The Black-Eyed Baby

By Jacquel Clark

How far can one go to conceal evil?

Detective Mansfield has seen a lot in his years in the police force, but he’s never had to stare into the eyes of a dead baby before.

He now wishes he never had to…

Days after an unidentified woman is found murdered and dumped behind an IHOP, police connect her murder to the death of a young thug named Rocco Maxen and discover her infant son dead inside her home.

Jane Doe is Nicole Hensen, a young woman who was fired mere days ago from a big corporation for not showing up for work.

But why do her colleagues claim they never had any dealings with her, and why would her employers rather fire her than look into her strange disappearance?

As Mansfield and his partner, Landers, delve into the sinister business of one of the richest and oldest families in the city, they find themselves blindsided by the darkness and secrets buried beneath its crushing wealth.

When it comes right down to it, the poor and the rich have one thing in common…

They would both do anything for money.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886938258

Jacquel Clark

Since retiring as a vice president and treasurer of a Florida-based Fortune 500 company, Jacquel Clark (alias Jay Clark) instructed thousands of business professionals and authored several articles published in academic journals. This is where she developed her love of writing. As a second career, she now applies her accounting degree and her MBA from Stetson University to provide college students with opportunities to master the skills needed to be successful in future college work and the business world. She teaches accounting and finance-based subjects, and in her spare time, she writes about those things that demand to be put on paper.

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About the Author

Since retiring as a vice president and treasurer of a Florida-based Fortune 500 company, Jacquel Clark (alias Jay Clark) instructed thousands of business professionals and authored several articles published in academic journals. This is where she developed her love of writing. As a second career, she now applies her accounting degree and her MBA from Stetson University to provide college students with opportunities to master the skills needed to be successful in future college work and the business world. She teaches accounting and finance-based subjects, and in her spare time, she writes about those things that demand to be put on paper.

Copyright Information ©

Jacquel Clark 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable for criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Clark, Jacquel

The Black-Eyed Baby

ISBN 9798886938241 (Paperback)

ISBN 9798886938258 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023911158

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Chapter 1

Forty-three years old and he had never killed a man. He may never be able to say it again. Standing in his corner, he could hear his coach screaming in his ear, but it was drowned out by the noise of the crowd. His attention was drawn to his adversary. What was going through his mind? What had caused him to lose control and allow his inner demons to surface?

The date was 13 April 2002, and the location was the arena in Miami, Florida. The American Mansfield was pitted against the Brazilian Vega in a kickboxing exhibition match. Demonstration bouts were meant to get the audience excited for the main events, but Vega had forgotten this.

As the final bell rang, both fighters made their way to the center of the ring. The American kept a close eye on his opponent as he stepped out of his corner, gauging how quickly he would advance and in which direction he would head. Hand position would tell all. The Brazilian was squared up, elbows riding high. His body was tense, and he was cocking his right fist back. ‘Oh yeah,’ the American thought, ‘it is on.’

Mansfield countered the aggressive posture with a skip-up side kick to his opponent’s left haunch. The hit was solid, and the stadium responded with one loud sucking sound, taking all the air out of the room. Vega’s body twisted, and his hip sank backward. His right foot kept him from immediately collapsing. The American waited for half a second. Years of training taught him to wait and see if his opponent would continue his mean-mugging. The visitor recovered quickly and threw a wild haymaker. A quick duck and the wallop was futile, but Mansfield sensed the swoosh and air movement as the punch passed.

While keeping an eye on Vega, Mansfield yelled over to the ref, Yo, you better watch this guy! The South American was trained in the Korean form of martial arts known as tae kwon do, but he was now fighting like a hell rooster.

The Brazilian hurled a bizarre kick striking the American ineffectively on the teardrop muscle of the thigh as he was warning the referee. This only resulted in infuriating the six-foot-two, well-built quadragenarian. Muscle memory responded, and the Kenpo fighter threw a back leg roundhouse to Vega’s body. He dropped his hands, and Mansfield followed with a right cross to the mandible, dazing Vega. Trained to always follow through, instinct took over, and he finished with a right leg-spinning hook kick, hitting the Brazilian square in the face. This effectively knocked him out on his feet.

The sea of rambunctious spectators thundered, thrilled at the spectacle of defeat. The American looked around at the vast space full of people seeing nothing but spotlights zigzagging the stadium; the noise was deafening. His hand was jerked up by the referee, and he again was stunned by the shrill sound of crowd appreciation. But, largely, he was assaulted by the rancid hand sweat that oozed from the inside of the boxing gloves. This was overwhelming.

Stepping down gingerly from the ring onto the metal steps, Mansfield eventually reached the concrete floor covered in popcorn, beverages, and receipt stubs. On his way to the locker room, he gazed out over the stadium with the flashing cameras. Vendors were hawking food and beer, and people were throwing their hands out wanting to touch him. As the winner, he should have been proud; instead, he was disappointed.

Chapter 2

Mansfield left the American Airlines Arena and went to the Bat Cave for some serious self-indulgence. It was a hole-in-the-wall dive where they served privacy, no one bothered you, and your glass never emptied. The shabby bar was cash-only. All spaces were barely backlit, so the room was tragically dark. Johnny Cash was pounding out Folsom Prison Blues, and nothing sounded more inviting to Dave Mansfield.

Taking a seat two-thirds of the way down the counter by the neon Budweiser sign, the beefy, unshaven brute in front of the speed rack brought him a bowl of pretzels with his usual whiskey on the rocks. This place reminded him of the Snakebite back in D.C. It was a rough bar and a haven from the world of yuppies, lobbyists, and Hill staffers beyond. Other collegiate establishments he frequented in the area had to close earlier than the Snakebite to keep their patrons from being accosted by the rougher crowd. At the time, Mansfield did not understand the fans of the biker hangout and their loud bikes, but now he understood all too well.

Deep into the memories of his younger days, Dave sat by himself at the counter facing the multitudes of liquors. Spinning a half-empty highball glass slowly, he fully and deeply disassociated himself from his surroundings. He pushed the whiskey tumbler forward, grunted for a refill, and was surprised when Mike Landers slid into the seat next to him.

Figured you would be here. This is the first place I scouted when I left the fights. Man, you were impressive. What was up with that Vega fellow? I swear he lost his shit, totally off the track.

You can stay, but I don’t want to talk about the fight. That guy was an embarrassment to the arts. Hell, I’m a humiliation to my training myself!

Mike ordered a beer and another round for Dave. He was drinking doubles.

Sure, no problem. Why do you always come to this dive? It stinks of stale cigarette smoke. I bet you a yard that everyone in here is packing.

Reminds me of a place back in D.C.

When were you ever in the capital? I thought you came from LA, Landers was a bit confused.

The district’s where I grew up and went to college.

No shit. You went to school in D.C. How could I not have known that? We’ve been partners, what…three years now, and that has never come up?

Guess not. Went to George Washington University with the help of my family’s wealth and influence. Surprising but true, I graduated third in my class. The law school was just four blocks from the White House, three from the State Department, and across the street from the World Bank. Just as my mother had prayed, I was in the heart of Washington, D.C., and its politics.

Are you kidding? Do you come from money? Whatever happened to all your manners, boy?

By the time they ordered the next round, Waylon Jennings was belting out I’m a Ramblin’ Man.

I’m 100% sure they don’t listen to this crap on the hill. How’d you end up in Miami as a detective? Mike asked, seriously this time.

The students were predominantly liberal-leaning Democrats, and I was sure I was marching to a different tune. Most postgraduates were only obsessed with things they parroted from their families. Carter had lost the election, and Reaganomics was the new buzzword. Personally, I didn’t understand what was so wrong with cutting government spending, decreasing income, and capital gains taxes. To even mention reducing regulations on businesses made me the bad guy.

Mike had to laugh. You were discordant, even back then.

Ordering another round, Dave stared down and considered how he had ended up on this stool. Out of graduate school, he was the first-round recruit for four prestigious law firms. Coming from an influential family, he had advantages and a financial safety net if he found himself in a situation. All he had to do was meet his parent’s expectations. But that was the rub; he did not want to be like his parents or anyone else in politics.

Dave surveyed the joint remembering where he was.

Yeah, I tried to do the dance. But the year following law school was more like purgatory than heaven. Quickly realized I didn’t care much for my parents’ political stance on matters. Oh, the fundraisers, Mansfield spun around to focus entirely on his friend and almost fell into him, drink, and all. The dinner parties were always just a few clowns short of a riot.

Mike caught him and sat him up straight on his stool again. Dave continued, In attendance was always the big-bellied braggart who partially buttoned his vest and was ignorant to the fact his coat came with buttons. With him was either an escort, which cost him dearly, or an aging wife who applied her makeup too heavily thereby highlighting every one of her imperfections. Dave’s words were becoming slower and slurred, but he was talking from another realm.

He rallied in his seat, Regardless of who came to the dinners and parties, they were alike in almost every way. They thought the government should interfere and run everything. This is the world my parents wanted to firmly entrench me in for the rest of my life. Mansfield stopped for dramatic effect, wanting the young man sitting next to him to understand the ridiculousness of his plight. He threw up his hands, considered his glass, and decisively took another drink.

However, I found myself pulled toward something more. Something real.

So what did you do? Mike was amazed. Yes, his friend was smashed, but he had never witnessed him talking this much at one time.

Poked the bear, Dave jabbed Mike in the chest with his pointer finger. Just to rebel a little, I joined the boxing club in college because I wanted to experience something tangible. Needed to push my limits knowing this strength would help me walk away. And, truthfully, I wanted to piss my mom off.

Isn’t that every son’s dream? What did she do?

Oh, you would have to have met Jackie to understand. She thinks, no she knows, the world revolves around her. Finally, told her goodbye and left K Street. She was furious. But this Brazilian. He was the wrong number. He became so aggressive that I wanted to rip him to pieces.

Well, I’m glad you didn’t do that. The result would have been a bloody massacre. So what’s eatin at you? Is it Jane Doe?

With red, watery eyes, impaired reflexes, and an overall inability to stay seated straight on his stool, Dave admitted his partner was right. The fight wasn’t the problem; this latest case was the culprit.

Mike, I just can’t remove the image of that dead baby from my mind. I’m a trained detective, and things like this shouldn’t bother me. But that infant child, its last moments on this earth must have been tormenting. Those eyes…they were almost completely black, and it was like they judged everything in their path. I keep seeing the eyes staring at me; they are haunting. We are not passing this case off; we must close this one ourselves.

Chapter 3

A week before the exhibition match, on April 7th, Mansfield and his partner, Mike Landers, were on rotation when a body was found behind an IHOP. Mansfield’s phone rang at 3 am.

Hello, Izzy. Everett Izquierdo was the watch commander at the Miami Police Department, but everyone knew him as Izzy.

Got a hot one at the IHOP in Little Havana. Called in minutes ago by an off-duty grunt going in for a late dinner or early breakfast. This is when she saw the stiff lying next to the trash bin near the kitchen door of the restaurant.

Who’s the drone?

Marisol Simon. Are you acquainted?

Don’t think so. Anything else?

Dispatcher says the victim was viewed on the eastern side of the dumpster. The body was in a supine position, head to the north and feet to the south. Extensive injuries were readily noticeable. At reporting, no other jaws.

Tolerable. Give Landers a call and tell him to meet me.

Dave Mansfield had eighteen years on the job. The last thirteen in Miami as a homicide detective. He had a wiry, muscular build—big muscles were of no use whatsoever; they only slowed him down. In his business, speed was second only to accuracy.

Dragging himself out of bed, he prepared for the long day ahead. He thought about putting on coffee and opted just to drive through Dunkin Donuts instead. After brushing his teeth, he stared at himself in the mirror, noting the slight changes in his features. Age was sneaking in, and maturity replaced the youthful appearance he had always held. His shoulder-length, thick, once pristine blonde, curly hair was tousled from sleep. He searched for a hair tie and, using his fingers, raked the hair back into a pony, allowing the small scar on his chin he earned in a motorcycle accident years ago to show.

Mansfield then opened the locked safe in the kitchen and took out his holster and his Glock 17, the gun that had served as his service weapon for years. His backup firearm, a tried-and-true Smith & Wesson .38 Special was properly anchored. He walked to the door, hesitated, and abruptly returned to the cabinets to grab a couple of packs of cigarettes from where he stored his overstock. Never smoked until he moved to Miami, and now he struggled to keep it to a one-pack-a-day habit.

Sliding behind the wheel of his department-issued Crown Victoria, he took the MacArthur Causeway and the 836 west until he reached NW 42nd Avenue. About half an hour later, he entered the parking lot of the IHOP. Landers had already arrived.

The first officer confirmed first aid was unnecessary and contacted the watch commander to roll in the support troops. This same person established the alley as a crime scene and secured the perimeter. He also wrote Simon’s contact information in his notebook and asked her to remain in her car until the detectives arrived and could take her preliminary statement.

Dave eyeballed the human robots, their heads down doing nothing more than their part of the business. He made a mental note the perimeter was generous enough to contain relevant evidence and officers had been posted to secure the scene from the curious. Like most murders, a carefully orchestrated and strict caste system was in force. The detectives did the talking among themselves or to the techs.

Uniforms did not speak unless spoken to. Body movers spoke to no one except the medical examiner’s team, and the corner’s tech said little to anyone. Crime scene investigators photographed, documented, and collected evidence. Their goal was to make a permanent record of the scene. Lab techs dusted for fingerprints, collected trace fluids and fibers, and controlled this evidence to maintain its integrity. Mansfield’s partner was videotaping the scene himself.

Dave peered up at the sky, checking the weather. April was a month of continuous warmth for Miami and averaged the most sunshine, the lowest humidity, and the fewest rainy days. This year was no different. Clouds were barely noticeable, and the night was clear. No worrisome conditions with which to contend.

Mansfield walked over to the corpse and lifted the 44-blanket. The victim’s scalp had been split by a vicious blow. The detective’s attention was drawn to the other cuts and significant bruising on the woman’s face as well as the crusted black blood on her neck and the once cream and blue clothing that she was wearing. Her hands were open at her sides.

Kneeling closer, the investigator saw several fingers on the right hand bent backward in compound fractures—‘classic defense wounds’ he mumbled to himself. Looking further, Mansfield noted the bruising of both thighs and the dried blood that ran down her legs to the bare feet. What was prominent was the single shot to the center of her forehead. What was missing was all the gore, indicating this was not the murder scene. The body had merely been dumped here.

Dave scanned the area for the reporting patrol officer. Since she was off duty, she was outside the circle of trust and was sitting in her car, waiting for the detective in charge to question her. Mansfield approached and noted Simon was still in uniform and had rookie written all over her. They all were rookies these days.

You must be Marisol Simon, the homicide detective said, offering a handshake. I’m Detective Dave Mansfield and was told you are the person who called in the stiff.

That would be me, the young officer straightened up her posture and smiled attractively at the handsome man addressing her.

How long have you been on the job?

Not long. Mansfield silently shook his head. Worse than a rookie, she was a boot.

Sighing deeply, Mansfield asked, Can you run it down for me?

Marisol began with coding off duty. She then stopped by the IHOP for something to eat before returning the cruiser to the barn. She indicated a bundle lying next to the dumpster caught her attention because it was odd and inappropriate. So she got her flashlight and walked over to investigate. That was when she found the body.

I checked out the alley, and no one was in the vicinity, so I called in and stayed outside. Kept watch over things until the criminal investigators showed up. And, here I am, end of the story. She stood with a huge grin, shrugging her shoulders and holding her hands behind her back, waiting for her accolades. Her habit of covering her mouth each time a giggle started made Dave wonder if she was just playing at being a cop or if she was trying to flirt.

The detective was horrified at the lack of proper protocol and the danger in which she had put herself. If the