Mercy

CHAPTER 35

Sherri Platt’s suburban street reminded Julie of Sam’s neighborhood. Julie did not have to look for reminders of Sam; they were everywhere, and she never felt prepared for them. The episodes always left her sad, depleted, yet she wanted those remembrances to continue. They made her feel close again to Sam.

She had parked on the street. The sloping driveway accommodated tandem parking, and Julie did not want to block in the blue Toyota Corolla already parked there. The Toyota probably belonged to Sherri Platt. Julie did not know Sherri very well, had no idea of her personal life. Several reporters covering the Brandon Stahl trial had referred to Sherri as unmarried, a description that stuck in Julie’s mind because it seemed superfluous, as if marriage somehow defined a woman.

That was years ago. Now Sherri could be married, or living here by herself, or with her parents. Julie had no way of knowing.

Sherri lived in a brick, two-story, single-family home with a small, hilly front yard. It was 4:30 in the afternoon and the sun had already set. And to think winter was still weeks away. No lights were on inside the home, and the garage door was closed. Someone had left an outside light on, so Julie could see the lawn was free of fallen leaves. A few pruned shrubs planted in a bed of light brown mulch provided a nice backbone to the thoughtful landscaping. The only thing differentiating Sherri’s house from the others on the quiet street was an eerie feeling Julie could not shake.

She rang the doorbell, then cinched her overcoat tighter. No answer, so she rang it again. Two chimes sounded, hollow to her ears.

Julie looked around. Nothing suspicious here, quiet suburbia as far as the eyes could see. Standing on the front steps, Julie phoned Sherri, and then texted. Nothing. She turned the doorknob. Her desire to get Sherri’s confession trumped better judgment.

To Julie’s surprise, the knob turned. She opened the door a crack and called out into a darkened room.

“Sherri? Are you home?”

Julie opened the door a bit wider and jumped when an orange cat streaked from the darkness, slipped out the door, and brushed against her legs. She snatched the cat off the front step before it could venture any further. The cat made a weak protest-a soft meow. Julie set the pet down inside and it scampered off into the darkness, somewhere in the stillness of the silent home.

A moment passed before Julie became aware of something sticky on her hands, and felt certain the cat had just peed on her. In the dark it was hard to tell, so Julie used her phone’s built-in flashlight for a better look.

She gasped as she saw a partial paw print, colored red, stamped on the palm of her right hand. Julie put her hand to her nose and breathed the familiar scent. Coppery. Metallic. Blood. She wiped the blood off on her pant leg and went inside the home. She called Sherri’s name. No response. Her heart beat erratically. Perspiration dappled the back of her neck.

Feeling the wall for a light switch, Julie found one to the right of the door. No foyer here. The light illuminated a well-appointed living room with hardwood floors. The furniture was a bit old, a bit tired, and Julie wondered if Sherri lived here with her parents. It was immaculate, though, with no turned-over chairs, or broken mirrors. No signs of struggle. Where had the blood come from?

Julie set her gaze on a set of bloody paw prints forming a trail that vanished through a square entranceway. She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry.

Julie called Sherri’s name again. No response again, so she ventured further into the home. She took a gulp of air and froze when the floor creaked from her weight. She took more steps forward, following the bloody paw trail through the entranceway. She knew it was irrational to head upstairs. She should call 911 and get the hell out of there. But she was a doctor and Sherri could be inside somewhere, injured, in need of help.

Julie peered up a dark stairwell and found a light switch on the wall. She flicked it on and now had a view into a kitchen and a hallway space adjacent to the stairs. A coat rack stood by a door to what Julie thought was the garage. No men’s coats hung there, and the boot tray held only women’s shoes. The home was remarkably uncluttered and the décor suggested a lone female resident. If Julie had to take a guess, she would say Sherri Platt lived alone.

Julie searched for anything out of the ordinary, a sign of an intruder, something that might necessitate a hasty retreat. All appeared normal, except for the bloody paw prints that were harder to see on the carpeted stairwell. Julie followed them up.

“Sherri?” Julie’s voice sounded anxious. “Sherri, it’s me, it’s Julie from White Memorial. Are you all right? Please answer me.”

Julie’s voice sank into the upstairs gloom. She took each step slowly, pausing to listen. A faint meow emanated from a darkened doorway above. Julie picked up a sickly-sweet odor, a musty kind of smell. She gripped the handrail tight and felt a knowing in her gut. Something was horribly wrong here.

At the top of the stairwell Julie heard the cat’s meow coming from a darkened doorway. She reached into the doorway, feeling around blindly until her fingers found the light switch. A bright glow spilled out into the hallway and a blur shot from the door at Julie’s feet. She jumped, but relaxed when she saw it was just the orange cat with bloody paws.

Julie swallowed a breath and walked into the light. Sherri Platt lay facedown and spread-eagled on the floor. Her pink terrycloth bathrobe was splattered in crimson. The blood came from a hole blown through the back of Sherri’s skull. There was no weapon on the ground, but Julie did not think this was a self-inflicted injury. Sherri’s hair was matted and stuck together at the site of the wound.

Julie made a low moaning sound as she rushed to Sherri’s side. She did her best to avoid the blood, but it covered too much surface area around the body. Bloody paw prints marked the pristine tile like gruesome ink stamps. Sherri’s head was tilted to one side, her expression a blank. Areas on Sherri’s face were mottled with purplish markings, the result of lividity. Parts of her legs, visible where her bathrobe had splayed open, had the same ghastly shade.

Julie knelt at Sherri’s side and felt for a pulse. She found none. None was expected. The skin was cool to the touch, and Julie felt the stiffness of rigor mortis. The blue of Sherrie’s eyes had faded to the hue of a cataract and a dark stripe cut horizontally across the sclera. Tache noire, the black spot of death.

Julie stood shakily and turned to face the bathroom mirror. She drew in a ragged breath, eyes wide with horror reflected back at her. Written on the mirror in crude lettering with red lipstick were three unmistakable words.

FOR BRANDON STAHL