Down to the Needle

Chapter 2

Chapter 2News of the warehouse fire aired as yet another in a string of mysterious arsons. The fire had been so hot that the remains of the only charred body found were beyond recognition. At best, they had only the teeth, skull, and bones with no telltale marks on them. The best clues to the person's identity would come from the coroner's examination.

Two days later, as Abi and Joe watched a newscast, Abi became intrigued by police photos of an angry-looking young woman with a shaved head that appeared in the upper corner of the TV screen. Abi paused from setting the table to watch. Joe crossed the room behind her carrying a hammer.

The commentator spoke. “Upcoming on Top O' The Hour News, more about the abominable plight of inmate Megan Winnaker, one of the growing number of women sentenced to death in the United States.”

Abi stepped forward, studying the photos. Joe stopped to watch, too, but then a commercial intruded. She muted the TV and turned to Joe. “Suppose a radical like her turned out to be my daughter.”

“It's a sad world.” He shrugged. “Anyone could be standing beside a murderer and never know it.”

“Pity that poor girl.” Abi resumed placing utensils on the table.

“Yeah, if any help was coming for her, it should have happened by now.”

They had placed a small occasional table and chairs directly in front of the fireplace, their favorite spot to enjoy meals, instead of in the dining room. Glow from the embers cast flickering shadows over the dinner table and danced through prisms of the crystal water goblets. Half-spent logs crackled and popped in the fireplace, the heat staving off the nighttime chill. The smell of burning oak was synonymous with shelter from winter's ragged edges.

Daily rains and a lingering bite in the air dashed all hopes for an early spring. Still, Abi felt changes stirring, similar to the spring fever she felt when she and Joe met five years earlier. The excitement of a new relationship had triggered metamorphoses on all levels.

Abi paused beside the table, deep in thought.

Joe came to her side. “Want some help?”

“Her eyes were too close.” Abi mumbled to herself as Joe turned and headed for the dining room. “Nose…too long.” She had never seen a close-up of Megan Winnaker in all the years the case had lasted.

From the day her five-year-old was abducted, Abi vowed never to stop searching till her daughter was safely returned to her arms. Twenty-three years had passed without a trace of Becky Ann. Multiple fruitless searches had caught up with Abi and worn her ragged. Over the years, she had gone so far as to become involved in several missing-person cases. She stayed involved till each young girl was reunited with family, or whose skeletal remains were identified. With each disappointment, alone in bed at night, she ached for the families and suffered their tragedies with them. In luckier cases, she felt their elation and triumph. Those inspirational reunions gave her hope toward an eventual happy ending with her daughter. They were rehearsals, meant as a sign that she and her daughter, too, would be re-united. Abi's need to find her little girl intensified until, at times, she found herself grasping at the most intelligible of clues.

As the years passed, when weariness took over, Abi sometimes thought that her gifted child had slipped through the cracks of society. That's why she had to look everywhere, including the most unlikely places, and at every young woman. As time wore on, clues diminished. Fewer and fewer cases turned up with girls the same age as her daughter.

Not until recent years did Abi learn to tone down her desperation. She had grown envious to the point of resentment each time she heard of someone else's joyous reunion. Morose had been her state of mind when Joe Arno happened into her life. He was a breath of sanity she so urgently needed. So she suppressed her despair, yet kept alert to any possibilities, still determined to leave no clue untested. She had never disclosed all the details of Becky's disappearance to Joe, only enough to help him understand.

Stirrings of renewal brought on by an unexpected relationship helped her change her image and outlook on life. She cropped her thick dark wavy hair so it required minimal care, and exercised to tone back the firmness she once had. She shed a few pounds and looked younger than her forty-eight years. How could she have let herself go? Soon after her renewal, pseudo-friends drifted away, taking morbid curiosity and pity with them. It was just as well. Abi needed to stay strong, healthy and focused both physically and emotionally. She never knew when a clue to Becky's whereabouts might appear.

“No, thank heaven.” She exhaled not realizing she had held her breath. “That one's not my daughter.”

Suddenly Joe was standing beside her again and touched her shoulder, interrupting her reverie. “Abi, what did you just say?”

She had to think a moment. “The inmate.” She gestured toward the TV with the utensils in her hand. “She doesn't look a bit like me.”

Joe seemed instantly repulsed. “That one's not your daughter.” His voice was exaggerated, misdirected, and made the idea seem ludicrous. Such a gesture was not typical of his gentle, oftentimes-humorous nature, but he did have a way of making a point. This special man was a pillar of strength and carried himself more like a stately baron than a hotshot photographer. He seldom raised his voice but all evening had seemed much distracted. What could be eating at him?

It was times like this that reminded her of the private hell she suppressed. When Joe suggested they have dinner at her home that evening and watch his documentary, Abi had thought to finally explain the secret she kept hidden in the spare bedroom upstairs. He had not seen all the rooms of the house since just after she remodeled. With him definitely edgy about something else, it would not be an opportune time to divulge skeletons in her closet.

“How can you say that?” She was mostly curious about the tone of his words. “I have to look at everyone if I'm to find—”

“Sh-h-h!” He grabbed up the remote as if angry, turned toward the TV and brought up the volume.

“This just in.” The news anchor said.

Joe laid the remote on the tabletop. “Listen, Abi!” He took a step closer to the TV as the insets popped up again.

“As we continue our coverage of inmate Megan Winnaker in these final months…” Now the anchor's voice droned, as if holding back emotion, playing the part of an unbiased newscaster. “Rachter Valley Prison psychiatrist, Dr. Gilda Sayer, reports that Winnaker is deeply despondent and has succumbed to pneumonia yet again.”

A photo of the inmate in prison appeared over the newscaster's shoulder. Abi stepped closer trying to get a better look at the young woman's face. What was the purpose of showing images and then flicking them off within seconds?

Joe still held the hammer and tapped the head in his palm as he watched. “Damn it! Why hasn't something happened for her?”

The newscaster continued to speak without showing emotion. “The psychiatrist states that although Winnaker maintains her innocence, she will be put to death immediately should she lose her final appeal. She is both physically and emotionally exhausted, which is probably the cause of her failing health.” Other photos of the inmate flashed across the screen.

Several motorcycles rumbled past on the street outside Abi's home. The air itself seemed to vibrate. The noise was intrusive. She strained to hear the newscaster till the outside noise abated.

“Winnaker's mental state is also deteriorating.” The newscaster's expression had not changed. “Dr. Sayer claims this is caused by a repressed wish to die, an unconscious effort to extract her from a situation she can do nothing more about.”

Abi glanced at Joe, whose gaze was glued to the TV screen. “Joe…?”

“Wait, Abi!”

The wind howled. The patio door windows that Joe was repairing in the dining room rattled. He seemed as if he might go back to work on them but couldn't break away from the news.

A picture of the state capital building appeared as the newscaster continued. “Winnaker's appeal is now before the state Supreme Court.” The building in the background disappeared and the newsroom showed again. “But due to the backlog of cases, their decision is not expected till early next year. Though Winnaker has been adamant all along about proving her innocence, all the lower courts upheld her conviction. The Supreme Court's favorable decision would be her final chance for a new trial and an attempt to overturn the sentence of death by lethal injection. However, her case has been examined and re-examined through appeals, which were all denied.”

The newscaster's expression changed somewhat. “As we all know, Winnaker's is the most sensational women's case since back in the 1950's when vice girl, Barbara Graham, cried out, 'I want to live!' as she was being escorted to the gas chamber.”

The Winnaker crime scene flashed across the screen: a night sky lit by a home engulfed in flame and paramedics loading a man receiving oxygen into the back of an ambulance.

The newscaster continued. “If you'll recall, Winnaker was convicted of the deaths of three people under heinous circumstances, the attempted homicide of another, and all other related charges in the g**g-style torch burning of a home outside Creighton over eight years ago. Her accomplices were never apprehended because, to this day, Winnaker insisted she had nothing to do with the fire and, therefore, could not name names. Winnaker claimed she had been drawn to the Seaport area after seeing pictures in a travel magazine.” A magazine page with photos flicked onto the screen for less than a second then dissolved back over the newscaster's shoulder. “At the time she was arrested and all through court proceedings, Winnaker stuck to the story that the Nazi memorabilia found in her possession was all her father left behind when he died unexpectedly. Prosecutors alleged she migrated westward, enticed by the number of insurgent g**g members living in Creighton.”

Joe kept shaking his head. What could he find so interesting about an arson-murder case?

“Which g**g, Joe?”

“In this case, the Dregs. But don't forget the White Liners and the Bangers either. They're all a sordid bunch.”

Newspapers occasionally carried reports of g**g-style violence. Anyone rejected as a member of the motorcycle gangs or the neo-Nazis, eventually found their way into the Dregs. That much Abi knew. The Dregs had a reputation for being the scum of the earth and everything in which they were involved proved it. Some shaved their heads imitating the Aryans. Some spiked and dyed their hair in gaudy colors. Some dressed like the biker crowd. Oftentimes, their appearances misdirected police when trying to solve crimes.

The newscaster picked up his notes and moved them aside, a sign this story was about to end. “In order to support herself, Winnaker claimed she had been trying to sell at the flea markets what she thought was her father's worthless junk. Being homeless, she lived out of a mini-storage cubicle and ate her meals at The Beacon, one of the soup kitchens for the homeless. And, of course, at the mini-storage was where police found incriminating evidence that tied Winnaker to the crime.”

Abi watched Joe stare at the screen, oblivious to the fact that the co-anchor had introduced a new topic. It was happening again: that streak of impatience that flared up as he tried to understand something, that pensive look in his deep-set eyes, the set of his proud square chin held steady as his mind took off on a tangent. Even the gray at his temples accentuated his mood. At that moment, his expression revealed an intensity she dared not challenge.

A loss he suffered in his younger years had toughened him and taught him how to keep his emotions afloat. After she met Joe, he was instrumental in teaching her to laugh again. Despite some bouts of impatience, his overall mood seldom varied. Through him, she found a deeper measure of stability. They lived to bolster one another. He had always been patient with her, encouraging and supportive, even witty. Yet, in the past few weeks he seemed edgy, distant, might even have avoided her. Unexpectedly, he suggested they have dinner and watch one of his documentaries. But that news flash about Megan Winnaker was not his work and he didn't need an ulterior motive for them to be together.

For two people with only sad memories to go on, they had cajoled one another into believing life could still be pleasurable, even joyous. They created their own happiness despite what the capricious hand of fate held over them.

Joe turned and headed to the dining room to finish repairing the loose windows.

Abi's pulse throbbed up the side of her neck and echoed in her ears. She had to calm down. Evenings after a busy day were not her strongest hours. She headed into the kitchen to check the dinner. Her nerves were jangled. Moments like these were unpredictable. How could fate have concocted such an outrageous dichotomy? Taut facial features with a cherub look that wore the years well, and a gift of an enduring svelte body, yet accompanied by an unpredictable case of angina pectoris. She stuck a nitro tablet under her tongue and hid the prescription bottle again before Joe could playfully sneak up behind her, as he often did.