Chapter 1: An Unkindness of Ravens

Today

Jake Chancellor’s 1970 Monte Carlo lowrider was so black the color was called Oblivion. So black it looked like it should be illegal.

2014

Ten was a challenging age for boys. As it would be for the rest of the tweens, and into the teens, and, so far as I could speculate, eternity. It wasn’t that my son was a holy terror; he was just, well, ten. Often polite, always curious, teetering on the brink of crossing some sort of hormonal threshold.

Walker stood about chest high to me, which meant he had a direct sightline to my boobs. My recently discovered — by him and his outlaw buddies — boobs. His attempts at subtlety ... well, imagine a cape buffalo tatting antimacassars...

Trying not to stare, “Hi Winter.”

“Hi, babe, what’s for dinner?”

“Pork soup, made it myself.”

Translation: He elevatored down to the Wrigley Restaurant, charged it to my house account, brought the soup home, poured it into a pot. Smelled delish, no matter who birthed it.

My lithe, blonde, blue-eyed boy, tip-toeing toward a locked-cage Deathmatch with puberty, was wearing a black tee with a bold pink script: ‘My Mom Sucks Cock’.

Thank you, Peggy Rawlings. A girlfriend with issues concerning boundaries. As in, none.

So, strip off the KCPD uniform. Quick after-work shower. A long, blue and white striped dress shirt from Turnbull & Asser, one of several that I’d appropriated from my ex, Richie Sanders. Sleeves rolled up past my elbows, tails down to my knees. Pad barefoot into the kitchen.

Walker checked me out, allowed himself a small nod of approval. Whew.

Being a conscientious parent, maternal division, I inquired about his day as we dipped crusty French bread into our garlicky potage. “Get any pussy at school?”

“Nah. Mrs. Donahue gave me a BJ, but that was about it.”

“Be sure to give her a tee.”

Walker placed his palms together, fingers under his chin, and bowed solemnly to me, “Namaste.”

“Miracle Baby Makes Good!”

I first learned about Sabbath Louise Armstrong the way a lot of Kansas City did — through upbeat human interest stories in the local media. At the time I had no idea she would become my very first client, much less a long-term one.

After she graduated from college, one of our alternative monthly pubs — “The Torchlight” — covered Sabbath’s story in depth. It was actually a well-written, thoughtfully-composed retrospective.

A church handyman, José López, found the tiny baby inside a cardboard carton that had once held boxes of Premium Saltine Crackers. Even though he’d been volunteering his labor and his devotion to the Pentecostals for sixteen years, he unconsciously made the sign of the cross.

The little girl had been wrapped in a green, scratchy-wool Army blanket and left at the back door of the Holy Pentecostal Church on Louis Armstrong Memorial Drive. Which was located in the section of Kansas City known as the Northeast — a neighborhood that some civic leaders had tried to rebrand as the Historic Northeast. Good intentions, but a lot of the locals still called it the Forgotten Northeast. Which meant brown and black and hardscrabble white. Poverty, in other words.

But the evangelical community was generous when it could be. Parishioners spent what free time they could earning money for the church through manual labor — mowing lawns, shoveling driveways, power-washing houses in more affluent neighborhoods. The checks from the homeowners were always made out to Holy Pentecostal.

It was 1987 and Sabbath was a white baby girl abandoned in a minority neighborhood. She was discovered just as the sun was starting to come up for the day.

Over the years, Sabbath was haphazardly raised by a series of well-meaning foster parents. Despite her challenging childhood, she grew up to become one of Kansas City’s golden girls. An honor student, a marathoner, a coxswain on the citywide rowing crew. Debate and chess teams. Summer camp counselor for underprivileged kids.

Full ride to Berkeley. The online Cal yearbook and a few video clips showed a frat boy’s dream. Slender and smiling and pretty and confident.

By the time I met her, her life was just starting to unravel.

I got into the law enforcement game the old-fashioned way — I inherited the gene from my father. Dave Jennings was an admired homicide detective — known through the media, and across much of the city, as Captain Dave.

He led quietly, by example; understanding when to ignore a particularly inane directive from above. He didn’t talk about it, but I knew he was proud never to have fired his Glock 23 at another person. Although he certainly went through his full share of .40 S&W cartridges at the range.

And he never discussed his time in Vietnam.

He wasn’t an official KCPD negotiator; that was Major Preston Raines, a clinical psychologist. But Daddy was often brought in during a standoff crisis. He had a calming manner, never over-promising, never threatening, never lying.

I admired the fuck out of him. As did my mother, Flora, and my older sister, Autumn. Inexplicably, Daddy seemed to love them every bit as much as he did his one incomparable daughter.

My personal life, now that I’d been officially single for a while, was much more sedate than during the rather hectic period right after Richie traded me in for a newer model. I’d always enjoyed going out with boys, still did. But having a son, a full-time job, a busy social life ... aw, fuck it. I just hadn’t met a guy who made my heart go pitty-pat-pat for a while.

Although I was in an early, flirtatious stage with a dazzler of a girl — Vanessa Henderson. Nothing physical, not even a kiss, so far. But I found myself stopping by BEAR’s on Broadway for drinks and dinner more often than usual.

The owner of that gay bar and restaurant, Chip (Bear) Taylor, was my best buddy. He told everyone, not just me, that hiring Vanessa was the smartest business and personal decision he’d ever made. Originally the floor manager at St. Elmo Steakhouse in Indianapolis, she’d simply taken charge at BEAR’s. First the wine, then the menu, then the staff.

She was glam and grace and loveliness. Didn’t take herself too seriously; treated her employees as considerately as she did the customers. Never mentioned that she’d once been Miss Indiana.

Lush raven hair, strong Slavic features, emerald green eyes. She moved with the suppleness of a snow leopard gliding across a room. At five ten, Vanessa was two and a half inches taller than me. When she knew I was stopping by, she changed into flats. A small gesture that wasn’t really that small. Not to me.

Fortunately, Walker was smitten with her too. Good thing, I’d hate to have to put the lad up for adoption. I’d grown sorta fond of him.

SABBETH LOUISE ARMSTRONG

A lot of people asked about my name and their reactions were varied.

Sabbath — I was found on a Sunday. An abandoned baby.

Louise — On Louis Armstrong Memorial Boulevard.

Armstrong — See above.

My on-again/off-again boyfriend, Kevin Burke, said I was lucky they didn’t name me Sabbath Satchmo.

When they heard about my background, people were sympathetic, appalled, fascinated, nosy, kind, indifferent. Some of my best friends bonded with me immediately. Other folks ... I never saw some of them again.

Holy Pentecostal was a poor church in a poor neighborhood. It’s gone now, the church, but poverty was more deeply ingrained in the Forgotten Northeast than ever.

No surprise, Holy P didn’t quite know what to do with me. They didn’t have a lot of trust in the local establishment — city government and social workers and politicians in general. As far as the private sector ... well, the Northeast was mostly invisible to many of the town’s bankers and investors and developers.

As I would learn over time, the congregation believed in direct, personal interaction with God. And that the hungry, squalling little infant left on their doorstep was His communication to the true believers. After considerable discussion, some of it passionate, I was seen as a heaven-sent messenger; the embodiment of religious Responsibility and of the dictum of Doing Right in this world.

The pastor, Eldin de León, conferred with a committee from the Pentecostal World Fellowship and announced to his flock, “We will raise the child who is given unto us.”

Good intentions.

They unofficially adopted me; made sure I was fed and clothed and, I suppose, loved. They postponed baptism into the Body of Christ until I was old enough to understand what ‘born again’ meant. Water-baptism would follow that and, someday, Baptism with the Holy Spirit.

As I grew up, I was taught to believe in the foursquare Bible, which was without error. A literal belief in heaven and hell went a long way toward encouraging the fervency of the believers. Pastor de León emphasized the downside — hell was real, eternal fire and damnation were real.

All in all, they did their earnest best in trying to group-parent me, with one foster family after another taking me into their homes. Along the way I became more fluent in Spanish than English.

Over the years, Holy P had supported a few undocumented families in a quiet way. No papers, no problem. It wasn’t political sanctuary so much as pragmatism. Free breakfasts for the kids, after-school programs until the working parents got home. Short term loans from the church. A sofa to sleep on when something wasn’t working out with a husband. Or, more rarely, a wife.

They brought that same no-nonsense approach to their youngest congregant. That first week, when one family volunteered to bring me home, the church took up a collection and contributed what they could to cover the added expenses.

It was never that stable of a community — too many jobs lost, dreams shattered. A landscaper got laid off, an undocumented was nabbed by la migra, a husband abandoned his family. I was passed from foster family to foster family.

Looking back, my home life was a blur. But since that was all I had ever known, it just seemed natural to me.

Until, late one night, I woke up with ‘Papa’s’ hand inside my panties.

WINTER JENNIFER JENNINGS

My first date with Vanessa was sort of a date and sort of not. We met for dinner at BEAR’s and she was off duty. In theory anyway.

Louie-Louie led me to my favorite corner booth, whipped off the ‘Reserved for Winter Jennings’ sign and gestured toward Vanessa with a theatrical flourish.

Bear, Louie-Louie, and probably most of the staff had been rooting for the two of us to finally get our fucking act together.

We both were shower-fresh — lilac and vanilla. She wore a simple green sheath, bare arms, and looked ravishing. I hadn’t given any thought to my outfit, just another evening at BEAR’s. Modeling my fifth ensemble for Walker, he grinned and pointed, “THAT!”

Pink Bermuda shorts from Gap. A blue tank top that just happened to match my eyes. Tucked in to draw attention to my flat tummy. No bra. My usual asymmetrical blonde shag.

Vanessa had ordered the wine, suggested the food, recommended the dessert. I should have taken pictures; maybe then I could have remembered what we had.

We chatted easily, laughed a lot. But as the dinner service was winding down, I could see Vanessa glancing around the room, checking on her team, estimating the take, clocking the remaining customers.

Well, fuck that.

I scooted over closer to her, palmed her cheek, and kissed her softly. We closed our eyes, both realizing how special a moment it was.

SABBETH LOUISE ARMSTONG

I screamed in terror at being woken up so suddenly and from such a deep sleep. Pedro Morales, that was his name, must have been as startled as I was. He jerked his hand back so fast that it ripped my panties. White cotton, I still remember that.

His common-law wife, Miranda, stayed in bed, holding me until dawn, although neither of us slept. I would learn later that Pedro Morales disappeared from the Northeast that same day.

Miranda, her sister, and two male cousins walked me six or eight blocks from that apartment and knocked on the door of a small house. They carried everything I owned in a Price Chopper paper bag. A petite woman with kind eyes and an easy smile said, “Welcome, Sabbath, I’m Sister Mary Packer.”

WINTER JENNNINGS

Vanessa and I went out two more times before we slept together. We weren’t in any breathless rush; we both sensed it would happen and we both hoped it would be as special as we imagined. Not the sex so much as the two of us, the togetherness. Neither of us was looking for just a fling, although at the time we didn’t know that about each other.

At the KCPD, I hadn’t been an insubordinate bitch, at least not in my own mind, but I did chafe at the rigidness of the workplace structure. During my three years in harness, I learned the difference between John Jay theory and street reality.

That was probably the biggest lesson for me — practicality. Real-life consequences. Arresting some wife-beating scrote could take a thug off the grid. Jailing a grandmother for shoplifting a can of tomato soup could devastate an extended family. Could have a ripple effect for years.

No, now that I thought about it, the most valuable lesson had been gradually discovering that I didn’t know very much. The gradual transition from confident college grad to uncertain rookie had been sobering and more than a little embarrassing.

Then, as I went into business for myself, I applied that ignorance to my first client ... Sabbath Louise Armstrong.

May, 2014, a year before I quit the cops, a year before I opened my own office.

Daddy always called before coming over. Hardly necessary since I was in a boyfriend-drought, but I appreciated the courtesy anyway.

Handsome man, still. Six feet, two inches, trim, and steady as a rock. He and Bear were the primary men in Walker’s life and they couldn’t have been more different. Yet in ways that really mattered, essential ways, they were both wonderful role models for a ten-year old boy.

Daddy asked me to meet a young woman, “Louise said she’s named Sabbath ... something. Sabbath Armstrong.”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“She’s being stalked, online and in real life. Louise has been trying, but can’t convince her to go into HAVEN.”

Louise. Sergeant Louise Finch, the supervisor of my division and one of Daddy’s favorite cops. I was not exactly one of her favorite underlings.

“Well, HAVEN is new, sort of experimental.”

Daddy nodded; I knew he had a couple of reservations about it too. But even this late in the post-9/11 world, DC was still sending buckets of money to state and local law enforcement agencies. It was more intermittent now than when the Department of Homeland Security was first formed, but no one was turning down federal money and equipment. So, an unanticipated influx of cash, a need to put it to work, and HAVEN was launched.

While the police couldn’t arrest someone because he might do something felonious sometime in the future, with HAVEN they could take previously battered wives and children and place them out of reach. Not in a short-term shelter, but in a secure setting in a different town. And provide them with completely new identification.

HAVEN was modeled on WITSEC — Witness Security, administered by the Department of Justice and operated by the US Marshals Service.

Kansas City might not have many top-level Mafia finks and terrorist turncoats, but on the victim side, we had plenty of at-risk people and no viable, sustainable procedures to keep them safe.

This case, the Sabbath Armstrong case, could well be just one more creep harassing one more woman. But the KCPD brass was anxious to showcase its newest baby. If HAVEN were successful, the department might be able to leverage the program into even more federal funding.

There had been a brief internal competition in the cop shop to turn the word HAVEN into an acronym, but nobody came up with anything remotely sensible, so they just left it alone. Although there was a midlevel contingent of brass who wanted to change the name to PREVENTION. Or, Chiefs in mind, PREVENT DEFENSE. Luckily, that one withered away too.

Daddy told me, “Anyway, this Sabbath wants to talk to someone more her own age. She’s skeptical of ancients like me and Louise.”

Fair enough. I was a young woman, I was a cop, I would do any favor for Daddy.

“Why do you think she’s in real danger?”

“A fuckwad grabbed her from behind and tried to set her hair on fire with his lighter.”

I knew there was more to it than that, but he wanted me to meet Sabbath with an open mind.

He gave me a hug and said, “C’mon Walker. Let’s roll.”

They’d explore our artsy Crossroads neighborhood on foot; time for another of Walk’s beloved man-to-man conversations. Moms need not apply.

I started my Sabbath Armstrong homework, online homework, as soon as Daddy left with Walker.

Sabbath had graduated from Cal in 2006, returned to KC, and had become a brand ambassador on social media. She was fairly early to the game, an ‘Instagram Influencer’ before a lot of people were even aware of the niche.

Sabbath had spent her Cal time mostly in Arts+Design. She would go on to become editor of BARE Magazine where she focused a major section of the publication on fashion.

Had she known that was where her creative heart lay, she could have gone to a more specialized school, like the Fashion Institute of Technology. I had actually known a couple of girls, and one guy too, who went there when I was at John Jay.

Perhaps Sabbath and I could have discussed college life and sock hops and boys; but by the time I met her she was already edgy about an obsessive stalker.

More homework.

One of the first things I noticed about Sabbath on Instagram was her charming Spanish accent. She was certainly articulate in English, but her words and a lilting cadence carried a Latin flavor. And, every once in a while, she dropped a Spanish word into a sentence. That distinctive language, combined with her WASPy appearance ... well, she had an alluring presence.

Sabbath had combined a natural eye for design with a love of fashion. She was an early lifestyle blogger and spotlighted her own sense of style in offbeat settings. An alleyway behind a dive bar. A scaffolding platform on the back of a freeway billboard.

But as she attracted more and more followers, her photographs and videos evolved into a more country/casual look. Sort of like a soft-focus Hallmark Channel movie or television show.

She featured her friends, their friends, pets, favorite meals. And, early on, she responded to almost everyone who contacted her. Fifty or so followers during her junior year in high school grew to over sixty thousand by the time she launched her online business promoting nature-friendly products.

Ethical, plant-dyed, organic children’s sleepwear. Handmade soaps. Linen, linen, linen. Shirts, hoodies, sheets.

“Winter, this is amazing. Could be in New York, San Francisco.”

Sabbath Louise Armstrong was gazing around our loft, but was hardly awestruck. I sensed a keen, professional assessment. Of course I knew what she did for a living — promoted products and services online. That may have influenced my evaluation of her evaluation.

Daddy had brought her to me himself, making sure they weren’t followed. He introduced Sabbath to Walker and me, then left us alone for the evening. He’d pick her up at nine in the morning and take her back to headquarters.

For some reason, I still remember what I fixed for dinner that night — butterflied Italian sausages, rich with fennel. Straight from Anton’s Butcher Shop just a couple of blocks north on Main. I seared them in my cast iron skillet along with peppers and onions. Cold Negra Modelo for the adults.

Sabbath was my age, 27, and I liked her from the start. Slender and quick; her pale skin contrasted with her dark hair in a short no-nonsense pixie. Which I knew was a recent cut; her Instagram videos had been showing her with a pageboy bob.

She stood two or three inches shorter than me and wore a simple top and jeans from Old Navy. She had lively grey eyes and a pretty smile.

Walker was polite by nature and he understood that this was more than just a social visit. The three of us chatted easily; he was especially curious about California. So was I.

Around ten, Walk came out to give me a goodnight kiss; I wiped a dab of toothpaste off his lower lip and watched approvingly as he shook hands formally with Sabbath.

Time to talk.

“Daddy says there’s a real risk. In police lingo, they call it a credible threat. And I know they’ve asked you this a million times, but any idea who it is?”

“Sergeant Finch thinks he’s someone who found me online. Became infatuated, then obsessed; then something snapped and he became enraged. He is relentless.”

“Sergeant Finch is good. Okay, let’s start with Instagram. How did he find you online? No, first, how did you get away from that maniac?” Who had tried to set her hair on fire.

“A couple had walked around the corner just as I screamed. The guy yelled out, “Stop!” and the cabrón took off. His wife ripped off her sweater and smothered the flame.”

The insanity in our world.

“She was a nurse, emergency room nurse, and somehow stayed cool. Got the fire out; really it wasn’t much of anything, it had just singed the tips. Mainly she got me calmed down until the cops arrived.”

That jibed with the police report; I had been curious how Sabbath would relate the saga. Calmly, no histrionics, no embellishment. I liked her for that.

I kept my voice even, “Let’s assume, like the police are, that it’s the same guy, that he’s also your online stalker. How did he start harassing you? I mean, was there a gradual escalation or did he jump in with full crazy from the get-go?”

We were settled in comfortably, in matching leather club chairs facing those floor-to-ceiling Main Street windows. I’d left one floor lamp on behind us, and the soft glow of streetlights provided a pleasant ambient light from the east.

I’d uncorked a bottle of my best California brandy and we sipped and talked companionably. Actually, my only bottle of California brandy, Germain-Robin, so it was best by definition. The worst too I guess, if your twisted mind meanders down those corridors.

Sabbath said, “Let me start at the beginning, the very beginning. That will help explain who I am and how I drifted into this line of work.”

An abandoned baby.

I couldn’t then, and I can’t now, imagine not ever knowing who your parents were. But I guess if that was the life you grew up in, you could just accept it for what it was.

But when Sabbath described the hand between her thighs, her terrified screams in that dark night, I had a sinking feeling. Who your birth parents were didn’t really matter to a little girl when a monster entered her bedroom.

“Miranda was my foster mother at the time. Her sister and a couple of cousins, men, took me to a shelter. Left me there with a wonderful woman, a miracle worker, Sister Mary Packer.”

I smiled, “Yes, I know her. She’s a saint. The best thing that ever happened in the Northeast.”

Sabbath quoted a familiar Sister Mary catechism, “Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember. Involve me and I learn.”

I smiled again; I’d heard that one about a hundred times.

Sabbath and I shared anecdotes; hers far more personal than mine. “She basically raised me. The other five beds had girls rotating in and out, but I was living there full time. Somehow she got me a birth certificate, one that that held up.”

Sabbath was often the only white girl in the shelter. Back then the neighborhood was turning browner; signage was often in Spanish. Plenty of poor black families too, along with several white hangers-on.

I let Sabbath tell the story in her own roundabout way. Eventually she came around to the stalker.

“Let’s get this out of the way. It’s why I’m here. The ugly part.”

She opened her tablet and showed me page after page of screen captures:

YOUR GOING TO DIE SCREAMING!!!

YOUR GOING TO BURN IN HELL!!!

BURN BURN BURN!!!

YOUR GOING TO DIE SCREAMING!!!

We both remained silent as she slowly scrolled. There were two interwoven themes — fire and death. And there hadn’t been a gradual escalation; this sicko had been raging at her from his very first all-caps scream.

Sabbath said, “I had a good eye for clothes. In high school, my girlfriends always sought me out, took me shopping with them.”

“Okay.”

“I started a blog, just among my pals, about twenty of us. But Instagram was more fun with the photos and hashtags and all. I kept getting more and more ‘likes’ especially with my videos.”

“I’ve seen your stuff, pretty spiffy. It’s like a Ralph Lauren movie, beautiful people, cool products, gorgeous settings. Even the pets are good looking.”

“Thanks. It takes work though, a lot of work. Even to do something as simple as choosing colors. Dusty rose, sepia, earthy pigments — they didn’t just happen to show up. I went through as many color variations and combinations as a musician does with a tonal palette.”

“It shows.”

“Anyway at Cal, I developed a more practiced eye and that led to more and more followers. Over two hundred thousand now.”

“Is that a lot?”

“Depends. Not for a real superestrella — say, Selena Gomez. Celebrities like her have over a hundred million followers. And there are some just regular teenagers out there with so much talent they have over a million followers. But for a nobody like me ... well, it’s pretty decent.”

“So, you’re at Cal.”

“Yeah. I was a typical undergrad — focused on friends, parties, some of my classes. Smoked quite a bit of dope. Got half-assed involved in a couple of political demonstrations.” She grinned, “It was more of a personal thing than a real commitment. I was seeing a chico.”

“Been there.”

“So Instagramming kind of evolved along with my life. I had a pretty good sense of flair, the camera liked me, I had similar-minded friends. I guess I just sort of backed into a career without being all that aware of it. I subconsciously married the personal and the professional.”

“How so?”

“Okay, you’ve seen my Instagram account. Products, right? Clothes, sneakers, accessories. Then I branched out into food — small batch tortillas and salsas, dry rubs, curry paste. All stuff I liked and some of it I was really enthusiastic about.”

I nodded.

“Back in California, and even more so here in Kansas City, I was featuring my friends — picnics, modeling new outfits, romping around, playing Frisbee with the dogs.”

“Very gauzy, some soft-focus pictures. Even that soft background music on the videos was compelling. Vivaldi, Blind Blake, Judy Henske.”

“You’re right! But mainly I was just fooling around, showcasing stuff I liked, that my friends liked. But then my followers started wanting to know more and more about me. About me personally. Where did I buy that copper pot, that accent rug? What did I use in my hair?”

“Understandable, you’re so photogenic; it looks like you lead a fun life.”

“That’s the thing I didn’t realize at first. I had created a look; no, it was more of a style. A lifestyle, I guess. People started wanting to know more and more about me, about my life. And how to get that kind of life for themselves.”

“And now someone’s obsessed.”

“I guess so. But here’s the irony. My online persona sort of morphed from showing some friends my favorite linen jacket to a way of life that someone called ‘Leisurely Lane’. And the name stuck.”

“I guess Casual Friday kicked things off. Now it’s all casual, all the time.”

Unless you had to show up for work in a police uniform.

“See, Winter, that’s the thing. It wasn’t about, say cargo pants anymore. Or cargo pants was just a small part of it. Leisurely Lane became a way to live. An easier, carefree life. It looked like, still looks like, my friends and I are part of a ... I don’t know, a utopian community or something. Everything is slower-paced, products are natural and sustainable, and every day is sunny and cheerful.”

“Which of course it isn’t”

Sabbath snorted, “I have to hustle my butt off, just to keep up. It looks effortless, but that takes a lot of drudgery, a lot of hard work. I don’t Photoshop anything. You see some postings — it’s like the exact same cloud formations in the background, shot after shot.”

“So Leisurely Lane is more authentically filmed.”

“Yeah. But back to how difficult it is. I edit, edit, edit! I bet over 90% of what we shoot never gets posted.”

“And Sergeant Finch thinks that your Instagram account triggered something. In someone.”

“Yeah. I mean I’m on a lot of social media — Facebook and microblogging on Twitter and posting YouTube videos. And I have a presence on several other smaller platforms. I do VSCO of course, I was an early adopter. Plus I use old media, we all do. Press releases, cable interviews, radio appearances. But Instagram is where I got my start, built my base.”