicity dies down. Might spark something inside her brain.

Thinks he'll write it in "Outlook," otherwise he'll forget.

Everything came home with her. She was like a magnet for all sorts of junk. Not much space left for the two of them in their small house. He didn't care. He was happy.

He recalls their marriage. It was like a summer camper's first taste of freedom, full of passion and fun.

Bea would greet Savrini, just home from work. The two would head for a brief detour into their tiny kitchen. The couple in love would sit at their oval chrome-plated table across from their vintage tall white porcelain sink and gorge on chips and dips placed tenderly into each other's mouths and guzzle beer from overflowing German steins girdled by figures in bas-relief-- rosy-cheeked peasants costumed in vibrant colors who dance polkas. You could almost hear the brrump bump bump coming from the painted musicians.

The happy twosome then chased each other upstairs to be the first in the bedroom where they'd enjoy the pleasures of their young bodies; discover a new curve or obscure angle formed by smooth limbs; where there would be tactile erotic zones to explore, to fondle, tease, caress, to spank.

She savored the last. Initially, he pretended that he relished the action, but after a while it aroused him too.

Thrilled-- He'd watch her flesh jerk, electrified with each palm set with force against reddened skin. She responded to the buzz, aroused by the swats of his hands.

Sometimes that was all she needed to get off.

He relished her abandon from what he did to her. Bea would quiver and moan. Her body would flush with pleasure. Her face and chest would color rust, like a ripe peach.

He would suck into his core the proof of his prowess, his powerful manhood, revel in the thrills he gave her that he alone could produce for his woman. It was as much fun as when he himself convulsed. He'd wait until she'd had several orgasms before he'd let himself go.

That's what they did.

He enjoyed the foods she learned to make from the cookbooks that cascaded from the shelf onto the floor while she searched for the perfect luscious gift to prepare for her lover. Her Beef Stroganoff, so rich with sautéed onions and garlic, the meat so tender and succulent, that when he'd call ahead from work and she'd announce the special dish was on the stove, he'd slip over to the side door and sneak out, steal away from work to zoom off home, oil fumes trailing his old junker.

He could taste the dish from the fragrance of the garlic, wine, and beef that wafted outside. Smelled it even before he had his key in the door. Even forgo the sex-as-foreplay to dinner, not to delay the delicious meal itself. The food she served with love had pleased him so.

Bea became an expert chef, but did not learn from her mother. The term ‎‎"mother" was a stretch. The woman had abandoned Bea when his ‎wife was very young. The gutless enigma ‎had expelled Bea from her body and shortly from her ‎life.‎

Now and then Savrini did some half-hearted investigations to ‎learn about her and the father who'd run off before Bea was ‎born. Savrini wasn't serious about this quest. His heart wasn't in ‎it. Truth is, he didn't want her relatives to turn up‎, ‎certain that any family finds would complicate their lives.‎

Together in the evening, he'd recount the detective work done that day. She was mesmerized by his tales, mundane though they were to him.

He still recounts what happens at work, thinks she enjoys the stories ‎ though she stares with those blank eyes. He wonders how much she understands, how much she remembers.

Does it matter?

For her part, she used to tell him about whatever book she was reading, or show him her current painting or latest "find" from the flea market or garage sale.

Those excursions had been an every week-end adventure, discussed over and over with her hubby. He always applauded her plans, a sounding board who couldn't tell a fashion show from a garage sale and didn't care. He never accompanied her. Savrini had no interest in the flea markets or the garage sales she visited.

The mornings of the outings were met with enthusiastic songs and heightened emotions. Her eyes sparkled, her face flushed as she flew frenetically about the house.

The acquisitions are everywhere, on every surface. She enjoyed her artwork and collections. Where to put everything was something of a problem, much discussed, often left unresolved.

He never complained when he couldn't find his keys or clothes hidden beneath the "treasures" that buried the day-to-day necessities of their lives; just took him a little longer to prepare for work.

She had been so happy, he, so blissful. He smiles as he remembers the pleasant times. He was so lucky.

With a shock, he's back to today--the here, the now. The present is not a nice place. He wishes she would disappear. Everything has changed. She is not the Bea he had loved, had adored, the one he rushed home to ravish.

He hired Keisha, a pleasant looking, stocky woman with an endearing, wide-faced, gap-toothed smile. Keisha was to be a companion to Bea, take her out of the house to shop, do some light housecleaning, and cook.

Keisha has no children and can stay at the house 24/7 except for a day a week when she calls the agency to obtain a replacement. Such days, Keisha goes off by herself. Savrini has no idea where. She never tells. He never asks.

When he first hired her, he explained to Bea that the aide was a friend. He suspects his wife knows the truth, but neither speaks about it. Bea is not happy to need a stranger to watch her. She had cherished her privacy, to come and go at will. That freedom is gone. Her independence had been important to her. He knows how much she's lost.

But more important to him is his loss-- the loss of his wife.

Bea doesn't complain about the aide but asks her husband to remind her when and how they met Keisha, because she can't remember. "Was it at church?" She wants to know.

He answers "Yes, it was at church. Remember you were in choir together." They hadn't been to church for maybe three years, five even. She doesn't stop. She asks again.

Savrini's wife refuses to talk to Keisha. Bea's expressionless thin lips are a straight line across her face when the aide is around.

What does Bea have to talk about anyway? She doesn't go out much, doesn't watch TV. When it's on, she stares unseeing straight ahead.

Keisha complained that she has no one to talk to, and wanted to know if it would be all right with him if she were to call her friends or let them come over. Savrini endorsed the idea, thought it might be good for Bea too. At least Keisha would be happier and might be nicer to Bea.

Bea's incessant questions are bothersome. He answers then slips into his own reveries. Bea breaks in. Asks over and over; intrudes like commercial breaks on TV that interrupt the flow of the news or a movie that caught his interest. He hates her questions and the commercials. He's not sure which is worse. Hers will end--soon he hopes. He wishes. He could rush it. Could he? Would he?

He complains to the other detectives about the TV shows; that the commercials increase as the drama heightens. He resents being lulled into a movie that doesn't end because the breaks increase. It can't end, can't climax, not until all the ads that have been sold have run. Savrini is sure the cost to the advertisers is highest for those placed toward the end of movies or sporting events.

He waits. He watches, becomes sleepier and sleepier, wishes the plot would resolve; then they could go to bed. Instead he has to listen to "Hair Club of America will grow hair." On an egg. Sure. Who would believe such nonsense?

He has to listen to weight-loss ads followed by "McDonald's Double Meal Deals" something or other. Savrini pays no attention to any of them. He's not interested and would never buy those products.

Just like the announcements for, "buy Gold it will protect you from imminent catastrophic inflation," or "sell your gold and we'll give you more money than anyone else. Trust us."

The plugs do not convince him to do or buy anything. To the contrary, he abhors the TV stations for not letting the drama come to its delayed and by now anti-climatic conclusion. The commercials are--like Bea--ceaseless interruptions that never end.

Please end. He prays.

He considered cable but never did call the company. If he could arrange that, he'd be able to watch movies without promotions. Maybe he could order it tomorrow. So worn constantly that he never gets around to anything.

He tells his meandering mind to take a break, to stop so that he can bring his mind back to the case at hand. Doesn't want to go back inside the house of hell but it's mandatory to warm his body before it's too late. He can't go home; he has to wait for the Medical Examiner. Savrini forces himself to re-enter the house of corruption.

His head droops over his chest, his shoulders slump; he looks a man of eighty whose belly leads the way.

Savrini mounts the steps up to the front entrance. As he reaches it, the door swings open as if someone is inside inviting him in.

Terror takes over; he can't move, knows he didn't leave it ajar. Can he be sure no one's in the house?

As the door falls open, he doesn't hear anything from inside.

He waits. Thinks maybe he should go talk to Murphy until the M.E. arrives. Savrini does not want to go in but knows he can't stay outside--too cold. He'll die if he does. And he can't go home. Not yet.

What's with the music? He doesn't hear it anymore. Did someone turn it off?

He doesn't want to enter.

Calls over to Murphy. "Hey, C'mon over here and stand by the door. I heard something."

Murphy slouches over to the house. "Wha's up?"

"Nothing, just stick around here while I go inside, at least until the M.E. arrives."

"Sure. You chicken?"

"You kidding? Me? Naw. Just you stay here."

The detective heads back up the steps, revolver in hand, and enters the house. Tells himself over and over that he must have left the door that way. But he's aware of the truth; that more likely, he didn't leave it open. He prays the house was fully searched.

He turns slightly and says out of the side of his mouth, "Don't forget. Stay right here, Murphy. Don't move!" Savrini thinks he has some protection with the uniform here.

He steps inside and leaves the door open in case he needs to call the cop. The malodor has lessened somewhat because Savrini had lowered the thermostat to 50. Even so, it's comfortable inside compared to the arctic freezer beyond. The house seems well insulated; temperature's not dropped below 60 yet.

Feeling somewhat warmer, he begins to think he's safe, that there's no danger here.

He slips off his shredded khaki coat, drapes it over the umbrellas and canes, and steps into the guest bath around the corner. He reaches into the cabinet under the sink, locates some hand towels appliqued with three dimensional miniature roses.

He stuffs the expensive cotton cloths down inside his shirt and shorts then makes his way back into the living area, drying himself. Both hands are diligent inside his underwear, rubbing ‎the towels ‎briskly ‎against his cold wet body. He theorizes that since the house is no longer as warm as before, if he dries himself he might not get pneumonia.

The last thing he wants is to die before Bea. He'll have to be careful if he wants to enjoy his‎ retirement without her. Savrini's been told that what Bea has probably won't kill her for many years.

He settles himself onto a sofa far away from the stinking bodies where he'll wait for the arrival of the M.E.

But the chair cushions are filled with down, soft as air, and he's so spent that he falls asleep again.

Savrini is awakened by laughter. He opens his eyes, looks up, discerns that he, Savrini, is the butt of the M. E. team's fun.

When they arrived and saw he was asleep, they prodded him with a cane to rouse the comatose detective. Savrini had been so deep in slumber that it took several hard jabs. They found that hilarious.

Savrini does not. He's furious that the shits think him droll. Their usual chides are about his weight and slovenly appearance. He's not impressed with their dress or cleanliness either. Today they needle him because he fell asleep.

Ha! He's got the best of them. Savrini is set to retire soon and those shits have miles to go before they're out of harm's way.

Detective Savrini sits up and begins to tell what he observed, knows, and, surmises about the corpses, the crime scene, the environs, and what he believes is the connection to the missing children and teacher. ‎

Suddenly, he has a change of heart when he thinks about the way these guys treat him. He tells himself that the M.E. is made up by a bunch of major dickheads. He's done. He won't share his brilliant mind with the lot of them. They don't rate his guidance. They'll have to go it alone.

He would have stayed and watched them work, come together toward their mutual purpose. But Savrini is angry that they teased him.

The detective puts on his coat and leaves.

He feels warmer after his stint inside so he's off to explore the houses nearby, the inspection he'd started earlier.

The immediate neighborhood, The Museum Area of Center City appears upscale as do the hulking houses on either side of the teacher's, even the ones across the street. The balconies are closed eyes, blacker than black. It's not bedtime; lamps should be lit ‎inside and out.

He looks closer. He can see more, now that the darkness is penetrated by the sudden appearance of the moon. He might be able to read the notices attached to the doors, believes they are eviction notices or maybe condemnations. Strange, how could that be in this classy district?

Foreclosures, evictions, and condemnations are rare in this community, even with today's economic downturn.

Too coincidental; something's going on here. Maybe it's the Chinese drywall materials. Newspapers make a big issue about that country's products that sicken dwellers. People who own those properties have no exit; no one will buy their houses.

Nah. Too recent a construction issue unless all were renovated lately and all used the same faulty building materials. No-- too much of a stretch.

Nor had he heard of any new streets planned by PennDOT or the Federal Department of Transportation. None of them would condemn a wealthy area like this for a road. Nor would the city take it by eminent domain for low-income housing or for some rich mucky-muck's shopping center.

On second thought, he wouldn't put it past the local politicians to take over a nice area and put up any of those. DOT might be the villain. Savrini knows that DOT is above any law, even God's. The government agency does whatever it wants, whenever it chooses--wherever.

Savrini admonishes himself. Back to work; you have to haul your aching body over to these houses.

But could it be that DOT wants to build a road through here? Have to check.

‎ He trudges, immersing his shoes in the deep snow, around to the house behind the teacher's‎. That one looks empty as well. His legs are soaked‎. He shivers.

He goes around to the front door of that house. Sure enough--It's an eviction notice--stranger still. Are the others the same? All evictions? He walks over to look, though he's exhausted once more and still wet and cold to the bone.

Each house has one taped to the front door, all except the one where the murders took place. It is well cared for. As bleak as it is today, the stone house with its orange brick façade and polished shiny metal gate is imposing, the landscape, manicured.

Tall, regal, snow-capped evergreens border the paved walkway and frame the entryway. The trees farther away from the house are white gloved branches. The light from above shines on the jagged fingers that appear to claw at the sky.

The full moon bathes the night with light so bright it is almost like day. He can see the landscape; knows come spring, the bushes and vined trellises will bloom with Fuchsia flowered gooseberry, hot-pink azaleas, orange and white hydrangeas, perfumed gardenias, and yellow and red roses.

This detective is a gardener, his joy until his back worsened. But he still climbs about his shrubs and prunes his apple trees. Savrini's fruit are the best, not sour Granny Smiths. Oh no, he tells the guys at the station when he brings them his jumbo Ambrosias. "You should eat them outside where the sweet juice splashes your face and runs down the back of your hands onto your arms then drips from your elbows. You have to be outside or over the kitchen sink."

"Memo" to self: Check ownership of the nearby houses and also who owns the teacher's?" It's nicer than what he knows she could afford on her salary. Question is--If she doesn't have the money, how come she's here? He thinks he knows the answer.

Later he will learn the truth. For now he is somewhat right and somewhat wrong. His theory--The teacher has a sugar daddy.

It's not the teacher but the idea is correct.

### AFTER MLK WEEK-END

Wednesday, Savrini rides over to the Benjamin to meet with the secretary, glad most of the snow's gone, replaced by a brisk breeze and blinding sunshine.

He vaguely remembers meeting Jane before the MLK week-end the day he went to the school about Elizabeth Judd's disappearance. At that time, Savrini took one look at the woman, exchanged a few words of greeting, and that was all he needed to ascertain that the secretary must be somebody's squeeze. He'd never met anybody that dumb, swears her entire job is to sit at her desk, cross her legs, and smile.

Today she wears a tight beige cashmere sweater. The straight herringbone skirt is short enough to reveal the tops of her black stockings when she crosses and re-crosses her legs. She's so vapid, Savrini wonders whether she graduated kindergarten.

Jane wants to know everything about the murders but stops asking questions when she catches on that the detective won't divulge anything new about the crime.

Instead she asks him about Maitresse' mother. "What about Mrs. Heugot? How'd she die?"

"Who? Ain't heard Maitresse Henriette was married-- thought she was a Miss."

"Adelaide Heugot. What about her? How'd she die?"

"Who's Adelaide Heugot?"

Self-doubts pummel the detective again. Who's Jane talking about? He'd been told that Henriette Heugot is not married; that her name is Henriette not Adelaide.

To avoid being on the defensive, he shouts, "Who the hell is Adelaide? Name sounds like a foreigner if ever I heard one. She from England or something?"

"You must know about her even if you don't know her name. I didn't either-- not for the longest. Met her just once. Well maybe...Anyway, the day she came here... Forgot why. You must know Maitresse' mother. Well, I mean... you know what I mean--Henriette's..."

Exasperated, Jane snorts, "What's wrong with you? You're a detective. How come you don't detect?"

She would continue but she's met by the fiercest scowl she'd ever seen.

She hesitates.

"Go on!"

She continues but her lips begin to quiver. She looks down to avoid his angry face.

"Tell me!"

Jane begins, her voice almost a whisper, "Maitresse Henriette's mother is Adelaide Heugot. She lives at 2204 Green Street with Maitresse...Or I should say-- did. Now that she's dead she doesn't live there anymore...Right?"

He reminds himself she's not the brightest candle on the cake.‎ "I'll ask the questions if you don't mind. Anyway, we don't think she's dead."

"Well then... is she okay?"

"Who?" Savrini is confused.

"Adelaide-- the mother? Is she okay? If she wasn't killed I mean. I just don't understand...Was an older lady killed? Who was found? Did you even search the house?" She's feeling more herself now, stronger. Reminds herself she's met people like the detective before and in most cases they're not dangerous, just full of their own self-importance.

"Just wait a minute. Slow down. I want you to tell me what you know."

"I heard that three people were found dead. I assumed it was Maitresse and her mother, Adelaide. I don't know who else... Do you?"

"I repeat, I'll ask the questions."

"Sure-- go ahead, but I hope you know what you're doing."

"I do. Adelaide Heugot is not one of the deceased as far as we know. Now-- Can you tell me please-- Is there anyone else who might know the whereabouts of Maitresse Henriette's mother or even Henriette for that matter?"

"You can't find Maitresse either. What's wrong with you? You mean Maitresse Heugot isn't dead?" Jane grimaces, clearly annoyed.

"Do you know anyone who would know anything about the women?" He's yelling now.

Jane nods her head, "No. I don't have a clue. And you don't have to scream... Do you have ‎any suspects?" ‎

Elizabeth Judd comes to mind. Could she be one of the victims? It has to be some other scenario, she prays. Please let it not be that.

Is she truly gone, the math teacher's sweet child? If she's not one of the deceased in Maitresse' house, Jane wonders, will she ever return? Did ‎she ‎run away? Was she kidnapped? Killed in Fairmont Park in ‎some ‎kind of freak accident? Lost or slipped and missed her footing, maybe fell into ‎the ‎Schuylkill River and drowned?

She closes her eyes and pictures the day ‎the girl came ‎to her office with an offer to help with the clerical ‎work; hair straight to her shoulders, a slight wan thing. The girl's shy manner captivated Jane. ‎Her style of ‎clothes never changed, plain ‎blouses and dresses buttoned all the way ‎to her chin. ‎Her skirts had been lengthened, made obvious by the white ‎crease ‎above the hemline, a tell-tale sign impossible to erase. The ‎girl ‎later confided that her father insisted that everything ‎her ‎mother bought for Elizabeth, be lengthened as much as the ‎hems ‎would allow.‎

That day she had pleaded to the secretary, "I'll do anything, whatever you need done. I'm a very ‎hard ‎worker. Even if I earn just a few dollars, it would be all right. ‎Pay ‎me whatever you want. I need money to run aw...I...uh, ‎uh...I ‎mean...and..."‎

She stared down at Jane to see whether the secretary had heard ‎or ‎understood her slip. She hesitated for a long ‎moment watching the secretary. ‎

Jane did not look up but continued to stare down at ‎her ‎hands.

Was the woman listening? Had she understood the slip? Elizabeth decided, "No," ‎because the secretary said nothing, didn't look up, and ‎continued ‎to polish her nails. Reassured, the girl continued her plea.‎

"I have to stay out. I'm not allowed to come home until Dad ‎does. He gets angry when I arrive before it's time. Please, please, don't ‎you have any envelopes for me to lick, trash to empty? Anything! I'll ‎do anything! Please! Please Miss Simmons. Please!" She began to ‎sob.‎

Jane put the tiny brush back into the nail polish bottle, screwed it in ‎and blew delicately at her almost dry nails. She stood ‎and moved around her desk to put one arm, the one with the ‎driest nails, around Elizabeth's quaking shoulders.‎

"There there, it'll be all right. I know how to encourage the Principal to ‎give you money so you can help me with my office work.

Jane couldn't see a down side because‎ Elizabeth had always been pleasant and obedient ‎to ‎her ‎teachers and an exceptional student. She knew the ‎child ‎would be ‎an asset, and did become a willing ‎and ‎capable helper. The child was a quick learn, and took over much of Jane's ‎clerical work. The secretary was freed to focus her energies to lobby for her own gain.‎

When Elizabeth found out that Jane enjoys ballroom ‎dancing, she was intrigued; wanted to know all about it. Where to dance? What kinds? How old do you have to be? How do you learn? Are there ‎classes? ‎

Jane took to the girl and was happy to demonstrate the basics, even some ‎fancy steps and styles in the waltz, tango, salsa, rhumba, samba, hustle, and ‎swing. The child had an ear and body for rhythm. She waltzed like a gazelle but sizzled a racy salsa like a Cuban.

Jane's throat hurts. She misses her young apprentice; pretty ‎sure she'll never see Elizabeth again. She'd grown to love the ‎mysterious troubled girl. On more than one occasion, ‎the secretary imagined how nice it would be for the youngster ‎to come and live with her. It was as much that Elizabeth ‎appeared to need her as that Jane felt complete, comfortable, ‎and happy when her helper was around.

Today, Jane reproaches herself. If she had taken her in, maybe Elizabeth would she be alive.

She asks the detective. ‎ "What about Elizabeth Judd? You know... the student who disappeared. Do you have any leads? She's a sweet thing. Please tell me she's all right."

"No, we can't find her. Don't you know anything? ‎ They tell me she worked for you. Was she here the day she disappeared?"

"No. Day before. She was supposed to stop by Thursday. She didn't. Guess her father had other plans for her. He...I mean, well, truth is, I think Elizabeth had a difficult home life--very strict father... You know--the Math teacher. He calls the shots in their house. Elizabeth stayed away whenever she could. It was difficult for her because...well...seems he wanted her at home so he could keep an eye on her...as if she was a bad kid. She wasn't....Quite the opposite. Elizabeth was very well-behaved and smart. Wonder whether her father had something..." She stops.

"Continue! What do you mean? Do you think Judd abused his daughter?"

"I don't know. You'll have to ask him. She didn't tell me...I... just got certain vibes from her...I don't know anything for certain but I do think you should question him."

"Thanks, I'll take your expert advice under advisement." He favors her with his most withering look.

Annoyed at his sarcasm, Jane goes back to painting her nails.

Square one, he thinks. Where's Adelaide, the mother? Where's Maitresse. They need to be contacted. But how? And where's Elizabeth?

### BEFORE MLK-- MAITRESSE

"Of course I remember when Mother had her palace renovated. You'll remember that the furnishings are my taste. All the elegant French touches are mine. The finished product demonstrates my appreciation for culture, not hers. She has none. You don't have to say anything. I know you agree."

"\---------------."

"It was too my idea! Pretty clever when I stuffed Home and Garden into our mailbox. Mother accepted that it was placed there by mistake. I selected the issue that portrayed French motifs, declaring they are the best. Mom took the bait. Everything in the house is the way I like it. I chose the décor--not you. If she had known it was me, she would have gone in another direction, modern or some other low-class trailer-trash style."

"\-----------------."

"You remember now, but did you know that I was the one who left a copy of Architecture in our mailbox, the issue with photo galleries that depicted Corinthian pillars. The sub-text pointed out that such additions "are important to demonstrate a house of considerable culture. Mom put in the columns. That was for you, Sis, because you think the Greeks and Romans are the 'cat's meow.' Sis: no matter how much proof I give you, you refuse to admit that the Greeks and Romans were barbarians."

"\-------------------------------------------------------------------------"

"Of course they are. Anyway, let's not argue."

"\--."

"Sis, I'm so sick of Mother's house; it's trop grande. Requires too much travail, backbreaking drudgery, and we are duty-bound for all of it. You agree?"

"\-------------!"

"Just wait; I'm getting to it. No I'm not long winded! Just listen, for a change. Everything must be clean-- shiny clean. Mother insists that the great mirrors and gold-leaf frames be swabbed, polished, and dried with care, so that not even a speck of dust remains. The windows must gleam, even the ones on the upper floors. The tall ladder frightened you the one time you went up, so it is up to me to make sure the glass sparkles, especially the ones up high. I don't know why I bother. You know, the tall trees are so close to the windows that they shroud the second story to ‎somber melancholy. All of Mother's blue, green, and red cut glass vases and bowls must be washed in ivory soap. We line the porcelain sink with soft white cotton dish towels to protect her glassware from being chipped."

"\---------!"

"I'm getting to it. Be patient. About the laundry in the belly of the house-- You don't have to go there anymore, so just listen. I have to descend those steep wooden steps into the one area that was never updated. The original gun-metal grey laundry sinks sit high up off the floor on tall skinny legs. We have a new washer and dryer but the old washstands remain. They menace in the unlit part of the cellar, that awful place where long ago, hired help and even slaves did the washing. They were forced to use harsh soaps with lye that roughened and opened red sores in their hands. Their ghosts are still here and I'm scared to go down those awful steps into..."

"\---------------!"

"Sis, I have to get this off my chest. No one else but you would understand. Just listen. Won't be long. No matter how much I clean down there, it still exudes death and mildew and so dark, that it frightens me even today. I'm scared of the demons that lurk in the shadows that lie in wait to attack me. They will suck the juices from my body and I will be a dry crisp. When someone enters, the slight movement of air will pick me up, a leaf, and I will flutter into the corner, and disappear into the blackness forever. Mother said that's what would happen if we did the bad things. You would be full of dread too, if you had to go down there. You used to, when we were little. No more. You wrangled your way out of it. Clever you! Sis, remember when we had a pet rabbit that we kept down there? You were with me because that was before you stopped going. Said it made you sick. Anyway remember-- we didn't tell Mom about our white fluffy pet with the pink twitchy nose. It died because when she heard about it, she wouldn't let us go down to feed the little thing. We took the dead animal out to the trash, but the smell lingers today. By the way, what I was going to say was that I've stewed about that a lot over the years...I think you told. You did? Didn't you? Who else knew? No one. And I know, I wasn't the one who leaked it. Had to be you."

"\------------------!"

"Doesn't matter anymore whether you did or didn't. Drop it. Let me talk! The garden doesn't care for itself. Even in wintertime, there are dead leaves to rake and dog excrement to pick up. Nothing to do to stop the neighbors' animals, but strays should be taught not to use our property for a toilet. Sis, you suggested a drastic solution that we discussed one night while we waited for sleep. You said, 'Let's stick a piece of meat on a stick and lead the curs away. They'll follow the bait because they're always hungry. After we've gone a safe distance, maybe several blocks, we'll offer them some dog chow laced with fast acting poison. Then we can steal away home sans the wretched animals. If the poison were not fast, the animals would follow us home for more food. Not nice to have a bunch of dead dogs lying around Mother's garden. That's what I wanted to tell you. It was a terrific idea and it works so well. But I was wondering-- just once-- could you be the one who lures the dog away from the house."

"\-----------------."

"No, it's not true. You never lead them away!"

"And another thing, Sis, summertime I have to pluck every weed by hand and trim every overgrown leaf and branch. The weed-like Fuchsia flowered gooseberry has red pendulous flowers. Mother had me plant them next to the house. They grow larger every season and would overwhelm and drown out the rest if I didn't prune them on a regular basis. That is torture and dangerous because the showy plants protect themselves with large painful ‎blood ‎drawing thorns; impossible not to get stuck. Sis, that's what I was getting to. Let's kill the gooseberry."

"\--."

"Why not?"

"\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------"

"I agree. The flower nectar is so sweet it draws ‎hummingbirds. We watch them hover at each flower just long enough to insert their long tapered bills then move on to the next. Mom says men do the same to women when they can. But okay, whatever you say. We'll leave them for now."

"\--."

"Sis, there's one thing we have in common. We hate Mother. We hate everybody but at the top of the list is Mother. She's so vain, doesn't work, and hardly ever departs the house. But don't you think she looks young from her recent plastic surgery? Mother doesn't tell anyone. It's a secret like everything she does. Remember when we had to spend our summer vacation in Brazil to take care of her when she went for her do-over. Did I tell you why it had to be Brazil? It was because Mother heard Brazil has the best cosmetic specialists? The way she looks today, she was correct; a thorough renovation from her feet to the top of her head. She looks younger than you and I. Sis, don't you think she looks beautiful?"

"\-------------."

"I wanted to have it done too, but you said you don't want surgery and if I do and you don't, we won't look like sisters anymore. I won't like that. Anyway it's moot. Mom said she won't pay for the operation. I'm not telling you anything you don't know, Mom is gross. She needs sex. She's an animal in perpetual heat, and yet, she's always prohibited us from having suitors, even friends for that matter."

"\-----------------."

"You don't care? Well, I half expected you to say that."

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

Magistra uses a stick like a cane, same as Maitresse. Maybe there are two canes in the classroom and I never ‎noticed. I'll check when I'm back in Latin class.‎

‎Magistra walks faster because she doesn't wear ‎high heels and dresses in a toga. The two sisters are never ‎together, so I'm not sure, but I surmise that Maitresse is taller. But ‎then again maybe not. Could be it just seems that way because ‎she wears high heels all the time.‎

Maitresse tells everybody she immigrated recently even ‎though no one asks. Every conversation begins with the same commentary she tells every person she meets. ‎Can you believe it? Then she mentions it every time she runs into ‎them again. Like anyone could possibly forget what comes out of the mouth of someone so weird.‎

Her sister Magistra is a "citizen by birth." That's what ‎ Magistra tells us. I can't figure it out. Neither can Aunt Penny. ‎Can't be true. Are they sisters and the same age? Are they ‎lying? Illegals maybe? Both? One of them? Different fathers? Is ‎any of that possible? ‎

Maybe it's more sinister.‎

Magistra teaches Latin, as I told you, or did I? Guess I did.‎

She says she doesn't care what objects hang on the walls she shares with Maitresse. Says ‎none of the decorations matter to her except the clock that ‎shows Rome time.‎

Maitresse refuses to wind that clock. Says it's not her job. ‎Magistra never pays the slightest attention to the other clocks ‎and ignores the Eiffel Tower and the French flag. Says she's only there ‎to teach Latin. ‎

### BEFORE MLK

Ivan is a regular visitor at 2204 Green Street. He enters with the key he found in the pot next to the front door which he took to a locksmith, had copied, and reinterred in its not-so-good hiding place in the flower urn, the one with the French flag sticking up out of it.

Days when he's able to sneak away from his house, from his father's control, he plays hooky and goes to see his lover.

Once he's arrived at Adelaide Heugot's house, he must ascertain whether her daughter, Maitresse Henriette has left for school.

If he's too early, Ivan takes cover behind a car or a bush to wait while the daughter takes her breakfast. Maitresse is consistent--one crisp buttery croissant dipped daintily into a white quart-sized cup of café au lait, half coffee half milk. She emulates the French whenever possible.

Ivan must curb his desire to rush in, must bide his time, must await Maitresse Henriette's exit. Very hard, particularly on these winter days. His mental journal remarks that this is a freeze-your-balls winter. Today he promises himself that for future outings he'll find a warm place to hole up.

Every day, Henriette sets a breakfast tray for her mother in the kitchenette next to Adelaide's second floor bedroom, then cowers back downstairs and drives off to work.

Ivan uses his key to unlock the glass front door. Adelaide doesn't notice; she slumbers. He knows her routine well. She sleeps late; doesn't arise until long after her daughter has left for school.

He steals inside and across the living room, creeps up the staircase, stops close to the top where he can see his lover stretched out on her bed--nude--always nude--unencumbered by blankets.

When Adelaide wakes, never before 11:00, she takes her tray of food from the tiny kitchenette adjacent to her bedroom, and carries it back to bed to enjoy while she watches television. She likes the Soaps. She savors her repast of one half of a sectioned grapefruit, yogurt with strawberries or blueberries, and black coffee.

After that, she moves into her bathroom inside the master suite. The clear glass inset in ‎the door is not problematic. No one but Adelaide, her daughter, ‎and Adelaide's invited guests (and of course Ivan) have access to this view.‎

While the tub fills, Adelaide sits on the toilet. That is when Ivan creeps ‎up the stairs. The old pained treads of the wood squeak but the sounds are muffled by the running water in the tub. ‎The boy settles himself outside the bathroom door to watch his lover beyond the glass-- convenient for Ivan, the voyeur, to savor his love with his eyes.

She's nude, same way she sleeps and eats her breakfast. She sits and fondles her full breasts. He can tell that she likes her body when she takes one nipple then the other into her mouth and sucks.

A bath had been prepared by her daughter. It needs only the addition of some extra hot water to make it comfortable.

Adelaide enters the tub and continues sucking and fondling her breasts. She watches herself in the mirrored wall which faces the tub. Ivan has an unobstructed view of the room. Penis in hand he strokes in time to the rhythmic music that flows throughout the house. Today it's reggae. Adelaide loves music. So does Ivan. The sound is cover for what Ivan does to himself.

Adelaide is unaware that anyone watches. Ivan guesses she wouldn't mind but he doesn't want to test that hypothesis. Might put an end to his fun. Ivan's very careful.

The water temperature is perfect, the room steamy, when Adelaide immerses herself in the tub. She enjoys this time. No one knows that more than Ivan.

She stands up out of the water to rub her clit with perfumed oil from the thin-necked green glass vial chosen from among the jumble of glistening red green and blue glass jars and bottles on the table next to the tub. The bright overhead lights shine on the faceted glassware. Jewel colors pulsate, emit flares that glimmer against the walls and fondle her face.

Euphoric, she massages herself with the scented oil keeping time to the rhythm of the piped-in music.

She sits again, and immerses her ample body in the now tepid water. A sour expression turns the corners of her mouth down, replacing the mellow look of seconds earlier. She opens the spigot to allow the heated deluge to burst into the lukewarm bath.

More comfortable now, Adelaide smiles and settles her body down into it, encircles then squeezes her breasts gently. Rougher now she pinches the nipples between her fingers, stiffening them. She handles her clit, and alternates with the nipples. Next she takes the shower head attachment, directs it first to her erect nipples then into the water at her clit. She is flushed red from the heat of the room and the hot water in the tub.

As much as Ivan wants to stay, he must take himself away to a place nearby where he'll remain to watch but will be unseen. It can't be the staircase. That's not safe; the boyfriend will be in soon.

His new vantage point is a closet across from the master. It offers a view of that room and its adjacent food area. The louvers are open just enough for him to see the bed, part of the hallway, and the kitchenette off the master.

No one uses this compartment, and as a matter of fact, it is such an awkward nook that there was nothing in it until Ivan placed some blankets and a pillow in there for his own comfort.

Ivan sets himself up for Act 2 or is it 3? He isn't sure which. Anyway, he has a front row seat from where he can see the show.

Her boudoir, as Adelaide calls it, is pink and purple satin. The bedstead, throw pillows, shams, full curtains, linens, and silk wall hangings are pink. Even the rug is the palest rose cashmere.

Amethyst and silver glow in the reflected lights that are trained at the pleasure place that is her bed.

The walk-in closet is almost as large as the bedroom. Off to the right is a tall plastic and metal stand shaped like Adelaide. The manikin wears a purchase from the latest Paris couture collection, a strapless gown in black, sequined and studded with black sapphires and genuine green chrome tourmalines. She has not worn it yet, but Adelaide has plans.

She prepares for the games to follow. Colors her clit, nipples and then adorns her ass and pussy with a jeweled thong, sometimes a leather bra with openings for her nipples. Ivan loves to watch her stand before her mirror to tint them. She brushes a red edible substance that fills in the little crevices and covers each miniscule mound. She bends her head forward, cups one breast and paints. It is a deliberate process. Ivan likes the action, and wishes he could tell her how much it excites him.

He has stroked himself during the preparation and now erupts.

Sometimes she wears nothing but a thong, and covers her large red nipples with shiny silver pasties. Today, his love costumes herself as a French maid in a porn movie. A white transparent organza apron with thick clear straps is tied into a big bow behind her back.

He hears the special knock that announces her lover who enters the front door with the key he's been given and bounds up the stairs three at a time.

Ivan makes himself comfortable for the festivities to follow. He will pay careful attention to what he must learn for when he will take his place at her side. He longs for that time. Until then-- He will watch.

Ivan knows Adelaide well. He doesn't care that she is selfish and cruel toward her child; that she is a narcissist. All Ivan knows is that he is in love with her.

She has a good time with sex, and sets the scene with rhythmic sensual Latin cumbia, or a sultry slow swing with dirty lyrics.

Her lover in his wife-beater shirt ‎reclines on her bed, stroking himself, and waits. He has been put on notice by Rule Number 1 in her verbal training manual. "Be patient."

Adelaide parades to and fro in red patent leather high heels, her legs so close together that she stimulates herself with each step.

Adelaide, "the maid" enters from the tiny kitchen. She pendulates her hips into her bedroom, one arm bent at the elbow, her hand and fingers opened wide to support a silver tray of Godivas and glasses for French champagne. The space is redolent of chocolate. Ivan salivates onto his shirt.

Her hips gyrate‎ as she enters into the soft pink of the boudoir, and exits to the kitchenette to gather more drinks, cake truffles, and cashews enveloped in white chocolate-- all to serve her male visitor‎.

She sets the tray on the night table, and pushes at his chin with her forefinger to open her lover's mouth. She places a sweet inside, and hands him a champagne glass full to overflowing. When she spills a few drops on his penis, she replaces his hand with hers and sweeps away the liquid.

The woman exaggerates her subservient role when, as if by accident, her abundant blobby boobies expose themselves from the low-cut apron. ‎The voluptuous soft breasts spill out as she leans over her man. She steals a coy glance up at her lover-- a delicious expression of surprise, eyes wide; her black lashes bat furiously.

This inflames her as it does her guests. The fake servitude titillates all three of them.

She tilts her head mischievously, smirks, and presses a painted finger to her chin. He's not allowed to touch, but he may reach out to show he's thirsty to ravish those luscious breasts-- to swallow the delicious nipples.

She straightens up as if to hide them, then turns to expose her ass, nude, except for the jeweled thong, most of which is deep in the crevice between her full cheeks.

Ivan is certain she had to be a maid or a waitress as well as an actress in her secret past.

Adelaide shimmies her bottom in a figure eight. He wonders. Was she a belly dancer or a salsa queen? She moves to the music. A strip-club dancer? Ivan would love to know.

She backs in closer to her guy who sits on the edge of the bed to be close to where she stands. She bends over away from him, opens her buttocks with her hands and pulls away the jewel encrusted thong. She shows him her ass. Her swollen vulva drips. She waves her painted clit toward his face, but it's still too soon for him to handle.

She lets him adore her. He does. So does Ivan.

"Now you may touch but only with the tips of your fingers."

He loses control and grabs with both hands.

She yelps.

"I told you, but you didn't listen. You must obey my commands. I'm in charge. You are here to do my bidding. I am the mistress. You are my slave. Remember that!" She taunts him, forces his cheeks, nose, and mouth onto her moist opening.

She comes.

Adelaide takes up the belt she has placed on her bureau brushes it across his penis and legs.

He cries out in pain.

"Next time will be harder," she chides. "You must wait until I'm ready for more--not before."

She reminds him as she lays her hands gently on his penis. "Fingers only."

He's learned his lesson.

He strokes her clit with his fingertips then pushes them a short distance ‎into her cunt to see whether it's safe. It is. She says nothing but squirms with pleasure. Her juices lubricate his fingers. He wriggles one into her ass, another strokes her clit. She giggles; her breasts bob. She sidles herself toward him, allows his fingers to enter deeper.

He slides his legs around to enclose her body. He gropes with his other hand up and around in front to fondle her breasts. He pinches the red nipples. She comes again.

She backs against him, holds his penis, guides it to enter her. Her head touches her feet. She pushes up and back swallowing his erection then reaches back beneath her to cup his balls, to caress and squeeze them.

They move together with the same rhythm. She whimpers, her expression rapturous. He drives his cock in and out of her tight slippery opening, hammers into her silky wetness, convulses and collapses.

After he's had a minute, Adelaide climbs over him to suck his cock to prepare him for her again. He complains, says he needs to sleep but acquiesces when her legs open wide to straddle him.

He's ready. He's young. That's why she chose him. She mashes her breasts into his mouth. He thrusts his penis into her, pulls her erect nipples into his mouth, sucks one then the other--pinches and sucks. He grabs both, squeezes her breasts together to mouth them both at once. She bounces up and down so violently that Ivan wonders how her lover's cock stays inside.

That episode takes a minute to culminate. Ivan times his ejaculation so it's simultaneous with hers.

Ivan is one with Adelaide.

Ivan is so in love.

The couple nap.

Ivan rushes away from the door to position himself in an unused bedroom far down the hallway. The house is enormous with its many unused rooms and knows from experience he won't be exposed in that one.

Ivan downs his lunch but he's still hungry after wolfing the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he's brought for himself. He'll need something more substantial for his next picnic at Adelaide's.

He settles under the covers and sleeps, same as Adelaide and her lover. As a rule, he manages to awaken before the couple. When he does, he takes cover in the little closet. He needs to get there before showtime.

Soon the lovers are ready for more fun and games. Foreplay. Then after a detour to her nightstand, Vaseline anoints his cock and her ass.

Ivan is close enough to see when he fucks her the back way or uses a dildo inside one orifice, his cock in the other. Both savor when he pumps her openings. They indulge in a few moments of bliss, then explode in rapture.

Ivan, cock in hand, comes when she does.

They hug. They kiss. They call it a game well spent. Nap time.

Ivan contemplates what he sees and hears. He would never use such language as fuck, suck, pussy, but they are the words Adelaide uses, the terminology he has learned for sex. Sometimes she uses expressions such as "my exquisite opening." She is strange mix--a bit of culture mixed with an abundance of gutter-talk.

Where did she come from? The dark secrets about his woman, Ivan's eternal questions, remain unanswered. Ivan is in love and all he wants is Adelaide, but he knows that for now this is all he'll get. He would do almost anything to be her lover.‎ No. He would do anything.‎

Ivan has long discussions with himself about which kind of sex Adelaide likes the best; anal, oral, or vaginal or some combination. His conclusion--She has no preference. She enjoys it all.

On occasion, he oversleeps and must wait for Adelaide to finish her romp with whichever man visits. He can't safely cut out until they doze. Those times he misses the last sex show the lovers produce. Sad occasions for Ivan. Depresses him until his next visit.

When Adelaide's romps are over and the two take the last nap of the day, Ivan leaves. He's never been caught so far.

Well. Not exactly never.

The youngster isn't too worried because the one time Ivan was caught was when he stared at Adelaide via the‎ window and there were no consequences. He explained to the police that he was there to get his sister, Elizabeth, and was to take her home.

Part was true, he had gone for Elizabeth but not to Adelaide's house. That was his idea.

One day he was picked up by the police. When his father was called and came to the Station, Judd explained that sometimes his daughter has to go to the Heugot house to deliver a letter or a package that the mailman or FedEx dropped at the Judd's by mistake. "The streets are different but the house numbers are the same." It was the father's explanation, but Judd knows the truth about his son.

The father further explained to the policemen that "Elizabeth had not returned after delivering the package, and that was why Ivan went for her at the Heugot house."

The cop wanted to know, "Why didn't Ivan knock at the door?"

"Ivan is very shy. He never knocks. If he did and Maitresse should come to the door, he would have to talk to her. So he just stands near the house and calls out to his sister and waits for Elizabeth to come outside."

Ivan was released to his father the same night and no one in the family ever brought it up again.

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

Did I tell you about Ivan, Elizabeth's brother?

He's so weird. He plays hooky all the time and I don't know how he gets away with it. After all, his father is Mr. Judd the math teacher.

I've seen that kid skulk around lots of times. He lurks in the bushes and peeks in the windows.

Weird!

The other day while I was checking for unlocked car doors, I passed by some policemen who were talking to Ivan. I was close enough to hear but they didn't see me right off so I bent down behind a bush nearby and pretended to tie my shoe lace just in case they noticed me. I had an excuse if they saw me there and thought I was eavesdropping.

One of them asked Ivan why he was there. (This happened right in front of Maitresse's house.)

Ivan told the cops about that his mother told him it was the biggest emergency and that he must hurry and go get his sister.

I know that's not true. He can't be trusted to do anything, and when he doesn't do what he's told, he has all kinds of excuses for why he didn't do whatever it was he was supposed to do.

I guess it's sort of the same with me. I make up excuses, and I do exaggerate too much. Mom says I should keep my feet on the ground and stay in the real world. ‎

‎She's one to talk. Look at her; all she does is sit ‎at her computer and play Candy Crush or Bejeweled. She doesn't even look up at me when I ask her questions.

I get so angry when people don't listen to me.

### THE BALLROOM‎

Luther, the Policeman in charge of Headquarter's Security frowns when he notices Maria's frown and sagging shoulders. He asks the dispatcher, "Hey Maria was unh?" ‎

"Luther I need you to help me get my head straight. You know that bum Murphy? Well, he shook me up so bad I can't talk right."

"Gotcha...He a trip. Maybe I can help. Remember that creep at the dance, the one what tried to score with you? You know... that time you was there widout yo boyfriend? He act jus like Murphy. You know, he real pushy then got nasty, all red and scowly when you wouldn't go downstairs with him. Remember?"

"Yeah. Like it was yesterday. We got him though, you and I. We stopped his clock when I said I would meet him in the parking lot. All happy smiles 'til you showed up 'stead o me. You asked him what for. Remember?"

"Sho nuf. That was a wonerful night. Was that Labor Day? Or July 4th? We danced all night. Me and you and won the prize for bes all round dancers. You still got the trophy?"

"Sure. Want to keep it for a while?"

"No. Maybe later. That was the sweetest night and the music was the best for West Coast. Richard played lots of B.B. King."

"The salsas were to die for and the studio. Enchanting. Red white and blue streamers crisscrossed the ceiling and went around the crystal ball that glittered and sparked colored lights all over. Ribbons framed the pictures of Richard with his students and went up circling all the fixtures. Remember? Richard and the girls draped red and blue scarves over the little table lamps, made them glow with those patriotic colors. It was wonderful! And we all sang the Stars Spangled Banner and everyone choked up and the words stayed stuck in our throats. And then we all discussed about how lucky we were to live in this great nation."

"And you looked so good and..."

Maria thinks about her friend Luther and what could be up with him. She can't recall his last ‎name, Winter, Spring? Oh well, doesn't matter. He's very ‎bright. Why didn't he finish school? Why hasn't he improved ‎himself? Has no father. One of seven children. Guess that's ‎why. Had to take care of his younger sisters and brothers. What a nice man. Good-looking too, greying hair he wears short, and has white into his beard, open smile--so kind and never married. ‎

Maria! Forget it! It'll never happen! ‎

Luther continues to talk but Maria's no longer in the Police Station. Her mind is back at the Dance Hall. She remembers that night, the first time they saw the mysterious girl.

Her mind wonders, takes her back there. Maria's alone as she walks up the stairs into the oversized studio on the second floor over Carl the Shoemaker and The Oriental Grill Kitchen. The aromas of chicken, garlic, vinegar, glue and heated leather permeate the studio's open areas above the stores. The hall is large enough to fit fifty tables and chairs plus space for a hundred couples on the dance floor.

Richard, the owner, is here to greet her; a teeth-showing smile demonstrates his happiness that she's here. He moves in fast but not fast enough. His wet kiss lands on her cheek, not her lips. Maria averted her face in time to avoid contact of his open wet mouth on hers. As she continues toward the dance floor, she wipes his saliva from her cheek with the napkin she has at the ready.

"Salsa later?" He calls after her as she ducks into the studio.

"Sure. Can't wait," She sneers. Richard doesn't interest her; not her type.

The owner likes to salsa and merengue with her. Maria's wide girth and exaggerated hip action are fun to watch and partner with. She's entertainment. Maria can't seem to lose weight, so she decided long ago to employ belly dance movements to stimulate any would-be watchers. Works for her. Gets her dances with the best who otherwise wouldn't give her a second glance.

The studio is dingy. No one cares. They're here to dance-- that's all. There are however, a few souls who aspire for more, to get laid, maybe even find a mate.

The entirety of this alcove is the reception desk plus a water cooler. Continue on, and it leads straight out onto the floated wooden floor, specially constructed to be easy on the feet.

The music pounds a cha cha, I'm Going to Schenzhen, by Remi Martin.

It stops.

"Lesson time!"

Cher teaches a group class, smiling chatty women on one side, high-heeled dance shoes and short dresses or tight pants. Serious faced men line up on the far side--a scruffy lot whose faces display a dark or silvery growth--not quite a beard, not clean-shaven either.

The teacher is vivacious, pretty, wears her reddish-blonde hair short, graceful long neck, shapely legs, sensual body, purple tights, and low-cut transparent blouse.

The music has stopped. Her voice dictates.

"Men! One-two-three, cha-cha-cha. Let-her-go, turnthegirl around. Gentlemen: she can't turn if you hold onto her. Try it again. Music please. Music please. Richard would you please turn on the music.....Thanks."

Couples connect. Some learned the step. A few have not. Cher is at the ready to help.

"Change partners. Everyone have a partner? Over there, that nice gentleman needs a pretty lady. Over here...Okay now... And one...No. Your left foot. No. I mean your other left foot. Giggle giggle." Cher makes everyone believe they're okay dancers even when they're not. A saint. Everyone loves her.

Maria remembers that night, visualizes the crowd. Pam Savrini is the youngest, a talented accomplished dancer and a sexy dresser. She knows how to set the bait, to‎ fire up men to ask her to dance. Sexy is an understatement, her tight blue-jeans and low-cut blouses show way too much. Maria wishes she could dress like that. What people don't know is that Pam's get-up has only one aim--to entice men to dance with her--not more than that.

One distinguished old Argentine gent can't take his eyes off her. He watches Pam being led around the floor by the club "groper." The music ends. The partner holds her tightly, too tight for her to shake off. He'll dance the next with Pam unless someone yanks him away.

The old South American stands up, reaches his arm around Pam's waist, draws her forcefully into his arms, pulls her against his body, and wraps himself around her. A tango. They're entwined. His eyes glaze, an angelic smile engulfs the stiff white mustache. The oldster swoons.

Maria watches the groper's face fall, hears him taunt the oldster, but only Maria hears the slurs.

Her mind is still in the studio, her body at the Police Station.

There's that bitchy dumb blonde, what's her name. I can never remember. Jane, I think, the secretary at the Benjamin. Her red tube top is hardly there, and matching fish-net stockings have seen better days. One leg's torn above the knee. Puckered flesh stares out through the hole. Her Chanel scent drenches the air. It follows Jane as she glides across the floor.

The throng of dancers rotate, circle counter-clockwise, an intricate puzzle that moves like the gears of an enormous clock. They waltz as one, circling the floor.

Take it to the Limit cries out to all, "Join us. Whirllll with us in our spiraling sphere. Beeee with us." Women and men croon to their partners. Couples synchronize. Their bodies revolve in harmony, freed from the floor, no longer anchored to this world.

They gliiide. They flyyy.

In the half light of the hallway, Maria sees a young girl of eleven or twelve, a flitting mirage draped in black. An aura of luminescence outlines her head in silhouette. Her body is still, but she advances her face past the door frame to take in the spectacle of the dancers. She lingers in shadow but for the lights that reflect on her from the faceted glass globe that revolves, igniting a rainbow on her face. She is quiet, frozen, a mime. Her intensity has kindled a glow that appears to come from behind and then to surround her.

A child really, the statue stands, all but invisible to the dancer habitués. Her shoes tap, hips twitch to the beat of You ain't Down Home by Jann Browne. Maria is close enough to notice the motion of her body below the long black cape that falls nearly to the floor.

A syncopated disco. Women swing out-- Away. Return. Off again. Hips swivel. Knees flex. A flushed frenzy.

Gotitas de Miel, Drops of Honey by Pandora, is a rhumba ‎ danced in place. The lower body moves with sensual rhythm, two people as one.

The young girl rolls her hips. Her knees lift. They shape the black material turning it white when struck the lights above.

Maria sees that the youngster feels the rhythm. The girl can dance. No expression of any kind crosses her face, neither does she arouse anyone's attention.

A ghost. She was never there.

"Maria! Maria! Where was you?"

"Don't know, just daydreaming. Sorry, what were you saying Luther?"

The dispatcher reluctantly returns to the Station House.

### AFTER MLK

Savrini thinks about his wife. Bea is no longer the woman he married, the young beauty he'd cherished. Her white hair is unkempt. She can't be bothered to comb or brush it, neither does Keisha. No one thinks to take her to the beauty parlor. He had loved that blonde young girl, the Bea of yesteryear.

Nor does she pay attention to her clothes; wears whatever is easiest--house dresses, no bra. He hates those horrid flowered print things and the dirty worn grey sweater Keisha drapes over Bea's shoulders when she frets, "I'm cold."

Bea had always been affectionate, effusive with passionate copious hugs and ‎kisses. They'd had a wonderful life. After work, he'd look forward to the home they shared, the bed where they'd enjoyed their ardor, their lives together.

Bea was just a kid, not more than fifteen when they first met. He saved her from a lost life, took her in, loved her innocence, child-like, not yet a full person.

But she knew how to please him. Each took what they wanted, what they needed. She enjoyed the protection of a home, of a father. For his part he won the lottery-- a young sexpot bride.

What now? Now is shit!

Is there a future for him in all this? Could he make one?

His depression persists, can't free himself from black thoughts.

Despite his own misfortune, Savrini yanks his mind back from the depths to the crisis at hand to focus on the despicable atrocities on Green Street.

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

I love Florida. I want to be there all the time. Did I mention that?

I can wander around Auntie's building and do what I want, because people don't know me there‎. Sometimes I take the neighbor's morning daily before they wake up.

You would not believe how late these people sleep. The Miami Heralds sits in front of their doors as late as noon-- even later. How lazy can you be?

I take one paper at a time because I don't want Auntie's neighbors or the delivery people to get suspicious. I do like to stay current with the news.

‎ No one knows. ‎

Aunt Penny's apartment has three immense bedrooms and three bathrooms. Everything is modern, white walls and silver and white leather furniture. Her marble floors are slippery when wet, so everyone has to be careful when we come in from the pool or the ocean or when we've just showered and still drip a little.

The counters are black granite with silver sparkles mixed in.

Auntie has pictures on the walls of all the cousins and uncles and aunts. They're framed in silver, black, green, gold, and red. She even hung them in the bathrooms.

The apartment is right on ‎the beach. We don't even have to cross the street. ‎Today the weather is excellent so we set off for the ocean. There are little waves to jump and the water is clear all the way to the bottom; not much seaweed and just a few teensy weensy tiny pink fish dart about.

We have so much fun. We splash and float, and jump the high waves, then keep our eyes peeled for the next one. We turn to watch what happens to the foamy swells that grow smaller as they rush toward shore and disappear as they approach the little kids with their buckets and shovels in the shallows near the edge of the cream colored sand.

Steven has the most fun. He hoots and squeals and jumps the waves. His smile stretches across his face and everyone hears him whoop and laugh. The sound reaches all the way to the people who sit on their beach chairs under their rainbow umbrellas supported by poles dug deep so they won't blow away.

Gigantic white cruise ships move across the horizon. What a thrill to sail off surrounded by ocean all around. I would journey to islands and explore far off countries. I hope they don't speak French or Latin in those places because then the people would be like my two horrible teachers. That awful thought almost ruins my day.

Aunt Penny says she will take us on a cruise sometime soon. She tells us ocean liners are like small cities with hundreds of passengers and lots of workers to care for the tourists.

Hope she means it and we get to go. I could do such fun things on a cruise ship and no one will know I did them.

While my mind heads out on the floating palace, I forget to watch for the next wave. A big one wallops me and knocks me over. Before I can put myself back up on my feet, I swallow salt water and sniff some into my lungs and my eyes sting. It doesn't matter at all. The ocean is perfect and we want to stay in the water, but Aunt Penny says it's time for lunch. We head up on the elevator and file into her apartment.

Auntie makes our grilled-cheese sandwiches special. Says it's French style. I like to help so I beat the eggs. Auntie puts cheddar cheese between two slices of bread, dips it all in the beaten eggs, then fries it in lots of butter until the cheese melts and the bread is browned and crispy. Mmm.

We hurry up and shower. It's into clean clothes very very fast so the food is just the right temperature to eat along with the sweet lemonade Auntie squeezed for us.

Then it's time for our Bridge lesson. Auntie says we will be bridge masters very soon. I'm not so sure. There's so much to learn and I think I don't even want to. There are more fun things to do than that.

Even though I'm happy here, I start to wonder what's up back home. I'll email Elizabeth to find out. The one thing I miss about Philadelphia is my best friend Elizabeth Judd.

My thoughts are never more than a hop skip and a jump from Maitresse and Magistra. They are not good teachers. I know, because Aunt Penny speaks French and one time she tried to find out how much I'd learned from Maitresse. So she asked me some simple questions in French like, "Do you speak French?" I can't answer a thing--not one word. I'm so chagrined. After two years in Maitresse's French class, I should know something.

Aunt Penny is enraged at the school. The little crease between her eyebrows deepens as she listens to my non-answers. Says she will come to the Academy on her next visit to Philadelphia. Says she will talk to the Headmaster about why they let Maitresse teach, since it should be obvious to everyone that she is incompetent.

Auntie can't figure whether Magistra does a good job or not. Auntie ‎doesn't speak Latin.

I beg her not to talk to Maitress because I have a foreboding about what Maitresse might do to her or even to me. She appears not to listen. Her eyes don't focus on me. I think it's because she's planning her meeting with Maitresse.‎‎

### DIARY BY NATALIE-- MIAMI BEACH

Did I tell you about when I got the idea to get a mask? It was Halloween. I can see it like it was yesterday.

We're at an outdoor café on Ocean ‎Drive, ‎drinking lemonade and watching people in costumes pass by‎. ‎We aren't wearing any special duds, but I think ‎we should have ‎masks at least so no one would know who we are and we could do nasty ‎things.‎

‎ I tell Auntie, "Let's set out to buy some masks so we can ‎do ‎mischief."

She tears her eyes away from the weird-looking people to look at me, squints from the bright sun, furrows her brow and says, "I don't know where to find them around here on ‎South ‎Beach."

I go. "Walgreen's." ‎

‎Auntie goes, "No. And anyway, I wouldn't wear a mask; it would mess up my hair, and besides, if we split, ‎somebody else will take our place here in the outside cafe. We'd lose ‎our front ‎row seats for the street show."

‎ I go. "I could run over there by myself. I know where there is ‎a Walgreen's right nearby and you can stay here and keep our place.‎"

"No. You'll get lost." She says.

That's what I expected she'd say.‎

‎ I decide to buy one at my first opportunity so I can ‎fool ‎everybody and no one will know who I am, and I could do ‎whatever ‎I want. I might ‎even be able ‎to fool Mommy. Well, maybe not Mommy, but ‎everyone else for ‎sure.‎

‎ So we stay where we are and watch the people frolic by. Men ‎are ‎dressed as women and women dressed up so they look like ‎men. ‎Everybody wears make-up, lots of red lipstick, even on their ‎cheeks ‎and blue and green eye shadow and long fake eyelashes ‎and big ‎blonde or red wigs and fancy garish clothing like taffeta ‎and velvet ‎and silk and sparkly sequins. It doesn't matter which ‎sex, they are all fancy.‎

We stare at them. I wouldn't like people to stare at me, but I ‎don't dress up like that.‎

A group of men--anyway they look like men--prance ‎down ‎the street dressed as Hari Krishnas in white blousy shirts ‎and long ‎skirts. They bounce by, playing tambourines. We can't decide whether they're real Hari Krishnas or just dressed to look like them.

Halloween in South Beach: and all the costumes are amazing. We sit transfixed on the edges of our chairs. We stare and sip sweet lemonade.

I wanted Elizabeth to come on vacation with us. Dad said it would be fine with him. Auntie said so too. She has lots of beds. Elizabeth's Dad refused. Said Elizabeth had chores to do.

We would have had such fun.

Tomorrow I'll buy my mask and...

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

Today is half day Friday the last day before the Martin Luther King holiday. No more school for three days. Thank God!

I'm in Home Room and my mind watches a day-mare about scary Maitresse and Magistra, about what they could do to me. All of a sudden it dawns on me that they left for vacation today or maybe even yesterday. I'm not sure which and they'll be away for a long time.

I burst with happiness. They're gone, so maybe I should set out with Susie to investigate their house to find out who and what they are and their mysterious secrets.

Susie said she'll go to Maitresse and Magistra's house over the week-end. Anyway, she said she would. ‎ Will I have the courage to go if she does go and if she asks me?

Maybe. Might be fun.

She won't ask me.

I should ask her if she'll let me come.

I will!

I'll pop the question when class is over. What's the worst that could happen? She'll say, "No." That wouldn't be so bad, after all, lots of people tell me "No." Mom and Dad and even Steven refuse whatever I ask--all the time. I'm used to it. When they do, I just nag again and again until they snap at me, "No!" so loud it hurts my ears. Sometimes they give in and say, "Yes." My philosophy is--If you don't ask you don't ever get anything.

So then I decide to chance it alone even if Susie tells me she won't let me go with her. I know where Maitresse lives. All the kids do. They like to go by their house on Halloween and fling toilet paper all over the trees and bushes. Sometimes the boys hole up till dark other nights too, and strew garbage all around and pee on the purple and red flowers to make the petals droop and fall off.

The teachers must love their garden because I always see Maitresse or Magistra on their knees outside where they weed and fertilize and such. They never work together. Did I tell you that I never see both of them in one place at the same time?

I feel hopeful. The decision to hang with Susie shows courage. It means I will confront the reality of my horrible life and turn it around. I have a plan, one that might solve some mysteries and be fun at the same time.

I am joyful!

I start to think about what I might find in Maitresse's house and that there will be French cream pastries and chocolate bonbons.

I love chocolate.

I envision the gorgeous French furnishings, the paintings and the pretty carpets, and what I could do to all of it. I could even the score with those mean nasty teachers because they make a horror of my life.

When all the scary and embarrassing things they did to me come to mind, I become frightened again, not brave, not strong.

I must go! I have to.

### DIARY NATALIE SATURDAY JANUARY 18

I'm worried about Elizabeth. She wasn't in school yesterday. I noticed Mr. Judd was jittery.

Where is she? I emailed her and she didn't answer.

Elizabeth's parents go on TV. They cry and cry. They ask for information if anyone knows "the whereabouts of their sweet daughter." They show a picture of her when she was eight. Wonder why they don't have something more recent.

Aunt Penny takes lots of pictures of me and Steven, says they're so she can look at us when we're not with her. I would like to stay with Aunt Penny more.

Anyway, it was Thursday mid-morning. I was in math class stewing about my future alone, without my best and only friend. Then, when my life couldn't be any worse, short of death, I hear my name called.

"Natalie, look up here and tell the class the value of x?"

Uh oh. I sort of expected that might happen. Elizabeth sits next to me. She would have whispered the answer in my ear but she wasn't there.

Just then the bell rang. I slipped out of my seat and ran out of the building before Mr. Judd could stop me.

I wasn't anxious to get home but then I remembered Aunt Penny was on her way to Philly and might already be at Dad's house. I couldn't wait to see her.

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

I'd been day-dreaming in math class and got caught.

Did I tell you the math teacher Mr. Judd is Elizabeth's father?

Anyway, Mr. Judd said, "Please pay attention Natalie! You know what happens to Elizabeth when she doesn't obey. Maybe you want to be disciplined too."

I was scared because Elizabeth had told me how he punishes her when she's careless. I think it was about two weeks ago that she confided in me. She said it's so bad that she's afraid to go home. I felt sorry for her but I am too.

I couldn't believe what she said. I was revolted. To me it's just not right that a father does that to his daughter. While we were walking out of class was when Elizabeth opened up about him. She started talking, but all of a sudden stopped and got quiet. He had come around the corner after us. She shut up and grabbed my hand and started to run. She led me out of the school building and over to the playground. Mr. Judd scowled but couldn't stop us because we moved too fast and his next class had begun to come in and take their seats.

She made me swear not to tell. If I did, and her father found out, she said she would cease to exist.

I swore my silence.

After we got into the playground, Elizabeth continued her story about what her father does and that no one knows about it.

What she told me was like a movie I saw late at night after Mom went bed. The film was about a stepfather who traveled all over the country with his nine year old step-daughter and did sex with her every time they stopped for the night and even during the daytime in the grass and such. He didn't even tell the girl that her mother had died.

After I saw the movie, I snuck Lolita out of the library hidden under my jacket. It had more than the film and I became overwrought about what the man did to the young girl.

I couldn't take the time to think about that movie and the book because the story Elizabeth told was even worse. I guess it was more terrible because it happened to my true friend.

She went on to say that when she has to be chastised her father takes her into her room, closes the door and tells her to pull ‎down her panties and get up on the corner of the‎ bed and lift up her skirt.‎

Elizabeth said she's so used to this ritual that she doesn't ‎even wait for him to tell her what to do, that she's way ahead of ‎him.‎

Elizabeth continued, "Here I am on the end of the bed and my panties down around my ankles and my skirt pulled up so my booty is exposed. He takes his open hand and slaps my butt and thighs then brushes back and forth. He touches so it's like a caress. You know Natalie, as horrible as it sounds, I'm used to it. I guess ‎a person can abide anything if it happens often enough."

She ‎continued but murmured so softly that I couldn't hear her unless I got real close.

"It happens over and ‎over ‎whenever I do anything wrong and even when I don't do ‎anything ‎bad at all."‎

Elizabeth said there was more but she didn't want to tell me the real bad parts because she was too embarrassed. I wondered what the 'more' was.

She said it makes her feel funny, "tingly, so I want him to keep on doing it."

Elizabeth went on. Then she told me about when she gets those strange pulses. She said she "looked it up online and it's called orgasm. Well, I do orgasm, again and again." She said she feels evil when it happens.

"After I Googled it, I understood those strange sensations. I'm so ashamed of the feelings I get from what my father does on me. What do I do that's so bad to deserve it so often?"

She told me that her father admonishes her not to turn around, not to look back up at him while he disciplines her. She said, "Once I think I saw out of the corner of my eye his thing in his other hand."‎

I guess it was his penis but I didn't want to interrupt her to give her the correct word for it. I was pretty sure that was what she saw.

She told me she didn't understand. Thought she was evil because of those strange funny feelings--pleasant and awful at the same time.

How is that proper when she was supposed to be being punished? She knew she shouldn't feel good, yet she longed for more, even though she feels embarrassed the same time as she feels the pleasure. She was so confused. Said she just wants to die, to die so that it will all end--end the shame and stop her father. If she can just die, he will never look at her bare bottom again, and she will not have to experience what she knows she's not supposed to feel from his hands.

She said she wanted to run away.

I asked her where she could go.

She didn't answer. I thought about her options. She had none. She had nowhere to go, so how could she run away? To where? Away from herself? From her family? Away from the confusion of her life? She was up against a blank wall with no future.

She went on. "While the punishment happens, I try to think of nicer things, but the constant stimulation won't let me focus on anything else. It keeps me in the here and now, and I feel evil because I caused it."

She was sure it was her fault. She knew it was. After all "it's my father who must chastise me and a father is never wrong."

I decided to wait for a better time to tell her that parents can do wrong. I waited because I wanted to hear more.

Elizabeth said she's powerless to stop it.

I believe that if she does nothing, she will be correct; she won't be able to stop it.

Maybe I can help my friend.

Then again, maybe it's too late, she's already gone.

That got me to thinking about what I learned in Mythology class about Lethe, the river in Hades. That if you drink from it you lose all your memories. Maybe Elizabeth will drink from there, and forget all the bad things that happened to her. But then when I thought she might end up in Hell where the river is, I was really scared for my good friend.

That day in the playground, Elizabeth continued.

Mr. Judd promises Elizabeth that he won't tell her mother what evil thing Elizabeth did that was so bad that her father had to punish her to improve her behavior. He said that so long as Elizabeth stays quiet about it and does her part of the contract-- he calls it a contract--then he won't tell how disobedient Elizabeth is.

She told me he warns her he will punish her extra if she calls out during the discipline or cries during or after he's corrected her.

She says it doesn't hurt at all, but she feels humiliated. What he does, stimulates her, makes her charged up. She says sometimes she misbehaves on purpose just so her father will do those things to her. For his part, he encourages her to be bad, so he can discipline her.

I was surprised that the math teacher advised his students about what he would do to them--to me. Could it be the same as he does to his daughter? Is it possible for Mr. Judd ‎to think‎ for one minute that everybody knows what he does to Elizabeth? Does he consider that his daughter might have told us, even though he warned her not to?

Maybe he's proud of himself. Does he believe that a father has the right to do such things to his daughter; that he is permitted to do the same to me?

Aunt Penny says no one is allowed to touch anyone else without permission, not like he does anyway. I'm pretty sure that's right. But maybe Mr. Judd doesn't agree with Aunt Penny.

Anyway, Elizabeth swore me to secrecy because her father said not to tell anyone. I'm pretty sure Mr. Judd knows that she won't tell anyone.

But she told me. Wonder why she did. Guess she trusts me.

Elizabeth can't call the police. If they decide what Mr. Judd does is against the law, then Mr. Judd would end up in jail. Who would take care of his family?

She can't run away. After all she can't live on her own. She's too young.

Mr. Judd must feel safe enough to continue doing it to her. Maybe he thinks Elizabeth didn't tell us, and when he indicates that we're to be disciplined, we would figure that he means we'd have to stand in a corner or write equations over and over and such.

Mom says to "never tell what happens in our family." But other kids talk about their tribulations. Why can't I? Maybe it's okay to tell good friends, like Elizabeth told me.

Guess that's all right. But how does anyone know who it's safe to tell and when? Today? Tomorrow? Next week? Who will be my trusted friend next week? Who can anyone trust? I'm so confused!

So here I am in Mr. Judd's class, when suddenly I become aware of the danger I'm in. If he thinks I know because he saw us with our heads together in the playground that day, he'll switch me to "off." That's what he'll do to me. I said, "Let me have a minute....Would you please repeat the problem?" Elizabeth was delivering a dispatch to the office, otherwise she would have told me the answer.

"Mr. Judd, please ask me the problem again. I'll pay attention."

"Okay, last time."

RRRing, End of class bell. Mr. Judd ordered, "DON'T LEAVE- YET- Natalie!! You stay here after school to catch up on what you missed in class while you were building castles in the air. You're lucky-- after you work on your Algebra, you can stay with Maitresse and work on your French. She's coming to bring me some imported Dijon mustard and French pastries."

I was scared to death!

Mr. Judd would have been bad enough, but to have to stay with Maitresse and Magistra was unthinkable. That's why I ran home and forgot and left Steven.

I announced that "I have to be home to open the door for the plumber." I ran out as fast as I could and flew all the way home. That was one of the times I forgot to wait for Steven after school. So then I had to go all the way back to get the brat.

Instead of being grateful, Steven was mad at me because he had to wait so long.

No one was around the school by then, so I didn't have to explain anything to anyone, especially Mr. Judd.

Steven opened his mouth wide and hollered at me all the way home. Threatened to tell Mom that I was late, that he had to wait so long after school. He demanded that I give him my new Mirror's Edge game that I bought with my own money. In return, he wouldn't tell Mom that he had to wait for me outside all alone.

So I go, "Okay, not a problem."I had already made a copy of the game in case I'd lose it, but he didn't know that. He thinks I gave him my one and only.

### BEFORE MLK

The Friday before MLK, Detectives had been at the school to question the students and teachers about the disappearance of Elizabeth Judd. They hoped to interrogate her brother Ivan, but he wasn't in school that day. They called the Judd house to request an interview but the parents wouldn't hear of it. "Too traumatic, fragile as he is."

It was crucial to change the Judds' mindset, encourage Ivan's parents to relent, to allow him to be questioned. Surely the brother knows something, maybe where his sister went that night, who her friends are, what she likes to do, anything that might help find their daughter.

"Fragile?" What's that supposed to mean? How could the girls' parents let anything interfere with the search for their daughter?

But the detectives weren't going to let that stop them. The next day they showed up at the Judd doorstep.

No luck. Wouldn't let the detectives inside to see Ivan.

We put electronic surveillance on the Judd house and got some shit-for-brains new recruits to hang outside to watch.

Something going on here, Savrini surmises, after all, it's their kid who'd "gone missing." Why wouldn't they help?

Oh how Savrini hates the expression, "gone missing." The media were the first to use it. Political correctness. The left insists that everyone use passive expressions, as if there are no evil-doers.

He feels his blood pressure rise, Gone missing. Gone missing. Fuckin stupid! So fucking stupid!

### AFTER MLK

Yesterday the bodies were found. This morning, Savrini and the other detectives have settled themselves into the school. The Headmaster's office and conference rooms had been made available to them.

They feel warm inside the building amidst the heavy mahogany furniture and wood paneling. Ceilings soar, museum-like. Papers are strewn everywhere eclipsing the expansive wooden desks and tables.

Dirt residue‎ on the floor to ceiling windows permit but a few dabs of bright light to filter in. The sun's rays strike airborne streams of flecks in motion. They beam light at the cobwebs in the corners turning them silver.

"Cleanliness is next to godliness" is not the motto in this building certainly not a priority for anyone who has the power to make it happen.

Can we also deduce that no one takes responsibility for anything else around here? Maybe, but could that be a motive for murder? LOL, thinks Savrini.

We're perplexed. Where is Henriette Heugot? The detectives have learned she's not one of the dead women-- too old. But where is she? No one seems to know or no one is telling.

First on the list to interview is Ivan, Elizabeth's brother. We wanted him on Friday before the MLK weekend, but the Judds had refused.

The murders were committed several days later, well into the holiday week-end, days after the missing person's report on Elizabeth Judd. The Friday just before the holiday was the first time detectives were at the school.

We didn't know why Ivan's parents kept him home that day. The next day, the Judds again refused to let us interview the girl's brother.

Today--Wednesday--Savrini's group hopes to sequester Ivan in the Headmaster's office, get at him before Dad arrives. Maybe he'll give us some answers. They'll capture him right away, pump him before the Judds rush the office.

In truth, the detectives also want to protect the legality of the investigation so they advise Ivan that he has the right to call his parents before we "talk." Sadly. He does.

Before Judd Sr. arrives, we ask Ivan about his sister.

Her brother is furious, angry that some people treat Elizabeth so badly.

"What people?" We ask.

"Everyone. Mom, Dad....me," he whispers.

Strange young man-- loyal to his sister, angry at all the rest.

He insists his sister is sweet, kind, and nice to everyone-- even him. Ivan seems a loner. Savrini doubts he does anything but hang out in his room all day. Doing what? What any weird introvert does when he's alone.

The detective remembers his own adolescence, the long hours by himself, jacking off in his room. He recalls his profound isolation; empathizes with this young man seated across from him at the Headmaster's desk. Ivan's eyes stare down at the table or dart about at the walls. He fidgets non-stop as if unable to get comfortable.

The detectives exchange knowing looks. Nod their assent. Ivan is indeed a strange bird, gawky in clothes that don't fit, a white cotton shirt with long sleeves, so short they don't reach his wrists and khaki trousers that end above his ankles. Had to be recent growth spurt or whoever bought his clothes neglected to buy the correct sizes. So tall, he'll be scouted for a basketball future if he can run and shoot hoops.

We hope he'll shed light on the diary and the books Savrini found at the murder scene. He should ask Ivan about them, even though the creep's probably a dimwit. A significant piece is missing upstairs. The diary is not his; chances are 100% that Ivan Judd doesn't keep one. Savrini is damn sure the one found at the murder scene was not written by this young man-- too illiterate. No; Ivan's not the writer.

Diary keepers tend to be young girls. On the other hand, he knows of some teachers who encourage their students to keep a journal. When pupils are required to write about their day's happenings, both genders do. Savrini approves, because he knows it fosters good writing skills, increases the ability to focus, promotes self-discipline, is motivational, and enables self-awareness.

Savrini knows the answer but asks anyway. Ivan's response, "Huh?"

Should have known the answer would be negative. The style of writing is of a young female ten to thirteen. He mulls over the last, only to discard it because one can't deduce the writer's age or gender from the style. The script in one's own personal missive would tend to be informal, not subject to "spell-check," and full of grammatical errors. Not likely you'd learn anything about the identity of the writer from its style.

Handwriting might be different though. Maybe we can look at getting an expert. Ought to study the content as well.

Doesn't take father Judd long to reach the detectives. His math classroom is right down the hall, only a few doors away‎. We expected nothing less than a quick retrieval. The kid's gone before we even start. Sad!

Remarkable that all these vile incidents take place in this district of Philly. It's where the teacher works and in whose house the three bodies were found. Why here? What goes?

Maitresse Heugot is missing. Her mother Adelaide's whereabouts are unknown. Young Elizabeth Judd has disappeared as well as the Purdy children. And there's that other kid who disappeared earlier this year who hasn't been found.

Robbery is one motive. Looks like not much of value was left. No jewels or money was found in the master which had been ‎ransacked. Clothes from the drawers and closets were strewn about; much consigned to the rooms downstairs.

In another bedroom nothing at all was out of place. A small amount of cash had been secreted under some clothes in a drawer, but that was untouched.

Don't know whether anything else was stolen. Those are the only two rooms that seemed to be occupied-- only those two in the whole god-damn gigantic house.

Savrini wonders why only one room was torn apart.

Lots to learn.

He searches his brain.

Look for the common denominator, Dummy.

Or not.

"Let's take a walk, Savrini."

"Okay, let's."

He grabs his coat and heads for the door.

### AFTER MLK

Savrini feels the sun warm his face. The day is clear. He feels better. But quickly, the cold penetrates his clothes to his body. He's frozen stiff. Gotta get a coat. C'mon, let's head over to Macy's.

Good idea Savrini. Let's walk.

He heads south towards Chestnut, brooding about his city. The residents who live and work in this tiny cultural oasis trust that they are insulated from the mayhem outside that is known for its high crime rate. Is this area still impervious to the dangers that lurk beyond? People thought so--until now.

Some investigators state that the perps live outside this center of upper middle class urbanity. Hoards of criminals from the slums that abut downtown, prey on people in their own hoods but also scurry about beyond. A tough element menaces the Museum District.

Wish I could move away like everyone else, Savrini pines, as he dawdles on. Many have left. The population has changed. What a godforsaken city this is. Even the suburbs are no longer livable.

Did the welfare state cause the decline? The unions' demands? They killed a good thing when the unions won their bargain. Now the overblown salaries, overtime ruses, and unearned pensions have destroyed our economy. Talk about gaming the system. Retirement benefits kick in before a worker is forty. He retires and takes another job but continues to collect the pension from the first. Works another fifteen years and collects two pensions as well as Social Security and Medicare. Savrini admits that Unions have helped Savrini but he wishes they had less clout.‎

‎Ahh. ‎ At last. There's Macy's. He yanks at the heavy door. Can't budge it. Boy am I tired, can't even open the fucking door.

He looks up. Sees the sign.

CLOSED

FOR

INVENTORY

Shit Let's go see Pam.

Great idea, Savrini. Let's jog.

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

I have to write to keep from thinking bad thoughts.

Mom says...

Oh, I forgot to tell you about Mom. She volunteers at my school. She and the secretary and Mr. Judd talk all the time when Mom comes to school. Wonder what they have in common.

Maybe I can buy a tiny tape voice-activated ‎recorder and bury it in Mom's over-sized bottomless purse. When I go to the Kmart with Daddy, he'll buy one for me. He'll do anything I ask.

Oh, I remember what I was going to say. The last time Aunt Penny took us to the Franklin Institute we got to walk inside of a twelve foot tall red wooden heart. We could hear it beat. Chi chug... chi chug.... It didn't look real but it didn't matter. It was awesome! Made me wonder what a real heart looks like. Maybe I can find out.

While I was there, I thought about the sister teachers. Whenever I talk about them, Aunt Penny draws her eyebrows together, looks directly at me, and listens intently. She knows more than she lets on.

When I tell Mom, she just shrugs and doesn't answer. Once she said it was all nonsense. Mom says not to speculate about those two, that everything will work itself out. She says when I'm in the sixth grade I'll understand much more. What will I understand? Will I even live until the 6th grade? Wish I could count on that.

Wonder where I can get a hold of a real human heart. I'm sure I can. I really want to.

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

Did I tell you that we used to live close to Magistra and Maitress's house? It was when Mom and Tom lived together.

Tom used to be married to Jill. They lived in a mansion in the Museum Center on Cherry Street, but they couldn't keep up the payments on the big mortgage. The interest rate went so high that they couldn't afford the bills, and that was even when Tom had a job. Jill never worked. She couldn't help because she never earned any money.

Right after they got married, Jill's father gave them the money for the down payment. They bought the house and moved in. Then Tom lost his job and Jill went home to ‎the suburbs to live with her parents and then they got a divorce.

I never met Jill but Mom says she was ugly and short.

Tom was okay looking if you like the oily scrawny look. His black hair was never combed and it grew around his ears and onto his neck. He wore old tee shirts and jeans and loafers without socks-- even in winter!

After Tom and Jill got divorced Tom stayed in the big old house on Cherry Street.

All of us moved in when Mom met Tom.

We loved that house. It had windows that went from the floor all the way to the ceiling, and we liked to open and close the gold crusted drapes that worked by an electric switch until it rusted and shorted out.

There were fifteen rooms to play hide-and-go-seek in. We explored all of them and every closet. We'd run into one door and out another and play "ghost" and never find each other all day unless we wanted to.

The kitchen was like on the Cooking Channel. Pots hung from metal hooks and there were six gas burners, a built-in wok, and a grill to broil steaks. We didn't do that too much because we couldn't afford meat very often.

Truth is-- Mom tried but couldn't keep that big house clean. The floors got dirty and the furniture and drapes were dusty, and after a while you couldn't see past the grunge on the windows that acted like shade shielding the rooms from sunlight. It was dark and it was dank.

Bits of wood and plaster dropped from the ceiling in chunks. It was impossible to clean away the debris.

Mom painted the rooms and polished the furniture and wood ‎floors so they gleamed but right away they were dull and covered ‎ with powder.‎ Mom couldn't keep it nice. She was the one stuck with the up-keep, but after a while she threw up her hands and gave up the fight‎. The rest of us moved from room to room kicking up the leftovers of the decaying structure, shoving it airborne. We coughed and sneezed and wondered why soups and coffee tasted like chalk.

We used all of the eight marble bathrooms with their gold ‎fixtures. ‎ Tom and his boys missed the toilets and splashed the floor and rugs, so the acrid odor of urine took over.

If we had stayed, we would have had to pitch in to get the house clean and keep it nice. We knew that wasn't going to happen, not with our crowd.

We stayed, even though no one paid the mortgage or taxes, not even the utilities. The bank had not evicted us yet. Mom said it takes a long time to foreclose, but we knew it would happen eventually.

Mom begged Tom to try to keep the house she loved, one of the things that she liked about Tom.‎

I used to hear them argue all the time because Mom ‎ loved the place even though it was ‎run down. She swore she could fix it up. Mom didn't have ‎any money either, but she is very energetic and I'm sure she ‎could have figured how to make it nice.‎

We liked it a lot too. We had fun in there.‎

But the owner, Mr. Schmidt, the bank president did foreclose and made Tom and his kids and Mom and me and Steve move out.

Before it came to that, Mom made an appointment to see Mr. Schmidt to ask him to change his mind. She begged him to give us some time so Tom could get a job, and we could make the payments on the mortgage.

When she came back home, she said Mr. Schmidt "is a fat old sour puss" and he wouldn't even let her "plead her case." That was how she explained it to us.

Anyway Mr. Schmidt told her that he planned to sell an interest in our house and the other ones he owned nearby to a developer. He said there weren't any nice hotels in that area of the city and it would be a perfect location for a top notch classy spa resort and casino right near all the museums on the Parkway.

Mom was crushed. That was the main reason for the break-up.

### KEISHA

‎

Bea's aide is sure the reason that her life is good is because she ‎never had children. She doesn't have to use her savings to ‎bail a son out of jail once a year like her friend ‎Cassandra.

Keisha doesn't have her sister, Sabrina's brats to feed. The poor thing can never get ahead. Soon as she gets a job, puts the grandchildren into school and daycare, cheats the state out of enough welfare and food stamps to cover their needs, her dumb daughter gets herself pregnant and she has to start all over.

Keisha says she's lucky she's infertile. Her friends told her how painful it is to give birth and care for children. She believes them. Any she would have had would be her responsibility-- hers alone. It's true, a good man would help, but Keisha knows it's next to impossible to find and keep a good black man, knows they're hummingbirds who flit from flower to flower, fertilize many, and stay with none.

The job with the Savrini's has fringe benefits-- free groceries and whatever jewelry and money she can steal. She's never been accused--not so far; Keisha's too careful for that. Plus, it is her belief that she has coming the extras because her people had been treated cruelly for generations. Doesn't matter that her forebears had not. Other people of color had. Keisha feels entitled. ‎

Most of all, she doesn't have to work hard and her time is her own. She takes her charges for walks or rides and at the same time takes care of her own chores; shops, pays her bills, tends to her social life.

Today it's Pierre that gorgeous hunk with the seductive foreign accent, light completion, and fine features who works nearby as security for Mr. Schmidt. Keisha knows his boss as the banker who owns the teacher's house and the other properties nearby.

She can't wait for Pierre's caresses. He knows how, knows a woman's body. She's juicy with anticipation.

### PIERRE

The security guard is from Haiti by way of Miami where he'd worked as a baker in a Publix. Hard work he tells Keisha. "People don't know that you have to lift and move heavy sacks of flour and pans of bread dough; that it takes know-how and strength to pound and fold the ingredients; to coax and tease the dough to rise; then punch it down again; let it rest and fold it properly."

He had to set the risen loaves of raw dough onto large papered pans then slide the heavy trays onto the rotating shelves inside the blast-furnace hot ferris-wheel ovens.

The extreme heat mushrooms the mass of starter, water, salt, and flour into bread. Because the pans are burning hot, he had to be careful transferring the bread to the long stainless steel table, not drop them, or burn himself too badly.

Pierre drools as he remembers the taste and slightly sour pungence and the hard crust and chewy inside of the sour dough loaves. He'd stuff chunks of bread into his mouth eaten still warm from the oven slathered with fresh sweet butter.

Said he was stuck with the heavy work, and also the one who decorated the birthday and holiday cakes; that he'd done it in Haiti and had a real flair. He could make any decoration requested. He'd even fashioned a three foot long cruise ship and covered the decks, sides, and turrets with fondant, the smooth shiny semi-solid sugar coating.

He tasted so often during the day, that he became the fattest he'd ever been in his life.

The breads, croissants, muffins, and cakes baked non-stop. Cinnamon, vanilla, sugar, and chocolate bubbled, saturating the air in the bakery, suffusing throughout the store, seducing and luring customers toward their yummy aromas.

The substances soaked into Pierre, became his clothes and skin. The catalyst was the heat from the ovens. Greasy buttercream moisturized his hands and arms, stained his clothes, sucked into his very being.

He didn't mind, but the work was hard and the young man was not sorry when he was fired for overstaying his breaks.

"It would have been worse if the boss had learned that I took cured beef and blocks of sharp cheddar and Swiss cheeses and sold them to the little Puerto Rican bodega around the corner. Those people are sure good businessmen," he explained to Keisha.

Pierre made some real money with that sideline-- no overhead. "But," as he told Keisha, "all good things must end."

Keisha thought he sounded annoyed but not ashamed.

Right after, a friend told him about the security job in Philadelphia. He'd always wanted to see the city of brotherly love and hoped it would be kind to him.

The guard would find out otherwise.

That was in the fall before the bitter winter set in. Today he longs for the heat of those big ovens.

### BEFORE MLK-- MAITRESSE

"Sis, The shame is that I can't tell everyone about you. Mother says I must not. The children know, but they don't count. No one believes children anyway. The little dickens make up stories to explain what they don't understand. Adults do the same when the subject is religion and other questions without empirical answers."

"\------------."

"I know you understand but I'm tired of pretending to be the same person."

"\------------------------."

"It's true. You're right. When we go the doctor, everything has worked out because we're never sick at the same time but I'm concerned about the future. Mother says we should worry when it's time-- not before. What do you think?"

"\-----------------------------."

"I agree. It's not fair that we get only one salary. Guess the school doesn't know you work as hard as I do, well maybe not as hard but you do merit your own paycheck."

"\------------------------------!"

"Okay--you do work just as hard."

"Anyway, the money we acquire is enough because we don't have to pay rent or buy food. Mother takes care of that. But I don't like that she insists we turn over our salary to her. And she gives us a small pittance for clothes and our lunches in the school cafeteria."

"\--------------------------------------------."

"Yes, but do you believe her when she reassures us that she invests the rest for our future."

"\------------------------------------------!"

"Yes Sis, but she doesn't tell us how. Don't you think it's time for us to take control of our own lives including our finances? We should tell her and not accept her answer which is always, 'Not yet, I'll tell you when.'"

"I also think we should learn about her current lover. We need to do that to protect our interests. When she dies--soon I hope, we will inherit all of her money, the house, her very expensive jewelry, and her investments. She told us so."

"\--------------!"

"I don't believe her either. Let's at least hire a private detective to learn about her new beau. Well, maybe not. We have no money for that. She has it all and uses ours to buy gifts for her 'boy toys.'"

"\---------------."

"You're right, Sis. Our flight to France was to take off at 9 A.M. but remember... the airline emailed us to announce the change of departure. Now it's 3:30 P.M. When I looked online, I saw that the 9 A.M. flight was discontinued."

"\-------------------------------------------------------------------!'

"It is a sad commentary that airlines can cancel flights and lose nothing, but just let us peons try to change to a different time or day, they tell us we can't unless we pay a high penalty. It's not fair."

"\---------------?"

"Yes, we knew they'd be cutting back on flights with unsold seats but the times worked for us. Not now, not after the change. Now we have to waste most of Thursday in Philadelphia. Nothing we can do about it. You know Sis, Mother doesn't know about this schedule change. I tell her as little as I can. She'd berate us. She'd say, 'You stupid thing! Why did you schedule with that airline? You dumbkin! What's the matter with you? Didn't I teach you better? An airline with their terrible track record? How could you? And look'it-- They didn't even see that awful calamity coming. Everyone else did! Answer me this, how did you ever manage to graduate college?"'

"I knew she'd say that, so I didn't bother to tell her. She doesn't know. We can position ourselves in one of the empty houses nearby until her new sex-toy arrives and see who he is. That's easy. Remember, I saw Schmidt hand her a key for his other houses nearby in case ‎of a ‎problem. She keeps it in her dresser drawer. ‎ I eavesdrop when he visits. It pays to listen. You can never know too much. Don't you agree, Sis?"

"\--------------."

"Let's pretend to leave in the morning, put our luggage in one of the houses nearby then slip back after her new lover arrives. She'll think we left for the airport and has the house to herself. When her latest comes, we'll find out who is Mom's new interest. Then after, we can walk a block over and take a cab."

"\--------------------------------------------------------------------!"

"Yes we can!"

"\----------!"

"Sis, we had that conversation last week. Let's not have it again. I can't stand when we fight. We didn't speak to each other for hours. Please!"

"\-----------------."

"Good, we agree. This Thursday. Mother thinks we're leaving for vacation at 9."

"\----------------------!"

"But we don't leave until 3:30! We can do it then."

"\------------------------------------------------------."

"What do you mean you just want to leave? Hanging around the airport, reading books, and watching people--that's fun? You don't want to bother about Mom? Do you really think we'll find who she's up to when we come back?"

"\----."

"Please sis, I always listen to you. Why can't you just this once do what I suggest? The last time we went on for an hour and just got each other angry, red-faced, and in tears. For the sake of positive sister relations, we decided to table it. I thought it was settled."

"\---------------------------------------."

"Thanks Sis.

### AFTER MLK

The walls of the conference room are papered over with graphs ‎that ‎depict the Precinct's failures. That and the pictures of the "most wanted" are here to shame the police, to make them work harder. Savrini thinks nothing will help.

He hopes to inspire the guys at the daily morning pow-wow when his puts his ‎query to his listeners.

"Who owns the house on Green Street? You all know the work down at City Hall, a ‎snail's pace? Right? Everyone agree? ‎You're all nodding. I see you do. Well, you...ah...know we need the most recent ‎information...therefore we gotta go check the raw data. You know ‎those clerks down there...The information is probably sitting underneath a stack on some paper-shuffler's desk. Those people-- you know what their motto is. 'Less work, more over-time.' You know that." ‎

He wanted one of the cops to offer to hike over to City Hall. He would have checked the computer in his office, maybe done ‎a preliminary search. Truth is that he slept through it. Missed the entire lecture, "‎‎How to ‎Search Property Records." Savrini would rather die than ask for help from one of the studs just out ‎of ‎the Academy. He'd be considered too wussy and forever after be the butt of ‎their ‎jokes‎.

‎Savrini knows too, that computer information is only as good as the data-entry clerk. He's seen with his own eyes the stacks of deeds and tax information piled high on desks and tables at City Hall‎. The clerks sit around and gossip over coffee and cake. The many morning and afternoon breaks sandwich in short spells of work. Civil servants! What a misnomer! Unions and Civil Service. That's what's to blame.

The result of the daily morning briefing--Not one cop raises his head. On the contrary, in unison, they look down, mesmerized by the variety of sweet donuts set out before them; Dunkin Donuts: glazed, chocolate, custard, fruit filled. They stare, ‎riveted by the sights and sweet fragrance, as if the choice of the perfect deep fried dough is the only thing on their minds.

The owner of a local rag whose product is used more as moving-box insulation than what people read, hopes the donut buffet will obligate the cops to keep the newspaper informed, before other media, about the day's sensational crimes.

No ‎eye contact with Savrini. No takers--not one.‎

It's up to Savrini to be the 'gofer'; his idea, his job to go for the information.

"Shit, shit, shit!"

In good weather, the streets of Philadelphia are enjoyable; each named for a different tree, Chestnut, Walnut, Locust, ‎Spruce, Pine...‎

Leaves shade the sidewalks, and the sun splatters light onto the walkways below. Large swatches of darkness shelter pedestrians. The city fathers wanted their town to be walkable. It is.

He is enamored with the arches of his City Hall, fascinated by Billy Penn who stands guard on top. The main cross-streets, Broad and Market meet here. Their traffic must circle around the impressive quad shaped structure.

Savrini feels special. Only the few know their way around City Hall. He's proud to be one of the inner sanctum.

But outside on the streets, scares him. Hoodlums and homeless people have become aggressive of late, appropriated his town for themselves.

Savrini rides the subway over to the Tax Assessor's ‎Office to ascertain what there is to know ‎about the house on Green Street. Gotta find out who owns it, or if there's a signed contract to live there.‎

How come I'm the one to do the scut-work? The tedious stuff ought to be delegated to the uniform cops-- not to us detectives. Mundane, no-brain-required shit-work, belongs in somebody else's work description-- not mine. How come I'm the patsy?

Must motivate my underlings, get them to run around town to chase down the mindless time-digesting jobs.

I know; I'll take a class in administration, learn to designate responsibilities. If I can't, if nothing changes, this job will kill me. I won't live long enough to enjoy my retirement.

Oh wait. I did take that course. It was called Management Skills on my way to Detective Supervisor. I remember the class, but now I can't recall what I learned.

Savrini looks forward to retirement in some warm place, a new life without his wife to drag him down. He'll start over with a young chick, and he won't need Pam anymore.

He prefers to drive his car, lots more comfortable and warmer than the subway, especially ‎when his heater works, much better than out on the street where it's dangerous even for a cop ‎packing a revolver. Forget that god-awful piss-reeking underground.‎ ‎

Having weighed the pros and cons especially that the Mayor ‎won't let us double-park unless it's an emergency. ‎Savrini chooses the ‎subway.‎

He rides the noisy, dirty, rickety train that clacks rhythmically ‎along the straight-away. The turns are steel against steel, painful sounds that deafen the ear.‎

Savrini ascends the stairs to the street, feels the cold ‎air and the tug of pain with each step.

The detective mutters about the current regime that has no patience ‎with ‎the police department ever since the most recent police ‎shootings. He ‎corrects himself; it's been a long time, maybe ‎never, since any ‎Philadelphia agency has appreciated the police.‎

His thoughts mumbled are of self-pity. People ‎who ‎walk by, pay him no attention. To them, Savrini is just another ‎homeless ‎schizophrenic.‎

The two gunshot victims--'youths'\--one an 'aspiring ‎doctor,' the ‎other--a 'future lawyer.' Both had fathered three children each with ‎three ‎different young ladies. ‎ Their children will receive money damages to be wrung from the city by ‎hungry ‎lawyers. ‎

Their first crime, the teens were booked as juveniles. They ‎graduated ‎to ‎‎assault with a deadly weapon, then on to ‎murder. Spent no time in jail for the initial infractions. In custody for only the ‎few ‎hours ‎that followed their arrests while they waited for their mamas ‎to ‎finish ‎at the beauty parlor. When the women arrived, the juvies ‎were ‎freed.‎

‎After their sons are murdered, the mothers enter the station flinging ‎obscenities ‎at ‎the ‎police. When they take off their fake fur or leather coats, their ‎breasts plop out from overfull halter tops. Too-tight stretch pants ‎are stressed way beyond the ability to conceal the lumps of their ‎balloon buttocks. There is way more visible bosom, thighs, and ass ‎than is appropriate. ‎

TV cameras set up. Tears flow. Hysterical sobs ensue. ‎Disconsolate expressions play to the TV audience.‎

Mothers and aunts in ‎expensive "doos" and ‎three inch nails, lament the mistreatment of their "innocent young boys," ‎whose crime was? "He jes got in with the wrong ‎crowd."

Bullshit! ‎

The young men had no fathers, no male role models to emulate, no one to demonstrate how to be honorable law-abiding employed adults. ‎

Our welfare system perpetuates the fatherless system. The ‎cycle continues. These ne'er-do-wells have no future unless ‎something drastic is done to secure a normal home life. ‎Not about to happen. Nothing will change because the underclass ‎respects their self-anointed leaders who refuse to focus on the ‎boys' most dire need--trustworthy fathers. ‎

Au contraire, admonishes Savrini to his imaginary audience, their people berate pro-family speakers accuse them of proselytizing a ‎diabolical racist concept antithetical to their society's mores. How ‎impertinent that an outsider should suggest that the number one ‎need is an adult male and an adult female to forge the family ‎unit.‎

"The community" foments anger at ‎the "system" because there are not enough hand-outs. All the ‎money in the world will not solve the problems caused by men reared by single mothers on welfare, by the dearth of good ‎men in their sons' lives. ‎

At the police station, before the rolling cameras and the ‎sympathetic news people, the Mamas protest. "Po'lices should do ‎mo to keeps our boys on the right track." ‎

Everyone forgets the youth programs sponsored and run by ‎these very same officers whom they accuse of brutality and a ‎substantial want of concern. ‎

Out on the street in front of City Hall, Savrini looks around and notices a fat black woman stuffed into her blue Parking Service uniform. Ticket pad in hand, pencil shoved into her red wig, she reluctantly moves away from her tête-a-tête ‎with a brown-skinned, round-cheeked, oversized bus ‎conductor. They smile conspiratorially, laugh, and go back to their chores. Savrini knows what the smiles ‎mean--a date for later or an exchange of juicy gossip. ‎

The guard spots a parked miscreant, grins and reaches up ‎to her wig for her pencil to write up the poor sucker.‎

Savrini glares at her but only from the side. (Direct eye contact is dangerous.)‎

### THE SCHMIDTS

When Schmidt was single and living with his mother, she decided her only child must marry. For his part he never wanted that, but he never had the courage to defy her.

Over coffee, as the maid cleared the breakfast dishes, his mother asserted, "You must find a wife and it must be ‎a woman of means.‎ We can't go on living like this much longer. You and your father made too many bad investments."

"Mom, please just let me have the two mil from the sale of Streaker lll. With the money from the horse, I can buy those run-down houses in Germantown and sell them to the city for triple the investment. I know someone high up in HUD. You know who I mean, the Senator. He'll do the deal. I know he will."

"Sonny, listen, you tried that. No more."

Schmidt thought they ‎had enough to live comfortably, not his mother‎.

"We're heading to the track. Let's see who shows up in the Clubhouse and the Winners' Circle. We'll make sure her family owns thoroughbreds, that way we'll know she'll be able to support us."

"Mom, can she be young and pretty?"

"Not necessary. You can find young and pretty outside. Our job today is to find a wealthy horsewoman. I'll know her when I see her. C'mon, let's get a move on; almost time for the first race."

The prey would be Edith whose parents did own race horse winners that they stabled at their facility in the rolling hills of Bucks County. The family didn't need the win money but enjoyed the ambiance of race days, believed it brought out their kind of people, or so they thought. In a short time Edith would learn that was not necessarily true.

The day was bright and clear, perfect for a hunt, Schmidt's mother thought.

Near the Winners' Circle, she spied her son's future mate. Edith wore an abundance of real gold and gemstones and was dressed in a ‎tailored white linen suit fresh from Saks. A pink hat with an ‎enormous brim edged with tiny roses shaded her eyes.‎

His mother tugged at young Schmidt's sleeve, then nodded toward Edith. "She's the one. Sam trains her horses. Grab Sam. Look. He's right over there."

Sam was someone they both knew, a horse trainer who had worked for them when they owned a Streaker lll, when they had the money to keep the young stallion.

Ever the dutiful son, Schmidt ambled listlessly over to Sam who greeted him with a sullen look, then turned to focus in his mother's direction‎. She crooked her index finger at Sam to signal that he should follow. She turned and walked away a few steps, knew Sam would come to her. He did. She handed the trainer a fifty and promised more if he could warm their prey in advance of Schmidt's move.‎

Sam moseyed on back over to Edith. They talked a few seconds while glancing at Schmidt and his mother. Sam gave Mrs. Schmidt an affirmative nod and moved away from Edith. His mother gave Schmidt a push in Edith's direction. Young Schmidt moved forward. Edith ‎didn't turn away. Sam had convinced her that Schmidt was acceptable. She was ready. She would learn too late that he was not interested in her. In truth, he couldn't stand Edith and her horsey friends, but her money made up for the lack of like.

Years passed since then. Today Schmidt and Edith live in an apartment that overlooks Rittenhouse Square, the seven acre green-space where life-size semi-nude statues bathe in gurgling fountains, where crimson, amethyst, and indigo flowers edge the winding walkways, where full-leafed trees shade the residents and their dogs, where runners skim the paths, where the lonely meet up to break the isolation of their lives, to free themselves from the dullness of their apartments.

On any given day, especially in nice weather, this open oasis of luxury is where artists, food vendors and hucksters set up kiosks to pry money from the well-heeled residents.

Folks stop to buy shiny red apples or juicy oranges, or eat a sausage and green pepper sandwich dripping with fat, or crunch into a freshly baked butter-layered crispy croissant.

You can peruse bright prints, even original paintings. Starving artists wait here endless hours to make a sale.

Mimes perform, oblivious of their audience who may or may not drop a dollar or a few coins in the hat or plate at their feet.

There are concerts in nice weather for the shirtless young men and lightly clad girls who lie in the soft grass and bask in the warm sun of spring and summer days.

The Schmidt condo is a ten thousand square foot, two-story castle which underwent a three million dollar renovation while the couple stayed in their Newport house for the summer.

The floors are of marble. Gold strands vein through the dark green granite that support immense statues of female child nudes. There are sweet scents of gardenias, roses, and, jasmine that border cylindrical fountains. Certain flowers were chosen to bring the outside in, to make the inside contiguous with the park which is visible everywhere in the apartment.

Mr. and Mrs. each have their own master suite separated by the living room, dining room, library, kitchen, and maids' quarters. They never have to see each other except for the occasional meal or to discuss some item that needs to be scheduled or changed.

The last time that happened was several weeks earlier when Mrs. Schmidt insisted that Mr. Schmidt leave for work at the indicated time and not hang around to ogle Damaris when she comes to clean.

"Listen, Edith, I wasn't sure she was supposed to come on Monday. I thought she had classes early and wouldn't have time to clean that day."

"Ed, you knew very well she was scheduled here Monday and that I'd be away at bridge."

"I'm sorry dear. I forgot."

"I want you to know, my sweetness, she told me about the time you stood in the doorway to the kitchen and refused to move. The only way she could pass by was to slide up against your body. I'm sure you didn't forget. You promised you'd be out of the apartment when she's here, especially when I'm away. I won't tell you again. Make sure there's not another mistake! I don't want to lose her. She's too thorough and works for practically nothing. You must not be here when she is! I promised her that when I saw how upset she was. She was going to quit after she saw you in your birthday suit-- full frontal-- no less, and doing I don't know what with your hand on your weenie and in my kitchen. My God! And you know that's where she starts."

"I forgot."

"I'll have no more of that. You know, my lovely, I can arrange for my father to break you. You owe on everything. You used all your real estate property as collateral for your commercial enterprises. You could lose everything if I disclose a few tidbits to the powers that be. I'm safe. As you know, I keep my investments separate, even this house. I suspected what you were when I worked it out with Dad to loan you that start-up money. That's why I kept my properties in my name. You owe me. Pay me back with better behavior. Do that and we can keep things the way they are."

"Yes Dear. I promise."

### AFTER MLK

Savrini is at it again, complaining about his city. We have the Eagles, the Mummers, history, some nice restaurants but not much else. Even Wanamaker's is gone, swallowed by the behemoth "Macy's." The original was unique. What a loss! Everyone would make plans to rendezvous there. "Meet me at the Eagle," that giant bronze sculpture is more of a focal point than City Hall itself. The bird is here but it's not the same. It's not Wanamaker's. Individuality is gone, replaced by super-sized corporations.

The wealthy departed to the suburbs, abandoning the poor and the not so well-heeled. The ones who are left would have to pick up the huge tax burden foisted on them by our local robin-hood government. They can't.

Savrini earns a good salary and a nice pension but insists that the salaries of city workers are well beyond costly and the taxes to fund them are usurious. The local underclass learned how to latch onto welfare and to pass the skills onto their children. The give-me mentality grew geometrically, enlarged the debt that is now impossible to sustain. Local taxes and fees can't keep up. The federal government won't foot the bills. The city will fail. Not long now.

Should have left Philly in the hands of the Lenni Lenape Indians. The air and water would be pure and the fish plentiful. We'd have animals to hunt. Instead, the ones who live in the city disguised as humans, hunt us.

Savrini tried to sell his house so he could move away. He couldn't and can't afford another elsewhere unless he sells the albatross he owns.

We still don't have an absolute I.D. on the victims. Have to call the M.E. later when I'm back at the office. Maybe by then the Station will have something.

As he rides back from City Hall, pain wracks his body. He suffers with each subway jolt. The roars and screeches of metal on metal deafen his ears. His mouth waters from the sound.

The venture downtown has produced something new; not a total waste of time, thank God. He had dug up paper proof that Schmidt owns the house where the girls were slaughtered. Everybody's sure he must have had something to do with the crime. We'll find out, then he'll pay. Have to engage the surveillance team to bug his house, and do the same at his office when we locate it.

### AFTER MLK

Detective Savrini considers the facts. The house on Green Street belongs to E. Schmidt. The A.W.O.L. teacher who lives there is known as Maitresse Henriette Heugot. The two don't have the same name. Connection? Rented to the language teacher? The school secretary said Henriette lives there with her mother.

Is Henriette one of the dead women? The mother?

No. Too old. The dead are very young; couldn't possibly be what--thirty, forty? No, much less. Difficult to tell, but not likely the corpses were either the teacher or her mother.

Who are the dead girls?

Had to give the photos to Maria who's doing double duty as a tech. Had to let the specialist go. Costs were too high. Good thing she knows how to scan and store them.

Fingerprint hasn't found anything, just the girls' prints. The rest don't match any FBI criminal data base, only Henriette Heugot from her teacher's license application. Useless. Her prints should be there; she lives in the goddamn house.

Savrini is frustrated. Everything leads to nowhere. He decides he needs time away from the case to clear his head. He could stop by at home. Maybe Pammy's there. With that, he allows his thoughts the freedom of flight.

It's a convenient time. Keisha's at the market with Bea.

Safe.

Maybe she'll comply. He feels better now. Thoughts of her excite him. Pam is delicious. Her breasts so round they invite his hands to grope them. They're like her mother's but young and smooth and pretty. So seductive and....

Can't wait. He runs down the subway platform on up the concrete steps and out into the sunlight. His overcoat flaps open, flies out behind him, trailing puffy clumps of insulation on the pigeon-droppings stained stairway.

He picks up his car and speeds back toward home. Should he call first to see who's at the house?

Nah. The element of surprise arouses him, promises more because sometimes Pam disappears right after he calls to tell her he's on his way. Why? She hardly ever refuses, well, not convincingly anyway. He knows she likes what he does.

She admits he doesn't hurt her, quite the opposite. She used to squeal with delight like her mother did early on.

He's certain Pam does the same sex things with the bums she meets at the clubs, but he's sure they can't please her like he does. He asks her that. She doesn't answer, just twists her features into an expression that says, "You know the answer, asshole."

Oh how he hates that look, the brow furrow and one side of her face scrunched up so that it accentuates her deep dimple. He adores that dimple but not the look of displeasure. That almost turns him off.

Almost.

He has his fun and no one's the wiser. He assures himself that it can't be bad. He could always confess to the priest and all would be forgiven. She could too, if she ever got herself out of bed early enough to go to Mass.

Inflamed with lust, he feels sweat trickle down his chest. Juts his neck forward to position himself in front of the rear view mirror. It fogs with his breath but he can make out that his cheeks are flushed. He has a boner.

Slow down you don't want to have an accident. Want your buddies to find you with a hard-on?

Can't make himself slow down.

### LATER AFTER MLK WEEK-END

Savrini has to skip out; his wife is more vacant than ever, and rarely gets up and out of the bed.

He appreciates the one benefit of his job. When he's out and about solving crimes is when he can forget her. Nowadays he's earlier to work and later to home.

Bea doesn't seem to notice.

Sometimes even Keisha becomes upset with her and heads off to shop or wherever. She doesn't tell Savrini; but he knows.

Bea remains in bed asleep. He guesses she feels safe there.

Is she?

The detective makes his way over to Headquarters and parks his car. It belches a good-bye as he walks away.

He drags his exhaustion into the Station and on over to the Security counter. As he approaches, he overhears Maria and Luther; notices there's a young girl with them.

"That cornbread was so rich my family didn't even put butter on it. I should have made an extra batch-- next time. Here, I saved you a small piece to compare to your Mom's. Try it, Luther."

Luther chews slowly, savors the cheesy morsel then smacks his lips. "Dat's some good corn bread! Ah think it might be better den my mama corn bread. Ah, Ah, Ahh!"

"Jesus Christ don't you two ever talk about anything but food!" Savrini barks.

"Hey Gumshoes it wouldn't hurt you none to talk more and eat less." Maria retorts.

"Listen you tub-o-lard I don't need no advice from the likes of you." Savrini flings back at her.

She smiles. Both know these repartees are in fun. Their relationship is based on deep friendship and respect.

"Hey Savrini, ever meet my kids' baby sitter, soon to be a high school graduate? Damaris, this is Detective Savrini."

She's young. His interest piqued, he answers, "No, how do you do. How long you been workin' for this lovely lady?"

"Six months."

He picks up on the dialect. He's sure she's illegal, asks, "And before? Where did you work before?"

"I clean house for Mrs. Schmidt; you know, the rich people on the Rittenhouse Square. They have the apartment on the top floor. I go there in de morning."

"You clean for the Schmidts?"

"Si."

Interested is an understatement. Savrini's chomping at the bit to talk to her about Schmidt. "Could you please come to my office so we can talk?" He tries to keep his voice modulated.

"I have to be at school now. Is all right I come back later?"

"It'll just take a few minutes, c'mon. "He turns and starts to lead the way to his office.

He doesn't feel her behind him. Turns back. Damaris hasn't moved.

"I sorry, I already late. I be back in few hours."

"Please! It'll only take a few minutes. I really need you to do this for me!"

"I very sorry Mr. Detective Savrini. I can not. I promise I come back later."

He gives up for now, knows he has no choice. "Make sure you do, it's very important."

"Hokay."

Savrini spins back around and continues on past the counter toward his office. Their voices soften and the sounds drift into the vast airy ceiling as he dodders farther away.

All those two ever do is talk about food and the Ballroom. They ask me to go. Ha! Me? Ha!

"Pam Savrini is ..."

When he hears his daughter's name, he steps back into the space, tries to catch the gist of the conversation.

They'd already turned their backs to him. It would have been awkward for him to return so he moves on.

What Maria said was that Pam Savrini is an excellent ballroom dancer, one of the best.

Luther, "Ah mos assuredly agree."

### AFTER THE MLK WEEK-END

The crime report is tacked to the bulletin board next to the vivid color photos of the scene. Without fail, those of the corpses and body excretions incite the gag reflex. Alongside is what little we know about the murder weapons and the possible perps.

The M.E. and the other detectives concluded that the diary Savrini found belongs to the youngest dead girl.

He doesn't swallow their logic. Just because a young person's diary is in the house where a dead girl is found, doesn't prove she wrote it-- no way.

It might make sense but should not be a foregone conclusion. Anyway who's to conclude the diary was written by someone as young as that girl?

He needs to read more of it. Had no time, been so busy with that other case. Can't do everything at once. We can't rush. Have to be careful. Make sure we win a conviction.

The detectives would like to believe that the teacher and her mother are two of the victims. Their work would be easier--no need to look further. The wrench in that theory is that the bodies appear younger than you'd expect the teacher and her mother to be. The residents at the house on Green Street are said to be in their thirties and forties. Doesn't stop the theorists whose mistaken observations are always made before the facts are in.

The Records Department at County has not ascertained whether the teacher is a tenant. Nothing is recorded. Then again, you wouldn't expect a lease commitment to be on file. Might be, if it were a Life Estate, that type of legal agreement.

He's not surprised they didn't find a contract when the house was searched. Might be with the owner or verbal, based on a hand-shake.

Have to talk to Schmidt about that.

Lots to uncover.

If the dead women are not the teacher and her mother-- Where are the two ladies?

Who are the corpses?

The three Purdy sisters are missing. Could it be? Hope not. How do they fit into all this? No one ‎wants to believe they are dead. Savrini ‎sighs. Even cops have a hard time facing reality.‎

He's frustrated by the lack of information. How fucked up is this city. Everything takes so god-damned long. Doesn't anyone worry about their job? Is everything political? Are the unions so powerful that no one has to work if they're a member? Just show up and you collect a generous salary and benefits. Don't even have to show up. Sorry situation.

His reverie continues. I'm outta here after Bea's gone. Move some place where there's some rudimentary work ethic. Have to convince my daughter to move as well. Can't leave Lisa either, my little sweetheart. I'm the breadwinner I support Pam and Lisa. Surely my daughter will be willing to cut stakes and move on with me.

Since Bea's mind took her away, Pam and I have had that special relationship, our wonderful secret sessions. Bea was terrific but it's special with Pam. I never hurt her, just show her how to enjoy herself. She does the same for me-- helps me enjoy her. If people find out, we'll just deny. Busybodies meddle where they don't belong. They wouldn't understand how innocent it all is.

Hope she'll come with me and not whine like she does when she doesn't want to do something. We can go to Florida or maybe Mexico. Supposed to be cheap to retire there.

The M.E. says they'll have the ages of the victims later today. Difficult to deduce when a body's been disfigured by torture. The poor things suffered so much sadistic hell before they succumbed.

The Medical Examiner concluded that the deep punctures were made before death and pointed to a blunt edged stick jabbed at random into the women then pushed down into their hearts. The bloody cane found at the scene was used to gore the victims.

Each red stiletto shoe had been jammed into each of their mouths. Finally one was left nudged into one girl's crack of her ass and the other heel was left in another girl's mouth.

What does it all mean? Did the killer want to tell them not to reveal anything or was it to make sure they would never be able to talk again?

Tell what? What secret?

He guesses an assassin who used high heels to hurt and kill might be a first. Savrini hopes with all his heart that we'll find and convict the killer or killers.

Sex crime? Still unsure, no DNA, no semen. Still a mystery. From the look of the bodies, the three females were used as sex toys before they were killed. They were nude and sodomized. The girls had been posed under the bright lights focused on them.

The Medical Examiner determined they'd been tied so securely at one time that they couldn't defend themselves.

Where are we going with this? Can't get a handle on it, no how. It's early though, and this kind of crime requires lots of time and hard work. Even then, more often than not, they're never solved. He furrows his brow, murmurs, let's give this one our best shot.

He remembers other half-assed incorrect solutions to various crimes. Prosecutors labeled them suicides or accidents. Didn't want to work too hard. Preferred to wash their hands of them early, rid themselves of the tough cases.

Take the nude woman found dead, hung by the neck from an outside balcony of her boyfriend's mansion, hands tied behind her back, feet tied to her hands, rope around her neck. Death by suicide they said.

Suicide? Give us a break. Lacks logic.

This brings to mind the man who killed his two wives. Tried to make the deaths appear accidental; that the women sustained their fatal injuries from an accidental topple down an enclosed stairwell.

He was home free, not even suspected after the first.

The second was identical, stairs and all. But now the family and friends became suspicious. They pressed the prosecutor to take a look back at the first death, hoped they would notice similarities. They were confident that the evidence would spark an investigation and lead to a conviction.

And that's what happened.

The first body was exhumed and compared to the second. It pointed to murder. Those findings helped prove the second wife was bludgeoned to death; that it was not an accidental fall in the stairwell. The assassin was judged and convicted of premeditated murder. He nearly got away with both killings; still might on appeal.

Several books have been written about a former strip club dancer who married a rich Miami Beach hotelier's son. She was not suspected of murder in the death of her wealthy mother-in-law. The elderly woman was found in her house having bled to death from trauma. The medical examiner declared it an accident.

A huge estate was left to the son and of course the daughter-in-law should her husband die before her.

He was murdered soon after his mother's death.

The investigation progressed slowly until the FBI became involved and connected the wife and her brother to the gruesome assassination. The wife had enlisted her brother to hire hit men to kill her husband and his mother.

The husband had died a horrific painful death. First the perps beat him about the body and head, then covered him with a pillow to muffle his shrieks. They gouged his eyes with a knife, then wrapped his head and mouth with duct tape. He choked to death on his vomit.

The wife still might inherit his fortune. She'd already cleaned out their safety deposit boxes, expensive memorabilia, and luxury boats and cars.

They plan to appeal. Who knows. Likely, they could have the conviction overturned based on a technicality.

"The wheels of justice grind slowly but exceedingly fine," which is to say that justice will prevail.

Not true.

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

Did I tell you about the lady who used to bother Auntie when she swam? She drowned in the condominium pool.

I don't understand how it happened because the woman seemed okay when I used to watch her. She could tread water and even swim a little. She was nasty though, used to kick Auntie when she swam by.

When the police questioned her caretaker, the aide explained that she had gone inside to use the bathroom. When she came back out, the lady had drowned.

She called 911 but it was too late.

They had to drain the pool.

I heard the family intends to sue because the condo has no lifeguard.

I asked Aunt Penny whether she swam that day, whether she saw it happen.

Auntie refuses to talk about it.

I wonder...

### AFTER THE MLK WEEK-END

Detective Savrini is back home after a pain filled day. The M.E. had released the diary to him after fingerprints were taken and the book tested for body fluids. Nothing.

He's been reading it but soon closes the book. Can't keep his eyes open. He'd taken his magic blue pill and now, thank God, he feels no pain.

What an unhappy child. What scared her? Made her so hopeless and mean? Yes, mean. Could such a child be capable of murder? Anything's possible but he dismisses the thought. Unless....Is there more than one perp? Could one of them be a child--this child? Who's the third body? The teacher and her mother are the only residents as far as we can figure. Maybe there's a boarder who could be the third; help to explain how the teacher could afford such a house.

The assumption initially was that the three corpses were the French teacher, her mother, and the missing child. We now know that preliminary deduction was wrong.

But where are they? Where's the teacher? What about her mother? What about Elizabeth, the math teacher's daughter?

He takes out his tablet, makes an entry to himself. "Try to find the diary writer."

He knows he'll have to check with her parents, her teachers, find her, talk to her. Is she even alive? Her instructors ought to be able to figure out who she is. But we have to be careful and not divulge anything in it. Information from the journal could be evidence in the trial or maybe help find the killer or killers. For all we know, the murderer is the writer. Savrini has heard stranger.

He glances over at the inviting soft red couch, a magnet that beckons. All he wants is to lie down and close his eyes for a few minutes. Afterward, he promises himself he'll return to the diary. So sleepy, must have some shut eye. Read it later, first thing.

He unfastens and loosens his trousers, settles his beefy body down into the plush sofa where he and Bea had so often joined. The couch was comfortable and spacious for his and Bea's times together. No more--but the memories are good.

He begins to plan tomorrow's schedule. Start with the girl who wrote the diary. How would he find her? If he does, he knows he'll need to use tact. Doesn't want to frighten the child. Hopes she'll have some answers. Does the writer attend the school where Maitresse Henriette teaches? Has to. He'll start there.

Reassured, his body sinks into the soft velvet cushions, sees himself, a big round bear stuffed with food, hibernating in soft grass in a comfy warm cave. He smiles and drifts into sleep.

Savrini wakes to tugs at his arm. A frightened Bea calls his name, "...where were you? I woke up and you were gone. Please don't go away again. Don't!"

He assures her that he will never leave, then realizes he's hard. How would she react if he touched and caressed her, tried to fuck her? He never knows these days. She's unpredictable. He remembers how nice it was this past Saturday when he came to bed and she moved into his arms.

He starts to fondle her soft round breasts. She doesn't resist. She settles herself down beside him in the sofa--just like old times. She responds with warm sensual kisses then moves her hands inside his underpants. She takes him into her soft hands. She remembers. Thank God for that. The connection and warmth is nice. Afterward they sleep entwined, deep in that wonderful red sofa. He, thinking about the past. She, about the love of her life.

### BEA'S THOUGHTS SATURDAY NIGHT DURING THE MLK WEEK-END

Now! Now he can't stand to look at me. He could ‎perform ‎tonight only because it was dark and he couldn't see ‎my ‎wrinkled face or my body, no longer young.‎

When was the last time he fucked me? Last month? Last year? Bea can't remember. She lies awake next to him, stares at his face. Thinks of all she'd given him. He swore to love me forever.

Bea withdraws into herself when her husband rambles, annoyed that Savrini ‎chats up people he doesn't know. Today was the Jamaican woman he'd hired to ‎help her. ‎

Bea, full of bitterness, muses ‎silently. ‎ He's sure I can't think, that I don't feel, that I don't know anything. He's wrong! I'm onto that language teacher at the School. He's smitten by her, the sexy one who wears high-heeled red shoes and speaks French.

I hear him talk to Keisha, tell her about the interviews they tried to do at the Benjamin after the child disappeared. How the detectives would have to go to the teachers' houses.

The other day he volunteered to visit the one where the French teacher lives. Sure. He'd heard she's blonde and wears those sexy red shoes, a tramp who'd like to entrance my man. They're all the same.

He told Keisha, I used to wear heels like that and he'd liked it a lot.

He talks to Keisha instead of me. It makes me sore. He talks to her and ignores me like I'm not even here. I don't care. I do what I have to.

The child's disappearance was big. I understand that but he should have shared it with me, not her, not that moron from the projects.

He doesn't know or care how much she steals from us. It wouldn't help if I told him. He wouldn't do anything anyway because he won't jeopardize the situation. She might quit. He can't let that happen; he needs her too much. It's her fault that I don't have my man anymore--Keisha's fault and now that French teacher will take him away from me.

Wish I could dispose of Keisha but for now, I need her too.

He says he went to the teacher's house but she wasn't home. I don't believe that story. I'm sure she was there.‎

It was just an excuse for a dalliance--the interview with the teacher in her fancy house. Did he presume he could fool anyone? Me? Certainly not me! What I learned, he'd surely heard too; that the French teacher is a lewd lady.

### SUNDAY DURING THE MLK WEEK-END

Keisha and Bea drive to Trader Joe's to buy groceries.

Bea notices that Keisha treats her like a person. She's grateful for that. Wishes her husband would too.

The caretaker is in the know about everyone who lives and works in the Museum district--what they do for a living-- everything. Bea doesn't let on that she's curious. Doesn't have to. Keisha talks non-stop.

In front of the French teacher's house, Bea observes Keisha wave to a black man in uniform who leans up against a black rusted lamp post. She slows and steers Keisha's car to the curb, comes to a stop next to the man.

Keisha exits the car and sidles around to him.

Bea sits still, inside the car. The windows are closed but she can make out some of their conversation.

The aide introduces Bea to Pierre, explains that he's the security guard for Mr. Schmidt. Keisha and Pierre huddle. He informs Keisha that Mr. Schmidt told him the crazy teacher, the kids call Maitresse Henriette, has left for vacation, so has the teacher's mother, Adelaide. Mr. Schmidt had informed Pierre so the guard would know to watch the properties more carefully. His boss said, "Empty houses are more vulnerable to vandalism and theft."

Bea doesn't pay attention to their conversation. They had lowered their voices, the words too soft now for her to hear through the car windows. Doesn't matter; her thoughts are on other things.

Pierre has an accent Bea knows to be Haitian. He's very good-looking and she surmises from what she can see that Keisha has something going with him.

The aide reaches into the back seat to retrieve a bundle she's brought from the Savrini house. Keisha hands Pierre what Bea knows to be a container of lentil soup and a platter of fried chicken-- still so hot it emits the scent of crispy fried food though everything is wrapped in foil. Bea had watched Keisha prepare it before they left. She guesses that's what Keisha does on her days off. She does Pierre. Their secret, Bea's and Keisha's.

She supposes it's more than friendship because when they kiss good-bye, it's a long passionate tongue in the mouth connection from which they have difficulty detaching, especially Keisha.

It has started to snow again. Flakes dust the cars. Trees wear a coat of ice. Bea watches the white powder float down heavier. She's concerned. Will Keisha take off? Will the snow be too heavy?

Keisha's inside the car again and they're on their way to the Trader Joe's at 22nd and Market. Keisha continues her monologue. "Ed Schmidt owns that house where the language teacher stays with her mother. He a rich man--a millionaire. The teacher's mother--her name be Adelaide Heugot. She be one a his mistress he has for years. Mr. Schmidt he pay for everything the mother need or even jus what she want."

According to Keisha's informants, "The mother is a low class whore who, thanks to Mr. Schmidt, lives like a queen."

Keisha is certain that Henriette, the language teacher, is his bastard child. Her sources don't know whether Henriette is aware that Schmidt is her father. Keisha's pretty sure she doesn't.

What everyone does know is that the teacher is crazy. They can't figure out how she hooked the job at that fine school or any job at any school for that matter. People say she's off the charts mentally.

"Henriette is so crazy she believe she have a sister who grew up wit her and da sister be a Latin teacher at da Benjamin School. Ain't no sister. Henriette teach both French and Latin."

Keisha would like to know what everyone wants to know--Was there ever a sister? Why else would Henriette hold to that? Maybe the other one died or was given away. No one knows.

Mysterious family.

Of late, Mr. Schmidt has not been seen around the house but we hear about him when he makes the news. "He a real impotnt person," Keisha says.

Bea has no trouble with the dialect, though at first it was daunting. She learned the "language." Had to.

Keisha claims most people have no idea that the French teacher is Schmidt's daughter. They don't know about the mother's relationship to Schmidt. Only Keisha knows, Keisha and her friends and family. Keisha smiles smugly.

Bea is savvier, knows that if all those people know-- Everybody knows.

Mrs. Savrini doesn't want to stop Keisha, so she refrains from asking the questions she wants answered. If she waits long enough, she'll hear it all. She has only to hold her tongue and be patient, and Bea will hear everything she needs to learn.

Keisha loves an audience, even one that appears not to listen. Doesn't matter. Bea sits in the car in her flowered housedress and frayed grey sweater worn under the heavy dark coat buttoned up to her chin. Keisha doesn't bother to remove Bea's coat or even unbutton it, though the car is excessively hot. Keisha is comfortable having placed her stylish maroon woolen cloak behind her in the back seat.

Bea faces straight ahead, uninterested in the scenery Keisha describes along the route and the people who live in certain houses. One is the new mayor of Philadelphia. "He a great man," says Keisha, "He swipes more taxes from the businesses and give it to poor folk like me."

The points of interest continue as they drive along the distinctive streets, lined on both sides with noble trees whose branches just recently shed their orange, red, and yellow leaves. What remains are naked arms that bear the weight of snow and grey skies. Now is winter; the city is drab.

Keisha indicates the old historical buildings full of works by great artists and scientists. The museums are majestic Greek/Roman architecture with magnificent pillars-- massive palatial structures on expansive landscaped tracts fit for a king.

Bea has already gone back into herself. Keisha can't tell her anything new. Those buildings and their contents are as familiar to Bea as her own house. She knows every Renoir, every Rodin sculpture, every star in the Galaxy at the Fels Planetarium, every newly recovered piece of jade from King Tut's tomb. She spent all of her time here between her treks foraging for treasures at the flea markets and garage sales.

They park in the lot behind the Market and head inside to do the twice-a-week grocery shop. The basics: Scott toilet paper, Bravo paper towels, Red Delicious apples, ripe red strawberries, yellow bananas, oranges and grapefruits are the "must buys." The Cocoa Puffs are for Savrini's and Pam's breakfast.

Broccoli, carrots, and creamed spinach are on the standing list as are diet cokes, milk, and Florida orange juice. Pam had asked Keisha to add Palermo's thin crust crispy frozen pizza and Kraft extra-sharp cheddar cheese as well as whole wheat pasta.

Keisha will eat most of that food but adds her own list to the Savrini's: collard greens, pork fat, sirloin steaks, pork roasts, plus her own basics such as the paper goods and the other items, same as what's on the Savrini's "must have" list.

Keisha cooks at the Savrini's house, some to serve to the Savrini family, but most will go home with her for friends and relatives and of course Pierre.

She pays the bill with the credit card Mr. Savrini had given her. Keisha never reimburses her boss for the items she takes home for her people. Bea doesn't tell her husband or Pam about any of this. She's annoyed that Keisha takes advantage but guesses everyone does.

Savrini once said to Bea that theft is part of the cost of doing business. Bea thinks people should be honorable.

On the way back to the Savrini house, Keisha drives by the teacher's again. Bea faces straight ahead. When they pass the Heugot house, Bea turns slightly to look at it out of the corner of her eye hoping Keisha doesn't notice.

She doesn't.

Keisha wants to see Pierre again. She's so enamored with him that even though it's snowing heavier now, she pulls herself out of the car, past the gate, and slogs all the way up to the front door. She plows on, not aware of the lightly falling snow, heads all the way to the next house and bangs on the door.

A few minutes later she returns, her face bloodless from the frigid outside air. She'd neglected to put on her coat. The aide turns the heat up high and they continue on their way home.

Between gasps and shudders of her cold-racked body, Keisha is almost in tears, "He..ee...he, he wasn't there. Is he tired of me? Does he have a new girlfriend?"

Bea doesn't answer.

### LATER SUNDAY-- THE MLK WEEK-END

Bea stays in her bed waiting for Keisha to take off, knows her aide is not heading out to see Pierre. She didn't fix herself up. No perfume. No make-up and besides, Bea heard her on her cell-phone making plans to go out with her friend Sharon. They were to meet up at the beauty parlor for a hair treatment, manicure, and pedicure. Keisha will be back late, very late. Bea knows that.

She doesn't dare move, not even to inhale deeply. No one could know she's awake.

She cautions herself: Even, shallow breaths. Slowly. Inhale... Hold the air in...one...two...three...Out, one...two...three... Into the lungs. Hold it for a few seconds...Out slooooowly.

Eyes squeezed shut. Her lids fight to open to verify whether her keeper is still here. Is Keisha watching her? Is it safe to stand up? To leave?

Her muscles are exhausted from the strain. She must remain still, keep her face rigid.

Should she open her mouth and drop her jaw? Would that convince? Bea had seen lots of old people who sleep like that. You could never tell whether they were asleep or dead.

She can't decide. Does she herself look dead when she sleeps?

Does she snore? No one had ever accused her of that but maybe she has begun to lately.

She tries a few slow guttural sounds that start in the back of her throat, the base of her nose. Chhhhh.

She drifts off.

Bea panics. Rouses herself. Stays still in her bed. If she falls asleep, her plan will die. She can't let that happen.

She had thought it all out in her head-- over and over. Planned every detail--even wrote everything down in case she'd forget some item in the schedule.

Where's the agenda? Has she lost it? Her heart thumps heavy in her chest. She's in a panic. She can't surmise that it could happen without the itemized list?

She reassures herself that it doesn't matter about the scribble she's made. She will remember. Today will be perfect.

She presses her hands tightly together so they couldn't move by accident and give her away.

Her throat feels sore like when she'd had Strep. Maybe she's sick.

No. She hadn't been sick for a long time. She isn't sick now.

She thinks she hears Keisha's engine turn over. It idles a bit then drives off.

The house is quiet but she waits to make sure.

Silence.

She can move now.

Bea slides to the edge of the bed, and puts her feet on the floor.

She stands. Feels that her stomach is bloated. It hurts. Did he poison her? Did Keisha?

Doesn't matter. She'll go anyway.

She knows how much time she needs. She's memorized the bus schedule.

She descends the stairs. One of the floorboards creaks.

She halts. Waits. Listens intently to make sure, almost positive no one's home to hear it.

She continues on down, passes stealthily into the darkened space. Her shin knocks into the coffee table where the small ivory elephant rests. It falls to the floor. The trunk breaks free of the body. Bea doesn't notice. She moves into the un-lit kitchen and stubs her toe on the leg of the tall porcelain sink. Her toe begins to bleed. Bea pays no attention.

She's out the door in time for the next bus to Green Street.

Once outside, she feels the rush of cold wind on her face. Bea's on her way to accomplish her mission.

She inhales and exhales quickly, deeply. She runs. She giggles, joyful. She's tricked them--all of them.

Snow falls on her head. She turns her face up to the sky. Cold wetness chills her cheeks and forehead, alights upon her lips, tickles her tongue in her opened mouth.

She's alive! She dances to the beat of the song in her head.

Slipping sliding. Young once more, knees easy. A long step... now a glide...and again on the snow covered ice.

Skid forward on one shoe, now the other. She remembers the times she skated to the music at the rink. Waltz of the Fairies sounds in her head. She sings.

Right foot sliiide forward.

"Bm... bm...bm...Bm...... bm, bm...bm, bm."

Alternate. Push out. Slide the other leg in front. She moves fast. A young girl once more. Full of anticipation, she sails all the way to the bus stop.

Bea remembers the Sunday schedule from a few years back when Savrini sold one of their two cars, the one she liked, the little red Mustang convertible. She's angry today as she recalls her disappointment. He had not consulted her.

He needed his for work, so when she shopped, she'd take the bus; free for seniors. Guess he thought that justified it. Made it all right that he took her car away.

Bea was always jubilant when the bus drivers asked to see her Medicare card. Thought she must have looked younger than her age.

Now the sky is solid white. Bea doesn't pay attention, but she can hardly see anything. The snowfall obscures the streets, the signs--everything. Doesn't matter. Though blinded she knows where she's going and knows how to get there.

The wind blows the snow, propels it down at an angle. It cloaks the city, buries the somber colors of winter beneath a translucent veil of powder fast becoming opaque.

### MONDAY OF THE MLK WEEK-END

Bea strains to remember. She burns her brain with the effort. Deep lines furrow her brow. What happened yesterday? She feels in her body that it had been a life-changing event. She was at the house on Green Street but can recall only what transpired up until that time.

She remembers that after they'd arrived home from Sunday's shopping excursion, Bea pretended to go for a nap--always an opportunity for Keisha to skip out.

She did.

The aide had deserted her, even though it was her obligation to stay. Keisha's lack of responsibility annoys Bea. She works for us, and what does she do? She runs off to do her own thing.

Bea thinks back to Sunday--to yesterday. Not easy.

She recollects the bus ride and the half block walk over to the house on Green and the wait outside. She knows it was early evening, recalls being out in a snowstorm.

That's all.

She tries to remind herself what happened after she arrived at Green Street.

She can't.

She doesn't even remember how she managed the trip home except for feeling cold and wet. She guesses from the snow.

Did she do something bad? If so, she's glad not to know. Better that way.

The next day she will have forgotten it all.

### DIARY BY NATALIE

My thoughts always go back to Elizabeth and what could have happened to her? Did her dad kill her? Is that possible?

‎Oh my God! Could he have killed her? Did he hurt his own ‎daughter? Would he make her disappear like Elizabeth feared?‎

Now that I know the way he punishes ‎‎his daughter, I'm beginning to believe maybe he did off her.‎

What about if she is dead... Maybe she'll be resurrected into something else like maybe a snake, then she can kill her father with her venom. Or she can be a demon with fangs. She'll roar at him, scare him, so he'll have a heart attack and die.

Then he'll be sorry for what he did to her.

### MARIA THE DISPATCHER

Maria recalls the evening she went to the dance hall without her boyfriend. What happened unnerved her and she knew she would never forget.

Her guy had to work late so he couldn't come, and waited impatiently; even called several times to ask when she'd be home. Patience is not his virtue.

She was so tired, she decided to quit the dance early.

Pam objected, "Maria. You leaving? You're not going into the parking lot alone, are you? You crazy? You know it's not safe here. Wait a sec. I'll go down with you."

Luther insisted too, "We can all take you to yo car."

"No, I'll be fine. Not a problem, I have my revolver if I need it. Really. Call ya when I'm home. Okay? Really. I'm good."

She left the studio and went downstairs.

Earlier, when she arrived at the dance the snow had already begun its light airy drift, hardly there, only a promise.

But now it had begun to come in heavy waves.

Her version of what happened next:

I couldn't see my car-- Couldn't make it out in the lot. Kept moving around searching in the deluge of white.

Suddenly, there were no cars.

I didn't know where I was. Only thing was the sleet that beat at my face. I must have walked out into a park or an empty lot.

I began to run. I slid. The snow came down harder. I couldn't see anything, only the snow-filled sky. Everywhere I turned was emptiness.

I couldn't catch my breath. I stopped and stood still. I heard nothing, no people, no cars, no trucks--othing. I was alone...but where?

I opened my purse, dug out my cell. My hands were so cold, it slipped into the darkness. I heard it bounce, and it was gone. I crouched down to feel around with both hands.

Nothing.

I moved away from where I'd been to where I thought it might have landed. I bent down and felt around blindly. I couldn't find it. I gave up, stood and looked around. There were no lights.

The snow fell heavier. I ran to where I believed the studio was. Faster now, I slid with every step.

I slowed myself. Try to think. Try to figure where you are.

I couldn't.

Someone appeared close by. A shrouded figure, a short person in a black cape and hood. I couldn't see the face but she murmured and pointed with her outstretched arm and forefinger.

I knew this person. I knew her for sure.

I faced in the direction she indicated and when I turned back, she was gone. I called out but she wasn't there.

I ran to where she'd pointed and very quickly came upon my car.

I know who guided me. I also know no one would believe me.

### AFTER THE MLK WEEKEND

The M.E. has given the go-ahead for Savrini to examine the crime scene. He's on his way.

We know the identity of the corpses but questions multiply.

The girls were penetrated but there's no DNA, no semen.

As he drives up to the house, he notes that Murphy's been assigned here to keep an eye out. Again. Must have some severe enemies at the Precinct. This is a heck of a thankless miserable directive.

As Savrini exits the car, cold eats into his body. When they shake hands, he can hear the cop's teeth chatter. As much as the detective dislikes him, he feels sorry for this loser who has to be out in this icy night.

They chat for a second and Savrini moves on his way toward the house.

Murphy watches with longing. He'd love to join him inside but knows his place.

Suddenly he remembers the missing kid, Elizabeth Judd.

"Hey Detective Savrini!"

Savrini who's been clumping up the walkway, turns back when he hears his name.

"Hey detective, what do ya hear about the missing kid from the school?"

"Nada, absolutely nothing. Must have been kidnapped. Maybe she ran away. Hope she's still alive, but it's doubtful. Days without even one clue...Got to be lying dead somewhere. We'll find her when this damn snow melts."

"Listen. I'm going inside. I'll take it from here, Murphy. You can go on back to the Precinct, get you some dinner. Relax 'till your shift is over."

"Geeze, thanks. Don't have to tell me twice. I'm outta here. See ya tomorrow. Thanks again." Murphy can hardly move his lips and cheeks, they're frozen stiff.

On his way back to his car, he salivates at the thought of the meal to come, sees himself as if he were already wolfing down his meal in the warmth of the Commissary. The patrol car never has a chance to heat up. He's back at the Precinct and out of his coat, his food in front of him within ten minutes.

The small lunch place is an afterthought, a ten by ten foot interior ‎space with muddy green walls. The floors are dirty off-white with a teardrop design of reds and yellows.‎

The mainstay food is chicken, bacon, eggs, hamburgers, steaks, ‎and potatoes--all fried. The room reeks of rancid grease even when nothing is frying.‎

Four tables and chairs sit in the middle of the area, a ‎counter with five red vinyl and chrome barstools ‎against the wall. ‎

On the other side, there's a buffet behind a glass ‎sneeze-guard with an opening at the bottom to reach in and ‎take the food. Staff has set up ‎casseroles of meat loaf and mashed potatoes. Tureens of bean ‎soup and chili sit on steam tables heated from below with small ‎braziers. Cold items--salads and fruit-- are farther down the line. ‎The food is set up so people can ‎help themselves. This place enables cops and clerks ‎‎to take their meals inside the building.‎

The walls are covered with old most wanted posters. No one ‎knows who's still free, but the cops are sure that if any still ‎roam, they most surely will not be found. All agree.

Should any be inadvertently captured, they will walk because of the statute of limitations.‎ That law enrages cops who swear that no matter when they're ‎caught, criminals should pay for their crimes. The police are against ‎anything that favors miscreants, in particular the evil statutes ‎that let them off. Time limits so criminals don't have to pay for their evil doing is absurd.‎

Murphy steams about the loss of manpower when the city ‎needs it the most. This holiday brings out the worst element and what happens? Less cops, less clerks, less ‎everything! On top of that, look who's gone back to his roots. Chief ‎White ain't even in the city. Unh unh, he's off someplace in Georgia. Shit! ‎Ain't a way to run a big city police station.‎

Tonight Murphy passed up the greens; instead he reached for a large helping of Waldorf salad which he drowned in ‎extra dressing. He skipped the broccoli but took several ‎dollops of mashed potatoes that he slathered with extra butter.‎

He chews quickly, his tongue excited by each mouthful of the thin slices of slightly fried steak, semi-congealed cheese, and onions browned sweet, salty fries on the side. Strings of cheese drip from each bite of his sandwich, a straight line down to his plate to be swept up on his forefinger, licked then swallowed with the next mouthful of his sub.‎

After the last bite of his Philly cheesesteak, Murphy looks down at the table, sees he has no more napkins to wipe the grease from his mouth. He smears the oily cheese that drips from his lips onto the back of his hand and ‎shifts himself over onto his side, places one mutton leg on the floor ‎before adding the other. He needs both to heave himself up out of ‎his chair.‎

"Now I got to go wash up," he mutters, "shoulda grabbed ‎the napkin canister from the buffet, then I wouldn't have to go ‎to the Men's.‎ ‎‎Next time," he hisses to himself. ‎

Murphy finishes in the bathroom, and goes into the lounge to ‎check himself out in front of the full length mirror. Not bad, he thinks. ‎He doesn't notice the grey hair that peeks out from under the hat ‎he has just perched on his head. Nor does he see the jowly ‎face or the rose veins traversing his nose, not the eyes reddened by ‎fatigue and liquor. He doesn't even notice the grease marks on ‎his trousers.‎

He looks into his blue eyes, smiles at his reflection, mutters, "Spitting ‎image of Robert Redford. I coulda been famous."

‎ Helen's image flashes in his mind. He makes a quick call to ask, "Is she still there?"

"Sorry. Yes Murphy. Wish I could say, no."

The cop's face falls.

But then....

The Lemon Meringue Pie! The sugar taste and the lemon smell tantalize his senses. The image attacks his mind as if it were floating in front of his face. Forgot to take ‎it from the buffet. How could he pass that up, first go-round? ‎The dessert must have been in the back, set aside for someone special probably. Murphy hopes there's some left. He rushes back ‎into the café, ready to fight for his dessert.‎

No one here. He's safe to indulge but then notices that the pies ‎are waaay in the back, hard to reach. He presses his body against ‎the buffet table as far as his belly will allow, then shoves his arm into ‎the very recesses of the ‎glass show case.‎

Success! ‎

No one's around to count, so he takes two slices of the light, ‎sweet lemon flavored pastry, redolent of baked sugar and real ‎citrus fruit. He carries the plates back to his table.

God is good.

He muses that if he could rid them of the old witch, their lives would be perfect.‎

### AFTER MLK WEEK-END

Glad Murphy was on his way back to the precinct and out of his hair, Savrini enters the house. The heat is down. It's cold inside compared to the formerly overheated interior.

The living room was recently cleared of the bodies but not the blood. Round spots remain where the women had been gored, punched clear through-- tenderized meat. The corpses are gone, but you can see their shapes. The floor looks like a dot-to-dot of their bodies.

Other than that, the house is pleasing, decorated with French furniture and accents in light blues, whites, and gold.

The paintings are originals, placed artfully against the embossed gilt wall coverings. Savrini knows this is not cheap stuff from the flea market.

One is a landscape--the French Riviera. The scene captivates him, invites him in. Savrini is no longer aware of anything around him.

It is a beach scene. People in bathing suits lie on flimsy colorful lounges or on blankets near the water. Others promenade arm-in-arm or cycle on the beach-walk.

Loaves of crusty French bread extend beyond the wrappers, tucked under the arm for the short walk home. Savrini's mind conjures up the pungence of baked bread fresh from the oven.

It's summertime. Young girls are clad in transparent green and blue pastel frocks, so light that the soft breeze billows their skirts out and away from their slender tanned legs. The image beckons. The yellow orange sun floats in the background.

He recalls his honeymoon so long ago in Miami Beach. The thought warms him though the room is cold. It was late springtime then, the weather perfect, the air soft, the breeze light, the night warm and pungent with the scents of citrus flowers and white gardenias.

They stayed in a small motel on the beach. Now and then they'd head out to swim in the clear blue-green sea. So calm, there were no waves, the water warming with the approach of summer.

The honeymooners ate at Joe's in South Beach. Nutcrackers opened wide the hard stone crab claws. Tiny forks dug out the cold compact flesh which was dipped into the mayonnaise-mustard sauce. He and Bea ate and dripped juices down their forearms, savoring this new experience as much as the food. Dessert was pale creamy Key Lime Pie.

Back in their room, they stimulated their young bodies with wet kisses and caresses. Took turns to see who could slap lightly and not cause red marks on their buttocks or thighs. Purple meant it was too hard. Whoever was to blame, would give soft slow wet licks all over to make it better.

Their experiments went on for hours, windows opened to admit the scents of flowers and salt sea air and the muffled sounds of waves that licked the shore.

There'd hear cries from the beach that Savrini deduced were teenagers doing what youngsters do, fuck and drug.

He stares at the picture. He's hard. Pictures Pam, his alluring daughter. Her body paints itself in his mind aided by the scene before his eyes. He's acutely aware that the floor next to him is where the nude girls had been enjoyed. Overwhelmed with sexual arousal, he takes out his penis and pretends Pam is here with him. He closes his eyes and there she is. Her partially nude body on her knees her round full white breasts hang out of her white satin low-cut blouse. One hand pinches her nipple just like he showed her the other encircles his cock caressing it from tip to base and back again. Alternately she licks and sucks it. The hand that was on her nipple reaches into her panties. She handles her clit with her fingers. He knows she's stimulated and reaches down to pinch her nipples. She squeals then takes all of him into her mouth, gags...and orgasms.

She is here with him. Takes but a second and he's done.

Ahh.

Well that was nice. The real Pam would have been a million times better. Soon he promises himself. Soon.

"Hshh."

He looks up and sees where the sound emanated. There, out of the corner of his eye is a blur, blacker than black that appears to swirl itself around the corner and off into the dining room.

He draws back into the living room.

"Hshh"

What was that? Savrini recoils in fear but is pushed back away from the center of the room as if he were a woman being led in a Viennese waltz. The force throws him up against the wall. His head smashes into it and he falls against the partition landing with a heavy thud in a seated position. The detective looks around to see who or what was so strong as to be able to pick him up and hurl him several feet in the air. He squints to see but realizes he's blind and too afraid to reach out with his arms to feel what's in front of him. He begins to recite The Lord's Prayer though he doesn't expect anything to come to his aid. The detective expects death--a quick horrible one because he knows he's the object of a powerful hate.

Savrini's legs won't move but he manages to croak, "Who's here?"

Silence.

"Is someone here?" He whispers.

"Hshh..."

He looks around, feels eyes accuse him.

He wishes he'd let Murphy remain. Now he's alone and unable to protect himself.

"Hshh."

Savrini stands--unsteady. Feels his strength return, then bolts for the front door.

He doesn't stop until he's outside then springs at his car. Safely behind the wheel, he turns the key in the ignition. It backfires twice but then starts. Once in drive, it puts softly and Savrini much relieved drives off in a puff of exhaust.

Should he call the Station?

He can't. They'll laugh at him.

"Hey Savrini. Did you think it was a ghost?"

He knows--in there--in that house, he was the object of venom. He dreads the awesome power of the fury projected at him. Dread a time that he might meet that entity again. Knows that fear will not leave him-- ever.

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

Aunt Penny doesn't know I'm awake. I have only a small lamp hidden under my blanket so I can write my diary and read my book, The Girl with the Spider Tattoo. When we were at the Books and Books in Miami Beach and no one was watching, I snatched it off the shelf and stuffed it into my backpack.

Tonight Aunt Penny ushered us off to bed before I was ready to sleep. She won't mind that I stay up to read and write about my daily doings. I like to keep up with all that.

She keeps one too; calls it her "Journal." I like to read hers when she's out shopping or on the phone. Auntie doesn't know and I'm sure she wouldn't be happy if she knew but I don't have to worry if she gets mad. All that happens is she gets red and then later she explains why I shouldn't do the bad things.

The windows are open. Winds gust and I can hear the roar of waves. It's because of what Aunt Penny calls le mistral that marks the change of season.

When I got back to school and told the class about my visit to Florida, I informed everybody about the wind Aunt Penny and I call le mistral. Maitresse humphed and her body stood rigid. Her eyes got round, her cheeks and nose flushed, and she informed the class that le mistral applies to a special wind found only in France.

She's ignorant. I call any gale that blows fiercely in one direction, le mistral. I won't ever tell Maitresse anything about Florida ever again.

And she better watch out!

### BEFORE MLK--AUNT PENNY

I recall a recent trip to Philly with time for Bridge while the children were in school. Hubby didn't want to play so I went alone.

The Duplicate game downtown is on Walnut Street, second floor over some stores. There are excellent players but Jonathan, the director set me up with a bitchy, self-important dope. Guess that's why the woman doesn't have a regular partner.

The Club is pleasant enough. Windows overlook elegant Walnut Street with its exclusive shops and shade trees that dot the sidewalk.

The card room is large enough for twenty or so tables‎. The Director serves a nice lunch of tuna, egg salad, breads, chips, fresh fruit--usually melon and strawberries, coffee, tea, and cookies--the usual.

I greet Jonathan and head off to the buffet for some tuna, lettuce, and extra mayonnaise to make a sandwich. I cram two slices of bread into the toaster, and hope the thing works. Can't stand the plain white stuff. While I wait for the bread to crisp, I over-hear a couple of women quarrelling, red-heads, most likely mother and daughter.

"Mom you shouldn't have told me to lock him out. It was so cold, snowing and all. It was mean."

"Sweetie, it was two in the morning. You shouldn't let Murphy walk all over you. He's out there and you don't even know where or what he does. He stinks of booze when he finally comes home at two, three, even five in the morning. Sometimes he doesn't come home all night."

"But Mom it was so cold...I shouldn't have listened to you."

"But Helen, he could have slept in his car."

"How could I let him do that? Outside in the car is cold too! He could have died! You shouldn't have stopped me. I should have let him in."

"Well...he got in anyway."

"Yeah and now I have to pay to have the window fixed. The neighbors complained when they heard the bam bam crash when the window glass shattered. They wanted to know what happened. Murphy swears he won't fix it and I don't blame him. And he knew it was your fault. He could have hurt you; he was in a rage, foam ran out of his mouth."

"Don't worry, I have my gun. He won't do anything." She patted her purse and smiled.

"Mom!"

They didn't seem to notice me so I picked up my lunch and coffee and went over to their table.

"Hi, I'm Penny, all right if I join you?"

"Sure. I'm Helen Murphy and this is my mother... She's visiting from Atlanta. Sit down."

I did and started on my sandwich.

I looked up casually, "Do you usually play with your mother?"

"Yeah, I don't venture out too often. My husband likes me home when he arrives from work... odd hours, so it's hard to plan an outing...He's a cop out of Downtown. You know...It's difficult for me when Mom's here too..."

Her mother pipes up, "He can't stand me, and I don't understand why. I've always been nice to him."

"Mom. Please!"

"It's true. You seem to forget that I bailed him out."

"Mom!" Helen turns back to her mother. "You can't stand him. You make that obvious. You let him know it at every opportunity." She turns back to me. "They just don't get along-- no how."

Mom pipes up, "Listen Helen, I told you not to marry him, that low-class, good-for-nothing failure. You could still...you know...make a change...rid yourself of him. Move on."

"What do you mean, Mom?"

"I could help." She pats her purse.

"Shh. Hush, Mom...Let's talk about this later. I'm sure Penny isn't interested in our business."

"Not at all, Helen. I'm a writer. I need all the material I can get. Not to worry, I won't use your names. Promise."

Helen mumbles. "We have to go find our table." They pushed back their chairs, stood, took their lunches and moved off.

Oh well. It was good while it lasted.

Like I told Hubby later, "I couldn't believe it. Know what? Those two came in first."

My partner, Edith Schmidt, makes her appearance five minutes before start time. She plops her Chanel Navy Blue Bucket shoulder bag on a chair and heads for the buffet, looks back over her shoulder at me--orders, "Watch my purse!"

I observe her take her lunch from the counter. It infuriates me when I see how deliberate she is with her choices, as if she has all the time in the world. She deliberately places two scoops of tuna on one of her plates, fills the other with chips and a half dozen chocolate chip cookies. She returns to us with her food and dumps it in the middle of the table; as if the surface' sole purpose is for her lunch--not for the bidding boxes, not the playing cards, not the scoring sheets, not the pencils, and not for our drinks.

She's dressed as if for a high society charity event-- designer black pantsuit, and a five inch brooch pinned to her lapel, a peacock with opened wings set with rubies, emeralds, diamonds, and lapis lazuli. Under her jacket is a perfectly starched white blouse. The matched pearls with a diamond drop cost a fortune. Solid gold bracelets jingle jangle heavily from both wrists. The diamond on her finger is a rock. Her shoes are Manolos in satin with a Swarovski crystal buckle. Her black hair is coiffed fresh from the beauty parlor. That and the fresh manicure are probably why she's late. Plastic surgery is evident but her face and neck are too tight. If she had the work done here, my guess is that surgeons in Philly are not as good as those in California or even Brazil.

We introduce ourselves. "Hi, I'm Penny Krill."

"Mrs. Edith Schmidt."

Huh? Who does she think she is? That supercilious bitch!

No smile, no small talk.

We have but a minute between her gulps of food to discuss which communications we use.

"I play Standard American...no conventions." Edith announces.

"Unusual two no-trump? I ask.

"Yes that...but that's all."

"What about transfers to the minors?"

"After two spades? Yes."

"Michaels?"

"Sure."

Now, I don't know anything. She plays nothing and she plays everything.

Sure enough-- first deal I open the bidding with "two clubs," the strongest possible bid. What does she answer?

"Pass."

I'm shocked.

She should have said something, anything-- not "Pass."

We miscommunicate for three and a half hours and come out with a solid bottom at the finish.

"Do you play here much? Haven't seen you before?"

Now that the game's over, Edith Schmidt wants to be friendly.

"No, I'm in Philly to visit my family. They live nearby."

"Really? We live here in downtown too. My husband is a banker. Let's have lunch one day while you're here or if not this time, on your next visit."

I would like to hear more about this person. Lunch okay, but Bridge with her is out of the question. Ever! ‎

I don't tell her that, of course, but I make a mental memo.

"Certainly. Next time I come to Philly I'll give you a heads up, plenty of notice. Okay?" I answer as we exchange cards.

"I look forward to it. We can have brunch and then play bridge."

"I don't like to go out for brunch or lunch and play on the same day, maybe just brunch or lunch and some shopping. How's that?"

"We'll just play then, since lunch is served at the game."

"Let's discuss it when I'm back in the city." I feel pushed.

"Don't you want to play bridge with me?"

Edith has me up against the wall. I don't want to hurt her feelings but this conversation is out of control.

"Sure I do, it was fun today. We'll meet again. I'll call." I try to make a break, turn away and move toward the elevator.

"Wait!"

I turn around.

"Let's mark our calendars I'm sure you know when you'll be back to visit your family. I can send my chauffeur to pick you up."

"...Really not sure...honest...must run." I turn away and dash toward the elevator.

I hear her start up a conversation with one of the other women. "That bag you have, it's a Judith Leiber, the one with the crystal dog. It looks exactly like mine. Funny thing is I lost it from inside my closet. My husband gave it to me for our anniversary a few years ago. I know he paid a few thousand. I was particularly fond of that purse but I have so many, I'd forget to use it. I thought my Cuban maid might have stolen it. Where did you buy yours?"

The woman proudly answers. "EBay. Two hundred. Good deal huh?"

At that moment, the elevator door opens, and although I am curious, I want away from Edith, so I go on down.

Outside again, the wind circles and swirls about, makes a mess of my hair. Wonder what they call that type of wind? Must give a different name from the one in Florida; don't want to incite Maitresse. Have to give it some thought.

Since the one in Miami seems to originate in Cuba I'll name it el viento fuertismo.

What chutzpah! That bitch, Maitresse. Calls me ignorant? If I choose to call a wind, le mistral, because it's similar in kind and duration and strength to her precious wind in France, I will! And no crazy French teacher spinster is going to tell my niece that I'm wrong, not if she values her life.

### BEFORE MLK-- MAITRESSE

Planning her escape to the Mediterranean, Maitresse has her mind on the people she must abide, from whom she must free herself. She starts with Natalie's aunt.

"Le Mistral'\--Miami Beach? How quaint how déclassée. How stupid to label some wind in Miami Beach, 'le mistral.' Quelle absurde! I must correct my students when they are wrong, even when it is their aunt who tells them inaccuracies. When I know it is not factual, it is my obligation to rectify it. It is my duty. It is my joy. Don't you agree, Sis? Natalie insists her Aunt Penny is correct, that the wind that blows continuously, noisily, and fiercely in Florida is 'le mistral.' Il faut que je dise la vérité. 'Le mistral' is only in Southern France--nowhere else--not ever in Miami Beach-- never in the United States--nowhere else except France. Surely you know that, don't you?"

"\-------------------."

"Thought so. I've been thinking, Sis. Why should we work so hard for a mother who's a thankless mean old biddy? Maybe we should retire now, even though she says we should wait a few years. Sometimes I ask myself. Why not now? What's stopping me? Guess it's the money. Mother has it all. We can't retire until she says so, or until she dies. She dictates everything we do."

"\------------------------------------------."

"I know. You thought Mr. Judd would know what to do. I did inform him about how Mother invests our money and that she insisted we name her the beneficiary of our pension. He was shocked. Didn't I tell you about that meeting? He said we should find a lawyer to make Mother account for our finances. Might be an idea except he doesn't know Mother; how she doesn't like to be questioned."

"\-------------!"

"I agree, we do have rights. Guess we should hire a lawyer and just deal with the bellowing ogre she's sure to become. Can I? Will you gives me moral support?"

"\--."

"Okay, just as soon as we're back in Philly. You know, Sis, even without the money Mother's holding for us, we can retire in a few years. And thanks to the Union, our pension will be almost equal to our full salary. We don't have to worry about health insurance, we have excellent medical benefits. Let's."

"\--------------------."

"I hear you, Sis. Something else came to mind last night. Maybe we shouldn't leave Thursday at all. We lose the day and the night because we can't leave until 3:30. If we travel on Monday, MLK day, the airport will be empty-- much more comfortable. We can do some fun things in Philly over the week-end. There's that show at the Kimmel center you wanted to see and we can go hear the big organ at Macy's. They play it nowadays and we haven't been there for awhile. I'm pretty sure we can change the flight. After all--the airline cancelled our 9 o'clock. They'll let us change because of that and also, they always have empty seats on the holiday day itself. And Sis, as you know, we don't have un-refundable tickets. I'll call the airline."

"\---------------!!!"

"Well-- Just think about it. That's all I ask. Okay Sis?"

"\---."

### MURPHY

Too early to go home, Murphy knows the witch-bitch is still there. He worships Helen as much as he abhors his mother-in-law. He knows she doesn't like or respect him. Once she advised Helen not to marry him. His wife never told him but he overheard them as the two women sat on the porch swing one summer evening. He was inside the house ‎and ‎could just about hear their words over the croaking frogs and chirping crickets‎. He would always connect those awful gut-wrenching words with the sweet scent of honeysuckle and fresh cut grass that pervaded his mother-in-law's garden.

He never told Helen what he heard that night and never forgave her mother. He loves Helen but could not bear that she'd let that hurtful admonition fall from her mother's cruel mouth and not once object or say anything good about him to her.

Murphy decides to walk over to Joe's. Everyone ends up there at one time or another especially the cops and the teachers who work nearby. They have much in common-- the spoiled brats from the ‎neighborhood and the juvenile delinquents who interlope then scurry ‎about everywhere.

He strolls along whistling Taps. Enjoys the sounds of the cars and the church bells that chime on the hour and the half. Murphy loves this section of Philadelphia, especially the museums set high on ‎sloping verdant rises‎. The majestic Corinthian structures‎ inspire‎.‎

Murphy heads in the direction of Joe's where he will shoot the bull with the locals. He looks forward to the sanctuary he feels when inside. The space reeks ‎of smoke, bourbon, cheap whiskeys, and beer spilled and absorbed over the decades into the dark red and brown wood-paneled walls, ‎floorboards, chairs, and the huge welcoming span of bar which stretches the length of the room. The odor is the essence of the place, the welcome ‎mat that invites all comers to the dimness inside.‎

Murphy swears many at the Benjamin School are ‎not ‎teetotalers, not by a long shot. Quite the opposite, they'll drink ‎any ‎of us cops under the patrol car day or night. ‎

And the women are easy lays. He ‎swears ‎to his comrades he had nailed a few himself.

He never admits to the guys that many of his conquests are ‎all ‎beyond a certain age--grey down there and so desperate they'll ‎ ‎accept anybody with a dick. He omits that part. Murphy often says to himself that a ‎woman is a woman so long as she's got the right equipment. ‎You ‎could always turn off the lights.‎

The cops are sure the wearing of the blue is ‎what's answerable for their good fortune. They repeat the ‎dictum, ‎‎"‎Women will succumb to a man in uniform-- any man." ‎Murphy ‎ascribes his success to his unique charms and good ‎looks.‎

He doesn't fault the teachers because they drink and ‎carouse. They suffer great stress ‎having to ‎deal with today's kids-- same as the police. ‎

Both groups share war stories, such as the loaded hand-‎gun passed around during a second grade Show and Tell.

‎"‎Hey Murphy, speaking about little kids, remember a few years ago when the doorman from The Rittenhouse Center ‎called the precinct, and what we found when we saw into the apartment? Remember? That fatso with his prick ‎stuck inside the little girl's mouth. Her jaw locked and he ‎couldn't free his little dick. Remember? And afterwards there's a call ‎from the Justice Department that we better keep it hush hush or we'll get the crap beat out of us and lose our jobs and any in the future. ‎Remember? And we ‎better not tell anyone, especially the news people--or else. Where was ‎his wife?... Oh... I remember now; she was at her bridge club. Remember ‎that?"‎

Everyone does. ‎

Each narrator speaks negligible truth but all are ‎welcomed ‎with ‎camaraderie, acknowledged by guffaws, and ‎lubricated ‎by ‎bourbon, scotch, and gin. The lost afternoons extend well ‎into ‎evening. ‎Countless libations encourage ‎carefree ‎abandon.‎

Murphy enjoys a few of Joe's regulars. His favorite is Sandy, the ‎substitute teacher, the cute brunette, the ‎funny one. ‎

Sometimes he divulges things ‎about her that he shouldn't. Like when he told the guys what she had confided to him; that she didn't even have an associate's degree. Had no credentials to be a substitute, and was unqualified to teach anything, least of all languages. Said she wings it. She told him that, when the two of them were long ‎past drunk.

He thinks that Sandy is sure a dresser though--real classy. The ladies all say ‎that. ‎

As Murphy's eyes acclimate to the darkness, he lumbers in and sets himself on a stool at the end of the bar closest to the entrance where he orders and shlurps a frothy Bud.

Murphy believes he doesn't have a lot of energy these days because his ‎mother-in-law is here for a visit from Atlanta. He clues in ‎the other cops that she's "a pointy-nosed red-haired ugly pretentious ‎nasty bitch-witch with airs of superiority who buys off-the-rack ‎TJMaxx clothes she insists are couture.

‎ He's most upset because his wife Helen has begun to ‎resemble her mother in looks and disposition, more and more ‎every time the old lady comes to visit. He fears a time when he ‎won't be able to tell them apart. Helen's even begun to tint ‎her hair red like the witch.‎

‎God help me!

Whenever he and his mother-in-law are together, she dresses ‎him down for every little misstep-- a most critical hag who accuses ‎Murphy of gambling and drinking away their savings. The hated one makes sure her daughter is in ‎earshot ‎for the put-downs, and it pains Murphy that his wife never ‎stands up for him.

Helen Murphy has always been a forgiving, pleasant, pretty woman with ‎deep blue eyes and an open smile, soft and giving in bed, but she changes when her mother's around.

He's sure the mother plots all day while he's away at work, schemes to make Murphy's life more ‎miserable than it is. It takes one picky phrase hurled at ‎him as he enters the front door to make him wish he were ‎someplace else. Used to be his "castle," now it's the lair of the ‎enemy.‎

Well. She'll be gone, soon, he hopes.‎ Can't wait for the witch to go airborn on her ‎broomstick. Maybe it'll be today. ‎She keeps him on edge, refuses to advise him when she plans to return to her home, when his life will return to normal.‎

He spots his pal, Sandy, the sub, picks up his third beer of the evening and sits down next to her at the end of the bar.

"What a coincidence I was just thinking about you. How ya doin'?"

"I'm okay, bored is all, desperate for a rich good-looking ‎sexy ‎youngish man. Don't you think sweet li'l me deserves one? After all, I'm still young and more than attractive."

One of the regulars, a patrolman sits with some buddies at a nearby table. He ‎ calls over to her, "Hey Sandy, what about that guy who chatted you up yesterday when you was in here."

"Who was that?"

"You must remember-- the one you was joking with. He's rich, not bad-looking? What about him?" ‎

She laughs crudely and answers loudly enough ‎for ‎everyone to hear, says, "I couldn't ever imagine sucking ‎his ‎cock. Are you kidding?"‎

Everyone's shocked. The room falls silent. After an instant, all explode with laughter.‎

"‎My God, Sandy, I hope you don't talk to your students like ‎that."‎

"Nah Murph, but I don't know how long I can sub. It's ‎harder every day. I don't know the languages I'm supposed to teach, ‎so I instruct the kids to open their books to where they left off and to take ‎turns reading out loud. I don't correct them. They have to call out when someone makes a mistake. It does become kinda ‎noisy, and I don't know how long I can pull it off."

"A propos to that, Murphy, what do you ‎hear about Maitresse Henriette? She dead?"‎

"‎No, the corpses are too young. What's the word at school? What are the teachers saying?"‎

"Don't know. I steer clear of them; don't want anyone to find out I don't know French or Latin. I ‎want to keep the job as long as I can."‎

Murphy puts his arm around Sandy's shoulders, asks, "What say you and I go someplace ‎warm...like maybe...your place for instance?"‎

"‎Can't. The ex is there waiting for me. As a matter of fact I'm already ‎late. See ya... maybe tomorrow or the next day."‎

### BEFORE MLK WEEK-END

Penny is in her pool in Florida, swimming laps and at the same time stewing herself into a rage about Maitresse.

What gall to ridicule me! It would be bad enough to have told me to my face, but to report to Natalie that I don't know anything is punishable by death.

She feels her ire rise.

That bitch of a French teacher has the audacity to criticize me about what I name the wind! She doesn't know what real wind is.

And I'll bet she knows less French than I do and she's paid to teach what she doesn't know. Why is that? Who is she?

She presumes to have the legitimacy to undermine my relationship with my niece?

I think not. Wait 'til I get a hold of her! Not long now. I can tell you that. I'm on my way.

### EDITH SCHMIDT

Edith Schmidt is bored. She would have liked to play bridge today, but when she called Penny, there was no answer. Even though they didn't score well, Edith had a good time. Most pick-up partners are not pleasant, not only that, they can be downright nasty. Penny never complained when they didn't make a contract.

Edith could hire a teacher with whom she could play, but they're even more critical--armored tanks that roll over you. Each hand leaves you a simpering scolded child who can't wait for the punishment to end. Mrs. Schmidt is tired of lessons and for sure doesn't want to be told what to do.

She decides instead to go down to Rittenhouse Square to watch the people. She dons her full length mink coat and takes her private elevator to the lobby. Joe, the doorman greets her on the way out. "How ya doing Mrs. S.? Out for a walk?"

"Yes Joe, I need some fresh air."

"Sure turned out to be a nice day. By the way, did the accountant and his ex get what they needed?"

"Who, oh, you mean the guy who does my husband's accounts. Don't know. When was he here?"

"Just the other day with that lady. The Mister told me to let them in the apartment. Mr. Schmidt was on his way off to work. Thought you'd a known."

"A lady? Who? Who was the lady?"

"The ex-wife."

"Who's ex-wife?"

"The accountant's."

"I didn't know. Are you sure she's his ex? Did he introduce her?"

"Sure did. I make sure I know everyone who comes into the building. Name of Sandy Rosner. Same one he usually comes with. You must know her-- cute brunette...a real looker, I'd say."

"No, I don't know. Tell me more."

"Well...I thought she said she works with him-- helps with the books. Like that. Then I overheard her say she's a substitute teacher. Guess she does that on the side. She brings a big empty plastic bag and takes off with it full so I figured it was paper scraps, maybe financial stuff, bills, or something you left for her. I hope I didn't do wrong. Is it okay?"

"I never left her anything. I didn't even know she comes here. Please don't let either of them in again unless I instruct you."

"I'm sorry if I done something I shouldna. I'll watch out. Promise. Mrs. Schmidt, You have a nice walk. Button up. It's the North Pole out there."

Edith is overwrought. She doesn't notice the people who pass by, the bare trees along her path, the artwork laid out on the brown grass, or the musicians whose plates await her usual five dollar pay-offs. She moves on, oblivious to it all.

Now she's sure who's been taking her stuff. She had suspected Damaris because she cleans when they're not home.

Edith had even supposed it might be her husband. Her thinking: He'd had some big losses lately. Maybe he thought he had the right to take and sell her expensive things. She'd seriously considered reporting him to the police. She's glad she didn't, now that she knows the real culprit.

For a time she'd thought to inform them about his ‎aberrant ‎behavior. She had tried to change him but has begun to realize that she can't control his foibles. The ‎dangers inherent in Ed's major deviance ‎may warrant a change.

Then again she doesn't want the ‎dishonor associated with such disclosures. Hasn't done it until now because she enjoys the aura of ‎normalcy ‎an ‎intact marriage bestows. ‎

She'd taken precautions when she learned about ‎his ‎peccadillos. For one, she insisted he go for a vasectomy. He ‎was willing ‎and it was accomplished quickly. Last thing either ‎of them ‎wanted was the unwanted.‎

Anyway, it wouldn't do a lot of good to file a report. Edith knows how powerful he is from the time police and rescue were called to the apartment. No one ever reported it. She checked. There are no records, not even one to show rescue was called. The girl's family was paid and signed that nothing happened, even said the child was never here.

Edith knows about it. Joe the doorman keeps her posted about everything.‎

After the murders, when the cops heard where the girls were murdered, that it was Schmidt's house, people in the police department swear he should not have been let off the hook-- certain that if he were not allowed to pay off those higher-ups, the horrors might not have happened. Even so, as of today, none are willing to jeopardize their jobs or lives by leaking it.

Now that she knows it wasn't Schmidt who stole her expensive purses, shoes, and clothes, she decides to hang onto him as long as he can behave such that no one learns about his deviation.

She wonders whether she should confront Sandy Rosner or her accountant or possibly call the police. She has no proof that the thief is Sandy, so the last is not a choice. She decides to talk to the woman. Yes, she'll call and invite her for coffee on Saturday. She'll make up an excuse; maybe that Sandy is being invited to join the Museum Board. That should work to fetch her here.

### DIARY BY NATALIE IN FLORIDA

I pay attention when Aunt Penny tries to soothe me but then when I try to sleep, my thoughts keep returning to school and to my worries.

Why am I worried? You ask. Surely it should be clear by now. What am I going to do about the teachers? What will happen to me? Can someone disappear here in Florida?

If I'm kidnapped, will they believe that I ran away or that someone took me? No--neither. They'll be sure I wondered off someplace while daydreaming, and that after a while, I'll come back home. They won't even look for me.

I'm scared! I don't want to die.

Aunt Penny says, "Try to go back to sleep."

I go, "Okay." But as soon as my head drops onto my pink satin pillow, scary thoughts fill my brain and keep me jittery so I just have to go talk to Aunt Penny again.

I slip into my pink velvet slippers and head back into the den to see whether she's still up.

I peek in. She's hunched over her lap-top and I can see just the top of her fluffy head. She doesn't hear me, so I decide to leave her alone with her book. I tiptoe off and flop down into the comfy purple, over-stuffed armchair. Aunt Penny loves purple. So do I.

This chair faces the window that looks north, out over Miami Beach. I can see the draw bridge go up to let the boats with their tall masts pass under. Aunt Penny says boats have the right-of-way. Cars must stop and wait while the bridge comes up for the watercraft to slide below the span.

Isn't that upside down? Boats don't have to wait for cars? In our world, autos are everywhere-- so important-- You would expect the government to make vessels wait for the cars, not the other way around.

I like that idea, that boats warn the bridge tender to make the bridge go up and the cars must stop. Like a child who can boss around an adult. Isn't that a splendid juxtaposition?

Kids know more than parents, about what children should do and what's good for them? I do. I certainly do. I don't let on to anyone, but I listen to my heart, rather than some dopey adult who doesn't know anything about young people. Take for instance, Maitresse and her sister, the nightmares of my daytime.

### DAMARIS

Damaris adds seasoning to the Ropa Vieja, the meat dish she serves with rice and beans for Maria's children and for the police dispatcher to enjoy after work. Maria's boyfriend, the bridge tender requested that she cook extra for him. He works such odd hours that Damaris rarely sees him.

She tenderizes the beef, then uses a spoon and fork to tease it apart so that it resembles shredded old clothes, the name of this dish. She tastes it. Sticks out her tongue. Horrible! Tasteless! She's forgotten the most important-- Sazon and garlic.

She chops some and sautés it with onions in thick bacon, then adds it to the stew that simmers on the stove. The scents of the meat and Cuban spices waft all over the small apartment. Everyone loves the young girl's savory dishes.

Damaris never confided in her boss about how she learned everything; that she was forced to cook, scrub floors, do the laundry, dust and polish the furniture; that it was incumbent on her for all of it ever since her father re-married.

She hates her step-mother. Berta was never kind to her or to her brother, Alex. She showed affection only to her own son, Javier, who was born a few months before Damaris and Alex' father died.

The girl hardly remembers her own mother. People say the woman should never have become pregnant again, too frail. They were right.

Berta didn't waste any time. She showed up at Damaris mother's funeral done up in a black low-cut jersey sweater, a push-up bra, mini-skirt, and very high heels.

The other ladies had waited a respectful time for her father to mourn. Not Berta. She used every wile imaginable to snatch Dad ahead of any potential rivals.

Damaris and her aunts knew Berta was a self-centered gold-digger, a stuffed mango soaked in Tresor. But her lonely Dad was besotted with her.

Berta thought their father had money. He didn't. She learned that too late. It wasn't until after they were married, when she looked at the bonds and bank accounts, that she saw there wasn't anything worth much.

She went on strike, said she wouldn't work, and told her husband to find another job in addition to the one as manager of an ATT store.

He did, because he believed Berta would stay home and take care of the three children, his and theirs. He couldn't know she would lie around all day then go to the clubs at night after he'd arrived home.

He died soon, but not before she'd made him buy a million dollar life insurance policy with Berta as beneficiary. His wife didn't know that he had put in a contingency that stated Berta would have to take care of the children. If not, the money would go to a secondary guardian. The million was to be paid out over eighteen years. Berta was forced to stay around until the children were grown.

She stayed but they were hard years for the little ones.

Damaris remembers when baby Javier was born. Aunt Sofi gave little Damaris a baby doll, soft with the same hair and ‎face ‎as Javier's. Tia Sofi said little Damaris could do anything to ‎that ‎doll.‎

Damaris despised Javier--spitting angry that he was ‎alive; that ‎he had been born. She wanted him dead, wanted to ‎jump up and down on him until he was mush.‎

She punched and choked and kicked that doll, had ‎a ‎great time until Berta saw her trashing it. Berta simpered at her step-daughter. "Damaris you must to treat the dolly with considerate care. Caress it gently, ‎softly, and lay it down with tenderness just like a real baby, the same as you would Javier.‎"

Damaris knew what she meant so she didn't bother to let slip that what she ‎was doing to the doll was what she wanted to do to Javier.

‎After Berta insisted she be nice to the doll, Damaris didn't want ‎it ‎anymore. She tried to flush it down the toilet. That didn't ‎work ‎because it was too big and wouldn't go down the drain, just ‎went ‎round and round then floated face up, wide-eyed in the toilet ‎bowl. ‎

‎So she took it outside to the yard early one morning before ‎anyone ‎was up, and used some big sheers she found in ‎Berta's sewing kit to cut him up into tiny pieces‎.‎

‎That was fun. She even chopped up his head so the ‎nose ‎was separate from his mouth, and then she sliced ‎off his ears.‎

‎That felt pretty good for a while. But then she thought if she had hacked up the real ‎Javier, ‎it would have been more fun, but Damaris knew Berta would have ‎been ‎even madder.

When Berta asked where the dolly was, Damaris had to say something so she told Berta ‎that she lost it.‎

Then she became frightened that Berta would find the pieces of the baby ‎doll ‎in the garbage can, so scared, she couldn't sleep at ‎all and ‎stayed up all night in a panic until the morning when the ‎trash ‎men came to take it away.‎

‎Damaris was relieved that her step-mom didn't see the pieces of ‎the ‎make believe Javier. No one wants Berta mad.‎

Damaris often contemplates about what she could do ‎to ‎Javier; that she should have put him in the garbage ‎can ‎instead ‎of the doll when she had the chance, thinks maybe it's not too late to eliminate that obstacle in the road to her happiness.‎ ‎

Berta has a new novio but she doesn't spend a lot of time with ‎him. She still likes to do the clubs. Abandons the current boyfriend every night; leaves him home to be a father ‎figure for the children. The boyfriends are willing to do that. No one can figure why.

Berta has other interests but Damaris is sure her step-mother thinks only about what she's going to wear that day, or the ‎next man ‎she will ensnare. The youngster guesses those concerns take a ‎lot ‎of ‎energy, so much so, that Berta is never up before noon.‎

After Damaris fixes ‎Berta's café, the mother spends lots of time in front of her ‎computer. ‎When she's not asleep or out, she's there, eyes fixed on the screen. Tap tap tap go her nails on the ‎keyboard. ‎Her ‎fake eyelashes flap over the dark eyes intent on...What?

She informs everybody that she is the best mother and ‎that ‎she ‎understands all of her children and spends lots of time with ‎them. Damaris wonders who ‎she thinks she's fooling, the ‎teller ‎of ‎tall ‎tales.‎

‎Damaris knows la verdad.

The unfairness factor is too much. She thinks she can't stand ‎it ‎much ‎longer.‎

Those two, Berta and Javier, ‎make ‎her so angry that she wants to do something ‎to ‎keep ‎them ‎from ‎being happy, something that will ‎silence their bells. She ‎think ‎about that a lot. Maybe it's not too late.

In the evening Berta goes dancing. There were times when the children were younger when they had to ‎tag along, and would have to wait outside in the back of the SUV ‎because Berta didn't want to pay for a sitter.‎

The disco club is some strange scene. Once when they were ‎supposed ‎ to stay ‎inside the car and sleep, Alex and Damaris left ‎Javier asleep in the car and ‎snuck out. They went and ‎looked in ‎the opened door into the blackness where ‎strobe lights flashed ‎and pulsed on and off. ‎They saw women in ‎shiny, skimpy, tight, sequined dresses. Couples writhed ‎together arms in ‎the air and all over each other. Gyrating hips ‎rubbed against ‎buttocks. The music went b-bam, bam, ‎brum, brum. It hurt their ears, even outside.

They looked in, and sure enough, there was Berta on the dance ‎floor pushed in between two men rubbing themselves against her. They made a sandwich with her in the middle. She looked like she was ‎asleep. Her eyes were ‎closed.‎

One couple came outside and the lady took off her panties ‎and the man dropped his jeans and shorts. The girl ‎leaned over ‎against a red Corvette. The guy hiked up her ‎short leather skirt so he could stick his thing into ‎her ‎bottom. Anyone could see because they did it right there under a ‎bright mercury street lamp.

The couple ‎finished and went back inside. Bored after a ‎while, the children went back into the car, settled under the blankets, ‎and went to sleep. They thought themselves lucky that Berta ‎didn't ‎find out that they saw her in the club. Damaris wondered whether ‎Berta does it ‎in the parking lot like the couple they saw against the sports car.‎

Berta is not a real mother. Damaris knows what a "‎real" ‎mother is because she's read about them in lots of books. A real mother ‎reads with ‎her children, and makes them breakfast, lunch, and ‎dinner, and ‎tucks them into bed at night, and smiles at them. Berta doesn't do any of that.

Berta's middle name is Anger, not really, but it should ‎be.‎ The rage storms out of the blue when you don't expect ‎it. ‎The children ‎have to be careful and it worries them because they don't ‎know ‎what, ‎or what not to say or do until it's too late.‎

No one wants her in a fit. Everyone knows ‎but they don't speak about the bad things that happen when ‎Berta ‎churns ‎herself into a tizzy of spitting rants.‎ All must ‎declare ‎over ‎and over "te quiero, Mamita," I love you, Mommy and they must ‎never, ‎ever contradict ‎anything she says. ‎

Damaris and Alex hear the teachers talk about how shameful it is the way Berta shows up for school ‎conferences in black patent boots up to her fat thighs. Her ‎skirt stops a few inches above that. The jersey sweater is cut so low it shows so much cleavage that you can almost see her nipples. She is fat and her mid-section protrudes like she's pregnant.

That starts Damaris to wonder what the world would be like without ‎Berta; what might happen if she were gone. Es possible? Puede ser? Increible! ‎

### AFTER MLK

The substitute teacher, Sandy Rosner has arrived at the Schmidts, invited by Edith Schmidt ostensibly to discuss Sandy's potential membership on the Museum Board. It was a ruse by Edith to bring Sandy here to her apartment, to admit to the thefts from the Schmidt apartment.

They sit in the library facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the trees of Rittenhouse Square.

Damaris serves coffee along with some chocolate chip scones, then waits nearby for any other requests.

Sandy notices the missing mask right away. Points up at the wall, "Mrs. Schmidt, one is missing." She doesn't disclose to Mrs. Schmidt that when she saw Murphy at Joe's, he mentioned that just such a mask had been spotted at the murder scene and everyone was looking for it.

"Yes, I've noticed. They're my husband's from Africa, I think. He said he went on the Internet to order a replacement."

Edith is annoyed, considers that maybe Sandy took that too. But no, she decides. If she had, she wouldn't have mentioned it.

Not to waste any more time on this non-entity, she jumps right in. "I understand you've visited my apartment on several occasions, times when I was out."

"Well, I....I...only...to help my husband....you know.... when he was here to do the accounts. Is there a problem? Why do you ask?"

"I didn't know you were an accountant. I thought you were a teacher. If that's the case, how could you possibly help your husband?"

"He likes me to keep him company. That's all. What's wrong with that?"

"At first you said you help him. How? How exactly do you help him? And I understand you are no longer married. Is that correct?"

"....Well.....yes....but we still have a relationship. Surely you can understand that."

"Tell me the truth. Why were you here? What could you possibly find to do for several hours in a stranger's house?"

"Nothing...I just sit...Sometimes I read or just look out the window...I was here just to keep my ex company. That's all. You know, I don't have much of a life. I don't have a man. We never had children. I don't have much to do because I can't rate full-time work."

"I understand you like to look in my closets and try on my clothes."

"...Well...I guess so...Helps pass the time...I didn't take anything if that's what you think...Really."

"Didn't you? That's not what I heard."

"What did you hear?"

"I know what you did. Now tell me the truth. I won't notify the police if you admit everything."

"Mrs. Schmidt, please believe me, I only took what I thought...well...things you never wear... Only purses and shoes...ones you never use. They were still in their original boxes-- sealed inside...I thought you were...maybe... sorry you bought them. And there were dresses too....I could tell they were too small because you'd gained so much weight...I knew because I see your photos on the society pages. I figured you'd feel better if they were put out of sight...out of your closet... and... That way it wouldn't remind you...you know... that you were so fat now...I mean larger. I thought I was doing you a favor."

"I don't believe any of that. You? Do me a favor? Do you think it's a favor when you steal someone's clothes? Are you crazy?"

"Mrs. Schmidt, my life is very hard. I'm very unhappy. I don't have a man. I don't have a sex life. The worst is that I can't find anyone to take care of me, someone rich and good-looking. Mrs. Schmidt...listen... It's hard being me."

"Please! That is no excuse for what you did. You stole. You lied. You made your husband lose a good client."

"Don't fire him. He'll never believe me again. He'll divorce me emotionally and financially. I need him."

"Do you really expect me to give you another chance to steal from me? You'd lie just to keep your life the same."

"Mrs. Schmidt. Everyone lies."

Edith calls for Damaris to retrieve Sandy's coat and scarf from the closet, then ushers the teacher to the elevator. She pushes the button and says, "Don't ever come back here. I'll have you thrown in jail for the rest of your life if you do."

"I won't. What about the Museum Board. Can I still be on it?"

Edith's mouth drops open. She can't believe this woman. She fears she'll explode. Her throat is constricted. She can hardly squeak the words out. "Get out!"

Sandy puts on her overcoat in the elevator and wraps the Armani scarf around her neck. She's out the door and onto the street before she allows herself to relax, relieved that her life can continue as usual, and it's back to the Benjamin on Monday where she will continue to sub for the French and Latin classes.

### AFTER MLK

Sandy knows parts of her story will be well received at Joe's. She won't go into the bit about her absconding with the designer clothes. Not that part. But she's sure Murphy or even Savrini, if he's there, will appreciate her description of the obsequious Mrs. Schmidt and her Mister who draped himself in the shadows just out of his wife's view but not from Sandy's. She'll lay it out for him about the unusual identical carnival masks displayed over the mantle; that it was obvious one was missing because it left a dark circle on the wall just to the right of the center mask.

Murphy had clued her about that bit of evidence. Told her that Detective Savrini said something about a mask he'd found in the Heugot ‎house where the women were killed? Said he saw it under a heavy piece of furniture on the floor, that he was so sick, he forgot to take it. Later, when he remembered and went back for the mask, it had disappeared. He told everyone that he believes the killers came back for it.

Sandy ponders about what it was doing at the Heugot house, but for sure she'll advise about the masks when she sees either of them at Joes. Maybe she shouldn't wait until then. Thinks she'll stop by the bar on her way home. Thinks she could sure use a vodka tonic right now.

Sandy heads east on Chestnut from Rittenhouse Square after that horrid altercation with Mrs. Schmidt.

She spots a familiar face.

"Hi!"

Who's that?

Oh God, Jane thinks, it's that ditzy sub, Sandy.

Too late to turn away.

"Hey, it's Jane right? I know you. You're the secretary at the Benjamin. Am I right? Fancy meeting you here. Heading home or shopping?"

"Yeah, I had to buy some tights. Mine had too many holes. You know... for when I go dancing. You ever try it. Ballroom dancing, I mean? Lots of fun."

"No, I don't know how...I always wanted to learn but I never had anyone to dance with. Most men won't brave it on the dance floor; think they'll look stupid. Where do you go?"

"Over to Richard's. Real close by. You should come with me sometime."

"Any eligible men...you know under 80?" She sniggers.

"A few...Come see for yourself. It's great exercise, lots of fun to sway to the music. Come with me Saturday. There's a lesson first...then a party. Richard even serves dinner. Hey, here's my card. Call me on my cell. I'll give you the times and directions if you're interested."

"Sounds like something I should do. I am in a rut...still involved with my ex...You know...silly me. God knows I need to meet a rich guy. A dancer! Wow! That would be a hoot."

"Yeah, that's what I want too--a rich guy. They sure don't grow on trees--not in Philadelphia anyway. Call me, I'd love the company."

"Jane, I was heading to Joe's for a drink? Want to join me. We can talk."

"Sure. I don't drink much but I can stay for a little while. Is it far?"

"No, right around the corner."

The two women walk over to the bar only to discover that it's an off night at Joe's. Not a lot of people, just some of the regulars, the local drunks who haunt the bar and wait, expect any moment, a compassionate patron will offer to buy them a drink.

The women linger for one, then decide to go home and try another time.

"See you at school Sandy."

"Yeah, hope I wake up in time."

"You better or I'll be in trouble. Want me to call you in the morning. I could. No trouble."

"Sure. Would you?"

"Yeah, I have your number. Call you at say... seven?"

"Seven thirty is better, remember-- I live real close."

"Okay. See ya."

Jane walks to her building. Goes up on the elevator and heads to her apartment.

The door is ajar.

She panics. Wonders whether she left it open. Hopes she did. She stands to the side of the jamb and listens. Can't hear anything. She never leaves it unlocked, certainly not open. It's possible that she did today, after all-- She was pre-occupied. She might have.

No I wouldn't do that, not with all the murders not with Elizabeth kidnapped. I wouldn't leave it open.

But maybe I was thinking of something else.

No! I would never leave it open.

What to do?

Her building doesn't have security or a valet or anyone she could call. She'd feel dumb if she called the police and it turned out to be her mistake; that she'd just forgotten to close the door.

She pulls it open a little more.

Listens.

Waits.

Stands back away from the door.

Peeks inside from behind the jamb.

The apartment is as black inside as out on the street, maybe blacker.

The dense lined drapes are closed. Streetlights can't penetrate. Should she turn on the light switch next to the door?

Can't decide.

She wants her eyes to accommodate to the darkness, Hopes it will happen quickly. She opens her eyes wide. Tries to hurry the process. Jane looks back inside. Is that something moving around? She's not sure.

No. Nothing.

She hesitates another minute. Feels her heart bump against her ribs.

She can see more now--shapes, the sofa, the chairs, the coffee table. Everything seems in order. Her hand reaches in. It's on the light switch. She vacillates for another second; not sure whether to turn it on or go away from the door into the hall and call the police.

A tug at her arm. Jane recoils. Backs away from the touch. Hears a voice. Sees it's a young girl in a black cape. Jane can't make out her features but hears the girl warn her to go away from the apartment; that it's not safe.

Jane's pivots away from the shadowy figure and runs down the hall towards the elevator. Pushes the button, and turns slightly to see whether she's been followed. Nothing. No one in the hallway.

The elevator arrives. Jane rides down to the lobby punching 911 into her cell as the floors drop away.

Dispatch informs her there happens to be a Unit right in front of her building. Thank God!

Two skinny policemen are out of the patrol car. Guns drawn, they run into her building. Jane utters, "There's an intruder in 8J."

"We're on it." One of them turns back. "Left or right off the elevator?"

"Right. End of the hall."

The two cops take the elevator up.

She waits. She waits some more. Finally she goes back up to her apartment. There, inside, are the cops-- one on the phone, the other straddles a young mean-looking hoodlum.

The cop on top roars, "What were you going to do with the gun? Where did you get it? Why here? Why this apartment? Ya got any pals witcha?"

The youngster in his hoodie, nods his head, "No." He's crying for his mother. He doesn't say anything. He knows his rights.

The other cop, the one on the phone, orders the one crouching, to cuff the kid. He follows directions, flips the thug over onto his stomach and attaches the hand-cuffs.

The head cop orders the second in command to search the apartment again. "Make sure there's no one else here. Check. See did he take anything."

"I'll go look."

The Sargent sees Jane.

"You okay Missy? Just wait here a minute. We'll have to check whether he has a buddy here or if any got away before we got here. I don't think so. We arrived pretty quick and the perp said he's alone and he ain't took nothing. We searched him and we ain't found nothing neither."

"Yeah, Sargent, I checked...Don't see anyone."

"Missy look around. Anything missing? Any of your things gone?"‎

Jane goes around checking her hiding places and comes ‎back.

"It all looks pretty much the way I left it."

"He musta just got here right before you arrived, Missy. How did you know there was someone here?"

"The door was open. I never leave it open-- too dangerous. While I tried to decide what to do-- maybe go inside, some young girl, a child, I think, advised me. Said to leave. I was out in the hallway when she stopped me."

"Where is she, I don't see no one."

"She disappeared as soon as I left the apartment to go down to the lobby. It's weird because there are no children on my floor."

"This punk was so nervous he might have used the gun on you. You're lucky you didn't go inside, Missy."

Paper work completed, the young felon is shepherded to the police car and Jane asked to come downtown the next day to identify the perp and press charges. She said she would.

She falls asleep hours later and dreams of the young girl who saved her. Now that it was over and after she'd re-lived the experience several times in her mind, she's sure she must know the girl; that she is vaguely familiar. No. It's more than that.

She reminisces about Elizabeth, smiles and falls asleep.

### AFTER MLK

Sandy left Joe's where she'd had a drink with Jane. She feels warm in the cold air thanks to the comfy Armani scarf and the three thousand dollar Dolce & Gabbana Dark Coffee Brown Military Style coat. She was pleasantly surprised when Mrs. Schmidt didn't recognize them as her own. When Sandy put them on that morning and headed over to Mrs. Schmidt's, she forgot she had lifted the coat and scarf from the woman's closet; only remembered when she arrived at the building, just in time to take them off and turn the coat inside out and stuff the scarf into the sleeve before she entered the apartment.

I refuse to let that woman upset me. I didn't do anything wrong. She has so much money and too many things for one person. I only wanted to help her out. Doesn't everyone need to cull old things from their closets?

Sandy doesn't feel bad at all. On the contrary, she's glad Mrs. Schmidt didn't call the police. If she had, Sandy might have had to give it all back.

The substitute teacher decides she needs a picker-upper so she looks around for a Starbucks. They're never far, one on every corner and another in the middle of the block. Downtown Philly people drink lots of coffee.

She enters the one on Chestnut and Thirteenth, then stands in line to order when she notices a nice looking gentleman with a Wall Street Journal spread out on his table, opened up to the stock pages.

Ah, he must be a wealthy man. She looks closely at his hands. No ring--better still. She stares at him for a second, then realizes he's the owner of the School Press Textbook Company whom she'd met him yesterday when she subbed at the Benjamin. Jane had clued her into who he was. Said it's usually his employee who comes, but yesterday his salesman came down with the flu. Sal Lupi, the owner came instead.

She takes her Cinnamon Dolce Latte and heads over to his table.

"Hi, I'm Sandy Rosner. We met at the Benjamin yesterday. Remember? I sub there. It's nice to see a friendly face. May I join you?"

"...Sure...glad for the company. I don't like to drink alone. I'm Sal Lupi...Have a seat."

"Thanks. You know, I don't like to do things alone either. Nice to meet a kindred spirit. So...What are your plans today?"

"....I...I'll spend some time with you if that's okay." Sal takes a chance. Surmises she's made an offer. If not, he hopes she doesn't take offense.

She doesn't. "Nothing I'd like better." She had never been accused of timidity. In her book, that never gets anyone anything.

They spend the evening and night together and the next day and night and on and on...

Happiness is finding a willing partner.

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

I loved the Benjamin School-- at first. That was before Maitresse and Magistra. The other teachers were nice and I learned lots of things, even made a few ‎friends and was invited to some birthday parties.‎

I liked the building, the classrooms, the pictures of African Elephants and snow-capped Himalayas, and the white polar bears plodding, ‎heads down in search of fish under the frozen ice ‎flats of the Arctic.‎

The yellow tiled floors remind me of the yellow brick road in my ‎favorite story, The Wizard of Oz. Later on, I met the Witches of the ‎East and West, Maitresse and Magistra.‎

The 4th grade English class was fun. Every single day we ‎ wrote in our journals during class, sometimes about how the soggy hamburger tasted, the one you had for lunch that day. Or maybe how the overfull bowl of watery vegetable soup was boiling when the staff ladled it out so that it burned blisters onto your hands when it spilled over the edge and splashed you on the way to your seat. That the gym smells like old socks and people who need a shower. We even described how darkness looks and feels. Then we read what we wrote for everyone to hear, and Mrs. Dale told us the things she liked about what each person wrote. At the end of the year, she suggested we continue to write the next year too. That's what this is. The difference is now I can write personal stuff because no one will read it except me. This is my chance to pour my heart out.

Everything is bad. Today is terrible. My friend Elizabeth is missing. She didn't come home from school Thursday.

I don't know what to believe. Did Maitresse hurt her? Did Ivan? Somebody must have kidnapped her! Who? Or what? Maybe she ran away. Things were bad, but this is not a good time to run away. The winter is too cold.

Now I have to deal with the teacher demons without Elizabeth to help me. Only just last week Maitresse stomped down the hallway in my direction. I saw her before she saw me. Well I guess I saw her first. Maybe she caught sight of me and planned to grab hold of me when she closed in. I turned to the wall so she wouldn't notice me. Maybe she'd just walk by. I held still. My heart beat really really fast. I was so nervous that I couldn't wait for her to pass. Would I avoid a confrontation this time? I whispered my prayer. "Please God, I beg you, I'll be good. Please save me one more time. Please. Please God!"

Guess Maitresse was late for a meeting or such because she practically ran. Her heels clacked hammered on the yellow tiled hallway. Maitresse always click clacks her way to class. Then she was click clacking toward me!

I stared at the wall. Maybe she'd gather that I was busy, engrossed in the portrait of the former headmaster that hangs to the left of the office door.

Please don't look at me! I prayed. I held my breath so hard I'm sure my face was red or maybe white with fear. I couldn't look up to see whether she noticed me; if I did she'd surely know I saw her. I hoped I was shielded by the crowd of kids who loitered, waiting‎ for the class bell.

They didn't seem rattled. Why weren't they? Don't they know what happened to that other girl from our school? How could they not? It was on Channel 3 News and the front page of the Inquirer for days, then on the inside pages for months. I heard the FBI did a TV news conference too.

They're all just stupid kids! They deserve whatever happens to them--every one of them. The dumbos! They'll see. Everyone will.

Back to Maitresse. The kids swear the beret on top of her white gold hair must be glued to her head. She tells us that she looks like a chic French actress.

Her lips are painted scarlet. Says it's a French look that only French ladies can pull off. I wouldn't want to look like that even if I were French.

She always wears Magic Noire, says it only smells nice when worn by French ladies. Her clothes are from Paris-- "couture" she says. According to Maitresse, couture from Paris is better than anywhere else in the world.

She refuses to wear glasses and everyone knows that when she takes her contacts out, she can't see anything at all.

Today she can see everything.

Please don't look at me. Please! I was mostly creeped out that she might see me look at her.

Her stick is across my chest. It stops me. Forces me to look up at her. She has me. I'm paralyzed with fear.

"Don't you say hello, Natalie? Don't you know to answer when your teacher addresses you? Don't you know it's proper etiquette to respond to your elders?"

Her voice rises, shriller with each question. By the time she's finished, she's shouting at me.

All the kids are watching.

I can't answer. My mind races a mile a minute. If I lie that I didn't see her, she'd complain that I'm always day-dreaming, and order me to come to her after school to "talk" about paying attention.

If I admit the truth--that I tried to avoid her-- That would be worse.

What to do?

I decide to tell her I didn't notice her. "Yes Maitresse I'm very sorry. It was so crowded here in the hallway that I guess I didn't see you. "Good morning Maitresse," I whisper. I can hardly push the words out past my vocal cords; my mouth and throat are so dry.

She's on a roll. Guess she can't stop herself. She gets like that sometimes.

"I can't hear you" she barks. "Speak up! Did you just state that you didn't see me?"

"Yes"\-- a little louder.

"How could that be when you were right here in front of me?" She's screeching now.

I try to calm her, force the words out. "Good morning, Maitresse." I hope it will end the onslaught.

It doesn't.

Her mouth opens so wide I can see her teeth and tongue, even her tonsils in the back of that awful mouth surrounded by the horrible circle of crimson lips.

She takes a huge gulp of air. Now fortified with oxygen, she's about to continue when I grab my opportunity.

I pretend she's done and split. I act like I don't hear her call after me, and run as fast as I can down the hallway away from Maitresse.

### AFTER MLK

Jane sits at her desk in the Benjamin, chattering on the phone with one of her gal pals.

Her little cubical is not a happy place. It feels claustrophobic, ‎separates her from visitors to the building, especially the VIPs here ‎on school business.‎

Pictures adorn the walls of her tiny "office," photos of herself ‎and reproductions of oceans and deserts. One depicts wheat fields in Kansas. Tall beige grasses lean away from fierce winds; black ‎clouds menace. ‎

Another showcases bright blue and sun-yellow wild-flowers, fat ‎round faces point every which way, blown by wild ‎winds. The scenes are Jane's effort to expand her work space, ‎to lessen her isolation. She's unaware that they paint a picture of her emotions. Her ‎calm exterior hides her inner turmoil.‎

"You won't believe this, Kelly. You know the sub I inveigled to teach Maitresse classes? No? Well anyway, she bumps into this hunk at Starbucks. Of all people, who does she run into? That good-looking stud who comes to the Benjamin. You know ...Sal? I told you about him. The one who owns the textbook company, the good-looker I've had my eye on. Anyway, she meets him and poof, they hook up. She left with him today to go live in Florida. Get this--he owns a house on the water! Can you believe it? He owns a yacht too, a big one. How about that? It happened so fast, it would make me dizzy. Why didn't that happen to me? Why not me? So now I lose a first rate catch and on top of that I have to find another sub for the language classes. Know anyone?"

"Okay. Gotta go, Headmaster's breathing down my neck. See ya."

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

As I was saying, last week after my encounter with Maitresse in the hallway, I run all the way to math class and take my seat in the back.

The perspiration wets my underarms, runs down along my sides, soaking the pretty pink silk blouse Daddy gave me for my birthday.

Yuk how awful I look. I can feel the wetness. Now I have big dark circles under my arms. I'm so embarrassed. I try to compose myself, but I can't stop sweating and I'm out of breath.

I talk to myself. Try to settle down. Breathe in...breathe out... slow like Aunt Penny taught me to do when I'm upset.

I say to me, Natalie: Close your eyes. Meditate on something that will calm you. Picture Aunt Penny's ocean, the white waves that wash in and caress the shore, the blue-green sea, so clear all the way to the bottom, the seagulls that squeal as they glide overhead.

Ahh. I can smell the wonderful salt air.

Wish I were there instead of here.

Natalie! I tell myself, more forcefully now. Calm down! You're safe! Mr. Judd's math class is safe. Don't think about Maitresse.

I try.

Breathe! Concentrate on Aunt Penny and Florida and...

I can't! Try as hard as I might, my thoughts drift back to the teachers, Maitresse and Magistra.

What time is it? I look down at the pretty red-jeweled watch Aunt Penny gave me for my birthday. We both like ruby gemstones.

10:45. Class is almost over and I didn't hear a thing Mr. Judd said--not one thing he taught. Forty-five minutes wasted, lost in worry.

Better pay attention, I tell myself or Mr. Judd might call on me to answer some stupid old algebra question. If he does, I won't know the answer because I won't hear the question, certainly not the word problems, and it's all because of Maitresse.

The kids will laugh at me--even my cute boyfriend. Look at his long curly brown hair. The locks stick to his shiny pimply forehead, plop down and tickle his long eyelashes and cover his big brown eyes. But I forgive him. He's so cute. Look. Here's his picture. I glued it in last week. He didn't notice when I swiped it out of his envelope when everyone passed their photo proofs around.

The Company takes school pictures every year. Teachers are told to send them home with the kids. They do, without fail. The company hopes to sell the finished photos to the parents. They're very expensive.

Mom never buys any. Says it's a scam and the Principal or the Teacher's Union or both get kick-backs from the Company.

Mom keeps the proofs. She buys some small finished ones and gives them away to Dad, her Mom, and my Aunt Penny in Florida. Since the photos are not very good, hardly anyone buys them. I wish my mom or Dad would order the full-sized ones because then I might believe my family loves me. Guess that proves they don't.

Now all the kids are laughing and looking at me. Just as I'd feared, Mr. Judd has asked me a math example.

"What Mr. Judd? Would you please ask me the question again?"

"What is 5 to the second power?"

"Huh?"

Mr. Judd has given me a zero for the day and asked someone else.

Horrible!

That will put a stop to my thoughts and give me something else to worry myself with. Yeah, colossal embarrassment can distract a girl from more humongous problems such as imminent death!

I look like my usual brainless self. Everyone teases me all the time anyway so why should today be any different? The kids make comments about my long red hair which is really long. I don't want to cut it because, like Samson, I think I would become weak and stupid. I don't tell anyone about my fear because they would laugh at me. I'm sure it's true though. That's what would happen to me if I cut it.

I'm so sad. Sad. Sad. Sad. What will become of me? Maybe I'll become nothingness. Wonder what that would be like.

I see Maitresse in my mind's eye--a giant balloon right here in front of my eyes--so real, big red lips and all.

Why am I so afraid? What could Maitresse do to me? Really? What's the worst thing? Even if everything I hear is true, she can't hurt me--anyway not while there are people around.

Could she?

Maybe she could.

Uh oh, here I go again.

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

Are they innocent? What did happen? Where is Elizabeth? Did her parents really tell the police that Elizabeth was on the way to Maitresse and Magistra's house before she disappeared?

Who said it was to be tutored after school? Susie Purdy told me this morning that Elizabeth called home Thursday the day she disappeared to tell her parents she was going there. How could Susie know?

She made it up.

Didn't she? The silly "know-it-all." I won't believe her. I refuse! But then again maybe Susie's parents read the police reports and told Susie.

Stop!!! No more!!!

Susie was never my friend especially since she started to pick on me. Said I was skinny! Look who's talking. She's one to point fingers. She's the fattest girl in school. Anyway I'm not skinny, I'm slender.

I hate Susie Purdy!!!!

Susie is obnoxious. She tells on everybody. If you just talk to yourself, she raises her hand and tells the teacher. If you burp, she tells. If you pass a note, she rats you out.

Can you imagine a more horrible person?

Me neither.

Anyway who told everybody the story? Susie? The whole school knows she's a big fat liar.

Isn't she? Don't they know she's a big fat liar?

Maybe this is the one time her story is true? Could it be?

Nah.

Someone has to stop her lies.

Me. I volunteer.

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE SATURDAY AM

Let me tell you some more about Maitresse and Magistra‎ in case you haven't already heard in the news about them. I'm still not sure what would help you understand, but I'll let you decide. The police don't even know what I'm about to tell you. I write this as I remember it. Maybe it'll help me relax and aid the police to find Elizabeth.

Everyone dislikes Maitresse. Even at the end-of-the year Toga Party, no one talks to her. Why does she come? All she does is order people around. Tells them what to do. "Go to the front of the room. Remain there for drinks and food and don't cut in line" and such.

We don't need her there. We don't want her. We'd all have a better time without her. She acts as if she's the boss of everyone.

Magistra doesn't attend the party. Says it's boring and anyway she covers herself with a toga all the time anyway so why go to a special costume event and wear her same everyday clothes. Says parties are no fun and anyway she has to grade too many exams. She always says that.

We're happy to have only one of them at the party. One's too many anyway. Two of them together at the same time, same place--I can't speculate about the horror of that combination.

You know...I've never seen them together. Neither has anyone else. Well, that's not exactly true. Elizabeth said she did and maybe Mom and oh, I suppose the other teachers too--at the faculty meetings. Well maybe. Anyway that's what Susie says.

I guess Elizabeth found out what happens when Maitresse and Magistra are in the same place at the same time. Did she really go to their house?

About those two--we don't like them--that's everyone except my friend Elizabeth. She likes everybody, everybody except her big brother, Ivan. Seems like a funny name but that's what she calls him so I guess that's his name.

They don't get along at all, Elizabeth and Ivan, never have. Even when she was little, they used to fight when her Mom and Dad were out of the house.

He hurts her and makes her cry. I ask her why she has all those black and blue marks. She always answers, "An accident." Sometimes she tells me more.

It's worse.

Mr. Judd is Elizabeth's Dad. He's also Ivan's Dad. Someone told me different, so maybe he's not really. These days, it seems no one knows whose dad is whose, so I can't be sure, and she doesn't disclose that.

Elizabeth says Maitresse is all right--a nice enough teacher. Elizabeth likes everyone and everyone loves her. They stand around taking turns hugging her. Can you just see it?

The funny thing is that Elizabeth even likes me. So that tells you something about her. She's my best friend. She's my only friend.

I should correct that. She was my only friend. Now I don't have any, and I miss her soooo much.

What about her brother Ivan? Wonder if he had something to do with whatever happened to Elizabeth? Is that possible? Maybe I should mention that to the police--about how Ivan hurts her? She once told me he made her...

I can't divulge that because she made me promise not to, but maybe I should tell the police. I think I will.

### AFTER MLK

Judd, Elizabeth's father comes to the Station House. Asks for Detective Savrini. The math teacher apologizes for not being forthcoming earlier. Today he promises to tell all.

Savrini wonders what the "all" would turn out to be. Nobody ever tells the whole truth. Do they? No. They don't, he answers himself. But he reasons that whatever he learns will be more than he knows now.

Judd sits in the chair indicated for him. The math teacher says nothing for a long time. The detectives cool their heels. They watch him. It's protocol to hold off.

Maybe he doesn't know where to start. More likely he's trying to decide what he can avoid saying. Savrini knows there had been a reluctance to talk to the police. After all, he'd put us off for so long, even prevented contact with his family.

The detectives stay quiet. We can be patient when we have to. What does the math teacher have to hide?

Savrini encourages Judd. He smiles and nods his head affirmatively.

Judd's body twitches. His lips form words but no sound comes out.

We lean into him closer, trying to hear.

Silence.

He's lost control of his head. It wobbles, seems to have a mind of its own. He is ashen, his body jelly. It slumps then slides in slow motion down off his chair, collapsing in a heap onto the floor.

Savrini summons help. Someone calls Rescue. One of the officers carries in bottled water and the "pass out kit" that contains a blanket, smelling salts, and aspirin. People do faint at police stations. We're prepared.

Pretty quickly, the teacher comes to, but he's grey and mute. Rescue takes him to the hospital.

Judd's not young--something like fifty-five. Because of his age and in so much stress because of his daughter, everyone nods, "Yes" to the para-medics, he ought to go to the Hospital, get checked by the docs to make sure it's nothing serious, like maybe a heart attack.

The detectives know it will be awhile before they can talk to him. What about his wife? That brings to mind that someone has to call Judd's wife, tell her what happened to her husband.

There go two more witnesses down the drain---three if you count Ivan. Savrini feels sad for young Elizabeth Judd. If she's still alive, she must be suffering. He knows time is of the essence.

### AFTER MLK WEEK-END

We've learned about the other houses proximate to the Green Street murder site. All are owned by E. Schmidt or one of his corporations. The Research Department is to be commended for that find--an exemplary job. Finally found someone who can think.

Savrini's ecstatic with that gem, though he's not sure where it will lead. Five luxury houses in an upper middle class Philadelphia enclave, all owned by the same person. Fascinating! And four in some state of foreclosure. In one of them, someone chose to murder three young females.

Savrini believes it will be easy to find out about Schmidt. He picks up the phone. Dials the brainy one in Research. Tells him what he needs. Announces he'll be there in fifteen to pick up the information.

So excited, he forgets the pain in his back, of late, his constant companion.

The detective carries a coffee back to his desk, puts his feet up, reclines back in his chair, and whips up a joyful contemplation--Savrini taking Schmidt into custody; dreams up the adulation of the people when he proves the big guy's guilt. He smiles and dozes.

Awake once more, it's a quick walk over to Research.

Turns out E. Schmidt owns a security company which, "the brain" explains, hires Haitians to watch his properties. Can't tell whether his employees are legal or not.

Savrini thinks he knows why. In the eighties, President Reagan gave Amnesty to the Haitians, the ones who were here in the U.S. and likely also any who came after who simply had to attest that they were here then.

Can't tell who are legal from the ones who arrived later. You could hire one and be fairly certain you'd not be in trouble. Come to think of it, Government doesn't enforce immigration laws anyway.

How's that for a stupid way to lose future elections, he muses. Everyone knows Haitians, legal or illegal, and immigrants in general, vote Democrat. Why would they vote for a party that asked them to stay off the dole and keep a job?

Some choose to seek employment. And why wouldn't business owners hire Haitians? They work for peanuts. "Work" is the operative word here. Haitians, as a rule, don't toil, but they're okay for certain jobs such as security that requires only a presence.

They collect a salary plus all the money, food, cell-phones, health care, and whatever else our beneficent liberal Government delights to give them. To our officials, they look enough alike, that they can exchange I.D.'s with one another for food stamps, health insurance, jobs--even welfare and no one is the wiser.

Government takes tax money from working stiffs. Politicians skim theirs from the top, and a trickle makes its way down to the have-nots. The poor are in the dark. They have no idea that their beloved politicians keep most of the money meant for the people in need. Their constituents are certain their representatives have their welfare at heart. Not true. The politicos are for themselves, first, last, and always.

Taxes must keep pace with the expanding generosity of our leaders who have turned our country into a welfare state. The Robin Hoods decide how much workers may keep of what they earn. Government as the arbiter of fairness, demands another pound of flesh from the toilers. Appropriates from the workers and gives to the idle-takers. Why not? Wouldn't anyone used to receiving, want everything for free? Hard to break a habit when there's no incentive to change.

Our President promises to give his followers whatever they request. When politicians don't receive enough, they foment anger and un-rest, encourage the people to "take to the streets."

Newspapers and TV stations publicize their rants, "TAX MORE!" The media stand for criminals' ‎rights, illegals' rights, plaintiffs' rights, unions' rights, uninsureds' ‎rights, homeless' rights, unemployeds' rights. Every ACLU supported group has the liberal media at its back.‎

And who gets blamed when there's not enough money for police and fire? Conservatives--because they refuse to tax production to death.

Savrini hates the system but knows it won't change.

Some Republicans are pro-illegal immigration, the true believers whose bibles are the financial papers. Their editors laugh at protesters who demand that the borders be secured, who suggest that jobs be kept for our own citizens, who believe people should obey the laws that are already on the books.

Liberal media carry on, "Keep the illegals here! They represent the best. We need them. Industry, agriculture, and business need cheap labor." If they were honest, they'd tell the truth which is that all those groups want is cheap labor.

Doesn't anyone care about the poorest among us? What about the hard workers on the bottom rung who are flung aside and replaced by lower paid illegals?

Our leaders suck the system dry. They say, if not for the low salaries earned by illegals, there would be nothing affordable to buy. That's what they tell us.

What is the truth?

And why are Labor Unions complicit? Do they even care about their members? Why aren't they concerned that more citizens are unemployed because illegals work for less? Savrini decides that union bosses care about political power and their own personal gain from increased membership--not their workers.

Where is the logic? Are we heading for the inevitable implosion of our economy?

Savrini thinks so.

He wonders whether it could be true; that it's only a minority of the population that is offended by the huge quantities of government money paid out for illegal immigrants. The media would have you believe you are in the minority; that you are selfish because you want our citizens protected.

Savrini has decided that the media want more bodies for its readership. They relish the pandemonium that results from the influx of illegals. That's why it doesn't educate its readership about all the tax money that goes for their education, healthcare, welfare, food, incarceration costs, and capital loss, not to mention the taxes they don't pay.

Savrini understands politics and doesn't hesitate to voice his arguments.

We detectives now know some facts:

The security company hired to safeguard the houses around Green Street was contacted. It's a Schmidt company.

The rent-a-cop scheduled to work the day of the murders, Pierre Renus has disappeared. Back to Haiti? No. More likely to Miami. There are so many Haitians there that he could secrete himself with family or friends, never to be found by the police.

Illegals are a protected class there. Tens of millions, just like the security guard, scurry about within their churning subterranean society, hidden in plain sight, safe to commit crimes, and safe from deportation. There is no politician who would dare go near that electrified third rail.

Pierre is a witness, at least that, maybe more. Has to be. Will we find him? Probably not.

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

What a big shot! Susie Purdy thinks she's so terrific just because Maitresse picked her to take a note to the office. She chose Susie because the tattle tale sticks her arm way up and waves her hand in front of Maitresse's face. She always parks herself in the front row and calls out over and over, "Moi, moi je veux en prix." Maitresse knows Susie won't take "no" for an answer and the few times the teacher called on someone else, Susie pouted and sobbed for the rest of the class.

Maitresse complains, "Susie Purdy, you're just like your sisters." I know what she means, but the liar's sisters are worse than Susie. They're bossy and mean. I know cause whenever I go to Susie's house to see if she can play, they say awful things to me and order me to wait outside. I'll show them!

As soon as Susie stood up, Maitress selected me to go with her. I had to go with her because everyone who leaves the classroom has to be accompanied by another student. It's the law at The Benjamin. Guess the Headmaster thinks we won't go missing like that other kid if we're with another student. Isn't that foolish? How do you judge our terrific Administrator now? And he's the same one who hired horrid Maitresse and Magistra. Even I could do a better job. I'm sure I could.

By the time I'd picked up my phone and came out into the hall, Susie was reading the note. I asked to see it, but she said she wouldn't show it to me because she wasn't supposed to-- only said it was about that Maitresse and Magistra would be away. If that's really true, I would be ecstatic!!!

Hope they stay away forever!

Maybe they'll be snowed in and can't come back for the whole winter. Wonder where they'll go.

We headed for the office and the whole time Susie complained that I was the one to go. She doesn't like me. The feeling is mutual.

Truth is, I didn't even see Susie go into the office cause I had to go the Girls' Room on the way. I really had to go. I didn't make that up. One good thing is, while I'm in there, I can snag some uninterrupted time for myself--thinking time. I never have enough of that when I'm stuck in class where I sometimes do have to pay attention.

Susie was mad at me when I told her I had to go, but what could she do? She swore and hoped to die if she ever has to deliver a note with me again.

I really don't care if she does or doesn't.

She announced that she would stop for me on her way back to class so she wouldn't have to walk all the way back alone, and I wouldn't have to be by myself on the way back to class from the Girls' Room. Susie demanded that I hurry up and not dilly dally.

I go, "Don't boss me!"

She goes, "I'm... m... m in charge because Maitresse p... picked me first. You're not the le...leader...I am, and I'll tell... if you don't listen--if you dawdle. Just you be ready when I g...get back."

Susie stutters when she gets excited.

Then I thought I better not make her so angry that she'd tell on me. So I go, "Fine."

Then it occurred to me that she'll probably tell anyway.

She did come to the Girls' Room a few minutes later and we skipped back to class together. I asked her if she made it as far as the office and whether she gave the note to Miss Jane, the secretary, and if she saw anyone else in the hallway or showed it to anyone. I like to know what's going on in my world. Doesn't everybody?

She usually ignores me when I ask her things, and I was sure she would this time because she was annoyed that I left her when I had to go.

I was right. Susie said, "It's n...none of your business and you sh...should have g...gone all the way and not y...you know ...stopped! You always do that. I can never trust you to stay with me. You're not m... my friend."

Tell me something I don't already know.

But I apologized and told her, "I'm so sorry, but I really had to go, really, really bad. You didn't want me to pee in my pants. Did you? Did you?"

She relented and suddenly got diarrhea of the mouth and told me everything that happened. Guess she was excited.

She said Mr. Judd stopped her to ask why she was in the hallway alone. He insisted on reading the paper when he heard it was from the French teacher.

Susie and I have noticed that Mr. Judd and Maitresse exchange looks when they're together. Susie wasn't sure what that meant, but I know those looks. I see people stare and exchange the same expressions with someone they're trying to get for a boyfriend or girlfriend.

Susie went on, said that Mr. Judd told her he'd take the note to the office because it was already late. Said he didn't want Susie to miss any more of her French class. Mr. Judd said she needed all she could get. He told her to hurry back to class, and he'd watch to make sure she's safe.

I already told you that Susie gossips--big time. She puts herself into everyone's business where she doesn't belong. She lies too.

She once told everybody she was invited to Maitresse and Magistra's house for a tea party but she couldn't go because she got sick at the last minute and started to throw up. She said she was so disappointed because the house is graceful and the teachers serve French cream pastries and tea in English bone china tea cups and saucers covered with hand-painted red roses and purple pansies. Susie went on and on about how they grow lovely flowers in their garden surrounded by sculpted hedges and on and on and on.

So I ask her how she knows all that about what's in their house. She said she's been inside many times.

I don't believe anything Susie says.

When Susie tells me she intends to go to their house while they're away on vacation, I nearly choke on my gum. Is she stupid? Brave? She says she'll ask a friend to tag along because she doesn't want to go alone. Says they'll get in, no trouble, because the note says there's a house key in the pot next to the front door, the painted pot with the little French flag that sticks out of it.

I know she'll figure out some gimmick so someone will go with her. She'll promise some goodies or a prize DVD or such. Maybe she'll tell them they're invited to a tea party.

I am surprised she doesn't ask me to go with her since she told me she's going to their house.

But no--on second thought she would never ask me.

I wouldn't go anyway. Guess that's why she didn't invite me. More likely it's because she doesn't like me. Wonder why she doesn't.

Boy will she get it, get what she deserves for not being nice to me.

Soon! Maybe this week-end at Maitresse's house. I wonder if the teachers will be gone by then.

Susie's still talking while I start my imaginings about this week-end. She says she will dress up and pretend she's invited to a tea party and she'll tell her friends the same thing and then they'll all want to attend.

Wonder who she'll take--maybe her sisters.

Maybe not. They're not close in age and don't like each other at all and they hardly ever do things together.

Today is Thursday. Tomorrow is a half day. Most kids would be happy there's no school on the week-end. Me? I'm not sure which worse-- school or home.

Later, when I see Susie outside her house, she tells me she couldn't find any friends to go with her. No matter how much she pestered, cajoled, bribed, pleaded. Nothing worked. But when she mentioned there would be French pastry, Godiva candy, champagne, and no adults, her selfish sisters bought into it. She told me they threatened her that if it turns out that there isn't anything like those rewards, they'll really get her, get her good for lying.

Susie isn't worried. She knows they'll have fun. Says she will anyway.

### BEFORE MLK -- MAITRESSE

"You want to talk about something else? Okay. Let's talk about our difficult students-- major challenges."

"\--------------------------------."

"Sis, how about the three Purdy sisters? They strive for attention which makes me sure they receive none at home. At the Parent/Teacher conference, mom and dad seemed aloof, ignored their girls even when the three youngsters began to brawl. The parents didn't even commiserate with the little one when she broke her arm; just continued chatting with the other parents. I can't figure why some people have children when they obviously don't want them. The girls are not smart, so it's difficult for them to keep up. I wonder how the parents managed the Benjamin admission. Our school is selective. Children who are merely average are not admitted."

"\--------------."

"Yes Sis, you did have me broach the subject with the Headmaster. He shrugged and mumbled that the girls' grandfather had been a student here. He used the word 'founder,' but the school goes back much further than that. Mr. Purdy couldn't have started the school. The Benjamin Academy is as old as the city. Mr. Judd told me, 'founder' has more to do with how much money donors give, nothing to do with the people who started the school. Guess I'll delve into that when I come back to town. I am curious. Now I wonder about Ben Franklin whose statue stands above Philadelphia on top of City Hall. Did he start the school as well as plan the city? Is his family related to the Purdys?"

"\----------------------------------."

"Maybe so, Sis."

"\---!"

"Let me finish. The girls show off their gemstones. They wear rubies, diamonds, and amethysts around their necks, wrists, and fingers-- even their big toes. Only Mother can afford brand named everything like the Purdy girls. Spoiled seeps from their pores. And they are bad-- always in trouble. They steal clothes even though they have all they need or will ever want. I heard the parents were called to the police station on more than one occasion. The girls were arrested for shoplifting. Once it was Diesel jeans, once for Gucci handbags. Then there were the Piaget watches. Guess they just can't get enough of what they need-- attention and love. The Purdy girls are destined for trouble--big trouble!"

"\------------."

"You're right of course. Ivan is another one. Who would believe his father is Mr. Judd, the math teacher. On the other hand, maybe Ivan is not his natural son. If he were, he'd be blessed with a mathematical brain. The son doesn't even look like the father. Ivan is tall and gangly. His legs and arms don't know which way to go. What a shame for Mr. Judd. How unfortunate to have a son, a moron."

"\-----------------------------."

"Well I guess you're right. Our family was different. Our mother is crazy, but at least, she was there when we came from school."

### AFTER THE MLK WEEK-END

Judd calls the number on the card the detective had given him. Asks to speak to Savrini. Invites him to the Judd house.

When the detective arrives, he finds the math teacher in pajamas--still pale, but sitting up in bed, grading papers. Surrounding him are stacks ‎of blue exam books. Savrini guesses the tallest-- the tower of Pisa comprises the failures. Nearby, is a short mound. When the detective asks, Judd concurs. The majority have failed. Tough teacher, Savrini thinks.

Judd reaches across the bed to take Savrini's hand.

The math teacher informs him that he'll tell everything he knows because that's the one hope for his daughter's safe return. Says if he "comes clean," maybe it will help the police find Elizabeth. The reason he'd been reluctant to talk or let Ivan be interviewed was because he "didn't want anyone in the family accused of anything illegal." Judd affirms that his family is innocent of any wrongdoing. Says, "People look at Ivan and call him a weirdo. I wanted to protect him from any more of that."

Judd says he knows "that's not a sufficient reason not to call the police right away, but at first," he thought he could do his own investigation.

He now knows he can't go it alone. He needs their help if he's ever to see his daughter again.

Judd says, "I don't think I told you about what happened when I spotted Susie...That was Thursday before the awful Martin Luther King week-end. ‎When I saw her in the hallway, ‎I stopped and asked what she was doing out of class. She said she was to deliver a note from Maitresse to the office. I asked to see it. Took it and read the note, you know, to see whether it ‎was...you know... important enough to deliver right away. I intended ‎to take it to the office myself. So I put it in with my things, but then I forgot about it. ‎I even forgot that I had it until a...a few days later...unh... that was a...Monday I guess-- at dinner, I think. Yes, that's right. It was at the end of MLK week-end."

Thursday evening, before the holiday, he'd been overwrought about his Elizabeth because she hadn't returned home. "The note flew right out of my mind. By Monday, it flashed back in. I mentioned it to my ‎wife ‎and ‎son at dinner‎ and told them I'd ‎forgotten to deliver it; that maybe it was important and I'd ‎promised ‎Susie to take it to the office for ‎her. That's when Ivan told us he already knew that Maitresse would be ‎away. Even Elizabeth knew. I surmised that Susie read the ‎note ‎and divulged the contents to everybody or maybe ‎Maitresse ‎discussed it with some people. Monday night Ivan told us that Elizabeth probably went over there, ‎to ‎the empty house because she wanted to run away and that it would ‎be ‎a safe warm place to stay." ‎

The detective asks, "What's this about Elizabeth wanting to run ‎away? Think she did?"‎

Judd admits that Elizabeth hinted that she would, but never had, and her parents ‎suspected she never would. They thought it came "from her ‎constant quest for attention." ‎

"‎On the other hand, now that she's gone missing, I guess she meant it." Judd's voice almost a whisper.

His wife nods her head, says, "Elizabeth has finally left us."‎

"What's in the note?" Savrini asks.

After some prompting, Judd begins to recite the contents.‎

The math teacher haltingly recalls that "it mentions something about Maitresse..."

"Let me get it. Just a minute." Judd takes it from the briefcase on the bed next to him. Puts on his reading glasses and starts in.

"To Whom It May Concern, We will be out of school from January 16 until April 15. This is a reminder about what I told you in the earlier communication back in June."

Judd summarizes the rest from memory. "In it, she suggests several people who could be substitute language teachers."

He begins to repeat himself. That he had taken the note from Susie. "I promised her I'd deliver it to the office, tucked it into the folder I had with me and the episode cleared itself from my mind."

"His memory is not all there," Savrini mutters to himself but unintentionally loud enough for Judd to hear.

"What did you say? I was so there! I'm not lying! I just didn't remember until Monday night. Please believe me!"

"Judd, I believe you. Go on."

"I didn't think it was a problem because, as Maitresse suggests, the school could obtain a substitute. I wasn't too worried either. The administration probably had made arrangements for a fill-in language teacher or maybe two per Maitresse' recommendation. After all there was the earlier notation in June."

Judd explains that "the missive was redundant, and that Maitresse is overly vigilant about everything; that it contained a reference to a key for Maitresse' house; one she puts in a pot by the front door in case of an emergency."

What else does Ivan know about all this? Wonders Savrini.

Judd continues. "That Monday night at dinner, Ivan said he knew where the language teacher lives; that he'd been there several times."

Savrini doesn't ask any more although he wants to learn ‎how Ivan knew Maitresse would be away, but he doesn't want ‎to interrupt. ‎

Judd thinks to himself but doesn't want to say, that he already knew about Ivan and his regular visits to the Heugot house. Instead he says, "I was in a hurry to go look for Elizabeth. My goal was only that. I grabbed Ivan by the arm, we took our coats, went to the car, and took off."

"The lights were on at Maitresse' house but no one answered when we knocked and rang the bell. In all the excitement, we forgot about the key in the pot. I went around to the back; tried the door. No luck, nothing open. We banged on the doors and pleaded for someone to answer. I called out for Elizabeth until a black man in some kind of uniform approached. He...he pointed a gun at us. At us! He spoke some language we didn't understand. Guess he didn't know English. We thought maybe he was Haitian or from Sudan. We had no idea. His uniform made him look official. He waved us off with his gun... didn't utter anything and glowered at us. I didn't know whether he even knew how to handle a gun. He waved it like this." Judd picks up a blue book and fans it back and forth. "That's what he did with the gun."

"We got in our car and drove home. When we went back later, there he was, still prowling around outside. We tried to explain to the guard that our daughter is missing, that she might be inside. He shooed us away motioning with his revolver." Judd fans again to demonstrate. "We didn't know what he was capable of. He might shoot us for trespass."

"We left."

The Judds conferred and decided if the Haitian was there the next time, they'd call the police.

"He was gone by midnight when we returned. Anyway-- There was no sign of him. We figured he went home."

"Ivan pushed open a ground floor window in the back of the house and was able to slide in and go around to the kitchen door to let me in."

"The scene we found was horrible, blood everywhere, all over the living room. Bodies, blood-- the stench--horrible. Never saw anything that atrocious. We ran out back and threw up. After we collected ourselves, a few seconds at most, we were back inside."

"Is my Elizabeth alive? A long shot I thought. Not likely...what we saw...the fetid smell...One of them had to be my little girl."

"I was about to call the police, but then I looked closer...You know, to make sure she was dead...that nothing could help her. I saw that the one who could be my sweet girl, the youngster in the middle... Thank God--it wasn't. Her hair wasn't Elizabeth's. The color was different. This girl's is auburn; not light like Elizabeth's... What a relief!"

"But where was she? We searched the house...everywhere over and over; first floor, second, ground, every closet, behind every curtain."

"Not there. We were relieved, happy almost."

"We left. Hoped no one saw us."

Judd says, "A shameful despicable crime! To kill anyone in that way, by any means, is terrible. To kill a child is an unspeakably vile act. It sears my soul!"

What a supercilious bastard, thinks Savrini. And where's the guard while all this is happening? He must know something, had to hear the clamor. All he needed to do was look in the window. Wasn't that his job?

Did he witness the killing? If not, why not? Maybe he's the murderer. Did the crime. Now we know he's involved.

Judd continues to tell what had been on his mind that Monday night, but all he does is repeat what he'd already said.

His voice is dull and emotionless, as Judd tells again about the note, why he'd forgotten it, and why he didn't call the police. Nothing new.

In Judd's mind which he daren't utter, are his own conclusions about what he knows and what he won't disclose to the detective.

He can't let Ivan talk to the police because his son would surely incriminate himself. They would decide the boy is the murderer. Judd is sure Ivan would not have done it.

The boy would be an easy mark, someone on whom the police could pin the crime, and the case closed.

Should we have called earlier? Judd asks himself.

No.

Wouldn't they have accused Ivan?

Absolutely.

Ivan has a history and has disclosed that he knew about Maitresse' plan for her vacation, knew the house would be vacant. Judd wonders when Ivan learned that. What more did Ivan know? What did he do? Judd has begun to wonder whether he really wants to know.

The math teacher has decided the family would have to pretend they don't know more. They would stay low and out of the spotlight as much as possible. He's certain the detectives would blame Ivan should they learn what Judd knows about his son.

He prays they will continue to search for Elizabeth and not concentrate their limited resources on the murders at Maitresse' house.

Judd's pretty sure Elizabeth is not involved and hopes she's not anywhere near the teacher's house. He's also sure that even if the police find the murderer, it probably would not help locate his daughter.

He can't accept the possibility that the assassin might have killed his daughter and that her body has not yet been found.

No. That thought must never enter his mind.

Judd is familiar with the politics of his city; that the police department is strapped for money, and that the most high profile, bloodiest crimes, generate the most man power.

He will have to do his own search for Elizabeth.

After a while Savrini withdraws because Judd has become quiet and appears faint. He surmises there's nothing more to be gained from this visit.

### AFTER THE MLK WEEK-END

Back to the Station, Savrini.

Okay.

In his car put putting over to the Precinct, his heater gives out. He has not yet replaced his coat which he's sure has been polluting the environment. Its dusty insulation sails free into the air, now that it's no longer sealed in the tattered lining.

He'd had no time.

Well, that's not entirely true. He did have the opportunity the day he went to City Hall. He had only to walk a block over to Thirteenth, to the Macy's to buy a new coat.

He could have, but Pammy was on his mind, not his coat. If he hadn't detoured for a much needed mid-day dalliance, he'd have a new one to keep him warm.

Now he has two more chores. Buy a new coat and buy a new car. All in good time after this case is solved. Can't stop now.

Savrini asks himself why Elizabeth would want to run away. From what? From Ivan? But Ivan loves her, said so himself.

Maybe Judd's an abusive father. What about the mother? Why so quiet? She hiding something? She hardly says anything, just sits with her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

Is she a brutalized wife who's complicit; allows her husband to abuse their child and looks the other way out of fear or disinterest? Maybe she's angry at the girl? Jealous? Is she the cold unreachable mother?

Must call and invite her to the Station--alone. Question her. Very important.

Savrini wishes he had paid more attention when he took Psychology in college. Next time he won't doze during the required legal/psych courses, mandatory to stay on the force and climb the promotion ladder.

Petrified from night air, he pulls over and parks in front. Before he goes inside, he writes on his tablet, "Interview Mrs. Judd." Knows he'll forget otherwise.

Talk about that--he hadn't seized the note for evidence. "DAMN! Get your head on straight, you fucker, you dumb fuck," He berates himself. "Can't you do anything right the first time?" Get the fucking note, he scribbles.

One more thing-- Who's going away with Henriette? Who is the "we" Maitresse refers to in the memorandum? From what he's gathered, it wasn't the mother. A boyfriend? And where is Maitresse Heugot's mother, Adelaide?

### FRIDAY THE START OF THE MLK WEEK-END

Pierre, the Haitian security guard watched the detective knock at the front door.

Savrini muttered to the metal detective badge he held in his hand ready to show the owner of the house on Green Street. He was here because he hoped the language teacher would know something about the newly missing Elizabeth Judd.

Pierre heard him lament his job. "Got to turn in this goddamn badge--soon. Very soon."

Pierre knew he must be the police. Knows the badge. Seen them before.

Savrini rang the bell. Stood still--a quiet shadow in the early evening darkness.

No answer.

He tramped around the house; using his badge to knock against every window he passed.

Returned to the front door.

Rang again.

Shrugged, then headed back to an old rusted car and drove away.

In Haiti police bash in doors. They don't knock first--not ever. The United States is a very strange country. How wonderful it is here. He never wants to leave. Hopes he doesn't have to.

The security guard didn't talk to Savrini. Pierre wasn't there to do anything other than keep the houses under surveillance. He was not there to help the police.

He did his job. He watched then left.

### LATER FRIDAY -- THE START OF MLK WEEK-END

When Pierre returned to 2204 Green Street, he noticed the arrival of three women. In the prematurely darkened winter afternoon, he couldn't tell much about them. Schmidt had informed him that Adelaide and Maitresse Henriette would be away on vacation. Knew these women were not them.

But his job was to watch, and that's what he did.

The women let themselves in with the key they dug out of the pot by the front door. The short one had the inside track about where to find it.

Pierre had not known about that key. Intrigued, he focused his attention on what transpired inside via the window.

Perhaps they're friends of Adelaide or her daughter, since they knew where the key was stashed. One of the women or maybe Mr. Schmidt must have invited them, told them how to get inside.

That reassured Pierre. Now he's off the hook, not required to do anything.

He thought nothing more about it and headed back to his refuge in the empty house nearby, to sleep, and enjoy the comforts of Keisha who comes by several times a day to bring him food and sex. All of that kept the guard inside and satisfied for several days.

### SUNDAY OF THE MLK WEEK-END

By the time he thinks to go back over to 2204, it's several days later, and the snowstorm has started.

He's outside, well prepared, garbed in ‎a sweater worn beneath his raincoat with attached hood. The items are labeled with the security company insignia. Nice of them to provide uniforms for all types of weather. He's grateful for that as he works his way back over to Adelaide and the daughter's house, his head bent over to keep the driving snow out of his face.

When Pierre arrives at the house, he spies the threesome, much younger than he deduced when he first saw them Friday, the day they arrived. He recognizes the youngsters, seen them walk to and ‎from school. ‎

The rent-a-cop studies the children, swallows hard as the sweet things gorge on French bon-bons and red, yellow, and black caviars--expensive imports from Russia.

The fish eggs glopped on cookies, tip-of-the-tongue tasted, evoke noisy echs. They drown it in mayonnaise. Puckered faces display their annoyance. All is discarded. Hurled to the floor.

The thin guard, dark caramel skin tight over perfect high cheekbones, shivers, but stays to watch.

Drambuie, Cherry cordials, and aged brandies are gulped from bottles inverted high over innocent faces, inverted, and poured into mouths opened wide. But the baby birds are repelled by the taste.

"What should we do?"

"Let's mix this shit with something so it'll taste better."

Hundreds of dollars' worth of rare liqueurs splash into etched goblets. They dilute the drinks with Coke and Sprite to camouflage the unfamiliar taste of the spirits. The experimental concoctions do go well with Godiva truffles and Ritz crackers swathed in butter and strawberry preserves.

They litter the room with partly emptied bottles of champagne, soda, and half-eaten croissants au chocolate.

The spree is fun. The girls had made themselves at home.

Pierre must advise his boss. These girls might be intruders. He calls Mr. Schmidt using the cell phone furnished by the Government.

Pierre informs him the visitors are very young girls. Schmidt's voice changes instantly from a monotone to a high ‎pitched soprano, "I'll have to come by to verify who they are. Maybe they're friends or relatives."

Mr. Schmidt then exclaims, his tone higher still, "Don't let them leave. Stop them if they try!"

Schmidt knows that neither Adelaide nor Henriette would invite anyone to stay in the house while they're out of town. He's sure the girls are interlopers and that he has something excellent in store.

He arrives in no time, just before the heavy snow takes over the streets. Parks his Hummer down the street and stations himself outside to look in the window.

Schmidt has prepared for the downpour. He's decked himself out with a hooded poncho and rain boots just like his mother used to tell little Schmidt to do when the weather was bad.

He peeks in. Drools. The girls are delicious, clearly enjoying themselves in his house. He doesn't mind. Soon he will enjoy them.

The idea of very young girls in his property tantalizes, thrills him. They're here in range, on his turf. He relishes the prospect of the fun evening ahead, much better than what he had planned for tonight. This is an opportunity. Three little bitches in his space. What a picnic he will have. He anticipates an evening of pure sexual joy. Muses about what he knows will happen.

Schmidt goes around to the side of the house where he sees the guard squatting on his haunches, his breath condensing a circle on the glass.

Pierre jumps up when he hears Mr. Schmidt address him. His boss advises the security guard that his services won't be needed tonight. "Go home and come back day after tomorrow."

Huh? What's this all about? Why wouldn't Schmidt request his help to roust the intruders?

Schmidt stands still, anticipating Pierre's exit.

The guard hesitates. He has no idea what to do. His boss doesn't know the guard has no other home; that he sleeps on some blankets as a mattress in the house next door. It's quite comfortable, better than bunking with several families. That's what he did in little Haiti, in Miami.

On his island, housing consists of a shack made of metal, wood, or mud, with or without a roof. It's so bad in Haiti that by now, anybody with the means to leave, has traveled by boat or flown to Miami. Thankfully, here in the U.S., there is running water and indoor plumbing--not so in his country.

Pierre pictures his woman and children in Haiti. Feels lucky to be away from them. Can't stand the ugly cow and the cries of his hungry dirty kids.

That was the life he had run from. What he left to come to the States. He is grateful to be far away. Happy to be in America.

The occasional loneliness is a small price to pay. He can bear it. The snow is something else. That's hard. He abhors the winters in the North.

Now and then, he has tried to find his own place, but any Philadelphia housing that he could afford is too dangerous even with the gun supplied by the security company. Gangs and tough hoodlums scurry about the streets. The criminal element controls the apartment buildings where the rent is cheap enough for him.

What is he expected to do when Mr. Schmidt tells him to go home? He has no home.

He knows he must exit the area, decides he'll make it look like he has somewhere to go. He won't tell his boss he has no place of his own.

Pierre says, "Okay, thank you, Boss. I go home." But he knows there's no way he's going anywhere. He can't tell Mr. Schmidt, "Oh, I'll just go next door and go to sleep." He knows the man wants him gone--not only from this house--from the neighborhood.

Plus--Pierre doesn't want to leave. He has to stay. Has to stay right here and watch.

Has to.

The snow comes harder, carpets the recently cleared walkways and streets. Pierre is glad he's dressed to keep out the soft wetness that drifts down from the heavens.

Schmidt watches his employee walk away down the slippery street. The guard turns his head to look back over his shoulder, sees his fat old boss head over to his Hummer, open the door, and reach inside to take something out. Pierre is sure Mr. Schmidt uses this only as a delaying tactic. He wants Pierre gone before he can enter the house.

The guard continues on farther away down the street, pretending to leave. He strides and doesn't double back until he hears Mr. Schmidt's car door close. He tarries a few seconds more then scrambles around through the new snow toward the side of the property, crouches and crawls to the corner of the building. He peeks around the wall and sees, sure enough, just as he'd expected, there's Mr. Schmidt at the back entrance.

The old man enters the house through the green kitchen door and pulls it shut taking care to be quiet.

After his boss enters his mistress' house, the security guard returns to the window on the side where he's sure to have a good vantage point, unseen by anyone inside.

He knows he will stay. Only thing is to keep out of sight. This spot gives him visual access of the interior except for the kitchen, bathrooms, dining room, upper stories and ground. Dressed for the cold winter, he'll stay and see everything.

What he witnesses is so weird, he can't tear his eyes away.

### SUNDAY MLK

Mr. Schmidt has let himself in through the back door into the kitchen. He pulls off his galoshes and poncho, and wraps them in a large white towel and puts them into his duffel bag. He picks it up then eases himself into the small anteroom on the way in from the kitchen.

The winey pungence of the girls' libations has drifted all the way out here.‎ ‎

Schmidt sidles farther in, his back easing along the wall. He hugs his body against the partition, palms pressed against the embossed gold wall-covering to prevent a fall until he reaches the open doorway that leads into the dining room.

Now he's in the dining room.

He picks up one of Adelaide's affectations, a blue embroidered French provincial dining room chair. His eyes peruse the room as he looks for the perfect spot for the best view. He carries the heavy piece to where he can see the living room.

He accidently grunts from the exertion. Freezes. Doesn't dare change position. Doesn't want to be seen or heard. Not yet.

Silence.

He hears only the driving disco beat.

Safe! He sits his bovine body into the armchair.

Excellent! He can see everything. Orchestra Front Row Center.

The mirrors reflect the toothsome duo. They are lovely, languid as they recline, enjoying the delicacies unwittingly donated by Adelaide.

But he heard there were three. Where's the third?

Maybe she's somewhere else in the house. He'll watch for her to make an appearance.

Did she go home? In another room? The bathroom?

Three less one, means less fun. He laughs inside but is disappointed. He'd heard from Pierre there was a very young one.

What to do? Should he wait for her?

He wants to stay here as long as he can but he's sorely tempted to rush right in. He checks himself. Watches. He handles himself.

The two older girls are stretched out on sofas. They drink Adelaide's liqueurs.

His bitch Adelaide has to have the best and look who's drinking his money--kids who wouldn't know punch from Dom Perignon. And he, Schmidt, the sucker, paid for everything.

He's annoyed at Adelaide; how affected that street whore is on his dime.‎ As for the girls, they're going to show him a real good time.

Several bottles of champagne stand ready on the coffee table. The empties lie on the floor next to the sofa. They're quick. Schmidt has to give them that. They'd already raided the pantry and made a mess. Must have been here for quite some time.

Why didn't Pierre stop them right off?

Cakes and candies lie scattered over the tables. Schmidt smells, before he sees, the opened Brie and Camembert-- like garbage in this overheated house.

There are pretzels, chips, opened caviar tins.

Adelaide--a gourmet? Who knew? But here it is--caviar from her pantry.

Candy wrappers and empty wine glasses are strewn over the chairs and floor. A bed of multicolored crumbs coats the rugs.

The piglets wallow in swill. He will too. He won't mind the garbage. Not if he can partake.

Soon. He curls his lip and titters softly.

The youngest totters in from the anti-room in Henriette's high-heeled red pumps. The object is to walk without toppling. She doesn't succeed, falls then crawls to a table, and leans on it. Both crash to the floor. Back up on her feet, she pretends to use a walking cane to imitate Adelaide's child, the one the kids call Maitresse Henriette, the crazy bitch his ex-mistress maintains is his daughter.

The cane keeps the youngster steady. She doesn't fall on her face this time.

He's not sure whether Henriette is his child, but he took the two of them on to avoid a scandal. It's good that now Henriette earns a living as a language teacher. Sadly he hears from his nephew how much the children hate her; that everyone is sure she's nuts.

What a reputation! Could that possibly be my daughter? Can't be. I'm a kind pleasant person and so very normal.

What's normal anyway? I don't care what people think. Doesn't matter what they say. Look at me, there's no one more successful, none more powerful.

Schmidt pulls his attention back, happy the three girls are here. Three is better. The youngest is full of promise. He salivates. Decides to hold off until they're really drunk. They'll be easier, more willing, more fun.

The house is comfortable, too warm but cozy.

Schmidt's chilled. So excited when Pierre called, that he didn't think to turn on the car heater for the drive over, and outside for a time in the shivery weather, waiting for his security guard to leave. He's grateful for the heated house.

The sweet things drink. The conversation is about sex. "Who kisses the best...open mouth? Tongue? Tried to grab my breast. Stuck his thing up against my stomach during a spin the bottle kiss. Who went all the way?"

Schmidt loves it. The girls are young--so young--so desirable. He tries to hold off.

Swept away by these youngsters, he can stifle himself no longer.

He picks up his things. He's ready.

### THE THURSDAY BEFORE MLK WEEKEND

Penny moves from one closet to the next, rushing to pack what she needs for the trip, her things and the books and clothes she bought for the children. She sweats and breathes heavily. She plans her trip.

I'll plan a surprise visit to Philly and while there, I'll be sure to see Maitresse. I have to do something. I'm the one who insisted Natalie and Steven attend that school. I mistakenly thought it had to be as good as when I was a student there. Now I know it's not. I pay their tuition so it's my responsibility to fix it.

That pseudo who masquerades as a French teacher needs to be taken down, and I'm up to the task.

It was easy to find her address in the Benjamin School on-line directory. If you have a computer, anything is possible.

Too bad, snow is in the forecast, but maybe it won't happen. Weather people are hardly ever correct. Probably turn out to be a perfectly clear week-end, the kind we used to have before this winter of storms.

Snow doesn't bother me. They clear the streets quickly. Philly's had a lot of practice this year.

Can't tarry, I take my responsibilities very seriously.

Penny has made her airline reservations. She's packed. She's ready.

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

I was surprised Aunt Penny will be in Philly for the MLK week-end. It was okay but I would have preferred to go to Florida and warm up in the tropical sun. Everyone wants to go south and we have to stay here. But it's okay. I'm fine with it-- more than fine.

Before I learned she would spend time with us, I anticipated a long week-end of TV, maybe a few nights with Mom's Mom. We call her MoMom. She teaches us to sew. Sounds almost as awful as it is. Last time I had to sew a white organza apron. Steven did too, and he really hates to sew.

We had to copy the pattern and measure it and such. Then we put it together and sewed it all by hand. MoMom doesn't believe in machines. We stay with her when it's Mom's week-end and she has someplace to go.

Friday, right after Aunt Penny arrived from the airport, she parked her suitcase, didn't even hang up her clothes, changed into fun clothes, and the three of us were off.

We had plenty of time because school was a half day Friday. First we went to the University of Pennsylvania Museum to see the dinosaurs and the mummies.

My imagination flies out of control when I'm there. I wonder whether there were any dinosaurs around when the Egyptians built their pyramids. Maybe they tamed the giant animals, and used them to transfer the huge stones from the quarry on up to the top of the structures they built.

We had a good time Saturday and Sunday too.

Saturday was the Art Museum. Steven didn't want to go. He begged Aunt Penny for us to visit the Planetarium. Aunt Penny said we could do that on Sunday.

I love all those places especially the Art Museum because Aunt Penny shows us how to paint and takes us for art lessens there and we do Art Appreciation. Last month she gave us a water-color acrylic set with easels so we could paint whenever we want. I like to apply the colors in little dots like Seurat. Anyway, my paintings are good, and Aunt Penny puts them on the walls all over her apartment in Miami Beach.

Sunday, after we came home from the Franklin Institute and just before dinner, Aunt Penny said she was going out to visit a friend. The snow had begun earlier so she borrowed a raincoat from Dad. He asked her not to go out in the storm but she said she'd be all right. I wanted to go too, but when I asked her-- She answered, "No."

I'm real angry at Aunt Penny. She came to see us, then she goes off to see someone else. Why wouldn't I be mad? She apologized and said tomorrow we'll do something fun.

Why is it always tomorrow?

We had a really nice day but still...

Maybe I can sneak out and follow her. If she heads over towards Maitresse's house, I can see whether Susie and her sisters went there after all. I can peek in the window. Maybe they'll invite me in. If they don't, I'll tell them that I'll call the police on them for trespass.

### SUNDAY OF THE MLK WEEK-END

Mr. Schmidt enters the sumptuous living room that the girls had turned into a trash dump. How fast kids can destroy something so elegant, the house that Adelaide maintained so perfectly.

The girls doze, stretched out on the blue plush sofas.

They hear then spot Schmidt. The youngsters look up, alarmed, eyes wide. They thought they were alone in the house.

Friday, first thing they did, right after they came in the front door, was explore every corner of the Maitresse' mansion. Looked all through the house, even checked out the basement to make sure no one was there. Only after they felt secure that they were alone, did they make themselves comfortable and set about to destroy the house with their fun.

The fat old man appears deranged. His hair is disheveled. His clothes, mismatched and misbuttoned. He sweats profusely. Most damming about his appearance is the mask.

He speaks calmly, suggests they listen, says he will not hurt them.

Pierre watches from outside, observes that the girls are scared. They stare up at Mr. Schmidt, eyes and mouths open in shock and fear. He would be frightened too. He is.

Schmidt must calm the girls in order to succeed in his mission. He quietly reassures them that if they partner with him, they will be fine. He says the mask is because he's on his way to a costume party.

He advises that they have trespassed. That he has the right to kill them outright, or at the very least, call the police and have them arrested and put in jail for many years. He assures them he has no intention of doing any of that, and they will be fine as long as they perform all the fun things he asks of them.

Schmidt soothes them. He screens his ardor behind a passive exterior. But the fat man chomps at the bit, so full of anticipation, he can hardly contain his impatience. He knows what is to happen, whips up visions of the three at once. He'd never done even two at the same time.

It's almost too much excitement to bear and he experiences a moment of trepidation about his heart, uneasy because he feels a tightness in his chest, hears a drum pounding in his left side.

One moment of concern--only one, then he's back on track toward his delicious adventure.

He rubs his clammy hands together, wipes the sweat off onto his pants, licks his lips. He wants them calm and cooperative as long as possible. He needs them to obey.

He brightens with an idea.

What do young girls want? They want to party.

Good job Schmidt. He admires himself.

Give the lovelies an offer they can't resist. They may go home or they may go to the party\--after they perform some little things for him.

He suddenly realizes that he runs the risk of a very long jail term ‎should the girls be able to help the police deduce who he is later--after his ‎escapade is finished. He'll have to figure something out.‎

The mask helps some. It covers his upper face with a flap ‎for comfort that conceals his mouth, and goes around to tie in ‎back where it cover some of his head.‎

It's not enough. They probably think he's the owner of the house. Have to change ‎that, suggest something else. What?

Got it. He's figured it out. He'll say he's from California, an associate of ‎the owner who has lent him the house to make a movie. Good ‎Schmidt, you solved it.‎

He explains that he's a movie producer and needs a few scenes with some pretty young girls, and that a cameraman is filming in the anteroom back from where he'd come.

He advises that the movie is a little risqué but it won't take long and then they'll be off to the party. He promises that if they're good to him, he'll take them with him, that there are plenty of costumes here for them to borrow.

Will they buy it?

Schmidt watches them intently. ‎

They do.

The mask unnerved the girls at first but they tell themselves that everything he says is true. They are excited at the idea of a masquerade ball.

Schmidt always knew he was a good actor.

It might be fun to do a movie and become famous. They're very drunk so--okay, they'll join in and do the movie. Afterwards, they'll go to the ball. Anyway, they tell him, they are bored just sitting around the house, and they don't have anything better to do.

Happiness is.....

Schmidt indicates that the movie begins with a fashion show.

Big mistake! But it's too late to fix. Now the girls want to go upstairs for some clothes and some "really high heels." They had seen "exquisite costumes up there earlier."

Schmidt acquiesces. He scripted this nonsense, now he has to go along with it. Stupid to tell them there would be a fashion show. "Ten minutes only. We're on a tight schedule. I'll help you select the clothes."

They traipse happily up to Adelaide's suite.

"Ooh, Ahh! It's all pink silk, how elegant!" They begin to select from among the fancy finery and dressy shoes. He's astounded by the quantity he's bought for his conniving mistress. Schmidt will have to cut her allowance. This is way beyond even what's in his wife's closet. "Revisit that later," he murmurs.

The oldest unzips a designer gown from Adelaide's manikin. It is the strapless number with black and tourmaline gemstones. She succeeds but in the process, knocks the stand over. It crashes to the floor. The bare plastic and metal model of Adelaide's body rocks back and forth, then lies still.

He turns to listen to the girls. "Which dress? How will I look? Will my breasts look smaller or larger? What about my butt? Will it stick out in this dress more than the silver velvet one? Does the red taffeta fit better than the blue strapless with the rhinestones?"

They strut around the room holding the formal wear up against their bodies posing before the wall mirror, taking turns with the red satins, the black velvets, the pink taffetas. He warms to these youngsters. He sweats. His throat constricts. Feels his excitement rise.

Heaven!

Schmidt is inflamed by this intimacy, the proximity of these luscious young things.

He becomes agitated. Wants real fun and he can't stay all night. There's always the chance that someone might arrive to spoil his adventure. He can't afford to linger too long on this foreplay.

The sisters insist they must have make-up since they are to be in a movie. They want to do their hair as well. He must loll about and watch.

One makes a French twist. Another fixes hers into bobbing curls. The oldest creates a pony tail fixed in place with a platinum bow encrusted with ½ carat diamonds. Large rubies dangle from diamond studded strings.

Schmidt remembers when he gave that particular hair-clip to Adelaide many years ago. It had cost him a fortune. He'll have to take it back from them later.

He encourages the youngsters to tote all of the make-up, hair accoutrements, and clothes down into the living room. The girls complain they're not ready. "We have to try on some more."

"Enough! You look just fine as you are. Let's go down and start. Come on. We have to hurry. The cameraman is paid by the hour."

The girls grumble but follow instructions.

All of Adelaide's lavish clothes are now ruined, torn and soiled by the rough treatment by the girls as they truck the finery down the stairwell and through the living room.

Back in there once again, Schmidt tells them to practice before they put on the dresses, to saunter down the pretend catwalk. The girls parade up and back in front of him. He sits on the sofa and strokes himself, the action secreted behind a blue velvet pillow.

They're in high gear, eyes shine, shift nervously from one foot to the other, as they try to make it a real fashion show for the movie.

"Gyrate your hips like models do. Walk on your toes like ballerinas. Pretend you're in high heels. Wet your lips. Pucker them." He sits up, senses reawakened by their antics.

"Look at me. Be sultry. Show me you like me. You can. Real models do. Wiggle your booty. Get into it!"

"You mean like this?"

"Perfect. Now throw kisses at me. Wiggle your hips. More!"

They're into it. They line up to sally down the imaginary runway. One pretends to smoke a cigarette. They smile. They bat their eyelashes. They glance at him and at the imaginary people who surround him. They bow. They curtsy. They toss kisses at the adoring crowds.

He hopes they are as stimulated as he is by their flirty acts.

It's suddenly too much for him. He feels his chest beat out of sync. Ed's cardiologist had admonished him about illicit sex, known to be dangerous for the heart, especially his, because of his weight and the minor attack he'd had last year.

He checks his pulse. A little fast but then decides-- You can't stop living and this is too delicious to miss.

Schmidt discovers happily that the girls delight in the show. He dismisses the worry about his health. Wipes it out of his mind. He concentrates instead on how to take the girls to the next step.

Pierre can't believe the spectacle inside the house. He'd been impatient when everyone disappeared up to the second floor. That was when he realized he was too cold. When they were all out of sight, he considered going into one of the other houses to warm up but was also aware that if he did, he might never learn what transpired.

At the same time, he considered that it might be a good idea to make a phone call to Mr. Schmidt; ask him "everything all right?" Would Mr. Schmidt be angry?

Or maybe--"‎Should I come back? Do you need any help, Mr. Schmidt?" Pierre worried whether the girls needed his aid.

Should he call the police? Should he knock innocently at the door?

And say what? He left his key inside?

No. He discarded all of that.

He didn't leave, didn't call, didn't knock, didn't do anything except agonize about what to do. For the rest of his life he castigates himself that he didn't stop what happened next.

He looks up, sees they're all back. Though unsettled, Pierre believes this quandary about what to do is out of his hands. He does not need to devise a solution. For now, he can simply--watch.

The fashion show preparations continue.

Mr. Schmidt tells the girls to undress each other slowly, erotically, like a strip tease show. He tells them to keep time to Robin Thick's, Blurred Lines which has begun to play throughout the house.

"It's part of the movie plot. After you're undressed..."

One girl pipes up. "This can't be right! Why do we have to take our clothes off?"

"Oh...Models go for it at the shows all the time. Then you can put on the costumes you've brought downstairs with you."

They're unsure about the direction this is taking, but he assures them that real models and actresses help one another dress and undress. "They prepare for the shows in a large dressing room where all the men and women in the production team help with clothes, make-up, and hair. Trust me."

He assures them that they will become real models or maybe movie actresses. "Tonight is your big start. The movie is sure to garner awards, and if you show some energy and passion, you will become famous. You are so lucky, lucky to be here, to have this opportunity."

He turns away and chortles softly to himself. The girls don't notice.

The prospect that they could become stars, convinces them to go along. They begin to undress with some hesitation, but try to demonstrate some energy.

The girls pull off each other's clothes-- unwillingly-- so slowly that Schmidt has to prod them to continue.

Now they are naked.

He tells them to embrace, "Kiss, like the actors do in the movies." Pierre watches them hug each other, obviously uncomfortable, more and more with each new command.

Pierre guesses they are reticent because they're not used to being exposed. In Haiti, women embrace naked but he knows it's not the same in this country--not in public anyway. He's heard of nude resorts but they don't allow physical contact in public. Nakedness is the norm for a pornography movie. Is that what Schmidt has in mind?

He doesn't have time to dwell on those thoughts, because the show inside continues unabated.

Mr. Schmidt admonishes them again. "I told you to kiss. Kiss each other on the lips. Yes, you heard me." He becomes more insistent, more impatient.

"Kiss on the lips. Take turns. Make it look like you enjoy doing it; that you yearn for it. Perform like in the movies. Work it."

"The plot of this movie requires you to come over and kiss me, one at a time. You have to hug me. Rub up against me."

The girls become confused, anxious, more and more frightened.

To settle them, he suggests they "put on Adelaide's clothes and strut in the fashion parade."

"You mean Maitresse's clothes."

"Yeah sure--Maitresse's clothes. That's what I meant." He won't correct that minor discrepancy. He's having too much fun.

The girls' nakedness has become too much for Schmidt. He can't hold up anymore. He tells the little one to go into the anteroom where the cameraman is and take along the gown she's to wear; that the costumer is there who will help Susie doll up.

Schmidt licks his lips, sees himself with her.

Soon.

He can't breathe. Sweat drips from his brow.

Like a good little girl, Susie drags the pink taffeta dress and the silver shoes out toward the dining room. Schmidt leads the way. He's in front so she won't notice there's no one in there-- that he lied.

Once inside, out of sight of her sisters, Schmidt turns to her. He can't help himself. He picks her up and kisses her. Holds her body against his, dress and shoes still clutched in her arms.

The mask is in his way. He grasps her with one arm so he can slide the cover away to allow his lips and tongue to connect with that luscious girl's mouth.

He succeeds in raising the mask but the episode is too much for Susie. Terrified, she wriggles to get out of his clutches. Schmidt is unbalanced, one hand on the mask, the other inadequate to contain the fidgeting child.

She slips down out of his arms, gets to her feet, jerks away from his hold, drops the glittering clothes, and bolts to the front of the house. She runs through the length of the living room into the foyer then out through the unlocked front door. Outside, she's unaware of the bitter cold or even that she's naked. Fear and the need to flee is all.

The snow is slippery. She sprints but slips and slides down the steps. She hits her head. She's stunned. Out but for only an instant, she's up, hurtles forward a few steps then leaps away from the house toward the street.

Freedom eludes her. Schmidt grabs her from behind, arms around her waist, hoists her up against his body and carries her back up the steps and into the house.

The girls are paralyzed with fear. Panic stricken, they try to cover their nakedness with Adelaide's finery when Schmidt returns with their sister.

He's ecstatic. Never in his life has he been so charged, so manly, so full of vigor and exhilaration.

Schmidt talks to them gently. "Sorry about that, but I didn't want little Susie to be hurt or lost in the snow. That's all I tried to do. After she fell, I meant to save her from the cold so she'd be okay. You know she bumped her head when she fell. Calm down, everything will be alright. Trust me, you girls are safe in my hands."

Schmidt knows he'll have to tie the girls down to control them. If he's to have any fun at all, he must do that. It's only a matter of time before they revolt. If so, they could do him some real damage. Overcome him.

No, he has to contain them, prevent their ability to flee or worse--hurt him.

He'll have to restrain them to make them submit. He needs the girls anchored but positioned so that he can exploit their bodies for his gratification. He surveys the area, notices there are four white medium high stools set in front of a bar against the far wall. The armless chairs are a perfect solution. His imagination is freed for the festivities to follow. He invents a vision of the girls spread out before him, before Schmidt--the man--the king of his domain. All he needs is to figure a way to tempt the girls to comply.

He has an idea. He'll offer them money. Tells them, "As long as the cameraman and director are pleased that your vitality make it seem real, the producer will give you lots of money and I mean lots."

The girls ask, "How much?"

"What's a lot to you?"

"A hundred?" Timidly requested.

"We can do that. Absolutely!" Utters the evil one.

"After that, you girls can be off home or if you like, we can all go to the party. Your choice...Okay?"

Each nods in the affirmative when he asks each in turn. They have no choice. They know that.

The sisters have to believe him; it's their only hope. He's strong. He's demonstrated that. And he could get them in trouble with the police, even kill them for trespassing.

He addresses them by name. It soothes them, makes them feel somewhat more comfortable. They reassure themselves that since he sees them as real people, he might let them go after a while. They are still scared but don't see any solution other than to give in.

He tells them, "The script calls for you to be tied down. A great scene, terrific writing! Oscar quality. Prizes for you too. By the way, this part will be quick and it'll be fun...then you--my lovely little ladies will be free to do as you like for the rest of the evening."

Schmidt says the film requires special activities that only they can perform. He lies--"Nothing will change you from the sweet young things I cherish, nor will you be hurt. This has to be done because it's in the script. You know we have to follow the directions exactly or the director and producer will kill the movie. Sorry."

"After we finish today's film...the tie up part...we can go to the party. We'll finish the fashion show sequence another day. How's that? Good. Right? Sound alright? Good. We can begin."

He lugs over the barstools, and sits the girls in a circle, back to back. They are so close together, their buttock cheeks touch.

He ties the girls' hands behind their backs, then to each other. The girls complain that the ropes that bind are too tight. He says he will fix it. Schmidt pushes the chairs ‎together for greater stability which loosens the ropes a bit around the girls' wrists.

The youngsters are more comfortable physically but begin to sweat and twitch though the place is hot.

They've begun to understand their plight.

But it's too late.

Schmidt sees that the ropes are secure and though they try, the girls can't move.

Schmidt sits himself down to rest a minute when he notes that he's panting and wheezing. His mind drifts when he closes his eyes and tries to regulate his breathing.

The goings on this day remind him of when he first spotted Adelaide. It was on Chestnut Street, Downtown Philadelphia. She must have been all of twelve and already turning tricks when she approached him. What a whore, even then. Hard to admit to himself that he'd been smitten by that young slut, the child prostitute.

He took her into his house, fed and clothed her, taught her how to do all the things he enjoyed. She became a partner willing to lick and suck his cock, to whip him and squeal with delight at what he did to her.

She didn't mind the games he played-- hide-and-go seek, jump rope, checkers, all while she was naked or more often, sans panties. She learned to show him her pussy, like a coquette. Her skirt lifted as she bent over to pick up the stone when she played hopscotch.

Adelaide thrived on the sex games-- After a while she begged to play. It was never enough for her.

To act and dress as a child, even as she grew older was good enough for him. The fact that she enjoyed it with great fervor-- intoxicated him.

It was all fun for a while. No. Not fun. It was phenomenal.

When she was somewhat older, he requested that she continue to affect childish behavior and dress like a youngster.

But Adelaide had a hard time. She was disappointed that he liked only children and that she could no longer satisfy him by being herself. She knew he had a thirst for little girls. She had met men like that when she was a youngster working the streets, men who confessed to her that they were sexually unresponsive to adult women.

Later still, she was too old to affect the look of a child and fantasy no longer stimulated him. He could not be beguiled by the wiles she had perfected nor by the games she acted out for him.

He needed new partners--real children--not role players. He set her up in an elegant house, supplied all her needs and desires and provided everything to prevent her from causing him trouble with the media, what she constantly promised to do. That talk sorely vexed him. So far he had found no legal way out of his predicament.

Why has his mind wondered back to his life full of difficulties when he has this fun at hand right here in front of him. He wills his attention back to the now before him.

He seduces the girls, salves them, maintains a soft voice as he intones phrases full of kindness and admiration. "How lovely you are. I will treat you so that you will feel you are on cloud nine. I wish you were my daughters. I will give you money, clothes, and jewelry. You are so beautiful."

All the kind words are for naught. The girls panic, they're hysterical their faces contort with fear and loathing.

He has tied their knees and ankles to each other to keep their legs apart so that their bodies are exposed to where Schmidt can see and touch all the young flesh he desires. He certainly desires. Oh how he desires. While he surveys the lovely presents he has made for himself, Schmidt is aware that his erection had never been so hard. He takes off his clothes to better enjoy the fun.

Pierre chortles when he sees his boss naked. The paunch overhangs his penis, a small one for all of Schmidt's girth.

His boss turns around and bends over to kiss little Susie.

Pierre glimpses his flabby hairy white ass. "What an ugly man," he says, nauseous at the sight.

He hears Mr. Schmidt cry out to the girls, "I'm in control now. You will do as I command!" The sound reminds Pierre of Jack Nicholson's voice in "The Shining." Mr. Schmidt's is the same personification of pure evil.

The girls cower, anguish shines on their faces. Their frightened eyes go back and forth following Schmidt as he moves about. They whimper.

Pierre fears for his own safety. He crouches down in the wet snow to hide.

Mr. Schmidt moves from girl to girl, dips himself into one then another, samples each opening, enjoys what he makes them do to him, what he does to them.

After several rounds with the anguished girls, Schmidt sees himself an unbridled young stallion. No other human being rates such passion‎. Mr. Schmidt's body straightens. His mouth opens. He grimaces, about to orgasm.

"BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM!"

His climax is checked, halted by the jarring knocks at the front door.

"Damn!"

Poor Schmidt.

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

When Auntie was to leave, we weren't sure she'd be able to return to Miami after the big snowstorm. Unfortunately, the roads were cleared, the airport opened, and she left.

I told her to take some snow to show her friends at her Miami Shores Bridge Game‎. She said it would melt before she arrives there.

I knew that.

She seemed upset all during her visit, especially Sunday evening, after she went out in that heavy storm. The next day she seemed older, shaky, and pale.

Daddy even noticed, and he doesn't usually pay attention. When he asked her if she felt okay, she said she was all right. It was just the weather that made her uneasy.

We're going to Florida soon. I hear Daddy talking to Aunt Penny. It's supposed to be a surprise.

Anyway if it's true, I'll be glad to be out of here and away from all the evil things in Philadelphia.

Did I mention all of them?

First there was that other kid that I didn't know who disappeared and then Elizabeth. I heard on the news they found dead women in Maitresse's house. Unfortunately it's not the teachers.

Ivan says the police found school books and a diary in the house and footprints of the murderer in the snow.

I already heard that. Wonder whether they found mine.

‎

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

I write this as I wait for Dad to come get me to take me to Dance Class. I hate to wait. Makes me angry.

I have to admit that I do get mad--a lot. And sometimes I do stuff. ‎

I want a mask before next Halloween. ‎I ‎can't ask. They'll say, "No." ‎

But no one's going to tell me what I can and can't do. ‎I ‎hate rules. I really hate them.

Not Steven, no one ‎tells him what to do. He's allowed ‎do ‎anything he wants.‎

I'm not a good ballerina and not a good tap-dancer but it gets me out of the house and a bit more freedom. Usually, I just slip away after Dad drops me outside in front of the building. That's when I can do my thing.

When I walk in to class halfway through the lesson, I just tell the teacher I'm late because of Dad. She doesn't suspect me, just figures Dad got out of work late or such. Not a problem.

Tonight he is late to drop me off, so I think I'll sneak out ‎after my lesson and head over to the CVS on Chestnut ‎Street. Dad never gets here right on time to pick me up so I can run over to the drugstore and come right back before anyone knows I'm missing.

I will have my mask!

### AFTER THE MLK WEEK-END

Sandy the sub tries to hail a cab. None stop. After twenty minutes, she realizes it won't be easy in this foul weather. Might be impossible.

She decides to call Sal. He's nearby. He'll come. Sal Lupi turned out to be the best find she'd ever made.

Sandy had just pulled out her cell, when she spots a red-headed kid ‎ who seems to be alone.

Uh, oh...She realizes, it's Natalie, the beautiful dreamer from the Benjamin, at least she thinks that's her name. What's she doing downtown alone? Sandy wonders.

She doesn't see me. Maybe I can walk on by. She won't recognize me. I'm not responsible for her; after all-- We're not on school grounds.

Is she crying?

She is.‎

I guess I should ask her whether she's all right.‎

I'll have to stop.

Darn!

"What's the matter honey?"

"Huh? Hh, hu...I...I...jus saw a ghost...Elizabeth. It was Elizabeth. I'm sure, but her face was so white and she...she didn't say anything. She, she....So I ran...bu...bu....It was her. She was in a black cape and she... she..." All of this is in between sobs.

"You mean the Elizabeth who disappeared?' I don't think so. It's your imagination. Are you certain it was Elizabeth? Where? Show me."

"I'm jus...jus...pretty sure. If it wasn't a ghost she would talk to me. We were best friends. I...I know she would. She wh...was a ghost."

"Come on dear; let's call your mother to come get you. Why are you out here alone?"

"I left the dance studio and I...I thought I had time before D...Daddy was supposed to get me...and...you know from my class. And I, well. I just...I had to go the CVS to buy something. But then I got turned around and I didn't remember which way to go. So I jus kep walking and then when nothing seemed familiar, I turned around and went the other way. And then I just walked and walked and then I was so tired and the sky was dark and the people walked by and didn't pay attention to me. They ignored me like I wasn't there and jus kept walking, and I didn't see any policemen to ask and then there was this ghost who was Elizabeth and every time I ran away from her, she was right in front of me and then she pointed this way and there you were. She's behind me. Look."

Sandy looked. There was no one there.

### THE MLK WEEK-END

Pierre sits in the snow outside of Maitresse' and Adelaide's house. He's very cold. You can never have a coat or undergarments heavy enough to stay warm for outside surveillance work--certainly not this winter. He's used to the tropics, warm and humid. At this moment, Pierre yearns to be back in Miami.

He moves around to the other side of the house to avoid the brunt of the north wind, anything not to be so cold. He can see more of the inside from here, even into the dining room and kitchen.

As he comes around the building, he sees a white-haired ‎ lady‎ in what looks to be a summer dress. She's stares in through the window on the opposite side of the house, gazing intently at what transpires inside, her nose pressed up against the glass.

Pierre doesn't know how long she's been there, he'd been totally engrossed in the hoopla inside.

What has she seen? Did she see Pierre? Maybe not. Probably not; she's intent on the inside of the house.

He hopes he's not been spotted. He can't afford trouble; he doesn't have papers.

He knows no one who's been deported but there's always that chance. The fear that he might be sent back to Haiti is ever- present, hangs over him like a black cloud.

After a while, the old lady awakens as if from sleep, lifts her head, looks both ways, backs around then charges around to the front, runs up the steps to the door, and pounds at it with both fists.

Pierre who had gone back to his location, hears the noise and sees that his boss does too.

Mr. Schmidt looks up, grabs his shirt, underwear, and trousers, picks up the black gym bag, stuffs his clothes under one arm and runs in the direction of the dining room.

He lurches toward the kitchen, away from the commotion at the front door, jams one leg, then the other into his trousers pulling them up as he hobbles off. A ludicrous sight, Schmidt jounces toward the rear of the house limping along as he hikes up his trousers and kicks the bag like a soccer player with a ball in play.

Pierre cackles. Mr. Schmidt is a comic sight. Scared that he might be heard the guard tries to control his outburst, but the laughter turns into uncontrolled chokes and coughs. He prays no one hears him.

Safe! No one's on this side of the house.

He can't see the back, but he's sure Mr. Schmidt would make his departure that way.

To hide, Pierre lies down against the house behind some bushes in the wet snow not only to hide from his boss but also to make sure the white haired woman doesn't notice him. So cold and wet, he shivers non-stop. Even so, he can't leave. He watches. Won't let himself make a break for the refuge of the vacant warm house where he sleeps at night. Pierre is stuck in "trouble" and can't get out. The switch is set to "on."

He wonders what woman would be out on such an ice cold night at the end of a major snowstorm and wearing clothes as if she lived in Haiti's warm climate. It occurs to Pierre that maybe she's one of the girl's mothers who has come to pick up her daughter.

Pierre sees Schmidt scamper off down the street, stuff himself inside his Hummer and drive away.

Might be a good idea to enter the house to help the woman he believes is there to save the girls. He could say he didn't aid them earlier because he'd only just arrived.

He hesitates.

Instead, Pierre will observe. He resumes what is his job description. "Surveillance."

### JUST BEFORE THE MLK WEEK-END

Adelaide decides she'll not stay home either, not with her daughter going off on vacation. The house doesn't need care, certainly not for the few weeks she'll be gone. She'll worry about what to do about it later.

The nerve of Henriette, the crazy dope, to desert her mother, to leave and gallivant all over the South of France. What right does she have to go on vacation anyway? I'm the one who pulled off this nice set-up for us; the stately house, expensive clothes, cars, not to mention her Ivy League education. What does my thankless princess do? Goes off on an extended vacation. No siree. No way will I stay here all the time she's gone.

Adelaide has everything planned. She'll take herself to sunny Ft. Lauderdale after a nice cruise in the islands. She'll warm her bones and enjoy a fabulous uninhibited sexcapade with a new splendid young man. She'll train him in her way to do the sex thing. He'll learn how she likes it.

Oh my god, Henry is a dish, the young gardener Schmidt hired only a few days back. She's smitten.

Adelaide is so excited she can't contain herself. She folds her clothes carefully and places them in her suitcases. Changes her mind, and lays everything out on her bed. Puts some of the ordinary items back in her closet and takes out some red satin nighties, risqué cocktail dresses, cut to expose both of her cleavages, front and back and a few conservative ones with only necklines that plunge.

Satisfied that she has all she needs to create insatiable ardor in her guy, she tucks it neatly into the new red matched Louis Vuitton suitcases she'd purchased using Schmidt's credit card, and closes the lids.

She knows she looks good, not good. Terrific! And after the complete plastic re-make of her face and body, she looks fabulous, more perfect than when she was twenty.

She looks tasty enough to eat, likes that thought, chuckles. Adelaide has high hopes. She knows the jaunt will be splendid. She's absolutely sure the days in the sun and the sucking and fucking with the young stud will be perfect.

She pays. Always does. Doesn't matter to her. She gets what she craves. Anyway she doesn't foot the bill, Schmidt does-- always Schmidt. It's fair. He should pay.

This one is a bit of a gamble though. Henry and Adelaide have not been together yet. All is promise. She hopes for the best and is pretty damn optimistic. Her one concern is that he might not be trainable. There have been a few who could not be molded, who suffered a great deal of pain when they failed.

Her gambles rewarded her in the past, but not always the way she planned. Schmidt, for one, but she was very young then, innocent and naïve. She thought that when she got herself pregnant, he would marry her. Didn't happen. He was married and didn't tell her until after she was several months gone with Henriette.

Schmidt does however, provide her with an affluent lifestyle--this house in the nice area of Center City, lots of money for clothes and food, and extras like this vacation. He also promised her that the house will be hers, and she will have a very substantial annuity for life. He had moved on but takes care of her because of their child. She knows why. Schmidt doesn't want her to talk to news people or lawyers; he has too much to lose.

Hers is not a bad situation for a poor orphan girl. She'll facilitate whatever is necessary to ensure that it continues. Adelaide can keep quiet for that.

Nevertheless, she's sure he wouldn't be happy to learn she's to take his gardener off to vacation on a first class Bahamas cruise and then spend a few weeks in a five star hotel on the beach in Ft. Lauderdale.

Schmidt still visits from time to time, like a dog that pees against a fire hydrant or tree to prove ownership. His occasional visits and fucks are to show Adelaide that she is still his possession.

Her last sex toy comes to mind, the one she'd recently disposed of. Turned bad in the end because he'd gone to fat. But that was not the worst of it. He'd met her daughter, Henriette, at a school function. Afterwards he wouldn't stop asking Adelaide questions about her, and they were more than mere queries. He asked about Henriette's schedule-- "When does she leaves for work? Come home? Boyfriends?" Adelaide realized that he had a salacious interest in Henriette. Last straw. He was toast. It wasn't that she wanted to protect Henriette; it was a matter of jealousy.

When she remembers the ex, it dawns on Adelaide that she ought to change the locks. But that would have to wait until she's back from her vacation with Henry. There could be no harm in a short delay, and she's too excited about her current guy to dwell on the unpleasant last one or any chore related to the break-up.

Her design is a fun time, not to endanger Henry's job. For now, she likes that he works nearby, easy for them to be together. If he ever displeases her, she could always change that and have him fired. Vanished. Gone in an instant.

She's using Henry's name for the tickets. They are to meet at the flight check-in rather than her house to avoid suspicion. She's almost ready. Just have to call Schmidt who will inform Pierre; tell him to keep an eye on the house.

### SUNDAY MLK WEEK-END

Bea Savrini stands outside looking in through the window, observing Schmidt perform the despicable acts on the girls. In her deluded mind, it is her husband she sees inside the Heugot house. It is Savrini who constrains and sodomizes the girls. Her mangled thoughts diverge from what is real.

In Bea's house, it is Savrini who does the sex things with Pam. She knows. She's seen. She's heard.

Her wandering mind has lost its way. She distorts what she sees. Her reality has collapsed.

She thinks the girls are their daughter, Pam. The other is Lisa, their grandchild. The third is the hated French teacher who will take her man away from her. Just as Bea suspected, her husband has a longing for the harlot teacher.

They entice her beloved to do the evil things, seduce him to play those sex games.

Pam had flirted with her father as far back as Bea could remember; born with that bad girl come-hither look and the moves that make Savrini do those things to her. She loves it.

Lisa too-- just like her mother when Pam was Lisa's age. She used to come into bed and snuggle up next to him. Mother like daughter. These days it's little Lisa who crawls in with us and rubs ‎up against him, gets him sexed up so that he fucks me. She ‎stimulates him on purpose. In a few years she'll play the vixen, ensnare him with sex. She knows how, she was born that ‎way.‎

He's a man, can't help himself. It's not his fault.‎

The teacher is worse. She invites him over. She'll take him away. They're all the same.

Confusion reigns. Her thoughts have veered off into the enigmatical world of aberrant distortions.

Bea is inside the house.

She trips over something. Looks down at the floor to see what she's stumbled over.

Here at her feet are the very same shoes Savrini likes to tell Keisha about, the ones I used to wear and the sexual feelings he felt when I wore them.

He must have taken them from my closet and brought them here so the teacher could put them on, same as he liked me to do. Here they are, right here on the floor. Right here!

Her face reddens, a bull. She snorts.

When the girls see Bea, their eyes fix on her, full of hope. They take it for granted she's come to rescue them. They plead for her to untie them.

She seems confused. The girls cry. They beg.

Bea doesn't seem to hear them. Instead, she begins to clean the room.

"Look at the mess they made," Bea mutters full of scorn. "Glasses and bottles everywhere. Cake in the rug, on the chairs. They always leave everything for me to clean. Why do I always have to pick up after them? This is the last time. After this, they'll have to straighten up by themselves."

She's oblivious to the sobs and entreaties from the girls. They're not here.

With that, Bea goes out to the kitchen, totes back a broom, dust pan, and garbage bags. She proceeds to gather up the cups, glasses, leftover cake, bottles, smeared icing, crumbs-- everything. She puts it into large garbage bags and hauls it all out to the front of the house and on down to the street to the garbage cans, and leans the bags up against them. She wires them shut, just like you're supposed to.

They will be picked up that night so as not to interfere with the MLK celebrations and parade downtown. But what's important to Bea is that everything be neat and clean. To leave the house cluttered with cake crumbs, dirty dishes, and bottles, and not pick it up, is unpardonable, same as the other sin, not to take the garbage out.

When she gets back inside, her plan is to get her things and go back home, but then she hears the sounds of the bound girls who cry out to her for help.

The calls from the sisters jars her back to the task at hand-- the one she came to do. The reason she is here. Her purpose is to stop, once and for all, the evil they do to her wonderful husband, the evil that makes him act so naughty, that draws him away from her. If not for them she would still have him to herself.

They sob mightily, but she knows they are guilty, guilty, every one of them. They don't deserve her pity. They called this upon themselves. They are the evil ones. He can't help himself. He's a man after all.

No. They've earned what she has in store for them.

She picks up one obscene red shoe in each hand and swings wildly at the three girls. They can't get out of the way; Schmidt has trussed them too securely. They believe they can't move at all.

Their legs are tied to each other. They try to kick at Bea but not in tandem. They are too scared to communicate with each other, to revolt, to time their kicks in such a way as to hurt Bea, to cause enough pain to stop her. That would take a plan. They would have to talk to each other. The girls are too hysterical to protect themselves, to work together. Instead, their awkward incongruous movements nullify their ability to do any damage. All they can do is fixate on her with blank eyes.

Bea Savrini is tired, and the heel blows don't accomplish her objective. She heads out to the foyer, picks up a cane, and returns. She holds it in two hands, raises her arms above her head and slams the tip of the heavy stick into the girls' bodies. She jabs at each girl, over and over, at the vile faces, the evil breasts, the deceitful bellies, the corrupt pubes. She works violently, going from one to another and back again to the first, engrossed in the punishment she inflicts. She continues and does not stop for a long time--does not stop until they are all quiet.

After that, she unties the ropes and allows the girls to drop down to the floor from their seated positions.

"You'll rest better this way," she murmurs as she moves them close to one another.

"Comfort each other, stay close," She adds as she pats each on the shoulder.

Bea notices the red heels lying on the floor and feels a resurgence of anger. She picks up one shoe and plunges the heel into one girl's buttock, the other, into one girl's mouth.

Pierre hears Bea continue to mutter, "That's where the shoes belong and if you continue to be bad, I'll have to do this again...you evil tramps! NOW BEHAVE!"

Bea looks down at them, waves her finger and gives them an order, "And when you wake up, you play nice. You Hear!"

Inundated in blood, Bea kicks off her shoes, drops her clothes in a heap, turns them inside out, then uses the insides to wipe the dripping blood from her hands. She walks to the edge of the floor where there is no blood, sits down on a chair and wipes the bottom of her feet with what she takes to be rags. They're not rags. They're Adelaide's evening gowns.

Bea walks back into the kitchen where she spots a large Whole Food's plastic bag on the kitchen table. She stuffs her shoes inside, along with her bloody clothes, carries the bag by the handle, walks to the front door and on out to the street, rights the empty garbage can, and places the bag inside. ‎

She comes back inside and heads up the staircase and into Adelaide's bath. She's thorough with her shower. Shampoos the blood from her hair, lets the water take away all the misery she'd been feeling, lets it wash down the drain. Blood vexes Bea so she's careful to shower it all away.

Still conscious of her surroundings, she feels that her body is wet. Wraps herself in a large bath towel and explores what she believes to be the teacher's closet. A pink silk suit, white ermine coat, and silver evening slippers draw her attention. She takes the suit and coat down from the hangers, the shoes from the shelf and moves with them over to the bed where she sits to dry her body. She dresses herself for the first time in months.

She's calm and still in the moment when she looks over at the bureau. Some jewelry lies there the girls had strewn about. Bea looks closely at the glittering pieces, fingers through Adelaide's objects which she's sure belong to the French teacher-- the woman who had so viciously wronged her. Bea has every right to take some; after all, Maitresse had treated her outrageously.

She takes up a pearl necklace, holds it up to the light, lays it down on the bed. Next to it is a very large diamond ring. Ruby earrings make the cut. She replaces the money from where she'd found it buried under some clothing. Of the bracelets, ‎necklaces, and jeweled broaches, Bea takes the few she likes. She is happy with the precious trove, especially the earrings. Bea loves rubies.

She puts on Adelaide's coat, enjoying the smooth satin lining, and pets the fur sleeves. ‎She locates an empty jewelry pouch, puts the treasure into the bag then slides it all into the deep pocket of the luxurious fur and heads back downstairs.

As she makes her way through the living room, she scrutinizes the floor to avoid an inadvertent footstep into the blood and carnage, the slaughter she had wrought. Bea opens the red glass door and exits the house for the last time.

Outside in the cold, her memory takes flight. Why is she here? What happened?

Bea is lost in the emptiness of her mind.

But old habits die last and she is able to make her way to the bus stop, take the correct bus, and get off at her stop. She arrives home before Keisha.

Good thing too. How could she explain to the aide why she was out, where she had gone? She can't remember anything. She's glad there will be no questions. Bea has no answers.

She undresses herself, and drops the clothes onto the bed, the suit and the fur coat-- the items she took from teacher's house. She shrugs, and hangs them in the back of her closet.

Bea's has lots of garments she never wears, and doesn't remember when she or Savrini bought any of them. Most certainly, she's not aware that the ones she wore home this evening are not hers.

After a while she doesn't remember any of what happened this snowy night.

Bea sits back down on the bed.

She's still nude when Keisha arrives home and comes upstairs and into Bea's room.

"Why you get ya'sef all undress widout me here to help you? You catch yo death of cold?" Keisha admonishes her.

Bea doesn't answer. No response is expected. It would have been out of the ordinary for Bea to answer.

Keisha helps her into her nightgown then into bed.

She does not offer her charge the dinner meal.

She herself hastens down into the kitchen where she fixes herself a steak--medium-well, fries, and a small salad smothered in French dressing.

She becomes ravenous as her dinner sizzles. The fragrance of frying meat and spices suffuses the kitchen. She serves herself in the living room so she can watch Oprah, wishes she had Oprah's good luck--to be rich and not have to work anymore.

She polishes off a whole apple pie with a pint of Bassett's Butterscotch Vanilla ice cream, a jar of fudge topping poured over it. She's glad she thought to buy it for herself; she enjoys it so.

Stuffed, she heads off to bed.

She dreams she's Oprah; has her very own servants, is driven around town by a chauffeur who looks like Pierre. As she sleeps, Keisha outfits herself in nice clothes and make-up and gets to meet Oprah's friend, The President.

A pleasant dream, Keisha smiles.

### SUNDAY THE MLK WEEK-END

Ivan Judd doesn't know about Adelaide's vacation plans, only about Maitresse Henriette's. He's come to her house Sunday to watch the performance. Ivan missed a few days because his father had given him chores and watched Ivan too carefully for the boy to slip away to Adelaide's.

Maitresse was to leave for the airport on Thursday and by Sunday, Ivan was missing his daily obsession. Normally he doesn't go to the house on week-ends, but because he knows Maitresse is gone, he believes it's safe to enter if he's very quiet. Just in case, he comes in through the kitchen and on up the back staircase.

The house is full of music, club music-- unusual for Adelaide--not her favorite. He slips over to his lover's bedroom and glances in. She's not there. Her clothes are in disarray, strewn about as if she had been in a hurry to leave.

He assumes she must be out and will be back soon. Her pattern is to return home with her guy. Ivan heads for the guest bedroom in the back to await her return. A nap would be fine; he's tired from working so hard.

Ivan is jarred awake by the sound of a door slam, hears screams that seem to issue from the living room. He gets up and runs down the hallway, peaks into the rooms along the way. He sees no one upstairs so he looks down into the living room through the baluster. What he sees makes him jump back and hit his head against the opposite wall.

He crouches down low to the floor. Did anyone hear him? Ivan has caught sight of the drama in there, noticed the Purdy sisters, the mean one Susie, too.

He guesses no one heard him collide with the wall. Ivan can breathe again.

By the time he gets wind of the struggle downstairs, the girls are all inside including Susie who'd tried to run off. Ivan is transfixed.

Where is his Adelaide? He runs up and down the hallway, looks into each room. ‎Where is she? He's in a panic. What can he do? He checks out ‎the living-room again. She's not there. Maybe she went out. He hopes ‎that's true--that she's safe. Nothing he can do now.‎

Ivan creeps a few steps down the stairs to peer through the railing.‎

The man in the mask binds the naked girls to each other.

Ivan's perplexed. He can't do anything but watch. He sees everything and though alarmed, he's excited. He takes out his penis and ejaculates. He's ashamed but not so much that he looks away or stops stroking himself.

He feels the same as he does when he watches his father torment Elizabeth, sad for her but excited at the same time. In both cases he believes himself powerless to do anything to help. All he can do is watch. After all, the evil being done is by an adult and he is just a child. He had been successfully taught that a youngster does not correct an adult.

Now nude, the ‎strange old man moves between the sisters. A hummingbird, he inserts himself into the pretty young flowers, one by one, then back again to the first.

Ivan listens to their whimpers, their squeals of anguish. He comes again. Why don't they cry out for help? Then he concludes they'd probably been admonished to remain quiet, punished if they didn't.

Bangs strike his ears. Someone's at the door!

Ivan takes the steps three at a time, and heads for the unused bedroom on the second floor.

Muffled sounds come up to where he'd scrammed for cover. The girls cry. They beg for help.

Can he summon the courage to come to their aid? What can he do? He would have used his cell-phone to call the police but his father took it away because Ivan's grades were so bad.

After a short while, he hears something much worse-- yawls that pierce his ears and sounds that pound--that feel like hammer blows. Each thud jostles the building.

They are the same noises as the ones he heard when he punched sticks into the squirrels he'd trapped then killed to see what it would be like. Tonight it stretches on and on and....

Will it ever end?

The bellows from the girls slow-- then stop. The crushing noises continue, but now the howls no longer accompany them. Whimpers and soft wails lapse into faint groans that seem to come from far away.

Blessed silence tells the end of the girls' torment.

He stays, still too scared to move, too anxious about what might happen should he be seen. Poor Ivan is frozen with fear and loathing.

He hears someone ascend. Curls his body into a ball, panics. Knows it must be the killer. Will he be exposed? Is he safe here? No one ever used this bedroom, not since he'd begun his escapades to Adelaide's.

The shower in Adelaide's bathroom starts, then continues for what seems to Ivan an excessively long time. He seizes the opportunity to run down the dark paneled hallway and into his little closet. He'll be more secure here than in an open bedroom. Ivan is fairly confident that a stranger would not be aware that this is a closet at all because the door has no handle.

He convinces himself that he'll not be found so long as he doesn't breathe too loudly, cough, sneeze, fart, belch, or throw up and if his stomach doesn't gurgle. Ivan prays his body won't do any of those things and that the loud beating of his heart will not betray his hiding place.

He begs God. Please let Ivan live through this day.

Could be the intruder is not a stranger at all but an owner or former owner who knows all the secret places. Maybe that person took refuge in this very spot. His heart pounds so fiercely he's sure anyone outside the door could hear it.

The shower continues so long that Ivan wonders if the person has killed himself out of guilt.

Worse still, maybe he's left the water run, pretends he's in the shower, but instead watches for Ivan, to trick him out of his hiding place to pounce, to kill him the same way he did in the girls.

But no, it's a woman he heard at the same time as the violence, a female voice which continued afterward.

However since he'd seen the pudgy man earlier, he decides that the killer is a woman with help from the fat old man.

Have those two made a deal? The man snares them, ties up the girls, and has his fun with them. Then the woman joins up. Lastly they kill the girls so they won't tell.

He hadn't heard any voices other than the female during the violence so he surmises the man left, that it's only she up here with Ivan. He could easily subdue a woman if necessary, but not a man too. Both working together could overpower and murder Ivan.

He hopes his suspicion that the one person in the house is a woman isn't just a wishful thought.

After a bit, muffled sounds from the lady transmit through the partially opened louvers of his closet. She must be muttering only to herself since ‎he didn't hear anyone else come up either before or after her and he doesn't hear anyone answer.

If it is a woman, he thinks he's safe. He opens the door slightly and peeks out.

There she is--right there facing him--right here in Adelaide's bedroom. He jumps back into the closet, closes the door, and peaks out through the louvers. It's a white haired old lady garbed in his lover's clothes.

The woman has turned away, now standing at Adelaide's bureau riffling through his lover's jewelry. She examines each piece. Holds each up to the light, separates the items into piles as if to choose which she will take and which to leave.

He tries to close the louvers tighter. Ivan's body feels cold and clammy.

He waits.

He waits some more. It seems forever until the house is quiet.

He hears the front door slam. Ivan slips out of the closet, steals another look through the railing. Sees no one. Hears no one. Ivan searches the bedrooms again to determine whether anyone is up here with him.

He checks the master bath and the little kitchenette. He creeps on, a shadow pasted against the walls.

Reassured that no one's up here, he slinks a few steps down the stairs, hears one creak. He halts.

Ivan glances toward the living room, stumbles back against the wall, loses his footing, and somersaults over and down the few remaining steps to end up seated on the floor at the bottom of the landing.

Ivan is a statue, immobile. He keeps still, waits to see if anyone heard him tumble. Nothing. But he's too scared to go into the first floor area. Can't. Not yet. He must stay awhile before he can roam about to verify that he's alone in the house. He sits. He waits...and waits some more. He does not move.

Quiet except for the music. Music? He didn't hear it during the attack, only when he first came in Now it's loud, jarring--b, bam...b, bam...b, bam...

Ivan scurries back up into his hiding place. He shallow breathes, stuck in his little cubbyhole for what is probably hours. His body stiffens into pain.

He can't stay here like this.

He exits his closet, takes one laborious step after another until he reaches the main floor downstairs.

Are the sounds of the music louder down here? Hard to say. He tries to comfort himself. Maybe it was on earlier. No, he doesn't really believe that. Who's in the house with him? Probably nobody. He prays it's nobody.

No matter. He can't stay.

When he reaches the living room, he feels safe enough to extend his neck forward beyond the wall. His head enters. He looks inside.

He must ascertain whether the house is emptied of evil. Ivan treads carefully to avoid the bloody areas. He's certain the girls are dead. How could they not be?

The boy knows he can't help them.

He explores the main floor and when he's sure no one's in the house, he goes back up to Adelaide's bedroom.

He had seen the old woman sorting through his lover's precious jewelry. Some pieces are gone but he knows a huge quantity remains because he'd been through her things many times.

Today he decides he'll take what's left for his sister, for Elizabeth. No one will suspect him because that crazy lady had already skimmed off some items. The police would surmise she had stolen everything.

He takes the loot for his sister, she'll be able to sell it to obtain the money for her to get away and stay away. Elizabeth will know what to do with all this stuff. She's very smart.

He finds what he's looking for but decides to continue to search all of the drawers thoroughly. He grabs the clothes out, and throws them by the armful to the floor.

There at the very bottom is his reward, all kinds of what he is sure Elizabeth can use, a trove he hadn't seen on his earlier hunts, money--lots of it, jewelry, even legal documents.

He praises himself for not leaving anything to chance. Because he took the extra care to search everything, he's found a larger stockpile that she could liquidate.

He takes everything that looks like it might have value; the jewels, the stock certificates, Bearer Bonds, identification cards, everything--even several blocks of gold bullion and of course, cash‎.

Not a good idea to dally. He knows it's only a matter of time before Adelaide or the police arrive. Ivan loads the lot into his backpack even though he doesn't know what most of it is.

He spots one item he will keep for himself. He pockets the wondrous jeweled thong. Can't leave that behind.

Ivan is confident he'll never come back. The boy isn't Einstein, but even he is smart enough to know he'd be in a heap of trouble if it's later revealed that he'd been here-- ever. Should he show up in Adelaide's house again and someone see him-- that would point the finger of guilt squarely at Ivan.

He's happy about the bounty he's unearthed. It gives him courage, something he'd never experienced in his life, pleased that he'll be able to help Elizabeth. He can't repair the damage done to her, the bad things she'd had to endure, but Ivan is sure what he absconded with will make her life better going forward.

He looks down at his feet and sees some which he or that woman must have dropped. Maybe he'd missed them the first go-round because they'd been under his feet. When he backed away, was when he caught sight of the large loose diamonds glittering, splattering rainbow sparkles against the walls, twinkling as they reflect the light. He bends over to retrieve the gems, and jams them into his pockets.

Ivan creeps down the stairs, hesitates for a moment, then enters the place of horror.

His prays he won't have to look at the bodies, but he must to avoid stepping into the blood and gore that encompass the center of the living room. He traverses a wide semi-circle around the results of the struggle.

Ivan steps slowly, mindful of the body fluids on the floor. He arrives at the foyer, sighs with relief, then leaves by the front door.

He presses his body against the tree next to the front step, and positions himself in the shadow it casts from the streetlight.

Is someone there?

Ivan stands still, feels weak from the long period of alarm, concerned that his legs might give out. He squints into the darkness-- a statue.‎

No one's here.

Can he be sure?

Yes. He tells himself.

Ivan is home free. No one to accuse him, no one to kill him.

He hopes.

He prays.

He'll have to figure some way to get to Elizabeth to give her the treasure. Ivan would do anything for his sister.

### AFTER THE MLK WEEK-END

Savrini knows there's something up with Schmidt. What is it? What's Schmidt's connection to the murders? Why in Schmidt's mansion? Sex trade? Is Schmidt involved? What about the violence, the blood-letting? Does anyone else live there besides Henriette and her mother? Where are those two?

We need answers. Schmidt could help, but would he?

Probably not.

Savrini has a gargantuan task ahead, and it tires him when he struggles to figure it all out.

We'll convince Schmidt to come down to the Station. Knock the financier off balance. Fast talk him in here where he'll feel uncomfortable. Maneuver the big man out of his element, rattle him. We know there's something worth the pursuit. Schmidt's not an innocent in all this.

He telephones the big guy, suggests that someone might leak a tidbit to the media. Might be the prosecutor would name some "people of interest."

After all, the property, the slaughterhouse, just by coincidence, happens to be owned by Schmidt. If that comes out, Schmidt's name will make the front pages of the local rags as well as the covers of magazines throughout the country-- likely all over the world. The Philadelphia papers would love to publish the angle about Schmidt, the rich mover and shaker. They would pick it up and run with it. Shit! They'd have a blast.

"Mr. Ed. Schmidt, the financier owner of the house where three brutal gory murders took place..."

How would Schmidt like that?

He wouldn't.

What better way to improve the financial situation of print media which has tanked because people obtain their news elsewhere. Everyone who can read, goes on-line for news, same is true with advertising. The daily locals don't have the lock on that anymore either. The word on the street--they'll go belly up soon.

No doubt this story will sell papers; a godsend, a fix for the local tabloids, a shot of adrenaline certain to revive the dying daily journals. This story has legs; it will live a long time.

Savrini offers Schmidt an out. "How about you come in and show a willingness to help ‎and we can postpone any leak about your connection, you know, that you own the house where three young girls were butchered. How about that? What da ya think?" ‎

The ruse works, Schmidt promises to play ball, says he'll be happy to come in. The detectives are sure he hates publicity, certainly not this kind. We'll have to see what we can get from the man.

What Savrini doesn't know is that Schmidt has a more important concern--whether anyone saw him at the house the night the girls were scribbled out.

He can't reach Pierre but isn't too worried on that score. Knows the guard will stay out of sight. Pierre's immigration status makes it fairly certain he'll disclose nothing to anyone about anything. Pierre can make himself invisible when he has to. Schmidt hopes this is such a time.

### AFTER MLK

Savrini sits in his office. He has a clear view of the large anteroom where visitors sign in after they pass through the metal and explosives detectors.

He reclines, feet up on his desk and surveys his huge belly over-full from the just now savored best Philly cheesesteak and fries in town--Georgio's. He knows he shouldn't stuff himself with fries but tomorrow is another day and anyway that would be a better time to start his diet. Savrini often promises himself that but today he really means it--same as every day.

Bammer Inc., manufacturer of the stun guns the Precinct buys, provided today's lunch--the rare imported beers and the decadent Tiramisu. Savrini licks the creamy cocoa filling from his fingers.

Ahh! Should make it a point to stay in for lunches more often.

Businesses lavish goodies on the precincts with the expectation that the sweet rewards will encourage cops to request Purchasing to buy their products. If there are enough requests--it will.

All industries fête the police; companies that produce protective gear, that make uniforms, autos, hand-cuffs, anything that can be used by a police department.

Scheduling is a limitation; can't have more than one sales team per meal. Each hopes for a good turnout for their pitch. Geographical logistics make that difficult because cops work away from the station much of the day.

These marketing opportunities are a win-win for everyone-- free enterprise in action. Savrini can appreciate the opposing view as well. Cops' green doesn't pay for the stun-guns they request. Government does--with our tax money.

Companies donate custard-filled chocolate covered Krispy Kreme Donuts, barbecued ‎ribs ‎from Billy's, I-pads, even discounted week-ends in the Poconos to motivate cops to request their products.

The item they push might be more expensive than a competitor's, might even be poor quality. Stun-Stammer and Sons might have the better device but not the means to market as often or as generously.

Savrini knows the items the cops request may not be needed at all.

Those heavy thoughts and the rich lunch make Savrini so sleepy that he nods off in his chair.

When Schmidt shows up, accompanied by two of the best criminal lawyers in Philadelphia, Savrini hears the commotion and rouses himself. No hurry-- It will be awhile before the three visitors muddle through the preliminary paperwork. The attorneys will need time to pander to the clerks, chat them up for present and future favors. Finally they'll be ushered into his office.

Savrini sizes up these two mouthpieces. They are imposing, impeccably dressed in worsted wool tailor-made suits under heavy black overcoats that hang just right.

Savrini stares icily at his visitors, slit-eyed, jealous that the first-rate topcoats, slung over the arms of the shysters who move through Security, have linings to protect them from the cold, unlike the threadbare one he continues to layer over his wrinkled off-the-rack suit.

They sport silk Chanel ties in the latest colors, chartreuse, fuchsia, or some other statement of wealth. The detective knows he can't afford clothes of this caliber.

Manicured nails and well-coiffed hair demonstrate that these men have the luxury of time and money to spend on themselves.

As far as their expensive hair transplants--the plugs almost conceal that what sprouts from the hairline did not always grow there.

He can't help but compare the three men to himself. He hates and envies them; sneers at their ostentation, at their egotism. He's sure he's better than they are and smarter by far. Why do they have everything and he--so little?

In his mind he sees their opulent, clean, orderly houses.

It's not fair.

Life never is.

He's sure they have slinky trophy women who wait at the door for their return. The ladies wear see-through negligees and high heels, Martinis in hand they drip with desire.

He titillates himself, kindles his desire. Tumescent now, he contemplates the faceless blonde women. Their full breasts and red nipples peek from behind their transparent cover-ups.

Savrini is so good at this conjuring, that it's but an instant before he's transported himself into the entryway of a composite house. He reaches out to accept the martini. A pimento stuffed olive winks at him from the bottom of the glass. The alcohol overflows the goblet.

His other hand reaches out to caress a round breast. He steps into the welcoming arms of the voluptuous female. She oozes sex. He moves in and grinds himself against her body. He's about to orgasm when he hears his name. The voice drags him painfully out of his reverie.

He admonishes his cock to find a better time and place. It's no good when his fun is interrupted. On the other hand, if he's allowed to finish, he'd have to hide the cum.

The detective can usually stop himself to avoid the problematic display of his exuberance that would stain the front of his trousers. But sometimes it's too late and he finds himself in an awkward situation.

Savrini tells himself he better be careful; choose the time and place better. He's had that conversation with his cock many times, to no avail. It seems to be deaf. He has the same lack of control over his appetite for food.

Savrini sits up in his chair and mentally prepares for the difficult interview ahead. Problem is how to outflank the three phonies before him. These lawyers are tough. Everyone knows them from past dealings.

They always win.

A lawyer joke he'd recently heard comes to mind, the one about the difference between a thief and a lawyer. The lawyer has a degree to steal.

With all Schmidt's money, Savrini knows to expect the cocky fuck to bring along a criminal lawyer, one recommended by the business attorneys he keeps on retainer. Any mouthpiece would come running at the snap of Schmidt's fingers. Today it's not one shyster but two. Talk about an excessive display of wealth.

If anyone but Schmidt arrived accompanied by counsel, he would be suspect-- especially if that someone has no reason to conclude he's being charged with a crime. Anyone but Schmidt and we would know he's culpable. Not this guy. He doesn't go anywhere without his counselors.

Schmidt is so loathed that the media have already declared him liable for his most recent financial malfeasance. Doesn't matter that he's not had his time in court and not been adjudicated by a judge or jury‎. The daily rags ruled--"‎Guilty."

In any case, Schmidt can't stand any more bad publicity.

"What a repugnant shit he is," the detective utters contemptuously, his lips open just a crack.

The three settle themselves into the chairs set for them across from Savrini's desk; their seats face into the morning sun.

"What was that?" one of the lawyers asks.

"Nothing, I didn't say anything."

"Detective Savrini, I'm sure I heard you say something derogatory. What was it? You biased against my client? Are you? If so, it would behoove you to recuse yourself from this case. Think about it."

The effort is to put Savrini on the defensive.

"No. Nothing, I'm not biased. Let's continue." He's not going to let them roil him.

Probably all three fit that terminology, "repugnant shits." Savrini recalls another pejorative lawyer joke and chuckles to himself.

He takes a moment to go over in his mind what the police have so far. Three children were murdered. They've been identified by the Medical Examiner. Sadly, they are the three Purdy sisters--eleven, fifteen, and seventeen.

The family is overwrought. It's been extremely hard for them; would be for anyone. Incomprehensible for a mother and father to learn that their three children were murdered so viciously. The pain must be horrendous, incomprehensible.

The parents have no idea why the girls were in the teacher's house. No reason. Only thing they could figure is that they'd been lured to the house on Green Street.

The other detectives ditto that.

What motivation could there be to kill three young girls. Why the anger? One possibility is that the girls did not comport themselves the way the murderer intended. They dissatisfied him such as to push him into a rage beyond anything anyone can fathom.

At the morning briefing, Murphy suggests the security guard Pierre Renus is the murderer. He'd been on duty and subsequent to the crime had disappeared--a logical idea, an easy solution. Nobody knows him. He has no green card, no I.D., no background to examine.

The Philadelphia City Council recently passed a law to protect vacated properties from vandalism. The economic downturn caused a multitude of foreclosures resulting in abandoned then destroyed properties. Entire communities have become slums. The new law dictates that such buildings must be guarded by licensed security services 24/7. Schmidt knows that. He must know we know.

When questioned, Schmidt responds, "My security guards are hired by an outside company. I outsource my business whenever possible."

"What's the name of the Security Company?"

"Forgot, be back to you on that."

He's not giving anything. Savrini decides not to let on that they already know the answer or even who was on duty at the house that night. I don't reckon I'll hold my breath waiting for Schmidt to open up. Savrini knows he'll have to dig for every bit on his own.

The detective decides to go check it out himself, dig up some legal paperwork, contracts and stuff, call Schmidt, bring the big guy back in. He'll have to answer more questions once we have physical proof to show him that we have proof that it is his company that he owns the houses and about Pierre Renus, his security guard. Maybe when we confront him he'll open up. In the meantime since we have the shit here, we could learn what he's willing to tell.

Truth is, we'll hear what he'll disclose--no more--probably nothing.

The first questions produce non-answers.

"Do you have any idea how the girls came to be in your house this past week-end?"

"No."

"No?"

"No idea."

"Well-- try to guess! Why do you think?"

"Can't say."

"How were they able to enter?"

"Like to know that myself."

"Do you know the girls?"

"No."

"Do your tenants know them?"

"Don't know."

"Where are your tenants?"

"Don't know."

"How'd the girls get in?"

"I already told you! I don't know!"

"Listen Mr. Schmidt, you said you'd be willing to cooperate with us. Doesn't look like you are."

"I'm trying. Just tell me what you want to know?"

"Did the girls know the house would be empty?"

"No...Well...I...How would I know that?"

"Mr. Schmidt, you're not trying. We've kept your connection out of the news so far. We can't help you if you won't help yourself."

One of the Shysters pipes up, "Don't threaten my client. He's giving all he knows. Take it easy."

"Look, we just want to get to the bottom of this. Tell your client to share what he knows. S'all we're asking."

"I know Mr. Schmidt. He's an honorable man. He's telling you what he knows."

"Okay, let's try again. Were you there for any part of that week-end?"

"...No."

Savrini notices a twitch in Schmidt's upper lip when he's asked that question. The detective pursues that line.

"Don't you go over to the house to make sure everything's all right?"

"I generally have my people do that."

Lip flutter.

"Generally? When is that? When do you go there?"

At this point, one of Schmidt's shysters pipes up. "He's already answered that. Don't badger him!"

"It's okay, I can answer any question you have Detective." Schmidt wants to string the detectives along; answer with no answers.

"What do you know about the abuse, about the murders?"

"Nothing, only what I read."

"When were you there last?"

"I don't remember."

"Did you go back after the killings?"

"...N...No."

The lawyer pipes up, "He said he wasn't there."

"Not exactly, Not exactly what he said. Were you there? At all?"

The tremor continues unabated, spreads above his upper lip into his right cheek.

Schmidt slowly moves his right hand, puts it casually up to his face, rests his elbow on the desk. His fist now partly conceals his mouth and the tell-tale movement tic.

"No, I...I wasn't."

"What can you tell us about the tenants? Who else might have been in the house? Someone who knew it would be empty.

"No. I don't think so."

"Can you tell me anything?"

"I'll try. What do you want to know?"

"Where were you Sunday, January 19?"

Schmidt answers, "I was at home...I read a book...a...and... then went to bed early."

His right lip and cheek on up into his eyelid, that entire side of his face jumps like a rapid pulse.

### AFTER MLK

After the interview, Schmidt is home resting in his study, the one place where he's able to steer clear of his wife. He didn't have to isolate himself today because she plays bridge this afternoon but he's too overwrought to remember that.

He evaluates his experience at the Police Station.

The going to sleep early the night of the murders was true. He'd been exhausted. The only thing he did first was try to reach Pierre on his cell phone.

No answer.

'Course not, Pierre's not stupid. He knows he'll be in big trouble if he's found to be involved in a murder.

Schmidt doesn't believe the guard is capable of mayhem, not the kind the news stations report but there's a good possibility that Pierre knows who was.

The financier doesn't worry that he has anything to fear from Pierre. The guard's gone--back to Haiti probably. Wonder if he knows anything though. He calls Pierre's cell phone again which he's done over and over since he came home.

No answer. Schmidt would like to ascertain who finished the job. Who turned off the girls' lights.

He remembers those luscious young things and experiences a moment of sadness for his lost opportunity. What a shame.

Would he ever again enjoy quite so delicious an experience? For now it would only be in his dreams. He'll have to wait for the real thing to happen again. Hopes it will be soon.

This detective, Savrini is a bulldog. Never stops 'til he solves a crime. That's his reputation, a tenacious s.o.b.

So am I.

Schmidt asked his own people to check on Pierre's whereabouts. The guard would have to know something, and Schmidt wants to find out who ruined his fun. Who perpetrated the horror for which Schmidt could be found guilty? If there's a witness who saw him there before the murders, it's all over for him. The danger is that someone might place him at the scene that memorable night.

If it's true and someone did see Schmidt, Pierre might be useful after all--especially if the guard did not watch him enjoy the young girls.

He might be able to encourage him to say I wasn't there at all. Wouldn't cost him much either.

Maybe all the guard viewed were the murders and not what Schmidt did with the girls first. That would exonerate him. It's all moot if Pierre is gone.

Schmidt doesn't know which alternative would be better. Time will dictate that. Schmidt is an optimist. He's of the philosophy that everything will turn out good for him. Has so far.

The evening had been pure pleasure. He keeps re-living the scene, anyway up until the crazy lady arrived.

That day at Adelaide's was excellent-- those budding breasts, the lips that kissed, and sucked and licked softly. He would have penetrated the youngest again had that lunatic not arrived. Schmidt caught only a vague glimpse of her at the front door as he drove off.

Schmidt wonders whether the woman who banged at the door was the girls' mother. But if that were true-- that Mrs. Purdy was there, couldn't she have prevented the murders? Put herself in there to protect the girls? If she were there, tried and failed, why wasn't she killed too? Injured at the very least?

He'd had so much fun that he promises himself he'll arrange it again but in a safer setting--one where he won't be interrupted. Couldn't even get off until the next day after he'd calmed down.

Should have remembered to lock the door and close the drapes. Stupid Schmidt. I wasn't born yesterday. What's wrong with me? Am I losing it?

Nah, just careless.

Next time will be perfect Schmidt has already begun his plan to finagle young girls to go with him to one of his houses; to surprise them and have a delight.

In the future, I'll plan better. He takes out his laptop and writes himself a check list.

PLAN FOR SCHMIDT'S FUN

1- Close the drapes.

2- Lock the door.

3- Turn off the lights. If it had been dark he would not have had to wear that stupid uncomfortably hot mask. But then again, if there were no light, he wouldn't be able to see his delicious prey.

A dilemma!

Must think.

Night vision goggles! Great solution! He's happy with this brainstorm. Have to obtain some, maybe his friends at the CIA or The Department of Defense.

The mask? Where's the mask? Did he leave it in the house?

Where?

It has his slobber with his DNA in it. The girls' secretions are mixed in with all of his. Has to be on the mask. What to do?

Ruins his good time.

Again.

Still can't get off--now because he's worried about the mask.

He takes out the satchel, the one he had with him at the house on Green Street, yanks everything out, slams the contents onto the brown leather sofa.

No mask.

Checks his trouser pockets, jacket pockets, the poncho.

Nothing.

Nothing!

Shit!

He'll have to march himself over to the house to retrieve the thing if that's where he left it. Might be buried in the snow near where he parked his Hummer or on the walkway. Maybe he could go early in the morning, maybe daybreak, before anyone's about.

But could the murderer have been the girls' mother who watched through the window then went berserk with anger at her daughters' sexual misbehavior? Was it she who killed the girls? If so, she must have thought they were complicit, that they were "bad" girls. Logic follows that the mother must have been teetering on the edge long before that night.

Schmidt has eyes inside the Police Station. Won't be long before he knows more than Savrini. He'll have his guy check the evidence box for this crime; might have to pilfer some things if they incriminate him.

Is the mask there?

### AFTER MLK WEEK-END

Savrini exit's the department store where he'd just purchased his new coat. He gaily swings the Macy's tote bag, a happy child. His arm flings it ‎up and back with each step. Contented, he strides east on Chestnut. Savrini didn't think to cut off the tags and change coats. If he had-- he'd be warm.

On the way back to the Station House, he hears a woman call his name. He turns to see who it is.

Sandy runs up to him. He doesn't recognize her.

"Hey! Hi! Don't pretend you don't know me. You do so know me! Sure you do. I'm Sandy. You know--from Joe's? We see each other all the time. I'm the teacher--you know. Just last week--remember? We exchanged stories, jokes. Remember? You must. I sub at the Benjamin and you're Bob Savrini from the Station. Right? I'm sure it's you. I make mistakes sometime and talk to someone for a few minutes and then...then I find out it isn't who I thought it was. But I'm sure it's you. Am I right? Right?"

"Uh....Oh sure. I know you. You tell good jokes. How've ya been? Got a sub job?"

"Yeah I do...did. You know...I subbed for the language teacher, the one that no one can find...disappeared maybe. Strange isn't it? But hey listen. My life has changed. I met someone and we're off to his home in Florida. We leave in a few days as a matter of fact."

"Well then lots of luck."

"You're handling the murder case at the teacher's house-- Right?"

"I am. But we're at an impasse. Very frustrating."

"Well, I've been meaning to call you or meet up at Joe's to talk about that."

Savrini murmurs, "Not again--Jesus Christ, they all got a fuckin solution. Everybody's a detective."

"Huh? What did you say?"

"Nothin. Go on."

"I wanted to tell you but then li'l me was swept away by my new love and forgot. I found some evidence. Learned something that maybe you could use. There's a Starbucks a half block away. Let's go. Let me treat you to a...How about a Latte and I'll tell you about it."

His cell rings, says into the phone, "Okay. Be there."

"Gotta run. Emergency." He's tired of all these kooks with their "evidence."

"Good luck with your new life. Wish I could go live in Florida too." He's off, running.

Sandy calls after him, "Really Savrini! It's important! The mask. I saw where it came from. Let me tell you. Hold up!" Her words are blown away by the gusting wind.

He doesn't look back.

### AFTER MLK

Research emails him in the affirmative. They will send copies of the contracts between Schmidt and the Security Company and an employment form for Pierre Renus who was charged to guard the house on Green Street. There's also proof coming that Schmidt owns the property where the teacher lived and the buildings that surround it.

What a great employee in Research! Now Schmidt is off the hook.

During the interview, he'd thought of asking, "You Mr. Schmidt; you own the Security Company, don't you?"

Should have tried to scare him into an outburst when the three of them were here in the office, even though we didn't have physical proof.

He didn't try to scare him. There was nothing to gain. He knew what the rich bastard would say. He'd shrug off any responsibility.

Or maybe he'd admit to it.

"Yes," he'd say, then would retort, "But it's not hands on. I can't micro-manage everything. My manager does that. I tell him to do a good job, to obey the law. He says he does. I have to believe him."

To ask Schmidt such a question would have been a waste of time.

Now we know he owns all the houses surrounding the teacher's. The next question is--Why?

They're all vacant and in foreclosure. What are Schmidt's plans for them? Are the murders connected in some way to his houses?

Why the killings? How did it happen? What was the point?

Savrini hopes someone has taken it upon himself to look for the teacher. She lives with her mother. Where's the mother? Could she be the murderer? Had she become enraged when the three girls intruded into her house? Had the girls attacked her first?

No. Why would they be nude? And why had they been tied up? Why tortured? Why were they later untied?

Becoming as Alice says, "Curiouser and curiouser."

Had they intruded or were they sucked into a horror of depravity and wanton violence? They wouldn't have gone willingly.

There's a match for the bare feet. The prints in the snow are Susie Purdy's. They go away from the house then disappear. She must have flown back inside. LOL.

Probably she was carried back and she's no lightweight neither. Had to weigh a hundred pounds, maybe more. Had to be someone strong enough to hoist her and lug her back up the steps and into the house.

### THE MLK WEEK-END

Pierre has to cut and run, leave the city, better yet, sneak away from the Country. If he stays, at a minimum, he'll lose his job; probably already has because he can connect Mr. Schmidt to the murder scene.

Even if Pierre had left Adelaide's house when Mr. Schmidt told him to go home, Pierre could still implicate Mr. Schmidt. He can prove his boss was there that night. What Pierre saw as he stood outside and looked in, would convict his boss.

A more realistic scenario is that Pierre would be accused of the murder. Who'd believe him over some billionaire banker who Pierre now knows is a pedophile? Probably no one else has discovered that except for his victims and they're not talking.

He decides it's futile to stay and do his duty-- to come forward and tell what Mr. Schmidt did to the girls. If his boss had not tied them down, they might have been able to fight back, might be alive today.

He doesn't know who the assassin is and has no idea where she lives. She does seem familiar, maybe from the neighborhood, but that's all.

He doesn't even know why she was angry at the girls, so enraged as to kill them with such ferocity.

Maybe he could write an anonymous letter to the police, tell them what he saw. Problem is, they'll trace it back to him and he has neither proof nor alibi.

On top of all that, he has no good excuse for not helping the girls while the sex abuse went on and none for when they were erased.

Those poor girls--just children--the three of them--lives unlived. Were they born only to die, to satisfy the lusts of the devil? Those thoughts inspire Pierre to picture his own children, their shy smiles and occasional giggles. His chest feels full. He doesn't give words to the feeling, but it's that he misses his family.

He blinks when it dawns on him that his life is in immediate danger from Mr. Schmidt. Pierre is a witness who could and likely will be dispensed. Mr. Schmidt has power. He knows the kind of people who could end Pierre's life as quickly as the flip of a switch.

Even so, for a brief moment, he thinks to ask Mr. Schmidt for money in exchange for his silence. Could he pull it off? Would he dare? He's the witness to the depravity which his boss acted upon the young girls.

He wonders whether it would save him if he contacted the police, tell them what Schmidt is. If Schmidt's in jail, he can't hurt anyone else.

No, Schmidt will not go to jail and the guard will not be safe from him.

A friend, maybe an intermediary could make the initial call, the request for money. Could be done.

Could it?

He discards all of the ideas--the letter to the police and the request for hush money from Schmidt. Instead Pierre plans his exit to Haiti.

Somewhat later he will revisit the two options. He might undertake the second if he could work out the details, if there were enough certainty that he would be able to enjoy the fruits of his enterprise--the money from Schmidt.

The amount would be but a drop of water in the ocean for a man like Schmidt. The big man might pay off, if Pierre could convince him that he would stay silent. How could he assure his boss of that?

But the guard knows all of that is risky. Schmidt is capable of sadism, of pedophilia. Pierre knows his boss is a psychopath and probably capable of much worse.

Although Haiti is the last place he wants to go, Pierre decides to head off to his native country. He believes it's the safest for him now. He could live there for a few years in that slum of a place; give him time to fashion other options.

He has boyhood friends in Petionville who'd been Tonton Macoutes under Duvalier, ex-military who know how to kill. They don't hesitate when necessary or even when not. They'll keep him safe.

### THE PURDYS

As soon as Savrini heard about the Purdy sisters, he knew the bodies found were the three girls missing the Monday evening of the MLK week-end.

Mr. and Mrs. Purdy told the police the girls had asked for permission to spend the holiday at a friend's house. The sisters had pleaded, coaxed; said it would be a nice diversion. They wanted to go otherwise they'd have nothing to do and suffer from boredom for three long days.

The girls lied. They gushed that the house had everything; a ping-pong table, big screen TV, cable, kids' movies, lots of girl toys, jukebox, even an old fashioned pin-ball machine that worked. The older girls said they'd been there before, that there was even a housekeeper to keep watch who would cook their meals and clean up after them. The sisters would have nothing to do but have a good time.

How could the parents refuse?

All of it turned out to be a fabrication because when the full story hit the TV, no one came forward to admit the girls had been invited nor been to their house that week-end.

Detectives thought there was always the possibility that it had been a trap by the perpetrator who lured then murdered the sisters.

When the youngsters mentioned the idea of a week-end at the friends', the parents talked it over. After a short time they decided they enjoyed the possibilities; that it really would be a nice opportunity for all concerned. The adults would have their house to themselves to enjoy some peace and quiet. Three girls tend to be noisy, messy, and "in your face."

The Purdys had looked forward to a pleasant time alone.

Afterwards would be the hell of their lifetime. They long for the noise of their girls. They want to wake up and this be a horrible dream.

When the girls didn't come home Monday evening when expected, the parents called the police.

They are embarrassed because they can't remember the name, first or last, of the girlfriend at whose house their girls were to stay. In between sobs, they berate themselves up for not asking for the name and phone number. They don't even have an address. They ask themselves how they could let this happen. Mortified and distraught, they are inconsolable. They are in agony.

Even when the M.E. Report was incomplete, everyone was sure the girls in the house on Green Street were those three. Had to be, and everyone feels terrible for the Purdy family.

That's all they have so far. Takes time, he knows, but still... He has work to do and he needs information.

The airlines, trains, and buses out of Philadelphia had been contacted. Where did Maitresse Henriette Heugot go? And what about the mother, Adelaide Heugot?

Nothing yet. So much for the T.S.A. How can they keep us safe when they can't even ascertain the travel itinerary for a couple of spinsters?

Surely we should have something conclusive soon-- anything.

Please!

Savrini turns to the other detectives. "Keep looking. We need more facts."

"Yeah...sure," they reply, eyes downcast, staring at the floor.

With that, he realizes it's on his shoulders again, same as always.

One thing though, there are only those three bodies, none underneath as he'd incorrectly suspected at first, none anywhere else in the house.

Why all the blood? Still don't know. The house was searched inside and out--only those three victims.

So far the blood types are from the dead females--no one else.

The Purdys did identify the bodies as their daughters even though they would have been unrecognizable to anyone else; they were so badly mutilated.

### AFTER MLK WEEK-END

Det. Savrini sits at his desk. He thinks. He worries. Nothing to go on about Elizabeth; her activities, her friends. Nothing. Can't even look for her; don't know where to begin.

What did she do after school the days she didn't come home? When the parents were questioned, Mrs. Judd said her girl studied in the library or helped some of the teachers. That's what Elizabeth told her parents.

Seems everyone in the Judd family does their own thing and doesn't tell the others.

They have no relatives. The grandparents are dead. Each parent is an only child, so no aunts, uncles, or cousins.

The parents have no friends. Neither does Elizabeth although everyone offers that she is sweet, compassionate, and helpful-- the kind of child everyone wants around.

Where to begin when there's nowhere to start?

Have to interrogate the children and teachers. Maybe by now someone will have remembered something.

This doesn't have a good prognosis. A disappearance with no leads; ain't good.

From the look of it, the same butcher who tortured then murdered the girls, likely did the same to Elizabeth; just haven't found her body yet.

Everyone prays that she did run away; that she's at a friend's house, with someone too damn stupid to call and tell the parents.

So busy with the murders there's been no time to question the other Judds--find out what's so bad at home that the kid would want to run away. Did she run away? Were one or both parents to blame? The brother? It is usually a family member who is at fault.

So tired again; he leaves to go home. Savrini's been having trouble sleeping ever since he'd been terrorized by that entity that hissed at him and threw him up against the wall in the house on Green Street. It rattled him.

He tries to re-think what happened; wants to believe it was only a horrible dream. It has become a recurring nightmare that wakes him with a start, in a cold sweat, his heart pounding. He is terror stricken and fears bedtime.

Savrini's exhausted so he ignores the thought that pops into his mind--Damaris, the dispatcher's baby sitter was to return this ‎afternoon to give him the gritty lowdown on Schmidt.‎

Can't stick around for that.

Tomorrow.‎

### LATER THAT NIGHT

Just as well Savrini did not go back to the Station House to debrief Damaris. She didn't choose to return. She had other priorities.

The girl did plan to talk to Savrini. Thought she ought to at least tell the detective about the missing mask. She'd heard about it when she served dinner to the dispatcher and her boyfriend. Maria mentioned the special mask that Savrini had found at the murder scene, the item that had subsequently disappeared.

Damaris is confident that the empty space on the wall where the masks are displayed in the Schmidts' apartment is suspicious. Obviously one's missing. Sandy had pointed that out and questioned Mrs. Schmidt about it. Has to be the mask the detective noticed at the murder scene.

She can't decide whether to involve herself. ‎Schmidt frightens her. Maybe it would be better if ‎she keeps silent.

If she had waited to talk to Savrini, she could have told him more about Schmidt. She knows everything because she hooked up with the doorman's son, a valet in Schmidt's building who works odd hours between his college classes at Penn.

Damaris heard about the incident, the one when Schmidt's penis got stuck in the little girl's mouth. The sitter knows everything, but she will have to think long and hard about whether to tell the detective. She didn't go back to the Station, so it's moot for now.

Tonight she has another job. She must go home; must take care of business.

Berta had a cat she let roam free all over the house. It peed in Damaris' and Alex' rooms, in their beds, on their rugs, even in their shoes. ‎ ‎They hated that mangy grey long-eared wild thing.

It died yesterday and now her step-mother has been carrying on, accusing Damaris.

"You killed mi Azulita." She named her that because the cat had blue eyes.

The girl would like to protest that she wasn't even home the day the cat died but knows it would do no good. Nobody knows why Berta's so quick to accuse Damaris.

Berta found it dead in the basement and has been disconsolate ever since.

Damaris protests, "I never even go down there. It wasn't me."

"The door was ajar. I saw it when I came home. Damaris you opened it!"

She and Alex are close. She can admit the truth to him and know he will not tell. "I put roach poison in the sótano and forgot about it. The ugly cat goes down there when no one ‎lookin when it not suppos to be there. The ‎door is always locked... most ‎times...excep...But you know, Alex, es good to leave the door open ‎ to make the air in the space a little more clean. Rooms with no ‎windows or light need air. Right Alex?"

Alex tells her, "Be careful Damaris. It's not good to make Berta mad."

"I know. I know. I fix it." ‎

Today Damaris managed to run home and clean out the poison before someone could find it.‎

She can't wait to go away to college, but she worries about Alex ‎and her step-brother Javier. She doesn't want to leave them with the anger witch.‎

She recalls that Tia Sofi said she would take them in if anything ‎happened to Berta. Damaris knows from what she's overheard and read in her father's papers that when Berta dies her father's insurance money would go to the children.‎

Have to work on that.

Easy.

Javier is for later if he gives her trouble.

### AFTER MLK

Penny is still shaking from the shock of what she saw Sunday.

Once inside the Philadelphia airport she trudges through the walkway that connects the terminal to American Airline flight 1003 to Miami. She finds her aisle seat in the back--Row 29, fastens the seat belt and tries to settle herself down.

She thinks she could never be accused. She wasn't even inside. Anyway, she only saw the bodies on the floor from outside when she looked in the window.

She's not happy that Maitresse was killed. Penny didn't want her dead. Her only purpose was to encourage the teacher to behave better and not belittle the things Penny tells her niece.

Penny asks the steward ‎ for a blanket. It comes quickly; she's the first passenger on the plane.

The images of that bloody scene cross her mind, ‎make her queasy, certain she'll be in the bathroom to be sick. She trembles. The air inside the cabin is numbing. Why do they keep it so cold? Must cost a fortune in extra fuel.

Her thoughts turn from the chilled inside air to her niece and nephew.

Natalie is a sweet child and curious, very curious. That could be her first name and her ticket to a future in the sciences. Penny really loves that child.

Steven too, and they're both lots of fun, but they need time away from that environment, that school. It would help normalize them after what happened.

She told their father, "They should spend time with me, maybe this ‎summer. That would make all the difference. I have more time for them than you two do. You're way too busy."

The warmth of the blanket relaxes her. She drifts off.

Penny doesn't know how long she'd been asleep, when she feels a tug at her sleeve and looks up to see a young black man standing alongside her.

"Excuse please, sorry I bother you. That my seat over there next to you."

"S'all right, sorry, must have dozed off. Let me release my seatbelt and let you in." She does, and turns herself sideways.

The man tries but fails to avoid squeezing her legs as he moves by. Finally he settles into the middle seat and puts on his seatbelt.

Penny thinks he must have bought his ticket at the last minute. People don't like the middle seat anywhere, least of all on airplanes. There's no semblance of comfort. You can't stretch out or even capture an arm rest.

She notices he has no book, no magazine, no laptop. Nothing. He must plan to watch the movie or sleep.

She turns slightly to steal a look out of the corner of her eye. A rather handsome young man, she thinks.

"You going home or on vacation?"

"I go to Miami see can I find a job and a place to stay. Maybe I go Haiti, see my family."

His friend who works at Social Security was able to fabricate a new identity and papers, so Pierre could buy his ticket and not be caught. He's sure the ‎police have orders to pick up the murderer named Pierre Renus.‎

He doesn't want to ‎appear rude but he's too fearful to chat, worried he might give ‎something away.

Penny notices; sees him tremble; thinks this might be his first flight.

"Have you flown before? ...It'll be all right. You'll be fine."

"No, that not it. Is because I no have job."

"What kind of work do you do, maybe I can help."

"...well, I be baker before and in Philadelphia I was guard."

It's him! The man in the uniform! The one outside Maitresse Henriette's house. She's certain it's him. Is he the murderer? She can't be sure. She's frozen with fear. If he could kill those women, he could kill her.

She looks around, sees that two rows ahead, the aisle and middle seats are vacant. The plane's doors have closed and the seatbelt light is on. She unhooks her belt, mumbles, "We'll both be more comfortable...I'll just go over there...More room...Have a good flight. Nice to meet you."

She stands and moves forward, takes the middle seat in order to be further away from him. Settles in for the flight. She plans to watch for him should he stand and move up the aisle towards her.

Penny thinks she'll call the Philadelphia Police. She could use the seatback on-board phone, but then worries he might hear-- might kill her before she could even finish the call. She decides to wait until the plane lands and after he's emerged, ‎then she'll use her cell phone.

The flight bumps around some, just enough to jiggle the diet coke on the tray table, not enough to slosh it over the sides of the tiny plastic cup. If it weren't for the anxiety and the fear-- the rocking would probably not be enough to keep her from the sleep she longs for--the escape she craves.

She'd taken an Ambien when she sat down and can feel the pill begin to kick in.

The sun shines through the glass. She wishes the young student in the window seat would close the shade.

Ah. He does. Who doesn't believe in mental telepathy?

She looks back over at the Haitian. Can't see him. Can he see me? She wonders. Does he suspect that I know something?

The ride is choppy now. I look down and notice my belly fat jump up and down. My head wobbles up and back like one of those bobblehead dolls.

The captain announces he'll "drop the plane down to 30,000 feet to smooth the ride."

Still very bumpy. Safer? Hope so.

The shade is up again. What does the kid think he'll see from all the way up here?

The sky is clear. Why the turbulence?

The airplane must be filthy. Dust flits here and there in the light that streams into the window.

She looks back over her shoulder again, sees that he's asleep. She's reassured.

She looks out at the blue sky and finishes her coke, anxious for the steward to pick up the can and cup so she can put the tray table back up and maybe sleep.

Bumpy again. She tries to ignore it, tries to sleep. The steward has come around for the rubbish including the Wall Street Journal she'd found in the terminal but forgot to toss out before entering the plane.

I want this to end. It's wearing me out. I shouldn't have gone over to the French teacher's house. It wasn't my business. I try to accept that their parents should handle the children's education. But they don't. They expect everything to take care of itself. Life doesn't work that way. Things don't take care of themselves. I tell them that. I tell them that they need to fix mistakes.

Is it just the younger generation that is so passive? I wonder.

Well, I can't do everything.

I'm so cold--my hands too.

I want to be home.

I worry about my family in Philadelphia. Will they be safe with a killer loose?

Am I safe in this airplane?

If the security guard on this flight is not the killer, who is?

And what about the kidnapper if it's not the same person?

Ah--smooth again.

The Ambien finally takes full effect. Penny curls her body into a ball, turns away from the aisle to face‎ the window, and sleeps.

Pierre is relieved to be alone. He too, dozes for the rest of the flight ‎to Miami.‎

Pain! Penny wakes as the plane descends-- too quick. My ears hurt so. Horrible pain. I press my nostrils, try to blow out my nose to relieve the pressure in my ears. Doesn't help. I try again.

Now--okay, some little bit better.

I look back. He's there--still asleep.

I doze again. When I wake, people are standing with their carry-ons in hand. They fill the aisles, in line to wait for the door to open. They lean over and into the people who remain seated. Everyone's in a hurry. For what?

To wait.

I glance back again. Where is he? Must have gotten up front.

I can call the police on my cell. Maybe they'll arrest him before he leaves the plane.

But what if he's behind me and I can't see him. If he's in front, he'll hear me call.

What if the police think I had something to do with the murders?

Penny decides to stick around and use a pay phone. That's anonymous. I'll make the call and move away into the terminal.

But what if he's watching me? if he follows me?

I'll go home and call from a pay phone at the Walgreens. I can give the police the flight number and they can trace him. Yes, that's what I'll do.

### PENNY RETURNS TO MIAMI BEACH AFTER MLK

Back in my apartment, and I've made no call to the police no email--nothing--anything I do could point the finger at me.

The day is brisk but I head on down to swim and meditate about what to do.

Gusts whip across the island. Winds heave. North winds blow so hard they cool my wet skin and whip my hair onto my face. The blown strands are missiles that sting my eyes.

The salvos are so violent I fear they will lift the umbrellas and fling them into the pool. They'll hit my head and knock me unconscious. I'll drown.

Doesn't happen.

Out on the ocean, the blasts stir up white foam. Giant waves crash, draw back then buffet the shore. They make good their promise to swallow the beach. I decide to head back upstairs to watch from the safety of the apartment.

The storm winds increase. The angry fiend blows at the windows; finds openings and rushes in to widen its path; whistles into the walls. The giant gushes. It screeches. It roars. The monster batters everything in its way, relentless. The windows hold for now but for how long?

Rain is an endless drip drip drip. It tinkles. It courses. It runs down the windows, fills the gutters, then spills into the house. Rain pings at the glass. Harder until solid pieces strike the panes.

Did God send me a message? Did the storm portend disaster if I should I report what I'd seen?

Or is the message something else?

### WHO IS SHE?

Maria is fatigued from her work at the Police Station, annoyed by the orders recriminations and confrontations. Just plain tired.

She's happy to be here at the Saturday dance where she means to learn about the mysterious young girl. The dispatcher has laid a trap for the youngster. She won't be able to sneak away. Maria is driven to learn more.

She has settled Luther at a table near the door; told him to stay close to that spot, even when he dances. He's to keep an eye out for the child and to call over to Maria when the "voyeur" arrives.

During the waltz, I Just Love You by Five for Fighting, as he makes his last rotation around the floor with Pam, he glimpses the enigma.

This piece spirits the dancers into another realm; bodies rise and fall, moved into spiritual bliss by the music; better even than church gospel Sundays, Luther thinks. He sings the lyrics, "I...love you...I just love you...I don't know why...I just do..."

He almost misses the young girl, he's so high on the sound and the movement. But there she is in the same cape as the other times and as always covered from view. She slithers in and out of the shadows--a mirage almost--a sad hopeless slip of a girl.

Luther sidles over to the shadow by the door. Pretends he doesn't notice her. Close enough now, he stretches out his hand to grasp her slender wrist. She slips away just as his hand comes near. Luther steps in closer. Reaches for her again. No one else notices. She leans away to elude his grasp. But he's quick. Her effort to shake him off is futile. His hand surrounds her slender wrist, closes over it. She tries to pull away but he's too strong.

She's caught.

The courses for Police dispatcher prepared Maria well. Taught her what she needs today. Thankful she'd attended those daily briefings at the Station.

She hurries over to calm the youngster. Maria's strong maternal abilities prevail or it might be that her obesity projects sanctuary. People don't fear fat people. She's able to soothe the girl, convince her that she'll be safe to stay.

She stays but she won't talk.

Maria feels sad for her. Wants to take her in as she would a stray cat. She considers the idea also because it would solve some of her own problems, primarily her need for a baby sitter.

Damaris, her part-time nanny told her just this morning that she would leave for college on a full scholarship. Thanks to the "Dream Act," she is treated just like a citizen of the U.S.

Maria felt sorry for her when she heard that Damaris' step-mother died suddenly--something about a fall down the cellar steps. How awful for the family.

With Damaris gone, she'll have to figure something to do. Maria knows that this young girl probably has parents who would block Maria's plans. Nonetheless, she can try.

The police dispatcher has taken to this child, the waif who does not smile, appears forlorn and tremulous. She cloaks her face and her identity under the hood. She increases the mystery when she turns away from her two inquisitors.

Luther has let go of her hand. She's free. She bolts for the exit.

"Stay a minute! I want to give you something."

Maria digs in her purse for her card, sets it on the counter, says, "Call if you need any help. I want you to...feel free to contact me. Please. Anytime. Really."

The girl pockets the card.

The mystery is a silk black balloon that floats away toward the door.

Luther looks at Maria, "Is that....?"

"Who?"

"Don't know...Maybe not. Les dance."

### AFTER MLK

The diary found at the murder scene is gone. Savrini had returned it to the property room the day after he tried to read it. He'd hardly begun, when he fell asleep. Been so tired. Savrini planned to study the missive later but when he went to retrieve it, it wasn't there.

Too bad. The narration might have been useful.

The textbooks found on the table are no use either. No names are written on the white and blue-lined stamp pasted to the inside cover. If students had signed for it, we would have a succession of ownership and a record to show who was the last to have possession.

Savrini asked the school secretary to trace the schoolbooks to a particular grade or class. Jane took them, didn't look at the evidence, and promised to call him.

Next day she did. "About those editions, you know, the books you asked about? We don't use them anymore. They're all more than three years old."

"How did you find out?"

"Checked with the librarian. She told me the rest of the books of that edition were likely donated to a charity. Maybe shipped to Haiti or sold at a white elephant sale. She was sure they could not be traced because schools retire old textbooks regularly so we can buy new editions."

Savrini is vexed by that because schools constantly chide politicians that they don't have enough money in the budget for textbooks and other supplies. Why do they buy new, when what they have is still useful?

Probably it's the same as Savrini observes every day in the police department. New equipment and supplies replace older models even the functional ones.

Unnecessary expenditures for brand new history volumes and children's readers are a waste. They don't need to be replaced every third year. American History doesn't change and neither does Dick and Jane.

Back to zero. For now the three murders and the missing Elizabeth will go cold unless someone comes forward to finger the butcher who killed and mutilated those girls. Same for whoever took Elizabeth.

Seems the only way we solve crimes is when someone squeals. How sad that even with all the scientific equipment and knowledge at our disposal, the justice system is no better than it was in prehistoric times. Maybe worse--life was more communal then; people knew who the criminals were.

### SCHMIDT

Schmidt likens his pastime to being a child. He will sit for hours in a nondescript car outside a school at dismissal time. Everything has to be just right. His preparations must be perfect.

His cook packs his lunch, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, white bread, crusts cut off, quartered and cut on the diagonal into triangles. It is the exact same lunch that he took to school when he was a little boy.

In his head today, he still hears his mother's singsong voice call out to him as he leaves the house. "Eat your lunch Sonny, or you won't have any tomorrow." Young Schmidt knew she meant it. Her warnings came true, he could count on that. He went hungry only a few times. After that, he learned to finish his lunch--every bit of it.

He still recalls the dungeon, the nude whippings in the dank darkness, the punishment for report cards with less than all A's and the other infractions Mother considered unforgivable.

"You can do better. You will."

Hwwhp, hwwhp, the whip went on his reddened bottom. No matter how hard he tried, he always did something wrong-- a mistake she had to correct. But he loved her so, because she cared enough to make him do right. He loves her today though she's gone.

His lunch box is the same design as the one he used for school--Pop Eye with a pipe stuck in the corner of his mouth. The half-closed eye winks at him from the side of his metal lunchbox.

He will sit in his car and savor these sandwiches as much or more than any gourmet feast in any upscale restaurant in Philadelphia or anywhere in the world, for that matter. He relishes his peanut butter and jelly triangles with milk gulped from a tiny carton, just the same as when he was a little guy.

To be honest, admits big Schmidt, he was never little. No. He was always a pudgy wudgy, ridiculed by the "perfect ones." The "sweet" damsels were mean taunters, notably the girls in his elementary school.

The young witches were supposed to be there to attain some basic reading and math skills. Not so. Young Schmidt knew from their constant barbs that their single purpose in life was to deride him without mercy, girls in training to be adult bitches.

Very unhappy times, they were. Such thoughts push Schmidt into the deepest depths of self-pity.

He's able to lift his spirits only during these special outings. Awaiting pleasure outside, in his car, are the times he never feels low. He labels them his "Treasure Hunts." The expeditions are his flight from every bad memory.

Today Schmidt remembers. His lunch is the same as it was when he was a child, same today, as then. And just as then, if he finishes his meal which is never an "if," then there's a prize. For good measure the "goodest little" boy licks every last crumb. That's when he allows himself the special treat, just like his mother did. He may take out the small package of Oreo cookies, open and lick the white cream in the centers, then crunch away at the crumbly chocolate sandwich treats‎. The cookies are the same desert he ate as a little lad who lunched in the schoolyard.

He is that same little tyke again but with the sexual appetites of an adult. Schmidt thinks he is young. He eats like a young boy. Plays little boy games, and has fun with little girls.

He doesn't regard himself as a child molester. No, he's not that. He is a child. He looks upon Schmidt, the "big," as a youngster, a boy-child but a one who can do some adult things, like control people and rake in huge quantities of money.

### AFTER MLK

Murphy was told to surveil the school just in case. He's here is in his squad car, stationed in front of the Benjamin. He shivers non-stop. The cop is not a happy camper.

Thoughts about his wretched life bang his brain. The loss of his home to his mother-in-law is most painful. Feelings of inadequacy about his job plague him. Today, the worst is that he must suffer this miserable winter ‎outside.

After he'd had his fill of self-loathing and self-pity, he grabs hold of himself, consoled by his belief that things will get better if he waits long enough. He tells himself to think happy thoughts.

He daydreams about his wife Helen, how wonderful they are together when his mother-in-law is not around. He closes his eyes and pictures her mischievous smile and her laugh that promises sex. He feels her next to him. Holds her warm body against his, enjoys the rhythm of their encounter.

His reverie over, he's back to today. Murphy is frozen. He looks around ‎and mutters, "there aren't even any cars to watch."‎

He calls and complains to his wife, says it makes no sense.

"Who's gonna do something when there's a cop around. I'm wasting my time."

"Is she still there?" He wants to know.

"No. Mom left this morning."

"If I didn't have to play nursemaid at this dumb school, I could come home and we could have some fun."

"Could you? Just for a little while?"

"I'm on my way, sweetie."

Schmidt pulls up to the curb as Murphy pulls away. How convenient, Schmidt thinks. The cop's probably heading off for a long meal break or better, maybe his shift ends and he's headed home. Probably won't be replaced.

Still--Schmidt will have to keep an eye out.

He'll pull back up the street a bit. Cops tend to park in the same spot every time. Schmidt will be ahead of the game.

He moves his car but remains close to the school's main doors.

Thinks, he'll just stay here, enjoy his lunch, and keep an eagle eye at the ready to pounce on the naïve angel who will exit the school. It will be a certain type, one who will tarry too long.

He finishes his lunch quickly, brushes off the cookie crumbs and settles in for the game.

Nothing happening outside. Must be a late assembly. It's already two minutes past dismissal time.

"I'm waiting!" He snarls.

He can't wait.

Schmidt urges himself to stay calm, to wait. "Take your time, let's succeed this time."

He will be patient. He will watch for several days if necessary. He can stay as long and visit the school until he catches the one whose parents delay, who are late to collect their little darling.

He visualizes the sad lonely child who watches the cars arrive. One by one, they stop to welcome the youngsters, but not her. Each sparks hope. Her nose points at the arriving auto. Is this one mine? The mouth-- does it turn up into a welcome smile or do the corners turn down with dejection? After awhile, lips quiver; the child is close to tears.

It won't take long he thinks. There's always a derelict parent late from work or an errand, a liaison. They are careless, thoughtless, selfish. The miserable children endure. The self-important, self-absorbed, pseudo-adults suffer their vulnerable offspring to abide in cold in fear--hungry, lonely, and hopeless.

Some children walk home by themselves. Better still to find one of those, he thinks.

Little Big Schmidt wears nondescript clothes-- ugly matronly flowered housedresses, the kind his mother wore under coats and sweaters in drab earth tones.

He covers his balding head with a grey wig. Make-up disguises his face.

Today he is a woman.

He goes to all that trouble so the innocent young thing will trust him. More important, he doesn't want to have to wear a mask anymore. He's recently learned that disguises are uncomfortable and they can be lost. Still hasn't found his. Maybe he can go by the house today.

...After

He has his bag of tricks on the seat beside him, Hershey's chocolate bars, Tootsie Rolls, Tastee Vanilla Cupcakes dotted with sparkles, hard candy, licorice, and of course, the must-have, lollipops.

At the ready are little Bo-peep dollies, animated doggies, even music boxes he keeps wound that play sweet tinkly melodies to attract the attention of the little lovely.

Schmidt sits in his car, taking in the scene. He's not static, not passive. He enjoys the pleasure of anticipation. He secretes himself in his web, the snare is a woman.

A fake printed message written by Schmidt is tucked in his pocket. It says the sweet cherub "is to go with this nice lady who will take you to this nice lady's house to wait for Mummy and Daddy because they are delayed."

Schmidt chatters in a sing-song, "I'm just too clever for myself..."

He expects some failures. There are children who won't go for his plans but he's sure some will fall into his lair.

Schmidt recalls the one that got away. They'd had wonderful times but one time he didn't pay attention and she was gone. So far the police haven't found her, but he knows he's safe because no one saw them together. He can continue his escapades as long as he's careful.

Once he's arrived at his other house, the one he keeps for his fun, he will act so kind that she can't help but trust him.

He will make the room warm, give her cookies and milk and let her play games or watch TV. Well maybe no TV. There might be a news announcement about her or even him.

He admonishes himself to be careful. He must deceive the excellent little kiddie. Most important for his enjoyment is that she be calm and cooperative.

He'll help her remove her school clothes, her little panties decorated with pink and white ruffles.

Big Schmidt sits in his car and tries to distract himself from the cold. He contemplates the fun to come. Schmidt is excited, flushed. He strokes himself with the pink silk scarf lifted from one of the Purdy sisters. He knew he would use it to remember the ecstasy of that delicious night. He sighs. It ended too abruptly, way too soon.

He will tell the child that Mummy and Daddy asked the lady to dress her for the party, where they would meet later.

Schmidt sits in his car and views in his mind's eye that he fills the tub then helps the little one into the warm water. In slow motion, he soaps his hands and smooths them over the little cherub, all over her body. He tells her he will wash even her bottom so she will be all clean and nice and then she will put on the pink organdy party dress he has in the other room, the gown he has purchased at Macy's and has spread out on the bed. He showed it to her before he took her into the bath.

His eyes are half open, in his mind, he soaps her smooth body, the soft wet slick skin...

A glint of silver catches his eye. The sparkle is a necklace worn by the loveliest slender girl whose long red hair frames the small locket on a silver chain she wears around her neck.

That's her! She's the one. She's alone, lonely, forlorn. She's perfect.

Schmidt who has been fondling himself throughout the daydream experiences a joyful release while hypnotized by that sparkling bit of jewelry.

It's just the same as when he was a young boy and watched the little girl next door. He would sit and feast his eyes on her every evening as she raised her arms to lift her dress above her head, careful not to catch the cloth on her necklace. Young Schmidt watched by way of his bedroom window.

Big Schmidt watches through the windshield glass.

### DEAR DIARY BY NATALIE

The other day, after school, while I waited for Steven, I was in the middle of a daydream playing with my new necklace, a locket on a silver chain Daddy gave me. I looked up to see a lady motion to me. She was holding up a candy bar and gesturing with her finger for me to come to her car. I move over to her.

I'd seen her other days. Says she's here for her daughter. When I think about it, I remembered another girl who used to go over to her car after school. Wonder why I haven't seen that girl lately. Have to ask the lady.

The woman seems nice. Smiles, not like the other parents always in a rush, annoyed and gruff.

When I reach her car, the lady tells me she admires my locket; that it's charming, says she has more candy in the car, sweets she's sure I'll like. She reaches into the passenger seat and picks up some Peanut Butter Cups and Kit Kats and 3 Musketeers bars and starts to hand them to me. I was close enough to smell a strong whiff of chocolate.

Just then, what happens? What always happens to spoil my fun; Steven comes out of school, spots me, and runs over to see what I'm up to.

I don't want to share my new friend with him so when the lady says she'll be here tomorrow to give me candy, I step away from her car so I won't have to explain anything to Steven.

Before I leave I make sure to tell the lady the kinds of chocolate bars I like and arrange to meet her around the corner so Steven won't see and I could have all the sweets for myself.

If Steven finds out, he'll insist I shouldn't talk to strangers; that he'll tell Mommy if I talk to that person again. Steven doesn't know anything. He of all people should understand that friends and family are more dangerous than strangers.

I'll keep my new friend for myself and tell no one. It will be my secret and I'll meet her tomorrow. Mommy doesn't ever let me eat candy. She says it's not good for me. I'll fix her.

Can't wait for tomorrow! Mm!

This adult psychological thriller is written by a native Philadelphian who suffered on its streets and in its schools and institutions.

The author competes in bridge games, dances salsa, and flies between homes in Philadelphia and Miami Beach.

Feel free to email the author at:

anikola.bitter@gmail.com
