No Rhyme or Reason Read online

  “That’s right. That’s my name, remember? What’s your name?”

  My name? I have a name. Everyone has a name. I shook my head. Tears welled up in my eyes as I realized that I couldn’t remember my own name.

  “What about your age? How old are you?” Trina asked.

  The tears pushed over the brim and down my cheeks. Shouldn’t I know the answer? It felt like I was staring at a blank wall and I desperately wanted to write something on it, but there was nothing in my mind. Nothing.

  “It’s okay,” she said, lowering her voice. “I’m thirty years old, and you’re the only one I’ll admit that to.”

  I brushed at a tear as a smile raised up to catch it. Trina smiled at me, and I realized that she had the most beautiful blue-green eyes. Maybe those kind eyes could help me again. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “I don’t know, but if you would let these people finish examining you, we can find out. Okay?”

  “No!” I raised the bedpan again. “They want me to take my clothes off.”

  “That’s what set her off,” the woman in scrubs said to Trina. “We need to do a sexual assault kit on her,”

  “Damn it,” Trina swore under her breath. “What makes you think she was raped?”

  “It’s SOP for this kind of case,” the nurse replied.

  “Drug use?” Trina asked.

  “Probably. She has a lot of confusion, too.”

  It was like they had forgotten I was in the room. Hell yes, I’m confused. Who wouldn’t be, waking up to bright lights and sharp needles? But I’m terrified, too. Who am I? Why can’t I remember my name, my age, my past? Why can’t I remember anything before Trina gave me her necklace? Why did she give it to me? I can’t remember.

  “Did you explain it to her? About the rape kit?” Trina asked.

  “No, we didn’t have the chance,” the nurse replied.

  “Can I speak with you?” a man in a white coat asked Trina as he walked up.

  Trina looked at me and said, “I’m going to talk with your doctor. I’ll be right back.”

  I shook my head, feeling anxious and isolated.

  Trina took my hand in hers. “I’ll just be right over there, okay?” She wiggled my hand and smiled.

  Trina had a strong jawline, but a soft smile. Instinctively, I knew I could trust that smile. I have to.

  “Will you get back on the gurney and wait for me?” she asked, standing to the side and pointing at the metal bed I had woken up on.

  Reluctantly, I nodded and the tech took the plastic kidney tray and bedpan from me.

  As I sat down on the gurney, Trina walked a few steps away, turned and smiled at me, then turned back to the doctor.

  “How long have you known the patient?” he asked Trina.

  “I just met her at church this morning,” Trina answered.

  Again, it was like I wasn’t in the room. They made no effort to talk quietly, and I could hear every word they said.

  “You were with the ambulance when they brought her in?” he asked.

  “Yes, my name is Detective Trina Wiles, and I was attending church when she came in and lost control.”

  “Doctor, her tox screens are up,” the tech announced from the computer cart.

  The doctor, nurse, and tech gathered around the cart, murmuring and nodding their heads.

  “What’s the verdict?” Trina asked, peering over their shoulders.

  The doctor removed his glasses and pinched his nose. He seemed confounded. “She has two different drugs in her system. Heroin and codeine, enough that it should have killed her because of her height and weight.”

  “Maybe it was watered down or—”

  “Both drugs were pure, no derivatives, but it was a small dose, unlike what a junkie would use. It’s the fact that the victim is underweight that concerns me. What probably saved her was that the heroin was injected into her left arm and the codeine in her right. It wasn’t meant to be a lethal cocktail bomb, per se.”

  “So, you think she did it to herself?”

  Hell no! Why would I torture myself like that? I had no frame of reference, but I was convinced I did not do drugs. That doctor had to be lying.

  “My best guess is that it was her first time. Perhaps another reason why she’s still alive.”

  “What about her memory? Did she bump her head or something?” Trina asked.

  “No,” he said. “There were no other injuries other than the contusions and blisters on her fingertips.”

  My fingertips? I looked down at my fingers, only just realizing they were hurting. What happened to my fingers?

  “Last year, there was a study conducted on opiates and memory loss,” the doctor stated. “There was no definitive explanation, but the assumption was that the toxins messed with the hippocampus, causing a memory blackout. Thirteen cases had the same diagnosis, unexplainable memory loss.”

  “So, you’re saying that it was a mixture of drugs that erased her memories?” Trina asked.

  “It’s not that simple, of course,” he said. “It’s a hit and miss, like I said, we don’t know why.”

  “But will she regain her memory?”

  Trina was asking all the right questions and I leaned on the edge of the gurney waiting for his answer.

  “If it was due to drugs then I think, given a little time, she will recover one hundred percent,” he explained.

  Trina looked over at me, and I was surprised at how calming that connection was. She nodded and gave me another understanding smile, one that told me she knew how scared and alone I felt.

  “And if it was rape?” she asked, turning back to him, breaking the spell.

  He sighed. “We’re pretty sure she was raped, and if it was catastrophic emotional trauma, it may take much longer. If she was raped before the drugs, the memories are traumatic, to say the least. Mix that with the cocktail of drugs and she may never get that section of her memories back.”

  Learning that I was raped, and I knew I had been because of the pain and pressure between my legs, helped explain why I couldn’t remember anything. But learning that I was attacked increased my panic mode. Dear God, please help me. I’m so scared.

  Chapter Three

  I’ll Protect You – Trina Wiles

  I glanced over at the victim and got the sense that she was listening to everything we said. Her doe eyes were a mixture of pain and panic. I turned back to the doctor. “Can you do something for the pain?”

  “Now that I know what she was on,” the doctor continued, “I can administer a sedative that will help her relax and then we can do a rape kit.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  “You know how invasive the procedure is. It’s her choice to have it done, but in her emotional state, she may not understand what’s going on. She’s formed a connection to you; she trusts you. I don’t believe that her memories will return within the seventy-two-hour window that we have.”

  Nodding, I said, “For gathering evidence, I know.” We had no way of knowing if she had been attacked in that time period, but it was worth a try. “Okay, I’ll ask her if she wants to do this.”

  “Someone get Veronica in here,” he ordered. “And get me a caseworker, too.”

  I had worked with Veronica Blakely before. A registered nurse trained as a sexual assault forensic examiner. She was very good at what she did, and very gentle. “I’ll go talk with Jane Doe, but I need everyone to back off for a minute,” I explained. “She’s scared shitless right now; she can’t handle a horde descending on her.”

  “Agreed. I’ll follow up with Veronica for my report. I assume you’ll want a copy for your records?”

  “Yes, thank you.” As the only cop on the scene, she was my case now until I handed her off to SVU. So much for having a day off. I walked over to the gurney, and she immediately grabbed my hand.

  “Give us a minute,” I said to the tech and nurse standing by the gurney. They nodded and moved away. Turning my attention back to the vi
ctim, I leaned close, unconsciously running a finger down her cheek. “Are you all right?”

  She gazed up at me, the faintest frown on her lips. “No, I’m not.”

  “Are you in pain?”

  “Yes. There’s some burning… um…” She pointed toward her feet.

  “Will you let these people help you?” I asked.

  She let go of my hand. “No! Don’t let them touch me.”

  “It’s all right. They just want to help you. They won’t hurt you, I promise. In fact, they can give you a shot to help you relax. If you want, I’ll be by your side the whole time.”

  “I don’t know why I’m so afraid,” she said, putting her fingers gingerly on the necklace, “but you’re the only one who’s been nice to me. I can’t… I don’t…”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here, by your side the whole time. I promise.”

  “They think I was raped, don’t they?”

  “I, uh…” No. Tell her the truth. Nothing else will help her. Nodding, I replied, “With your memory loss and the drugs they found in your system, it’s possible none of it was your idea. It’s possible something else may have been done to you. The doctor just wants to cover all the bases.”

  “And you’ll arrest the person who did this to me?”

  “Damn straight I will. But I need your help. It’s imperative that these people do a rape kit on you and collect the evidence, but I don’t want you to have to go through the procedure. It’s very invasive. Will you trust me and allow them to give you a sedative?”

  She gazed up at me for a moment and then nodded. I gave the doctor a thumbs up. “I promise, I won’t leave your side.” She gripped my hand harder. “You’re not in this alone.”

  Her eyes swirled with tears, as if that was the very thing she needed to hear.

  “Ma’am,” the nurse said calmly as she approached carrying a syringe. “I’m going to give you a shot to help you relax.” She swabbed Jane Doe’s arm and I took her other hand. “Just a little pinch…” the nurse said, jabbing the needle into her arm. Flinching, Jane never took her eyes off of me. “That’s it, all done,” the nurse said and scurried away.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, still holding her hand in both of mine.

  “Yes, but I don’t feel very relaxed,” she said flippantly.

  The nurse unfolded a sterile drape sheet and laid it across Jane Doe’s legs.

  She began breathing faster, her eyes darting to and fro. I could feel her hands trembling.

  “Hey, it’s okay. Look at me.” I gently turned her chin toward me. Her eyes, filled with fear, calmed when they met mine. “Why don’t we pick a name that I can call you. Just until you get your memory back.”

  The fear in her eyes was replaced with confusion. “A name?”

  “Yes. Unless you want me to keep calling you Jane Doe?”

  She exhaled, her eyes beginning to droop. “No, that doesn’t sound right.”

  “How about Joyce? My best friend in high school was named Joyce.”

  She smiled and bobbed her head drowsily. “I like Joyce. It’s a strong name.”

  “Yes, and it fits you because you’re strong and brave and…” She had fallen asleep. “Beautiful.”

  “Hey, Trina. How have you been?”

  Without letting go of Joyce’s hand, I looked over my shoulder. “Hey, Veronica.”

  Veronica looked at me studiously. We had shared a night together last year after a particularly rough case where her patient, who had been raped multiple times, committed suicide. Veronica had taken it extremely hard. She had uncharacteristically become attached to the victim. An occupational hazard for any caregiver… or police detective. I laid Joyce’s hand on her stomach and stepped back.

  “I understand the victim has amnesia,” Veronica stated, getting right down to business. “What can you tell me about her?”

  As I reported everything I knew, a tech drew the curtain around the gurney and began the painstaking process of collecting evidence. I turned away from Joyce, not wishing to encroach on her privacy, but I remained close enough that should she wake, she would know I was there. I think I was doing that as much for myself as for Joyce.

  Veronica was always very thorough, her evidence gathering irrefutable in court. She collected root hairs from the victim’s head and vagina, blood samples, and nail scrapings. She painted the vagina blue to show the tears clearly, then photographed the area. She did a full body exam where every scratch, blemish, and bruise was measured and photographed, and then noted on the exam form. The women who did report their rape, oftentimes felt like they were tortured for it because the exam was so invasive. Veronica helped them understand what she was doing before she did it. With each step, she’d ask the victim if she could continue. She gave the victim back some semblance of control by allowing them to say no. Even when the victim was unconscious, as Joyce was, she was as gentle as she could be.

  Veronica, with the help of a tech, removed Joyce’s clothes, placing them in a large plastic zip bag.

  “Trina, take a look at this,” Veronica said, pulling a sock off the victim’s foot.

  I turned and saw she was pointing at the middle toe of Joyce’s right foot. “That looks like a wedding band,” I theorized as I stepped closer and leaned over the foot. It was a gold ring, much bigger than the toe it was on, and it had rubbed the side of the big toe red. That was not a typical toe ring. It belonged on a finger.

  “There’s a circular impression on the pad of her foot,” Veronica pointed out. “It looks like she had the ring in her sock and it made its way onto a toe.”

  So, it wasn’t for show. It was obvious to me that Joyce was hiding the ring. Is she married? I pulled out my cell phone and took some pictures of it. Then I grabbed a latex glove from the box on the overbed table and pulled the ring off. Examining it closely, I snapped more photos of the ring, including the inside rim. There was no inscription on it, not even where it was made.

  “Can I borrow a plastic bag?”

  Veronica opened a bag, and I placed the ring inside.

  I held the bag up, looking at the ring again, wondering why Joyce needed to hide her wedding band. Maybe she was cheating on her husband. Of course, now that I knew she was married, I immediately thought that it had to be a man. It was ingrained in me to think that way, partially because gay marriage, though legal now, was still closeted to an extent as self-protection.

  “Hey,” I said, waving over a tech. “Dust this for prints and then take it to evidence lock up. Let me know if you find anything.”

  “Roger that,” she replied, taking the bag with the ring in it, and the one with Joyce’s clothes.

  “There’s no doubt that she was raped,” Veronica stated. “Legally, I can’t give her an emergency contraception because she can’t tell me what her faith is or her allergies.”

  “Damn it,” I spit out, disappointed but not surprised.

  “A violent rape from the look of it. And they left a message.” She held up Joyce’s panties, but I didn’t see what she was talking about. Then she ran a UV light over them and the word snitch came into focus. Her rapist had used his own semen to make a point.

  Chapter Four

  While You Slept – Trina Wiles

  I remained at the hospital hours after the exam, waiting for Joyce to wake up. They seemed to think it was taking longer than usual, but that she was stable and there was nothing to worry about. The doctor indicated that with all she had been through, she was probably just exhausted. I asked Veronica to fast-track the rape kit, hoping it would produce the evidence needed to not only find the bastard who did this to Joyce but find out who Joyce was. She’s not just a nameless victim. Someone thought she was a stoolie. The question was why? What did she stumble into that labeled her a snitch?

  The caseworker, Debbie Mitchell and I talked while Joyce slept, and she advised me to take Joyce to a memory specialist or at the very least, a shrink, to help her traverse the mind fields that would come
up as her memory returned… if it returns. It never crossed my mind not to support Joyce in her recovery, but when Debbie suggested that Joyce stay with me as she recuperated because she had formed such a connection with me, it took me aback. I was a cop, not a babysitter. A single woman who liked living alone, coming and going as I pleased. I’ve never had a steady girlfriend, nor a roommate, and I liked it that way. But when Debbie asked me if I would be willing to take Joyce in, I didn’t hesitate. My practicality may have said no, but my heart couldn’t turn this poor woman away. She had nowhere else to go, other than to sit alone in a motel room and possibly wandered off and get lost, or worse, be captured again.

  Pulling out my cell phone, I called my partner, Paul. He answered on the fifth ring. Well, it is his day off, too. “Hey, Paul, it’s me. I need your help with a rape victim.”

  “Why me? Hand her over to the Special Victims Unit.”

  “She was raped to send a message,” I replied. “The rapist spelled out snitch on her underwear with his semen.”

  “Well, that’s different, but again, SVU handles the rape cases,” he argued.

  “This one is different, Paul. They burned off her fingertips.”

  “Damn,” he exclaimed.

  “We need to take this case, Paul.”

  “Your gut talking to you again, Trina?” he asked playfully.

  “More like screaming at me.”

  “All right, give me the details, and I’ll get started.”

  I texted him the photos I had taken, including pictures of Joyce, so he could do a facial recognition.

  Now it was time to call my captain and fill her in. I was not looking forward to it.

  “Hey, Cap, it’s Trina.”

  Captain Katherine Mathison was a thirty-year veteran with graying brown hair and piercing, perpetually angry, hazel eyes. Unlike our last captain, who had a beer gut and a permanent sneer on his face, she was athletic, smiled on occasion, and refused to sit on the sidelines. Fair but tough, equal but understanding, she was a real stickler for the rules, and she wasn’t going to like that I breaking one of them.

  “What’s up, Trina?”