Blessed Are Those Who Weep Read online

  Dedication

  For Father Seamus Genovese

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  By Kristi Belcamino

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  AT FIRST I think she is a doll. Sitting there so still on the floor in her pink dress, chubby legs sticking out from her diaper, big black eyes unblinking, staring at something I can’t see. A ribbon hangs loose in her hair. Something that looks like chocolate is smeared around her mouth and one cheek.

  The front door is only open wide enough to frame her small body in the dim light. I can’t see the rest of the room.

  “Mrs. Martin?” The words echo in the silent apartment. At my voice, the baby turns her head toward me in what seems like slow motion. Even though the apartment door was ajar when I arrived, something stops me from pushing it open more. My hand hangs in the air, frozen. The rhythmic drip of a faucet is eerily loud. And something smells funny. Off. A smell I recognize but cannot place. A smell that increases my unease.

  “Are you in there, Mrs. Martin? It’s Gabriella Giovanni from the Bay Herald. We spoke yesterday.”

  Silence.

  As if my voice has flicked a switch, the child moves and talks, babbling. “Mamamama. Maaamamama.” She picks something up. Something floppy and pale and long. Something with short red fingernails. An arm.

  A wave of panic rises in me as I figure out what I smell.

  Blood. Urine. Feces. Death.

  I nudge the door open. My hand flies to my mouth.

  Blood oozes across the floor, seeping in puddles around bodies lying helter-­skelter. Seemingly too many bodies to count. But I do. Clinically. Subconsciously. Five dead bodies. Because for sure they are all dead. No one could survive those gaping, slashing wounds.

  I don’t turn my head. Only my eyes dart around the room, taking it all in. My legs turn into mush, and I grab the doorknob to support myself, worried I’ll collapse onto the floor. The sound of the dripping faucet seems magnified and is suddenly, extraordinarily loud.

  The girl chants, “Mamamamama.” She drops the arm, and it makes a slapping sound as it hits the scratched wooden floor. I nudge the door wider with my knee. The arm belongs to a woman in a green dress lying face down. The child tugs at the woman’s shiny black hair, as if trying to wake her or get her to lift her head. A sticky pool of dried blood ripples out from the woman’s torso.

  Directly in front of me, another woman, older with white hair, is spread-­eagle on her back, her stomach slashed open, insides strewn on the floor beside her. One arm reaches toward the door. Across from her, an elderly man is slumped on the couch. A wide gash across his neck yawns open, revealing pink and red and something white. What looks to be a teenage boy’s body is propped up against the far wall, as if he were taking a break, resting, but the top of his head is matted with something awful looking. Bloody slash marks stripe the boy’s arms—­defensive wounds. The clinical term jumps into my mind. There is also a blond woman slumped in the corner, eyes staring at nothing.

  Drip. Drip. Drip. The noise from the faucet sounds distorted. Everything seems to be in slow motion.

  I’ve lost track of time. My feet remain planted in the doorway, stuck, frozen. Fear crawls up my neck. How long have I been standing here? A tiny part of me is tempted to get out my notebook and take notes, but I push it aside. Get the baby.

  She holds up a bottle and looks at me. “Baba?”

  The word releases me from the spell, making the drip of the faucet sound normal again. I carefully choose my footing, stepping over the body of the white-­haired woman. Her eyes stare up at me as I pass.

  Up close, what I thought was chocolate on the baby’s face is dried blood. Her tiny fingers are covered in it. She holds up her bottle to me again. “Baba?”

  Good God, how long has she been here? But I know it can’t have been more than a day. I spoke to Mrs. Martin yesterday afternoon. At the time, I heard a baby in the background squealing with delight. Maria Martin apologized for the noise, and laughed, saying her ten-­month-­old was just learning how to use her vocal cords effectively.

  Scooping the child up in my arms, I head to the bathroom. The shower curtain is open. Inside the tub is a large open window without a screen. Cold air hits my face from the ocean breeze streaming in.

  Wetting a washcloth I find near the sink, I dab at the child’s face. She shakes her curls to get away, but I scrub until her cheeks are finally pink—­not black with dried blood. I work on her tiny fingers one by one. Even though she tries to pull them away, I soap them until the basin is full of pink suds swirling down the drain.

  Once the water turns clear, I dry her face and hands and head back into the kitchen. Balancing the girl on my hip, I tug on the refrigerator door with a trembling hand. Vaguely, I realize I’m leaving my fingerprints all over a murder scene. I smell the milk before rinsing out her bottle and filling it.

  Once it’s full and the nipple is screwed back on, the girl snatches it and gulps, her head tilted back, eyes on me. At the same time, her other hand reaches up to my hair, tugging on a strand until she has it wrapped and twirled around her chubby fingers.

  With her balanced on my hip, I head for the bedroom, crowded with a bed, a crib, and a dresser. The girl watches me solemnly with big black eyes as I lay her on the bed and change her diaper. She lifts her legs to make my job easier. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay,” I coo as I gently wipe away all the dried feces stuck to her legs. I strip off her bloody dress and maneuver her into a tiny pair of flowered footie pajamas lying near the crib.

  All the while I’m blocking out what is in the living room. I’m pushing back the reporter voice in my head describing the scene. I ignore what else I should be doing. Something important. Once I get the baby changed, the smell reminds me.

  The bodies.

  But first I need to get out of here. I focus on the front door. With the child in my arms, I step across and around bodies, making my way through the carnage. Finally, after what seems like forever, I’m in the hall.

  I close the door to the apartment and slump to the floor. I bury my face in her curls for a moment before reaching into m
y bag.

  My fingers are shaking as I punch in the numbers. 9-­1-­1.

  It is all I can manage. I don’t even hold the phone up to my ear as it rings. A sign above me on the wall shows all the emergency exits in the building. I stare at it, wondering which one the killer took to escape. Beside me, a small box has the UPS logo on it. It is addressed to Maria Martin. The return address is Babies“R”Us.

  The girl snuggles into my neck and chest, slurping the rest of her bottle with loud sucking noises. She holds a strand of my hair, twisting it in her fingers and pressing her body close to mine. In the distance, from what seems like a place far removed, I hear a small voice.

  “Nine-­one-­one . . . nine-­one-­one? What is your emergency? This is nine-­one-­one . . . State your emergency, please.”

  Chapter 2

  EVERY ONCE IN a while, I catch a Spanish word I recognize.

  Baby. Police. Blood. Grandparents. Knife.

  A uniformed officer holds back a crowd clustered at the end of the hall shooting alarmed looks my way. One officer comes into focus, kneeling right in front of me. He asks my name. When I answer, my voice sounds like it’s coming from a distance. The child starts to cry when he attempts to take her out of my arms. I cling tighter to her as she thrusts her fists into my hair, holding on so hard my scalp stings.

  I come to life, gritting my words. “Leave us alone. She doesn’t want to go to you.”

  He gives me a look I’ve seen cops give drunken ­people, then heads toward a petite woman in a brown suit. The woman, whose hair is cut like a boy, stops her conversation, looks at me over the top of her cat-­eye glasses, and presses her lips together. I look away. Instead I focus on the army of legs moving past me. Cops come and go out of the apartment. Some cast sideways glances my way, but most ignore me.

  After a few minutes, the petite woman comes over to me. She crouches down to my level.

  “Heard you found them inside. I know you are shaken up from what you’ve seen, but the EMTs need to check this little guy out.”

  “It’s a girl.”

  The woman reaches out to the baby, who buries her face in my neck and shakes her head, murmuring, “No no no no no no.”

  “You heard her,” I say.

  Annoyance flashes across the woman’s face, but only for a second. “Hey, I’m not in the business of traumatizing little kids, but this one needs to be checked out. Please give me the girl.” The woman is persistent, staying crouched down a few inches from my face. “The EMTs are waiting outside.”

  I close my eyes and nod, my brown hair falling in a curtain across my face. “I’ll carry her. She needs me.”

  As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I know they are true.

  I stand, murmuring into the child’s hair. “It’s going to be okay. I won’t let them take you. Let’s get you checked out.” As if she understands me, her grip on my hair loosens, but she doesn’t let go.

  “Baba?”

  I reach down and pick up her bottle. She holds it with one hand, chewing on the nipple. Her other tiny hand is still wrapped, tangled, in my hair.

  The woman in the suit nods and stands, running her palms down her slacks. “Follow me. The reporters have descended like vultures. I’ll take you around the back.”

  A strangled laugh makes her turn and give me a questioning look. I shut my mouth. She obviously doesn’t know I’m one of those “vultures.” They are my ­people. Okay, maybe not the TV reporters.

  The bright sunlight outside the building makes my eyes squint and water a little. A camera guy from one TV station spots us and scrambles closer, followed by the rest of the mob of reporters, leading with their microphones and leaping toward the yellow crime-­scene tape separating us.

  “Miss? Miss?”

  “Can you tell us what happened?”

  “What happened to your baby?”

  The words stop me dead in my tracks.

  Chapter 3

  THE PETITE WOMAN in the suit continues walking, but I’m frozen.

  “Hey. Isn’t that Gabriella Giovanni from the Bay Herald?”

  “Gabriella! Gabriella!”

  “It’s Victor from Channel 9!”

  “Gabriella?”

  A clump of reporters points microphones our way. Another cluster of ­people stands behind them, probably neighbors, whispering and darting horrified glances my way, with the exception of one man in dark glasses, who leans against a telephone pole, preternaturally still, watching. The street is quaint, with small trees lining the sidewalk, and the tall bell tower of a Spanish-­style church is on the horizon.

  The woman in the suit appears in front of me again and nudges me. I snap out of it. The reporter was asking about the baby in my arms.

  “You’re a reporter?” the woman says. I nod. Does she regret calling reporters “vultures” now? I don’t bother telling her that my being a reporter doesn’t mean I condone the behavior of all the other journalists in the world. We round the corner where the ambulance waits, and we’re finally out of view of the news crews.

  Sitting on the edge of the open back of the ambulance, I hold the girl while the EMT checks her out. She hides her face in my neck and hair but lets him do his probing. Her curls smell like baby shampoo. When he’s done, the woman in the suit comes back over.

  “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  When she says this, it sinks in—­she’s a detective. I thought she was a social worker or something, since I know most of the detectives in San Francisco.

  “Are you new?” I squint, noticing the badge peeking out from her suit jacket.

  “Started in May. Was with San Jose PD for fifteen years.” She recites it like she’s been forced to defend herself this way a lot. Given some of the cops in San Francisco, she’s probably had to do just that—­prove she’s no new kid on the block. A soft spot for her starts to grow, but my main concern is this child. And if this woman is trying to take the baby away from me, she’s no friend of mine right now.

  “Why don’t you let me give the girl to Officer Jackie,” the woman says, pointing at a ponytailed uniformed officer who looks about twenty-­five. “She’s got four kids of her own. She’ll take care of her.”

  Officer Jackie reaches down and gently wraps her hands around the girl’s waist, trying to pull her away from me. The baby shrieks and cries and clings tighter, burying her face in my neck. “No no no no no!” the girl screams.

  “I can talk to you and hold her at the same time,” I say.

  The woman in the suit shoots a glance toward Officer Jackie, who backs off and walks away.

  “Okay. We’ll do it your way, little one,” the woman says to the girl and turns to me. “I’m Detective Khoury.”

  She doesn’t offer her hand but meets my eyes. Behind the cat-­eye glasses, her eyes are soft, concerned. “I’m lead on this case. So far, you’re my only witness, you need to tell me everything you know, and you’ll need to come into the station later and go over it again.”

  As long as she lets me hold the baby, I’ll talk. Sitting in the back of the ambulance, I spill everything—­which isn’t much. Mrs. Martin called me at the newspaper yesterday and told me she had a big story—­possibly the biggest one of my career.

  I usually blow ­people like that off, but for some reason, Mrs. Martin seemed different, sincere. Not like the usual nut jobs that call me with wacky story ideas. She’d read something I’d written that made her decide to trust me with her story, but she was afraid to tell me over the phone. I agreed to meet her at her apartment at 2:00 p.m. the next day. Today when I showed up, the apartment door was ajar and a horror show awaited me.

  “So, you don’t know this child?” Khoury asks.

  I swallow and look away. A few faces peer out of windows at an apartment building across the street. I scoot over until I can’t see them anymore.
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  “Ms. Giovanni? Do you know this child or have any connection to her besides finding her?”

  I bite my lip and shake my head. The woman looks around as if someone can help her with me. She unclicks a small radio from her belt. “Swenson, call CPS for me, would you?”

  Without waiting for a response, she puts the radio back down and turns to me.

  “You realize she needs to go into Child Protective Ser­vices while we find her parents.”

  A long white van pulls around the corner. Another identical van arrives. The coroner’s office is here. I’ve never seen two vans arrive at a crime scene before, but I’ve never covered a story with this many bodies.

  “Her mom is dead. I saw her body.” I realize I don’t know for sure the woman in the green dress was her mom, but I don’t take it back.

  “CPS will find her family or find a foster home.” Detective Khoury says it matter-­of-­factly and I know she’s right, but handing this child over to strangers seems horribly wrong.

  “Can she stay with me?” I’m begging.

  Khoury shakes her head.

  “She’s obviously bonded with me. Why put her in a stranger’s hands? Do you want to traumatize her more? You saw how she acted when someone tried to take her away from me.”

  Her eyebrows lift, and I know what she is thinking. Crazy lady.