Nick Stokes switched the TV off as he passed it on his way into the kitchen. Judge Judy's raucous voice cut off mid rant, leaving the apartment in blissful peace.
Jim Brass was backed into one corner of the tiny room standing behind a woman in handcuffs. Silent tears coursed down her face, her hands unavailable to wipe them off her shining cheeks, or clear the snot that had collected at the bottom of her nose above her lip. Her eye sported a painful-looking bruise; eggplant purple surrounded by goldenrod yellow, like colors from a Gap catalogue.
It was the only thing even reminiscent of the Gap that she wore. Her ensemble screamed Walmart; soft blue polyester pull on pants, fuchsia tank top; no bra, and bare feet. Orange-sized breasts hung saggily on the roll of flesh pushed up by the elastic band on the slacks.
Her arms were fleshy at the top, tapering down to absurdly thin wrists and hands, the knuckles red and dry, cracked and fissured. Long thin fingers that should have played concert piano, not used to fish toys out of the toilet and fold myriad baskets of laundry. The arms themselves were hairless, peppered with small shiny circular scars.
The police-issue metal bracelets that hung loosely on her wrists were her only jewelry; her only other adornment a tortoise shell colored clip that held back dishwater blonde hair.
A small snuffling noise brought his attention around to the sight of a small girl huddled behind a female LVPD officer in the familiar tan uniform. The officer was bent over trying to coax the girl out from behind her legs.
Blue eyes, so light they were almost grey, peeped out from the security of the tan trees in front of her. She was three…no, a small four. Pale skin so paper thin that her veins could be seen from across the room. SpongeBob t-shirt with a chocolate milk stain to match the mustache on her upper lip.
The toddler's stare roved from barely meeting his eyes back to the reason they were all there.
The body.
Sprawled on his back in front of an old Amana range covered in dirty dishes, only one burner open for use, and that one crusted with a decade's worth of baked on everything.
Large head, thinning hair plastered against his skull in a matted red and black smear, the wound more of a flattened area above a crushed ear. Several days of stubble darkened the soft jowls and weak chin. One eye still peeled open, glassy like a misplaced doll's eye, the same watery blue-gray as the little girl's.
Filthy once-white undershirt stretched tautly across a belly like a basketball, a darker area showing the cavernous navel burrowed into the middle of the bulge.
Dark tan chinos, button undone and the zipper partially down for the comfort of the former owner. Large red stain spread across the crotch of the pants and into the fabric that covered the thighs.
A large kitchen knife lay near one outstretched hand, almost as if he was the one who had dropped it there. Cheap black plastic handle, stainless steel anything but as it was pocked with rust spots where it wasn't covered in drying blood.
The whole room had taken mere minutes to scan, the rest of its occupants, save for the little girl almost oblivious to his presence.
A paint by numbers crime scene. One of a thousand like it, the players all in their familiar roles, his job quick and dirty. Couple pictures of the DB in the wife beater, and wasn't that the sad truth how many he found wearing them? Process the weapon. Turn in the results. Hope for the best for those left behind.
So why had this squalid little tableau stirred up something different in him? The child, though pitiful in her fear, was one of a multitude, big kicked puppy eyes and grungy t-shirts on all of them. The woman was straight out of Battered Wife central casting, her scars and demeanor testament to years of physical and mental abuse.
Fuse gets lit one day; burned dinner, late rent check, spilled sippy-cup, and the powder keg explodes. If they're lucky it only takes out the Beast.
But there was something about this scene. No, the woman. A glint in the eye unburdened with a swollen burgundy lid.
Tossing a quick glance at Jim, giving him the chin thrust of recognition and greeting, he opened his paint box and started filling in the numbers.
Photos. Knife. And…… a quick look at the pile of dirty dishes on the stove yielded a cast iron frying pan perched precariously atop a pile of food encrusted crockery. He turned, pan in latex gloved hand, and cocked his head at the woman. She gave him a short nod that he reciprocated, then turned to pull a paper bag from his kit to place the makeshift weapon in.
After packing all the tools and evidence back into his bag, he walked over to join Brass in the corner.
"Hey, Jim. I'm about done here. Someone coming for the decedent?" Small courtesy paid to the woman. Not the DB. Certainly not the victim.
"Yeah. David called. They're having trouble getting the gurney up the stairs. Seems the elevator is out."
No surprise there. He jerked his head to the side, gesturing the captain back into the living room.
"You, uh, get a statement from her yet, Jim?"
"Yeah. She fessed up the second we got here. Same shit, different day. Guy beats on wife, wife takes frying pan to his head. Although the little addition she made to the story was a bit unexpected. Not that original but…"
"Yeah. So, you found someone for the girl?"
"Mother had already called an aunt. She's meeting us in booking."
"Alright. Well, I guess I'll follow you guys back then."
The older man sighed. "Yeah. I wanna get this one over with, too."
They reentered the kitchen and Jim touched the woman on the shoulder, alerting her it was time to go.
She nodded, eerily not having said a word the whole time. Fresh tears welled in her eyes as she looked at her daughter.
The girl, some innate child-sense telling her that her mommy was leaving, that they were to be separated, burst through the legs of the patrol officer and flung herself at her mother, crying, sobbing, wailing, her voice echoing off the peeling wallpaper.
The mother cast a quick glance at Jim, then at his acquiescence, squatted to put her manacled hands over her daughter's frail form to hug her fiercely.
Her mouth finally opened, her until now unheard voice strangely delicate and warm, cultured even in direct opposition to her decidedly unkempt and downtrodden appearance.
"Shhh..shhh." She murmured quietly to the little girl, her interlocked hands rubbing up and down on the girl's bony spine. "You'll get to stay with Aunt Stacy now, baby. You can play with Joey now every day. It's going to be okay, sweetie. I promise. Please, baby. Shhhh. Go with the police lady, okay?"
The little girl raised tear swollen eyes, her head shaking no, her mouth an oh of terror as the police woman took her gently and lifted her negligible weight into her arms.
"We'll take good care of her, Ma'am. Your sister is waiting for us at the station house." She leaned in to whisper to her, "You tell your attorney what your daughter told me. You'll be out in time to see her go to kindergarten."
The officer left, holding the girl firmly in her embrace, the waif banging tiny little fists on the woman's back, wriggling like a freshly caught marlin, equally small pink Barbie sneakers kicking weakly against the officer's hip, squealing all the while.
The cries continued out into the hall, lowering in pitch as they descended the rickety staircase until they faded out completely.
Brass took hold of the woman's arm, stopped by a hand on his own elbow.
"She needs shoes, Jim."
The CSI left the kitchen through a door at the back, returning a minute later with a pair of dime store rubber flip-flops.
He squatted down, then looked up at the woman as she bent her head to gaze at him. A look of the purest gratitude flashed across her eyes as she gave him a small nod.
She lifted a foot, blackened sole and chipped ruby toenail polish. He dropped the one sandal in front of her foot and she wiggled her toes into the cheap rubber. The next followed suit and he rose to stand before her.
She gave him a soft smile, the tears having stopped, now dried silvery on her cheeks.
"Thanks."
"No problem, Ma'am."
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Later after her booking was complete, he watched as the woman was escorted out and taken to the holding cell. On her way she caught the sight of her sister holding her daughter in her arms, another similarly aged boy at her side holding her hand.
The sister gave her a small wave and the woman returned the wave with a repeated nod of her head and a smile. She entered the swinging doors, her posture noticeably taller, a small swagger back in her step, and was gone from sight.
Brass came out to join him, rubbing tiredly at the back of his neck. "Another day in paradise, huh, Nicky?"
"You know, Jim, I swear to God, I have seen this too many times. But I don't think I've ever seen a woman look so…. Jim, is it just me, or damn it, don't she look happy?"
Fic inspired by…54-40, She-La
Gonna start dressing
in Finer things
Maybe just nothing
Maybe just a dream
You are gonna find him one day knockin' at your door
He's not the hero any more
He says, Baby, don't you want me in your life?
You tell him what is wrong, not right
Don't She La
Don't she look happy
Don't She La
Don't she look happy
Gonna start living
my Fantasy
Maybe just nothing
Maybe just a dream
Fire in the blue sky when he hits you in the mouth
This is the war and not the warning
He says, Baby, I love you, won't you stay?
You say good-bye to him too late
You have started something big
by cuttin' through the man
There was a sign you heard a calling
He says, Baby, I don't wanna die today
You say, so long, man, it's too late
Don't She La
Don't she look happy
Don't She La
Don't she look happy
Don't she look happy now
that he's gone away from here
He's gone away
he died they say
an awful way
It was an attack of the heart.