Purple Kitty

Book 1: Serena McKay Crime Novel

by Chariss K. Walker, Marty Parker

Genres: Dark Fantasy; Paranormal; Hard-Boiled; Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi; Dystopian; Crime Fiction; serial killer; crime suspense; dystopian thriller; Chariss K Walker; dark fiction; hard boiled

Synopsis

This is a dark, disturbing time where only the very rich control the fates of the rest. Serena McKay lives in a dark world where she has been abused, humiliated, tormented, and degraded, first as a child, then when training to be a police officer. Still, she has the heart to take on lost causes and hopeless cases which inevitably force her to confront head-on the callous establishment and its misogynist operatives. Serena is good at her job and possesses an overwhelming imperative to see justice done. She’s not Jessica Fletcher and this is not a cozy mystery. It’s a gritty story of a feisty private investigator that gets down and dirty solving crimes. Her A-List specialty – abduction, abuse, adultery, and any asshole that gets in her way... And, she does this all while a notorious serial killer is after her green eyes.

Release date: April 16, 2016

Publisher: Independently Published

Print pages: 266

Content advisory: Rated R, sexual abuse, physical abuse, murder, language, dark content, emotional triggers

Sample

Chapter 1

I'm Serena McKay, a private eye. Right now, I'm sitting on a hard, wooden barstool at Scotty’s Pub nursing a shot of Vodka, my drug of choice. I'm often plagued by memories and nightmares of my past. The vodka helps to keep the memories at bay. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. Tonight is one of those times that it doesn't work as memory from my days at the Police Academy come crashing through to scorch my mind.

“You’re a hardheaded bitch, McKay! We told you to quit, but no, you wouldn’t listen,” Billy Lee ground out his words through gritted teeth as he punched me in the chest. I blocked, shifted my weight…jab, jab, cross. Bam, bam, bam! “I said to fucking hold her!” he snarled. “You know she’s lethal in a fight.”

“This isn’t a fight. It’s a beat down!” I huffed out between swings. “What’s with you Billy, can’t get it any other way? Have to get your buddies to hold a girl down?”

“I said to hold her!” Billy yelled again.

Terry and John grabbed my arms while Dave landed a few blows to my kidneys. I stomped down on Terry’s instep and twisted free, slicing a sideways palm directly into his throat.

Gasping for air, he collapsed.

Weakened from the repeated kidney punches, I faltered. It allowed them to grab me again. John kicked my legs out from under me and I went down. I covered my head to block the mob’s ferocious kicking.

“Quit, damn you!” angry voices hissed. “Just get out! If you don’t drop out, I swear we’ll kill you!”

“What about the other split-tail? What about her pal, Moon?” Dave panted from exertion, pointing to a downed Vega Moon.

“If McKay drops out, she will too. Leave her for now…she’s already down,” Billy replied. “Someone’s coming…Let’s go!”

The voices of Billy Lee, Terry Smith, John Wiseman, Dave Burros, and six other male recruits blended into a cacophony of noise in my ringing ears.

It wasn’t the first attack and it wouldn’t be the last either.

Their aggressive threats had echoed around me, taunting, terrorizing, and pricking at my subconscious while their spiteful fists had pounded my soft tissues.

At this moment, the pain from the recalled beating felt as real as the remembered verbal assaults. These male chauvinist men did not want women in the Academy and would do anything to try to drive them out, threats, beatings whatever they thought necessary.

 

 

“Hmm,” I muttered after downing the last thimble-size shot of vodka. I shook my head to clear it of the memories. “Hmm.”

It’s fitting that the worst members of that group are now dead. Billy and Dave were killed in a bizarre accident a few years back.

Both men were crushed when their Bearcat armored vehicle was buried beneath a truckload of debris and rubble.

Then, just a few months ago, two more died.

John Wiseman either fell or was pushed through an uncovered manhole, breaking his neck in the process. Terry Smith’s weapon supposedly went off in his face as he cleaned it.

Their causes of death were inconclusive, though it was rumored that some at The Department thought each was suspicious. When I heard the news, I didn’t feel anything other than regret. Regret that I did not get the chance to dish out their just punishment.

Fate had beaten me to it.

Now, as I sat near the register of the highly polished bar, I turned over another empty glass, placing it next to several other empties on the counter.

They say that drinking any liquor straight is an acquired taste. I happen to like mine neat.

On occasion, white, pearly onions add a nice garnish. Even so, when I’m out, I rarely overindulge. Tonight was an exception and I blamed it on one helluva-exhausting day, both mentally and physically.  Tonight, I enjoyed the vodka’s grapy taste a little too much.

At home, it’s different.

Sometimes, I need a light buzz to sleep, to keep the nightmares at bay.

I suppose my shrink would say I’m self-medicating…Trying to dull the pain…Live with the secrets.

For now, it’s time to get home. I have an early morning.

“What’s going on with you, McKay?” Jimmy the bartender asked in a soft baritone voice.

In his late fifties, barrel-chested, and bald, Jimmy owns Scotty’s Pub and takes great pride in its cleanliness.

It’s my favorite spot. I’ve been coming here for the last six years, ever since I moved into the apartment building across the street. I guess Jimmy knows me pretty well and better than most of my neighbors do.

 

The question he asked brought me back from a lost-in-thought stupor. A dozen responses swirled around in my head, but none of the replies surfaced.

I do that a lot. The words are there, but they don’t find their way into a structured sentence for anyone else to hear.

I quickly scanned the bar, and searching the tables, I discovered I’m the last customer.

Jimmy would never kick me out just because it’s closing time. Raised by a single mother, he’s too polite and gentle for that. Besides, no one is ever shown the door at Scotty’s unless something ends up broken or someone complains.

“I can’t rightly say, Jimmy,” I sighed while laying a wad of bills next to the row of empty jiggers. “It’s been a very long and exhausting day.”

“I understand,” he sympathetically agreed.

I knew he did.

He’d had his own troubles over the years. His only son had died while serving in somebody else’s war, and then, his grieving wife drank herself to death.

Other than one time when he took his disappointment out on a brawler with the baseball bat kept behind the counter, he had remained a pillar of strength through it all.

“You’re a good man, Jimmy,” I praised. “Thanks for giving me space to nurse the troubles. Solitude is usually where I find solutions.”

“Did you find any answers tonight?” he politely asked.

“Still working on it,” I admitted with a sardonic smile.

“Most folks can’t find solitude in the midst of others, Serena. It’s too distracting. I guess the booze helps, right? You had quite a few so take it easy out there,” he grunted as he continued to wipe the shiny wooden surface.

“You too,” I mumbled.

At the doorway, I placed outstretched hands on the doorjambs to steady myself.

I’d imbibed a little too much, but I could still walk across the street to my apartment building. With a light scoff, I looked both ways before crossing the street, just as I had been taught as a child.

Jimmy watched me until I safely reached the other side of the street before he closed and locked the door. Turning out lights, he quickly headed upstairs to the apartment above the bar.

Very little traffic in sight, but at this time of night, that isn’t unusual in August City. It’s late, or early, depending on your perspective. Generally, people are afraid to be outside in the dark. Darkness scares most sensible folks. It sends a chill of warning down their spines.

However, it’s worse here.

My city is a very dangerous place to live. I’ve seen darkness at its worst. Maybe I should be afraid too, but I’m not.

It took two tries to get the key to open the rusty security gate. The building doesn’t have a doorman. Fallhaven isn’t that kind of neighborhood.

Just as I finally got the key to work, someone from the shadows grabbed my left arm, painfully twisting it behind my back.

Now I’ve been trained to take out an attacker…and I could’ve done so in less than five seconds, but I didn’t.

Curiosity wanted to know who, what, and why.

Who sent him?

What did he want?

Why was he here?

He forced me ahead and down the dimly lit hallway while I played along.

“You try anything and I’m gonna fuck you up,” he hissed next to my ear as a sharp blade pressed against my back.

Those words were eerily familiar. I’d heard them many times before. Revulsion swept over me as I involuntarily shuddered. The flashback brought on a wave of nausea, but I shook it off…I had to. It wouldn’t do any good to let that slimy, foul memory get the upper hand now, especially with a knife tip at my back, nicking my skin.

I can usually handle my booze. Even when I’m drinking to take the edge off, I’m always vigilant and observant.

However, this time, I never saw the bastard hiding in the darkness. Maybe, I did have one too many tonight. Maybe, my senses were dulled from the disappointing and depressing day, but my reflexes weren’t too slow to respond now. I knew exactly what to do.

Never more alive, I sensed everything around me. Everything crackled with electricity.

The hall’s soft lighting quietly buzzed in the background, flickering off and on. The static in the carpet snapped and popped underfoot. The cold steel of the blade, slicing through a bra strap, tingled against my spine.

I gritted my teeth as another sharp point pushed against my buttocks.

I’m not a person to trifle with, and I don’t do well with being ‘cornered.’ Even if I have to go through someone, I’ll find a way out of nearly every situation.

“That’s a good girl,” he rasped. The grating sound was soon followed by a harsh laugh. “Don’t make any noise. You don’t want to involve the neighbors. No witnesses to get hurt. Besides, if your pussy is hot and juicy, this won’t take long.”

“Where are you taking me?” I tried to discern his plan.

“You live in this building. Take me to your apartment,” he ordered.

That was never going to happen.

I steered him away from the elevator. His grip tightened on my arm, pushing it harder as he warned me, “Don’t forget I’m the one in control now. You’ll do as I say.”

“Ow! You’re hurting me,” I said through gritted teeth in response to the freshly inflicted pain. “Do I know you? Who sent you?” I needed him to talk, to tell me what I wanted to know.

“Shut up,” he hissed.

It was easy to assume I had enemies. In my line of work, it was not unusual to have foes and rivals. “Who have I pissed off while digging around in his or her life? Come on, you can tell me,” I coaxed.

“No one sent me,” he informed me matter-of-factly. “No one…except you. You called to me the moment you came out of the bar. You, all alone. Walking home all by your little lonesome…how could I resist? Sexy and alone…Can’t wait to see where those thigh-high boots end,” he spoke each sentence and fragment slowly as he breathed against my hair. His free hand raked across my thigh. “Do I have to spell it out for you? I couldn’t miss such an inviting and sw-sweet opportunity. I’m feeling a bit randy.” He humped against me several times, his hard cock obvious, as he moaned in anticipation, “Unntz, unntz, unntz.”

“No, it’s unnecessary. I understand,” I calmly responded, preparing to do my worst to the bastard.

“He’s coming for you,” he whispered so softly that I wasn’t sure I’d heard the words at all. Still, a chill streaked down my spine.

“What did you say?” I demanded. “Who sent you, you bastard? Tell me?”

“You’ve lost it, you crazed bitch. I already told you…no one sent me. You called to me,” he shakily muttered, glancing around the hallway to get his bearings as if dazed.

I twisted my head to look at him and caught a glimpse of his face. He wasn’t lying. Did I imagine the message? Although he continued to maintain the grip on my arm, he was now disoriented, confused, and frightened.

Why?

My free hand aimed for his nuts.

“Je--sus!” he managed to scream for a short milli-burst before dropping the knife and grabbing his package with both hands.

That released me.

Although it wasn’t necessary, I kicked the shiny blade out of reach before calling 9-1-1.

I had only tazed him for a couple of seconds, but it was more than enough. If his testicles could be found at all, I was certain they were now the size of acorns. When fifty thousand volts spark through the body, the current causes extreme contractions. His balls were likely terrified and hiding inside his body.

Never underestimate the power of electricity.

For that matter, don’t discount an angry, capable woman facing rape either.

Now incapacitated, he was on his knees. He whimpered while looking up at me with shock and dread, fearing the jolt would hit him again.

“Who’s coming for me?” I demanded again, shaking him by the shoulders.

“Wh-what?” he managed to stutter, eyes wider now. “What…wh-what are you ta-talking about, you cr-crazed ca-ca-crunt?”

“You said, ‘he’s coming for you.’ I want to know where you heard that. Who hired you to deliver that message?” I demanded again.

“I sw-swear,” he cried. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t say that.”

“You tell him it won’t be as easy as this,” I lambasted. “As for you, you should’ve known nothing is ever what it seems,” I slowly and succinctly sneered while staring into wide, frightened eyes. “Nothing is easy. Nothing is free. Nothing is personal. A girl walking all alone isn’t always an easy target. A sexy woman exiting a bar isn’t an invitation. Do I have to spell it out for you?” Without waiting for a response, I clocked him under the chin with a leather-clad knee.

 

 

When a Detective arrived with Foot Patrol, my attacker was still out. He stayed that way until the ambulance arrived and began to revive him.

I gave a statement and listened to the Cops buzz like bees as they cuffed the assailant to a stretcher. When he recovered, the Detective would arrest him.

Was it really a threat or had I imagined the words spoken? I’d previously nearly lost my mind over that same phrase.

I pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the present, not what happened more than seven years ago. Did this attack have anything to do with the newest client? It certainly didn’t seem random.

“Fallhaven is a rough neighborhood,” the Detective summed up his report and closed his notebook.

“Crime statistics aren’t as bad here,” I defended. “We both know the roughest areas are in the center districts, the inner city. Until now, no one has ever pulled a knife or gun on me in these few blocks. It’s a relatively safe place to live.”

“Look, I know you were some hotshot Detective back in the day, but I might have to disagree with you,” he mockingly chuckled. “When he came around, the perp said you tazed him in the nuts,” the Detective probed. “It’s convenient that you had a Taser with you…any particular reason for that?”

“Some training from the Academy never leaves us, does it?” I ambiguously admitted.

“He’ll need physical therapy if he’s ever going to walk straight again,” the Detective sympathetically commented.

“If I hadn’t tazed him, I might be lying in a pool of blood,” I deflected. “He had a knife…remember? That ambulance might’ve been here for me instead of him. How’s that going to help anyone? Besides, let’s figure out why someone attacked me rather than blame it on the neighborhood, all right?”

“I’m sure you’ll do that very thing,” he agreed as he prepared to leave. “We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.”

And, that was it.

It had to be the new case. That very morning, I’d taken on a new client…a client that no one else wanted. It involved a missing child and the only clue was a big, fat purple stuffed animal, named Purple Kitty.

Cases that involved children made everyone nervous, but this one made me sick. The Feds backed off and so did the Cops.

If someone is trying to warn me off this case, it isn’t working. I’m more determined than ever to see it through.

Besides, I can take care of myself.

 

 

August City sounds like a lovely place to live or visit. That’s how relocation brochures describe it to visitors and new residents. It’s what advertisements tell tourists – “solemn splendor and dignity, noble and impressive.”

Built as a large rectangle and divided into four districts, parts of August City are splendid. Other parts are dark and dirty, even scary and deadly.

Summerhaven, the first district, is filled with the large, wealthy estates of beautiful people enjoying successful careers. It’s filled with five-star restaurants, hotels, and nightlife.

Springhaven, the second district, is not quite as prosperous but still houses an elite social class along with appropriate entertainment. Summerhaven and Springhaven districts are nearly crime-free. 

Fallhaven, the third district, is home to what is left of the middle class. It has a few amenities, but nothing compared to the other two districts.

Finally, there’s Winterhaven. Few residents from any other parts of the city go there after five o’clock. Those who work there make a hasty exit after leaving their jobs. Tourists are encouraged to stay away at all times. The worse criminals sit in wait for the unsuspecting.

I live in Fallhaven – my neighborhood is only a few blocks south of Springhaven, making it a more desirable location than a few blocks north of Winterhaven. Fallhaven is dark, but Winterhaven is pitch-black.

Statistically and overall, August City is considered the crime capital of our country. Although it certainly isn’t the largest city, it still ranks number one in violent crimes.

Including murders and rapes, each year there are over twelve-hundred crimes per one hundred thousand people. Considering the population is a smidge over one and a quarter million that’s a lot of victims suffering from illegal activities, crimes, and heartache.

 

 

 

Chapter 2

My name is Serena McKay and I’m a private eye. I’m paid to investigate. I look into things. I snoop. I find missing persons. I explore child abductions. I stalk the stalker. I shadow spouse and child abusers. I scrutinize tarnished reputations and ill-gotten gains. I find out ‘who’s doing who’ and the dark and dirty nitty-gritty. I dig into the lives of the secretive residents of this city to find the real trashy stuff.

If possible, I catch these perps in the act, take photographic evidence, and make sure the Cops get proof of the criminal activity. If that doesn’t cut it, I find another way to take them down. All in a day’s work.

Sure, I’ve made a few enemies. If I don’t, I’m not doing a good job. Some might want to come after me. Some might want to send someone to do the job for them. I live with that danger on a daily basis because I chose this life. Now, even though the Cops insist that last night’s attack was a chance, indiscriminate assault, I’m not convinced. My instincts, usually spot-on, tell me the assailant was hired. Someone sent him to deliver a not-so-subtle message.

Who?

Vega Moon, a close friend and personal contact at The Department, gave the particulars on the pock-faced assailant. “His name is Glen Baker. He’s a thug with a long rap sheet. Plenty of B&Es, plenty of assaults. Nothing anywhere about sexual assault, rape, or attempted rape charges, Serena,” Vega confirmed. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” she encouraged.

“I’m not sure,” I thoughtfully mused. “It could’ve been a scare tactic or warning. It doesn’t sound like rape is his usual M.O. Still, if rape was his intention, why didn’t he pull me into the shadows outside? Why force me into a lit hallway? No one else was around…I think someone wanted to send a message.”

“What message? What did he want to say?” she rationally asked.

“That’s the million dollar question,” I replied, “but just before I tazed him, I swear I heard him say, ‘he’s coming for you.’ When questioned, he denied saying those words, but I know what I heard. I mean, I feel like I’m losing my mind again.”

“He’s still in prison, Serena,” Vega soothed and comforted. “No way in hell he has the means to send any message, especially that one. No way he’ll get out any time soon if ever. Take some deep breaths. He’s serving forty-two consecutive life sentences and it should be more. Think of the bodies we never found.”

“I know. I know,” I acknowledged.

“I have to get back to work, but I have one more thing to tell you,” Vega continued, “Commander O’Keefe was found dead at his home yesterday. Word is that his tongue was cut out. The Department is really shaken up because his murder is gruesome and bizarre. I’ll let you know more as I find out. Want to meet at Scotty’s for a drink tonight? We can talk about everything. Sounds like you could use one and I know I could.”

“Can’t,” I responded. “Seeing Dr. Hudson tonight at eight. She’ll hate it if I’ve been drinking before the appointment.” We lightheartedly laughed. “How about tomorrow night instead?” I suggested.

“Absolutely,” Vega cheerfully replied. “See you around six-thirty at Scotty’s.”

My relationship with Vega began thirteen years ago, when we both attended the August City Law Enforcement Academy. The hazing administered by fellow male recruits was deplorable and we were lucky to survive it. Vega and I often stood back-to-back fighting them off, but she didn’t have the training I had. She hadn’t spent the last five years building upper body strength or preparing a lean, tough body. Her first fight, other than slapping another female student in high school, happened at the Academy. She tried, but there were too many of them…they always won. The traumas we experienced created a deep and everlasting bond. I’m pretty sure nothing can break it. To avoid those same men at The Department, Vega took a job in the records room rather than walk a beat with them.

“After what they did to us, how can we ever trust they’ll watch our backs out there on the streets?” she argued when I tried to change her mind.

“It’ll be different here at the precinct,” I reassured, but it didn’t convince her.

“Out of sight, out of mind, Serena,” Vega tearfully explained. “I don’t want to attract their attention again. Look, I need this job. I need it in the worst way. My parents are about to lose their home and I have to help them. I fought so hard to get this job…we both did. My pay alone is the medicine needed to infuse their situation. Ever since Dad got hurt…you know? I’d love to have your back out there, but I can’t bear to see the men who did that to us on a daily basis. In the basement, if I see them at all, it won’t be very often. Do you forgive me?”

We both needed the jobs. We’d fought hard to get them too and would do whatever was needed to keep them. In spite of the cruel and harsh treatment, that’s the real reason we stuck it out. In such a terrible economy, any job is cherished, but government employment is coveted.

Being hired by the government is like walking into a pristine new world. Everything is clean, sanitized, and bright, not just the building, but also everything associated with the position. Outside, especially in Fallhaven and Winterhaven, it’s dark and dismal. People live in squalor and fear. A government job is security, safety, and freedom. To some, acquiring the pay and benefits of a federal job is worth eliminating the competition. Any method will do. Torture. Murder. Anything.

“Always Vega, no need to ask,” I reassured.

“What about you?” Vega worried. “What will you do? You had it worse than I did…What makes you think you’ll be safe here or at any precinct?”

“I don’t have a choice either,” I solemnly conceded. “I need this job too and I worked too hard to get it. My foster mother has finally retired and I don’t want to burden my family with my expenses. I need to work and pay my own way. It’s my turn to help them.”

“I get it,” Vega responded, “but I still worry about you.”

“Then, we had to live under the same roof with those responsible…Now, we don’t,” I attempted to soothe her concerns. “It gives them less access to us, to me. Besides, the ten recruits that hurt us at the Academy are now scattered in different precincts all around the city. There’s only three here where we work. As Foot Patrol, I don’t compete with any of them. They don’t have an easy way to gang up on me. My Training Officer is another matter, but I’ll have to put up with it until I get the job experience needed. Besides, you know I can take care of myself, right?”

“I know,” she admitted. “I’ve seen you stomp some serious ass. It doesn’t mean I don’t worry about you. Even when it’s a fair fight, kicking in a man’s teeth only makes him want to get even, to hurt you more. But they don’t fight fair, Serena. You know that better than anyone does. They usually put a weapon to your head or attack like a pack of dogs. I worry about you so much. If you ever need anything, send a request. At least I can have your back in my basement domain.”

“Same here. If you need anything, I’m your girl.”

 

As a P.I., I’ve worked a lot of cases during the six years since leaving The Department. I’m usually hired after a Detective tosses these folders aside, labeling them as unsolvable or a cold case. Vega looks over everything before scanning it into the massive computer system. Then, she files the hardcopies in storage. She’s been known to call the injured parties or their families to see if they want more help. If they decide to pursue the victimization further, I get the referral.

On occasion, I’m called in to consult on individual cases for The Department. I’m not on their payroll and it saves them a few bucks, but they have me on retainer. It’s like a hook in my mouth, tugging and reminding me that I owe them. It’s steady income for me and it means I don’t bring any actual heat down on them when I step over the line. Between recommendations from Vega, Sergeant Wally, another acquaintance at The Department, and client referrals, I stay busy. That’s saying a lot since I don’t advertise. Other than the use of business cards and a shingle at my door, I don’t use any public notice or announcements. I can’t be found in the online yellow pages either. When clients are supposed to find me, they do.

His or her reasons vary, but mainly someone seeks my help to right a wrong. Still, sometimes my services are procured by a client’s curiosity. Other times, someone is looking for an angle, something to use against a competitor. I have no control over the motives. As my own boss, I can refuse any unsavory client’s agenda. If the case gives me the creepers, I do. Still, a girl has to eat, pay rent, and buy thigh-high leather boots on occasion. I don’t always let ethics get in the way of my love affair with Jimmy Choo or Stuart Weitzman.

My bread-and-butter cases are a fair indication of a sad, depressing world and usually involve adultery. Is he cheating? Does he have a creampuff on the side? Is she licking someone else’s dick? Does she have a backdoor man? Unhappy spouses pay big bucks to find the answers to these miserable questions, hoping it will end the source of their pain and despair.

It never does.

Even after I rigorously caution and warn them, they demand to know. They swear they can handle it, that they have to be certain. At least, that’s what they think. A few photos can change everything. Although convinced the results of my investigation will prove their suspicions correct, a picture can make them wish to forget the truth. It’s difficult to go back to oblivion and denial once detailed and camera-friendly evidence reveals the sins of the flesh—infidelity, adultery, or incest. Those pictures are tough to forget.

I use black and white photos. It isn’t the harsh reality of splashy Technicolor. Vivid hues make an indelible impression. Still, any picture is hard to forget. As they say, ‘worth a thousand words.’ It imprints itself on the brain and psyche. Soap and water won’t wash the images away either. Nothing will.

The Department easily loses interest in a folder, especially the types of cases I solve. If it’s not snakebites or gunshots, they tend to stop for coffee. Most Detectives don’t put much stock in solving the mundane or boring, especially after it’s chilled. Like cold spaghetti, a cold case isn’t very appealing to anyone other than the original badge.

Fortunately, for my clients, I don’t feel that way. Nothing is routine to me. I like to unravel the mystery of any case, warm or cold. I admit that some inquiries start out boring, but the deeper I dig…well, it’s like the stuffing in a filled doughnut. It’s the best part. Cops rarely eat anything other than glazed or sprinkles. It’s just the way they are. They like to see what they’re getting. I enjoy a little mystery…like the current DeViney case. Even though it involves a missing child, I’m intrigued that the only clue is Purple Kitty, a favorite stuffed toy left behind.

Technically, I can take on one case a month and still get by…that leaves time for one pro-bono project. I collect most of my fee upfront. When a client is disheartened or disillusioned by what I find, they get angry and don’t want to settle their bill. The hefty retainer on standard contracts isn’t a down payment for services rendered. It’s what I expect a case is worth. It easily pays my rent, feeds me, and buys enough vodka to last the month. That’s a good thing because, although I work hard and my clearance rate is in the nineties, I require a lot of alone time. Depending on which memory haunts me, sometimes that’s also a lot of drinking time.

Like a cat licking its wounds, I brood and stare into space a lot. I’m constantly working out some bit of information or scenario involving a case. I pull and worry at the thread until it either completely unravels or begins to makes sense.

Don’t bother to talk to me when I’m like that…I won’t give a coherent response. During those times, I can’t carry on a civil conversation or make sense when I answer. It’s better for everyone that I don’t reply. On occasion, I have plenty to say, especially to inanimate objects. I talk back and curse everything that is a thing, including self-service checkouts, voice-aided automated machines, robotic greeters, and mechanical meter maids. However, don’t think for even a second that I can always talk to a human being. I can’t. Not always.

I know and accept these character flaws as part of me, but I’m not sure anyone else does. In fact, I’m pretty sure they don’t. I’ve overheard the whispers floating by, “She’s so smart she’s stupid.” That’s one reason that I live alone. Alone is better for everyone. Alone is safer for everyone too.

I’m damaged. I admit it. I’m 31 years old and my past has swallowed me. I can claw my way to the surface on occasion, but for the most part, I’m lost. I’ll never have a husband or child. If there is such a thing, I’ll never have a normal life.

I’m one fucked up bitch.

Fighting who I am and battling that side of my personality would only waste time and cause more unhappiness. It certainly wouldn’t benefit anyone, especially me. Instead, I try to work with these flaws and use it to my advantage. Lost in thought is not entirely a bad thing. It’s where I find solutions and solve the cases I tackle. My shrink would be proud that I’ve attained this level of understanding and self-awareness.

Dr. Hudson says that it’s a survival technique, but I’m not sure about that. According to her, I work on a new case while memories of my own traumatic past percolate on a back burner. She insists my intelligence allows me to function in two distinct worlds, past and future. It’s the present, the here and now, where I have the most trouble. Unless I plan it, expect it, or know it’s coming, I have a difficult time accepting it or going with the flow.

In my defense, I manage a professional life very well. I can be anything and anyone for a week because that’s what it takes to get the job done. Assuming the persona of someone else is a requirement in my job. Interviewing a witness or new client, I handle like a champ. I follow a lead or hunch without distraction. I defeat a threat against my life without breaking a sweat. I can easily manage any of those occasions because I’m certain such a possibility is imminent and just around the corner. I chose a life where chaotic events are probable and likely. Not everyone is, but I’m comfortable with unpredictable and disorder. A few sections of my personal life are also easy. Planning to have a drink with Max or Vega is perfect. Lunch with Henry is wholly enjoyable. Having an appointment with my therapist, I got it.

Most of the time, I think Dr. Hudson’s full of shit…spouting a lot of psychological mumbo-jumbo for sure. However, to put it in terms anyone can understand…my need for solitude is like a drug. I need that alone time to function. I have to have it.

Working for me, as my own boss, is the only job that assures I can get what I need. It’s why I tolerated and suffered the abuse at the Academy and The Department. A necessary evil, it allowed me to get the training needed so I could enjoy a life of solitude. My sanity and health depended on it.