Left To Die

He gave a brief shake of his head. “The captain is over there,” he said, curtly.

Adele glanced to where he was pointing, and spotted a group of officers milling around near a park bench upon which sat four kids. They couldn’t have much older than fourteen, and a couple of the smaller ones swung their legs over the edge of the bench. All of them shared the same nervous fidgeting gestures and sidelong glances.

“You’re sure he’s unconscious?” she demanded.

The pleading officer responded before the scowling one could reply. “He hasn’t been able to say a word. He responds to light, he’s alive, but we have to get to the hospital, now. We think he was drugged.”

Adele cursed, running a hand through her hair. With a sudden jolt of embarrassment, she realized she was still wearing her sweaty jogging headband. Great. So much for first impressions.

Reluctantly, she dragged herself away from the ambulance. If the victim couldn’t speak, then he wouldn’t be much use to her anyway. No doubt the killer had dosed him with the same substance he’d used on the other victims. But how had this one survived?

She spotted John talking to a gendarmerie near a cluster of trees in a particularly dark section of the park. But she ignored her partner for the moment and headed directly toward the kids sitting on the bench.

As she went striding beneath the trees, the park seemed cold all of a sudden, or perhaps stepping on the dirt trail only reminded her of the frigidity of another night in another park. There was a reason she didn’t take her morning runs within spitting distance of a park—not even stateside. She shifted past two officers with another flash of her credentials, and then hurried over to the bench.

“You interviewed them yet?” she asked, glancing toward the female officer standing by the kids. She could see now that all were teenagers: three boys and a girl. All of them stared wide-eyed at her. Two of them had the freckles and upturned noses suggesting they were brothers; one of them had darker skin, and the fourth, the girl, looked a little bit like Marion.

“Never mind,” Adele said, cutting off the officer’s response. “Were you here? Did you see what happened?”

The teens glanced uncomfortably from her to the officer next to them. The police officer gave a small nod and gestured encouragingly for them to answer the questions.

The girl shot a look at the others, then spoke first. “Furkan saw them first,” she said, her voice lower and raspier than Adele had expected. “We thought they were lovers.”

The freckle-faced boy on the far end of the bench giggled, but then quickly disguised the sound as a cough.

“We went to investigate,” said the one who Adele assumed was Furkan. He was taller than the others and had a baby face. “Called out at them. Something was off.”

“Looked like he was going to stab the guy on the ground,” said the girl. “We thought he was mugging him. Furkan here was mugged last week. They took his watch.”

The baby-faced, dark-skinned boy nodded in confirmation.

Now they seemed less nervous all of a sudden. Adele’s undivided attention propelled them forward. They still fidgeted and shared glances with each other, as kids only know how, but the information continued, and Adele slowly pieced together what the kids had seen.

“What did he look like?” she said once they’d finished recounting the events.

“He was just stiff,” said the girl, “lying on the ground, like a plank of wood.”

“I—no, not the victim, the attacker. Did he have red hair?”

Two of the children shrugged simultaneously. “The baby-faced boy said, “He was wearing a hat. A big jacket, too.”

Adele almost growled in frustration. “Was he tall? Short?”

Again, the children shrugged.

Adele suppressed the emotions swirling through her. She wasn’t an amateur. Frustration was part of the game. She’d been doing this long enough to know how to be a professional even when things didn’t turn out how she wanted. She inhaled, counting quietly in her head, then exhaled and counted for a longer portion of time. Then she said, “You were all very brave; you saved someone’s life tonight. I hope you know that…”

“Wait,” said the girl, “there was one thing.”

Adele paused, listening.

“He spoke funny.”

Adele frowned.

At this, the other children all nodded, their heads bobbing as one. “It’s true,” said the baby-faced boy. “My parents speak with an accent. But his accent was even stranger.”

The other children nodded again. The one on the end began muttering beneath his breath, and sent his assumed brother sitting next to him into a fit of giggles. Adele listened for a moment, and her eyes narrowed sharply. “What did you say?” she said, turning on the boy at the end.

He immediately stiffened, his hands clutched tightly in his lap, his legs going rigid against the wooden bench.

Adele amended her tone, struggling to stay calm. “No, I’m sorry, you’re not in trouble. But what were you just saying?”

The boy hesitatingly glanced at his friends, then up at Adele. “I was just joking; I’m sorry.”

“No, I heard. You were mimicking his accent. Please, could you do it again?”

Hesitantly, the boy cleared his throat, then blushed and shook his head.

“He’s embarrassed,” said the girl, cheerfully.

The other children giggled except for the one under scrutiny, who scowled at his hands.

Adele hurried over and dropped to a knee in front of the boy. “It’s all right, I promise you’re not in trouble. You were incredibly heroic tonight. All of you. But please, this man has hurt people and I need to stop him. I need you to tell me what he sounded like.”

The boy didn’t look at his friends this time, mustering the sort of courage that required solitude, but then, responding to the earnest tone in Adele’s voice, he, in a very quiet way, repeated the phrase he’d said to his friend.

“You’re sure he said it like that?” said Adele. “With the aspirated stop?”

The boy looked at her, his nose wrinkling in confusion.

Adele shook her head. “Never mind. I mean with that s instead of the t. He mispronounced the word?”

The boy nodded. And, hesitantly, the others also nodded in confirmation.

Adele had the freckled boy repeat the phrase in French a couple more times, just to be sure, and each time he mimicked the voice of the killer, the elation in her chest only grew.

It’s a private thing. You’re being rude. A simple enough phrase. But a very telling pronunciation.

“Thank you,” she said, quickly. “Thank you very much. I owe you.”

Then she turned sharply on her heel and jogged over to where John was. Her heart thrummed in her chest, and she could practically hear her blood sluicing through her ears.

“Renee,” she snapped, gaining the attention of the tall agent. He glanced over the head of the smaller gendarmerie in front of him and raised an eyebrow. His eyes were bloodshot, and his cheeks puffy, but Adele didn’t have time to worry about her partner’s drinking habits. “You need to call that friend of yours at the lab.”

John frowned, wincing against the loud sounds in the park. “I didn’t know you were good with children. Have some of your own?” He raised an eyebrow.

Adele ignored the question. “You friend at the lab—call him.”