You know, in 20 years on the police force, I’d seen plenty. Bodies, dismemberments, burn victims. But what I saw that night in apartment 47 made me question everything I thought I understood about people.
A 25-year-old woman sat on a kitchen stool, smoking like she had all the time in the world. Around her, three men lay on the floor, bound with electrical cord and duct tape. Their faces were beaten so badly I could barely make out their features. Blood was splashed across the wall.
She looked at me, smiled, and said, “Would you like some tea?” At the time, I had no idea that this slight young woman in a flowered robe had done something most hardened criminals wouldn’t dare try. And the worst part? She was waiting for a fourth man.
The phone rang at 3:00 in the morning. I remember because I checked the clock before I picked up. My wife rolled over and muttered something under her breath.
When you work police long enough, you get used to calls in the middle of the night. The desk sergeant kept it short: “Builders Street, building 12, apartment 47. Neighbor called it in.”
Screaming, banging, maybe a homicide. I was dressed in three minutes. It was March that year. Most of the snow was gone, but the nights still had a hard freeze to them.
The patrol car started on the third try. The engine coughed, then caught. Streets were empty, streetlights throwing yellow light across wet pavement.
As I drove, I figured it was the usual—drunks, domestic fight, same old story. I was tired to death of it. But something in the desk sergeant’s voice stuck with me.
He’d spoken quieter than usual, like he didn’t want to be overheard. Or maybe I was just worn out. I hadn’t slept right in two weeks. In our district, patrol officers didn’t get much peace.
One night it was a fight at the boarding house, the next a theft at the plant, then some bootleggers to round up. Building 12 on Builders Street was a plain five-story apartment block. A hundred just like it in town.
Empty bottles littered the entryway. It smelled like urine and cat mess. I climbed to the fourth floor. Behind one of the doors, I could hear someone crying softly.
Turned out the neighbor was already waiting for me on the landing. Mrs. Parker, around 70, in a faded flannel robe with curlers in her hair. Her hands were shaking, and her face had gone gray with fear.
She spoke in a whisper. “Officer, I don’t know what’s going on in there, but it’s awful. About two hours ago I heard yelling, men’s voices, several of them. Then banging, like furniture being smashed. Then quiet.”
“And about twenty minutes ago they started screaming again. But not angry screaming. Pain. Terror.” I walked up to the door of apartment 47.
The door was plain wood, brown paint peeling off in strips. I pressed my ear to it. Silence. Total silence. I knocked. “Police. Open the door.”
No answer. I knocked harder. Behind me, Mrs. Parker gave a shaky little sob.
“A young woman lives there, Ellie. Quiet girl, polite. Moved in with some man about six months ago. At first things seemed fine. Then his friends started coming around drinking.”
“Loud bunch. No manners.” I took out my badge and rapped the door with the butt of my service weapon. “Open up now.”
I heard movement inside. Then footsteps. Slow, unhurried. A woman’s voice said, “Just a minute.”
Calm voice. Too calm for three in the morning and a call about screaming. The door opened.
And that was the first time I saw her—Ellie. She stood in the doorway looking straight at me. Thin, dark hair messy and falling to her shoulders.
Her face was pale but pretty. Gray eyes, completely blank. She wore a flowered robe over a nightgown.
There was blood on her hands, dried dark. She looked down at her palms as if she’d only just noticed it, then gave a crooked little smile. “Come in, Officer. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Waiting. I pushed the door wider. My hand went to my holster on its own. Instinct.
The hallway was dark, with only light spilling in from the main room. And the smell. I’ve never forgotten it.
Blood, sweat, something sharp like acetone or rubbing alcohol. And cigarette smoke. A lot of smoke.
“What happened here?”
