Gibson Ramey had been worthless. Sutton already knew that she'd probably get nothing from him but she was pissed off that the pimp wouldn't give up Samara's last client for questioning. He showed no real concern for the welfare of the other women who worked for him, just wanted to know where she was killed so that he could keep the girls out of the area for fear of arrest.
As far as he was concerned, Samara was a slate that had been wiped clean, asking only that he be given the money in her wallet. Of course, Sutton had declined, saying that the money would be released to her family, if possible and if no family was to be found, the Police Officer Benevolent Association would receive it. Of course, Gibson wasn't happy. He slammed the door shut after Sutton, muttering under his breath about the 'fucking pigs not needing any more donut money'.
Since it was getting late, she decided to take the file and head home, kicking off her shoes and heading downstairs to her office. A large corkboard took up most of the space in the tiny room and she flicked on the lights, gazing at the board's contents. Snapshots, 8 X 10s and other tidbits littered almost every inch of the surface, all visual representations of young women that had been brutally murdered in her district since she'd become a police officer. Sutton opened the manila folder in her hand and took out the picture of Samara, tacking it up in an empty space.
Her eyes were drawn to a 4 X 8 of a beautiful little girl with blonde hair and twinkling blue eyes. Such angelic beauty had been brought down by the same hand that had killed that girl today: an angry man who looked upon her as a sexual tool and not a human being. Harry had been smoking a cigarette, watching the television when Candace had found Christinna's body in her little bed. She would never forget the sight of the blood that streaked the insides of her legs and the pure innocence in her sightless eyes.
Harry Sutton was in jail now, serving two consecutive twenty year terms for Christinna's abuse and subsequent death while Candace served a lifetime sentence in her jail of guilt, her mother's heart filled with the guilt of failure. She swallowed against the lump in her throat, raising one shaking hand to touch the fraying edges of the photo. She would never touch the colored part of the photo; this little photo and a teddy bear were all that remained of her daughter.
Sutton wrenched her hand away and turned her eyes up to Samara. She was someone's daughter. Somewhere, she had had a soft, safe bed to sleep in. Somewhere, she had celebrated Christmases and Easters with people who cared for her. She did not have the hard-bitten look of a prostitute that had never seen care and concern. Somewhere, sometime, she had experienced love.
"Why not now? Who was it that you met and didn't show you love? Who was it that left you to die in your own blood? Tell me, Samara. Tell me who he was."
* * * * *
"I don't want to go, Gibson, and you can't make me!" Tania screamed, turning to walk away. She was exhausted from turning tricks all day, her feet hurt and she did not want to go do this last minute trick that was waiting on the corner for her. The image of Samara's death-dull eyes and her twisted body was too fresh in her mind.
