Naked Justice by William Bernhardt Read Free Book Online Page B

against his mouth, suppressing his gag reflex. What the hell had he stumbled into?
    His brain raced. His respiration quickened; panic began to overwhelm him. What should I do? He tried to think; he knew he should do something. He should get to a phone and call headquarters. No, that would leave prints. He’d use his car radio. No, he couldn’t leave the house. What about the kids? What if the killer was still here?
    Calley fell to his knees and started retching huge dry heaves. It was more than a minute before he could stop himself. What was he doing here? He didn’t know anything about homicides. He’d never even seen one before, except in pictures. Why did it have to be him? On his first goddamn week on the job!
    Calley took deep, cleansing breaths and tried to steady himself. Pull yourself together, Calley, he told himself. Think of it as a test. A test to see how good a cop you’re going to be. When the going gets tough, the tough get going.
    He would like to get going, he thought, way far away from this place. But he knew he couldn’t. He had to check the rest of the house. He had to make sure … God! He couldn’t even think about it.
    Slowly he covered the rest of the downstairs, making a wide berth around the dining room. Nothing else seemed unusual. With his heart pounding in his chest, he started upstairs.
    The first room on the left clearly belonged to a little girl. It was covered with stuffed animals and pink chiffon and Barbie doll accessories. But where was the girl?
    There she was. She was lying on top of her bed in the middle of a sea of teddy bears and lions and giraffes. She was barely bigger than they were.
    Calley knew even before he touched her that she was gone. Unlike the woman downstairs, there was no sign of blood, no obvious indication of violence. But she was motionless and still—much too still for a little girl. Her skin was pale, as if she’d been drained of blood. Her eyes were closed.
    Her wrist was ice cold. Calley searched for a pulse, but there was nothing. He held his hand over her mouth and nose. Nothing.
    She was dead. Just like Mom.
    Calley pushed himself out of the room. His gorge was rising and he honestly, sincerely didn’t know if he was going to make it. His eyes were clouding and the walls were beginning to spin. He was losing what little equilibrium he still had. But he had to press on. A test, he told himself. And you don’t want to fail.
    He continued taking deep, steady breaths, but he still knew he was going to be sick. He pushed his way toward the bathroom he had passed in the hall. His foot made a crackling noise when he lifted it. There was something sticky on the floor. Dark and red and sticky. He followed the sticky trail into the bathroom.
    And found the other one. Sprawled inside the tub, her blood splattered across the porcelain. Everywhere.
    Calley turned and ran. All notions of logic and duty and honor had been erased by the hideous sight in the bathtub. All he knew now was that he had to get out of there. He had to run and run and run until he couldn’t run anymore, until he couldn’t remember, until he had purged this grotesque madness from his brain.
    He jumped over the banister at the halfway point and crashed down into the living room. Scrambling to his feet, ignoring the ankle he twisted upon landing, he bolted across the room. He careened into a small end table and knocked it over, sending a small framed photo flying across the room until it smashed into the opposite wall, the glass shattering into pieces.
    Calley never noticed. He was already outside. He knew he needed to get to his car and call this in. But he couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. For now, he just had to escape. To get away. To keep putting distance between this house of horrors and himself until there was nothing left to see, nothing left to know, and most of all, nothing left to remember.

Chapter 7
    B EN ENTERED HIS APARTMENT and carefully threaded his way through a minefield of toys,