Her Mother's Cry

by Roberta Gately

Genres: Crime Fiction; Police Procedurals

Synopsis

The girl in the photo was laughing, her head thrown back, her lips painted a bright red. Jessie could feel the simple joy reflected in that moment. And as she looked closer, she saw the same gold cross and chain that had adorned the first victim's neck. When a young woman falls to her death from a parking garage, the Boston police department rule it as a suicide. But when Jessie Novak examines the scene, she isn't so sure... The girl's delicate hands are bruised and her fingernails torn: evidence of a struggle. Did someone push her from the roof? Then a second young woman is found dead, this time at the foot of her dorm building, her hands injured in the same way as the first victim's with a gold cross and chain clutched in her fist. Jessie is convinced there is a connection and that a twisted killer is on the loose.Just as Jessie thinks she is closing in on the culprit, her worst fears are realized: a third girl is found dead. The gap between murders is closing: the killer is getting more confident. He will never stop until he is caught.But little does Jessie know that, while she works to pick up the trail of her suspect, he is already on hers. She is the only one who can stop this monster before he kills again—but to save the next innocent life, is she prepared to risk her own? A thrilling and totally gripping crime thriller that will grab you from the start and not let go until the final, heart-stopping page. Utterly addictive reading for fans of Lisa Regan, Angela Marsons and Tess Gerritsen. Readers are loving Her Mother's Cry:"WOW! I am actually at a loss for words. This is the first book in a little while that I have got 100% stuck into and refused to put down. Reading late into the night and finishing in the early hours... Everything you could possibly want from a crime thriller. A pace that keeps you guessing and keeps you hooked. The creepiness that had the hairs on my arms standing up." Chloe's Reading Room"Another fantastic five star read from this author... Intense, chilling and gripping. This book had me sat on the edge of my seat and constantly holding my breath and as for the climax I literally have no nails left. This author has done it again. A must read series and another explosive addition to this gripping and very addictive series. Loved it!!!!" NetGalley reviewer"Suspense, action, intrigue, murder and a great who-done-it!... Gave me the chills." Goodreads reviewer.-

Release date: November 1, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

Jessie could feel it as soon as she woke. Today would be different. A bright sliver of sun seeped through her blinds, and as she sat and parted them to peer out, she knew it would be one of those perfect days, the kind you’ll remember forever. It wasn’t just the sun, though it was glorious to see that golden glow as she yanked her blinds fully open and pulled her window up, drinking in the fresh air—it was that the splendid days of spring had come to South Boston when she wasn’t paying attention. Already, neighborhood women were out pushing baby carriages, their young children lagging behind, eager to stop and play.

She rose, headed for the shower and ran her fingers through her sleep-tangled mass of mahogany curls, her hazel eyes sparkling, her creamy skin shivering beneath the sudden burst of cold water. She pulled a towel from the shelf and dried off quickly. Life was just about perfect. She’d only recently learned that she had a mother, that she hadn’t been abandoned as a baby as her father had always told her. His anger and lies didn’t really matter now. She had a mother. Maybe. It was complicated, and she still needed time to absorb that information, that connection to someone who, kind as she was, still felt like a stranger.

But she was dating Sam Dallas, the homicide detective whom she worked alongside as a forensic nurse, bringing her ER expertise to homicide investigations. Four months ago, she’d been recruited by the already overworked medical examiner to help assess injuries and potential causes of death both at crime scenes and in the morgue, and then to liaise with families and detectives to help bring the case to closure. Although she was still new to her position, and still working in the ER, she’d learned to love the Forensics job. The ME had been right—bringing answers to families and finding justice for the victims was as gratifying as saving someone in the ER.

It was also fair to say that Sam Dallas was every woman’s dream—tall, handsome, athletic build, kind, funny, smart and forgiving. And perhaps it was that last part that she needed most in her life. She had inherited her dad’s quickness to anger and maddening impatience, unfortunate characteristics that she was working on.

But as blissful as her life was at the moment, she had no time to linger with her thoughts. Today, she was due in the ER to cover another nurse’s shift. And, if she wanted to be on time, she had to hustle.

She brewed a pot of coffee, swiped a swath of color along her lips, pulled her curls into a neat ponytail, found clean scrubs, inhaled her coffee and hurried out, stopping to knock on her downstairs neighbor’s door.

“Morning, Jessie,” Rufus said as he pulled open his door. “Do you have time for a cup of tea?”

She puffed out her lower lip. “I’m sorry, I can’t today, Rufus. I just wanted you to know I’m going to work a little early today if you’re looking for me.”

“On a beautiful day, you have to work?” he asked, more a statement of concern than a question. “Well, you go in and take care of yourself. You hear me?”

A smile burst onto her lips and she leaned in to plant a kiss on his lined cheek. “You too,” she said softly. “Make a grocery list. I’ll take you tomorrow.”

Jessie parked in the hospital garage and made her way to the ER where she looked for Susan Peters, the nurse she was replacing. “Hey, Jessie,” Susan called when she saw her. “Thank you for coming in. I have to get to this family party. I owe you one.”

“No problem,” she replied. “Anything going on here that I should know about?”

“We have a jumper on the way in. ETA of three minutes. She apparently fell about eight stories from that garage not far from here. Hard to believe she’s still alive. Tim Merrick’s on his way down.”

A swell of relief surged through Jessie’s veins. Tim Merrick was Boston City Hospital’s Chief of Trauma Surgery. He could be a colossal pain, but he was a damn good surgeon and Jessie was relieved to know that he’d be directing the trauma team today. If anyone could save somebody who’d suffered near-fatal injuries, it was likely Tim Merrick. She took the beeper from Susan and headed to her locker.

“Thanks again,” Susan called as she grabbed her things and headed out. The wail of a siren was all the notice Jessie needed to pull on a pair of surgical gloves and head to the ambulance bay where the medics were just pulling in. Tim Merrick appeared behind her.

“Hey, Jessie,” he said. “I’m glad you’re on today. Is this our jumper? When Susan paged me, she said the woman was in pretty bad shape.”

Jessie turned. “That’s what I heard, too. Sounds as though her condition is grave, but let’s see what we can do. Now that you’re back from leave we’ll have a chance again.”

A medic was pumping air into the woman’s lungs when Tim pulled open the ambulance door and helped to bring the stretcher out. “Trauma One,” Jessie said, guiding them along the hallway to the trauma room where another nurse, two residents and a medical aide were waiting.

“Unknown female reportedly jumped,” the medic began as the trio backed into the room. Hands reached out to gently transfer the patient to the ER gurney. “She’s pretty bad. Looks like she has an open skull fracture in the back of her head, and a lot of facial trauma—that’s what the blood’s from. Bilateral arm fractures, maybe her back too. We have a collar on her neck to protect her cervical spine. Right pupil is fixed and dilated, left eye too swollen to assess. No blood pressure, no pulse, but she has a disorganized heart rhythm on the monitor. We initiated CPR, intubated her and started an IV. We have no other information, no medical history, no name, nothing. She was apparently alone at the scene and had no ID, so all we know is that she appears to be a thirtyish-year-old woman who apparently jumped from that garage roof.”

“Haven’t there been a few other jumpers from garages in the last year?” one of the surgical residents asked.

The medic nodded. “She’s the second one from a garage in the last year. There were complaints about those open garage rooftops, and I thought they were gonna close the roof access, but apparently they haven’t, and there’s still no cameras, so it’s a natural spot for somebody who’s decided to jump. Pretty damn depressing on this first beautiful spring day.”

The medical assistant took over chest compressions as the respiratory tech arrived to take over ventilations with the football-shaped ambu bag—which forced oxygen into the lungs—while Jessie helped to cut away the woman’s clothes—too-tight jeans, a long-sleeved blue shirt and underwear—before placing the EKG leads onto her chest and covering her with a sheet, the crisp whiteness stark against the faint bronze of her skin. The monitor revealed a sporadic cardiac rhythm, likely not a true rhythm, but artifact from electrical interference and the irregular spikes of a dying heart. Still, the team would try to save her.

“Help me to roll her,” Tim directed one of the residents. Jessie leaned in to assist. The body was as floppy and loose as a rag doll. The sheet beneath the woman’s head was splattered and wet, the back of her skull fractured and wide open, allowing tissue but curiously little blood to seep out. Tim grimaced. “Will you take that c-collar off?” he asked, and the resident gently pulled it away, revealing only a thin gold chain which held a small cross. Aside from the facial scrapes, swelling and bruising, which she may have suffered in the fall, there were no other wounds: no bruising, no evidence of assault. Tim examined her neck, felt for a carotid pulse, shook his head and exhaled noisily. “Any blood pressure?” he asked.

The resident shook his head and, “Nothing,” he said. “As you just noted, no pulses either now, despite the intravenous fluid bolus and a round of Epinephrine.”

The team watched as the erratic waves on the cardiac monitor turned into one long, straight, flat line, the beeps fading to a drone. She was officially dead, though with that terrible head injury, she’d likely died on impact, Jessie thought. She felt an unexpected wave of sadness for this poor woman who’d been so desperately unhappy on this seemingly perfect day when Jessie had been thinking how wonderful life was. She turned the monitor off, unhooked the IV, and closed the woman’s right eye, still wide open with fright as though she’d been watching them as they gave up on her and declared her dead.

“Time of death,” Tim said, snapping off his gloves and glancing quickly at the wall clock, “is twelve thirty-two p.m.”

“Noted.” Jessie turned and entered the time in the woman’s chart.

The team dispersed, all back to their assignments, leaving Jessie and Tim behind. “Hey,” Tim said, “thanks, Jessie. Always a pleasure to work with you.”

“Likewise,” she said as he turned to go.

He slipped out quietly, leaving Jessie alone with the unknown woman.

She heaved a long sigh. The body had to be readied for the morgue and for Dr. Dawson, the Chief Medical Examiner, so he could have a look and decide if an autopsy was required or not. Though in the case of a suicide or maybe an accidental death, she was sure he’d opt for the autopsy.

She pulled open a drawer and removed a prepackaged shroud kit. She hated this aspect of her job—wrapping and tagging the dead—but she felt strongly that she’d never assign a chore that she didn’t want to someone else and so, this task was hers. She collected the woman’s clothes first, fishing in the pockets for anything that might help to identify her. But they were empty, save for a tube of lipstick, a wrinkled gum wrapper and some change.

She took another look at the woman, the long shiny waves of her dark hair, the ends tipped in blue, fanning out around her face, too bruised and broken to be recognizable. Her chipped red nail polish, the last hints to who she was. But who was she? And what happened today?

Jessie couldn’t imagine feeling as sad and despondent as this poor woman must have felt just hours ago, before she jumped to her death. No matter how hard it had been for Jessie, and God knew, there had been hard times, she’d still always known that things would be okay. But this poor woman hadn’t had that same luxury of thought.

She plucked the shroud and tags from the bag and nudged the body over a bit to slide the plastic underneath. And Jessie remembered Sam’s instructions to really observe the scene and then the body from every possible angle. She hadn’t been at the scene, but she could step back for just a minute and take a good, long look at poor Jane Doe. Her wavy black hair almost concealed the terrible open wounds on the back of her head, bits of tissue still stuck in the strands. Her arms appeared to be broken as well. Jessie lifted them gently to tuck them by her side and her gaze was drawn to the woman’s wrists. There were red indentations around her wrists, as though from hair ties or bracelets. Jessie looked closer. There were full-thickness abrasions on her knuckles and along her slender fingers, as though she’d fought to hold onto something to break her fall. Several of her fingernails had been torn off as well. Had she changed her mind too late? Had she tried to grab onto the edge of the building to save herself?

It was then Jessie noticed the bits of debris under the woman’s remaining nails—skin and visible blood—hard to imagine it was her own unless she’d scratched at herself while she fell. Jessie looked closer. The woman’s fingertips were blue, something more likely found on a body that had been deceased for a while but a curious sign in a woman who’d just died. Her skin was cool and gray, her back floppy and pliant and likely broken, the skin on her left hip mottled and spongy, her leg bent at an impossible angle. Her right leg seemed intact, sturdy and straight: no unusual angles, no open wounds, no obvious fractures. Considering the facial and posterior skull trauma on the left, maybe she’d landed on that side.

Jessie paused. She’d only taken care of one other jumper—a young man who’d jumped from a height of twenty feet in a failed suicide attempt. He’d survived, though his back and both legs were badly broken, his pelvis almost crushed. And she’d assumed that was how jumpers would present—with devastating fractures to the lower extremities and covered with blood from open wounds. But aside from her facial wounds, this woman had no evidence of other bleeding; her lacerations and injuries were almost too clean, too pristine in such a traumatic death.

Strange, she thought as she padded the woman’s wrists before securing them together with string and wrapping a yellow tag on her great toe with the little information available. “Unknown female; no further information.”

She began to pull the plastic edges of the shroud together and leaned in for a final look. Something just didn’t feel right. She stepped away from the stretcher just as the door swung open.

“Hey,” Detective Ralph Thompson said, standing back a little from the trauma room.

A friendly smile draped her lips. She and Ralph, a detective with a résumé that read like a Rhodes Scholar, had started with Homicide within weeks of each other, and he and Jessie had developed a friendship born of being rookies together. Ralph had a long, impressive background as an army officer, policeman and now a law student. He followed rules and protocols to the letter never, at least as far as Jessie knew, deviating from that hard-line policy. She’d do just about anything for him, and she knew he’d do the same for her. They were the newest of Detective Sergeant Sam Dallas’s squad, which included several seasoned detectives. Jessie was their forensic nurse, the liaison between the Homicide unit and the medical examiner’s office.

Ralph tugged a notebook from the pocket of his perfectly pressed suit. That was the other thing about Ralph. His appearance was flawless, his hair trimmed just so, his clothes impeccable; not even a smidgen of lint dared to linger there. With his coal-black eyes and ebony skin, he looked more model than detective. He was just too perfect. Until she got to know him and realized that was his first line of defense against people who might question a black man with his résumé and experience. His persnickety adherence to rules was his second, and his unquestioned expertise was a third line.

“Hey, Jessie, sorry to bother you,” he said. “I’m here about Jane Doe. She still here?”

Jessie pulled the door open and nodded toward the stretcher. “Hey, Ralph, I’m glad you’re here. I was just finishing up with her, getting ready to send her to the morgue.”

“Okay if I have a quick look?” he asked, his voice soft and respectful.

“Take your time. I’ll stay with you,” she said, to reassure his unspoken anxieties. “Do you know what happened? Did she really jump?” She was about to mention the broken fingernails, the debris under some of them, and the dusky, blue skin—cyanosis—but she wanted to give him a chance to view the victim.

He shrugged. “Hard to say. One of the witnesses said he thought that maybe someone else was up there, but he was looking up, said he was squinting at the sun, which probably blocked his full view. He’d turned away not thinking much of it until he heard a scream. And that was when he saw her falling backward, her body just dropping like a sack of potatoes. He’s pretty shaken up. We’re checking to see if anyone else saw someone up there, but so far that doesn’t seem likely. The remaining witnesses only saw her right before she landed with a loud thud. I’m just here to have a look and get some preliminary information. Time of death?” he asked.

Jessie checked her notes. “She was pronounced at twelve thirty-two p.m.,” she said.

“Any ID on her?”

“Nothing,” Jessie said. “She has a cross dangling from a chain around her neck but no wallet, no papers, no other jewelry. Just this,” she said, holding up the lipstick, gum wrapper and loose coins she’d found in the woman’s jeans.

“What’s your impression?” he asked.

Jessie moved to one side of the stretcher, pulling the shroud away from the body. “She has a few injuries that made me wonder. She has significant facial trauma, enough that she’ll be hard to identify, and she has abrasions on her hands—broken fingernails as though she was struggling. She doesn’t have any obvious lower-extremity fractures. I’m no expert, but I think that’s unusual in jumpers. She has plenty of other injuries but there’s no active bleeding. She’s already cyanotic, her skin mottled, and that doesn’t happen immediately. It takes time. I don’t see any stab wounds or gunshot wounds, no signs of strangulation that would explain that. And the facial trauma wouldn’t have killed her.” She sighed loudly. “When I add everything up, I think she was probably dead when she fell. But that final determination will be up to the ME.”

Ralph nodded. “Nice observations, Jessie. And why didn’t she have any ID? Did she just not carry one, or did someone remove her IDs? Maybe she was robbed.” He leaned in for a closer look. “Her hair is so dark, and her skin has the slightest tinge of brown.” He looked up at Jessie and caught her eye. “Hispanic?”

“Maybe,” Jessie replied. “To tell you the truth, I hadn’t even thought of that, but now that you mention it, probably.”

“Hmm, makes me wonder if she’s an illegal. Sorry, undocumented. And maybe that’s why she had no ID.” He sighed and stepped back. “Well, you never know, that cross, gum wrapper and lipstick might be a start. I’ll take her belongings. Can you remove that chain for me? Forensics might be able to find something we can use.”

Jessie gently ran her gloved hands around the woman’s neck, her fingers searching for the clasp. The thin chain slipped away, and Jessie dropped it into a small envelope before passing it to Ralph with the rest of her belongings. “Just tragic that she died this way. Poor thing. Can’t imagine what she went through, if she jumped.”

“Tragic as it is, we’ve had a few of these jumpers the last year or so. Two of them were in the last six months—young female college students, one from the roof of her dorm, the other from the window of a sixth-floor classroom. Both had IDs, but no suicide notes, no hint, according to family and friends, that either was suicidal. I don’t know if this one is related, but she’s the third young woman. Very sad,” he said, shaking his head.

“So, what’s your gut telling you, Ralph? Do you think this woman jumped?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she fell. Sometimes when people jump, they change their minds too late. If she really did scream, maybe that’s why.”

Jessie nodded. “That might explain the abrasions on her hands, and debris under her nails. But the cyanosis and mottling?” Jessie shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“We’ll have to wait for the ME’s report,” Ralph said.

“Do you know the circumstances of the other girls’ deaths? Did Homicide look into them?”

“I don’t know the details, and if the ME rules a death a suicide, we don’t interfere unless there’s overwhelming evidence that points to something else.”

She turned to the counter to collect the EMTs’ reports so that Dr. Dawson, the medical examiner, would have them. “Will you be calling Sam?” she asked over her shoulder. Sam was away for the weekend to see his mother, and Jessie had felt a tinge of annoyance that he hadn’t asked her to accompany him, to meet his family, become a part of his life. She’d had to remind herself that they were still new, and that the best things took time.

Ralph nodded. “Well, you know he’s not around, so I’ll fill him in tomorrow. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised to see you here. I would’ve thought you’d be with him.”

Jessie smiled. She could almost see the sparkle in Sam’s gray eyes, hear the tenderness in his voice. Ralph was the only person in the Homicide unit who knew that she and Sam were a couple. They’d decided it was best to keep it quiet, to navigate this new relationship without outside interference. But since Sam spent most of his work time with Ralph, who would surely notice the increased calls and texts between them, they’d decided to let him in on their secret. He’d been pleasantly surprised and supportive, even insisting they make plans for dinner with him and his wife.

She crossed her arms and shrugged. “I kind of thought so too, but maybe it’s too soon.”

Ralph snorted. “You know how he feels about you, Jessie. He’s probably telling his mother about you right now.”

Aware that his eyes were still on her, she smiled. “Bless you for that. Maybe he’ll ask me next time.”

Fastidious as ever, Ralph flicked an imaginary piece of lint from his suit jacket and folded his hand over the belongings bag. “Sam—”

“So,” she said, anxious to end this line of conversation and any discussion of her relationship with Sam, “if we’re all set, I’ll just finish up and call the ME’s office to pick her up.”

Ralph nodded and moved for the door, before turning back. “Want to come for dinner tonight?”

She smiled and then laughed. “Thanks, Ralph, for trying to keep me occupied and out of trouble, but I’m working till eleven thirty.”

He pulled her into a quick hug. “Okay. And keep us posted on the autopsy?”

“I’ll definitely let you know what he says. I’d like to be there myself to share my own findings.” She turned back to the body. “That cyanosis might just change the time, and manner, of death.”

He smiled. “See ya later, Jessie,” he said as she turned back to the body, the door closing softly as he left.

Jessie finished wrapping the corpse, leaving the breathing tube and intravenous catheters in place for Roger so that he could differentiate original wounds from any injuries that a vigorous resuscitation at the scene and in the ER might have caused. When that was done, she called for transport to take her to the morgue. No need to ask for a pickup by the ME’s staff. Transport could take her through the tunnels that ran under Albany Street and into the morgue.

She held the door open for the transporter and turned to the loudspeaker. “Housekeeping to Trauma One,” she said just as Carmen, the housekeeper, swept in.

“Thanks, Carmen,” she said, glancing one last time at the room.

“Jessie Novak, line one,” the clerk called over the loudspeaker.

Jessie had hoped today would be quiet—the first really warm day of spring with so much promise in the air, but she hadn’t even been at work an hour and already things were going south: a multiple trauma had just arrived, and another was en route. “Hello,” she answered tersely.

“Umm, hello,” a timid male voice said. “I was told I had to speak with the charge nurse. Is that you?”

“Yes. How can I help you?”

“Well, I’m calling about that woman who jumped. I was wondering how she is.”

“And who are you?” Jessie asked, hopeful that maybe the caller knew the woman and. . .