Little Lady: A Red Strings of Faith Novel

By Sean McCauley

In his debut book, McCauley brings the issue of human sex trafficking to the forefront in his fictional account revolving around a young girl who falls victim to modern slavery. The story follows Angel, a young girl driven to prostitution and drugs who dreams of home but is forced to live out her days being used and under the control of her pimp

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tactical 16 Publishing
• Release date: Dec 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798869064240

Sean McCauley

Sean James McCauley graduated from New Jersey City University in 2010 with a bachelor's degree in Secondary Education with a concentration in History and a minor in English. He taught for seven years in New Jersey where he became a leader by focusing on student achievement, spearheading new research-based initiatives, mentoring incoming educators, and representing several statewide planning groups. During his time in the classroom, Sean enrolled in an Educational Leadership program at Western Governors University, where he completed his master's degree in 2016.Following his years teaching, Sean joined the United States Air Force as a commissioned officer - a lifelong dream in honor of his father, a Vietnam War veteran. Here, Lieutenant McCauley entered the Department of Defense apparatus as an intelligence officer at Wright Patterson Air Force Base's National Air and Space Intelligence Center (NASIC) in Dayton, Ohio. For three years, the lieutenant supported many mission sets involving a large area of operations. McCauley also entered the National Intelligence University during his tenure at NASIC and further explored mission-related topics such as human trafficking. He continued his professional development while deployed to Afghanistan, where he flew 118 combat missions supporting coalition forces.McCauley finished his second master's in Strategic Intelligence in 2020. He returned to New Jersey where he was sworn into serving his state as a Captain within the New Jersey Air National Guard. In this role, he led one of the state's Vaccination Mega-Sites and Veteran's Home missions. He joined the classroom once more in Bayonne after four years of active duty and enrolled in the Rutgers United Nations Masters program. His academic and professional focus areas once again led to the research and exploration of human trafficking.Aristotle best summarizes Sean's objectives for his future with, "The essence of life is to serve others and do good."

Book preview

Part I

CHAPTER 1

DETECTIVE

It was a brisk Sunday morning, if it could be considered morning. With the sun not yet risen, the hands on Detective Hall’s watch were the only indication that a new day had begun. Hall left a message on his wife's voicemail before exiting his car. After fourteen years on the force, he could tell when it was going to be a long night. The moonlight gleamed off his chestnut skin as he walked toward the scene. He ran his hand over his salt-and-peppered head, a habit which he had annoyed himself with for many years. With each step he took, plumes of condensation escaped his mouth.

Ten minutes prior, Hall and his partner had received a call. The River Thames had once again been witness to another crime.

Hall had always admired the River Thames, though its calming waters were somewhat deceiving. The river flowed gracefully like a serpent through southern England, holding secrets and history under its surface. Tourism, outings, and sporting events had turned the area along the river into a leisure spot in recent years and the Thames held a unique appeal for a multitude of people. Writers, artists, musicians, and filmmakers had all created works based on the banks of this historic waterway. For the detective, the river held both fond memories and the grim knowledge of how often it was used by criminals to discard of bodies.

Hall and his partner climbed down to the banks to initiate their Preliminary Survey and spotted the body lying undisturbed, nearly five meters from the water. As his partner talked with the securing constable, Hall leaned in to observe the body, grunting as the bones in his knees and ankle cracked. Hall was in his element. This part of the protocol was where he felt most comfortable: Evaluating Physical Evidence Possibilities. The water at the edge of the river was slightly frozen. The thin sheets chipped away to the rest of the river, which surged smoothly, reflecting the lights from the buildings overhead. The cool air brushed against Hall’s exposed neck and shins as he stretched to view the body, his mind slipping into another realm.

Leaving behind all other thoughts, Hall slowly and methodically searched for any piece of evidence, no matter how trivial. He tried to imagine what had happened to the victim as he moved on to the next step: Preparing a Narrative of the Scene. The body had been found in a short, skintight black skirt, a black and red bra, and a jacket which barely covered her midriff. There were abrasions and what appeared to be puncture wounds covering the body. Hall could tell they were not self-inflicted injuries, which meant he could rule out suicide. Track marks indicative of a drug use ran along her arms and between her fingers. Her face had been beaten to the point of being unidentifiable.

The pathway to and from the main walkway was clear. Whoever had committed the murder had left no trace. There was no sign of struggle, no splatter marks, no pooling of blood surrounding the corpse. Hall felt confident that the victim was deceased before her body had been brought to this location. Before he could finish his thought, his partner appeared and summoned him for orders. Forensic Operations arrived and Hall turned over the scene to them. Cameras were chirping away, capturing images of the scene. Measurements were taken for a sketch. A detailed search would follow. Hall knew it would probably be up to the guys in SERIS — Specialist Evidence Recovery Imaging Services — and ERU — Evidence Recovery Unit — to provide further information.

Hall returned to his car and picked up what was now a lukewarm cup of Earl Grey Tea. Reflecting on the scene of Ms. Bloggs — a name given as a placeholder to a victim not yet identified — he tried to create the story in his mind. His experience led him to believe she was a nightwalker.

Dawn was fast approaching. Clutching his Burberry trench coat, a gift from his wife for their tenth anniversary, his mind flipped through all the horrific images he had seen throughout the years. His own tragedies began to bleed into various crime scenes. The detective quickly shook his head to rid himself of the memories. Grasping the reigns of his mind, he guided his thoughts back towards the case at hand.

Prostitution was thriving in London. This was not a recent issue. Before the 1960s, when law enforcement clamped down on the problem, the Soho area had had an infestation of prostitution. Now, Soho was a mostly gay community, peaceful and thriving. The prostitution ring didn't stop, however. Instead, it disbursed around London like birds from a cage. Now it was mobile. There were still certain spots where girls would walk, congregating on corners with a watchful eye nearby, but it had become more commonplace for cabs or privately owned vehicles to transport girls. The underground was riddled with sex trafficking. Girls were being brought in from Poland, Bulgaria, Russia, and other eastern European countries, with an influx of Romanian girls entering the streets recently.

The market was huge, catering largely to the wealthy men who stopped over for business trips. They'd fly in, attend their respective meetings, pop over for a quick poke, then grab dinner and be on their way. There were also many regular callers for the girls that lived right in London.

There was a system. Not all girls were lucky enough to be acquainted with clients associated with the high life, who paid top dollar to customize their experience down to hair color, height, and eye color. If it was a quick in and out, a prostitute did just fine, but a man who wanted a girl — or girls — on his arm for the night would hire an escort. There were also the sick few who wouldn’t settle for a quickie, who refused to spend money on one single night and instead purchased girls as their property. This was the underground sex trafficking ring.

Once, a few years prior, Hall had attended a gala as a guest of the mayor. He’d wandered around in his rented tux, snatching mini appetizers served by the white-gloved wait staff, and realized how much he hated social gatherings. The silver platters gleamed, reflecting the light of the chandeliers overhead. Probably made of actual silver, he thought. These were not his people, but this was the game he needed to play. After his bust a few weeks earlier, his face had been front-page news. His fifteen minutes of fame had come and the mayor, who was up for re-election, wanted to flaunt the detective around.

Hall was of average height and build. The one thing that stood out about him, other than his dedication to the force, were his hazy avocado eyes. Those eyes were what had caught the attention of his wife. As the social one, she had always been better in situations like this one. Unfortunately, the invite had been dropped on his desk just the day before and there was no way she could get her shift covered. Hall had begged and pleaded with her until she took his face in her hands.

This is your night., she told him. You go and have fun. Pulling his forehead down to her lips, she kissed his brow.

People pulled him into their groups to chat. Fake smiles and fake handshakes were exchanged and completed with fake laughs. He was dragged to a cocktail table circled by aristocrats. Hall chuckled to himself as he thought that he would be surprised if they knew how to wipe their own asses. Watches worth more than houses and bracelets, necklaces, and earrings worth as much as a small country adorned the people surrounding him. This was a group of people far out of touch with the real world. Hall realized he was a plaything at this event — the flavor of the week. No one expected him to speak. He was there to look nice, smile, and remind the mayor’s guests that the tax dollars and contributions had been hard at work.

One of the aristocrats at this table was a thin, blonde, green-eyed dolt of a woman wearing a tiara. Her voice, loud and squirrely, reminded him of an overdramatic, wealthy women screaming after their little dog as it escapes, not moving a muscle, expecting someone else to catch the poor animal as it ran far, far away, No, Princess D! No! The thought made him laugh — internally of course.

The woman was asking how girls could be dumb enough to get captured and used or sold for sex. This, coming from a person born with a golden spoon in her mouth. Hall felt his fists clench, his calm demeanor evaporating. His invite to the gala had been for political gain and showmanship, but the ignorance on display was too much for him to stay silent. He cleared his throat, quieting the small group around him.

Well, there are many ways the girls get caught up in such impossible and sickening situations. Some girls are promised a new life in a more modern part of the world and agree to be snuck into the country, unaware of what will happen to them. Then there are the poor girls who are given up by their families to pay off debts. Think about that, your own family using you as a form of payment. Sort of like how daddy will sell you off to a golf buddy’s son to ensure a business deal, he said, gesturing toward the woman in the tiara before continuing.

And then, of course, there are the girls that are kidnapped right here in London. Whether deceived, betrayed, or simply taken, almost all of these victims are given habit-forming drugs that dull their senses. Once they realize the life they have been forced into, they take the drugs willingly, because who wants to really feel or remember the action of a person taking you against your will and using you as a rag to mess in?

Hall sipped his drink. The group stood uncomfortably. Silence permeated the area as they all stared at the detective, horrified.

Oh, I love these. Hall plucked a pig in a blanket from a passing tray and popped it into his mouth. He walked away, drink in hand, leaving the group to their now-slightly-less blissful ignorance.

Hall believed that people tended to think that life was like a movie or a book, that all crimes could be solved with evidence. The reality was that evidence couldn’t always be obtained. Breadcrumbs were not always left behind. Not every case had a trail. Even worse, sometimes the criminal was found and then let off on a technicality. Innocent victims sometimes received the short end of the stick. Often, leads fizzled out. With no trace of Ms. Bloggs’ assailant, there was nothing left to do but document the crime scene, file a report, and wait for the latest information. Until he could identify the body, notifying the victim’s next of kin was at a standstill, as well.

The detective snapped back to reality as the passenger door to his car flung open. Brown, a constable who had made detective a few months prior, had been assigned to Hall. As a senior detective, Hall was to mentor the greenhorn and show him the ropes. Hall hadn’t been thrilled about this. It wasn't that Brown was incompetent. Hall just didn't mesh well with others. His idiosyncrasies could be seen as off-putting, and he would rather forgo the inevitable outcome he could foresee. A disagreement would occur, a call would be made the next day to the office, a meeting would be held, Hall would offer an apology in which he didn't convey enough sincerity, and eventually there would be a transfer.

Brown ducked into the car, wrapping up his final review of the scene. When he ripped his cap off, perspiration sprayed from his cropped hair. The young detective was clearly anxious and willing to do what needed to be done. That was good. But Hall needed to teach him patience. He needed to show that him that what needs to be done isn't always what has to be done. Hall knew this didn't sound correct in his head, but it was a truth he had learned.

Hall knew from his years on the force that the job came with great responsibility. It also brought pain, numbness, and a jaded view of people. Hall began to question the young detective as they headed back to the station.

What do you think?

I gather the victim was likely a hooker, Brown replied.

Why?

Brown pointed out the victim’s garb, smeared makeup, and the injection points indicative of drug use.

Good. What else? Hall asked.

The question in Hall’s mind was why Ms. Bloggs was on the riverbank. There were no coincidences in detectives' eyes. He just needed enough dots to make those connections.

Brown presented a few scenarios he thought were possible. Perhaps the girl had been using drugs, which had led to an overdose or to her murder. Perhaps her handler had felt that she had become too mouthy. Lastly, it was possible that the girl had been talking to the wrong people.

Hall nodded in agreement. These occurrences had become more and more common, which scared the detective. He’d never thought they would have to pull bodies weekly from one of the most toured rivers in London.

Brown looked at his notes, recounting the details of the scene and what had been found on and around the body.

It wasn't wet, he observed. Hall nodded. Why wouldn't they dump the body in the water? It would've given the perpetrator more time to get away, Brown continued. Hall sipped his tea, keeping his eyes on the road. They were only five meters away. Hall waited as Brown processed the facts. They could have been scared off. Perhaps there is an unknowing witness out there.

Back at the station, Hall sat at his desk and began the tasking chore of paperwork. Writing every detail that he could recall about the scene was exhausting but Hall took pride in his narrative, dotting every i and crossing every t. His script was fluid, almost like calligraphy.

Their investigation would be halted until the autopsy results came back or someone came forward. Now, it would be up to the news stations to drum up information. This unfortunate event had happened at a good time of day. The morning news would take the reins, informing thousands of people throughout London — including any possible unsuspecting witnesses — of the tragedy. Until then, a fry-up breakfast and some much-needed sleep were in order.

As the late morning sun gleamed, the detective arrived at his flat and found it vacant. His apartment wasn't the most glamorous of places. It was small and cramped, but it was home. A place that he and his wife had made their own. There were the hooks where they placed his two coats and her ten. The brown microfiber chesterfield, which had cost him nearly £4,000, sat against the crème latte walls, taunting him. He had barely used it since its purchase.

Hall removed his shoes and socks, sighing with relief as his sore and tired feet met the soft, welcoming rug in the bedroom. He picked up a note from where it rested on the end table.

"I was called in for the night shift. I won't be back until later tonight."

Hall now understood why his wife hadn't returned his call. Her phone was not always with her at work, and it could be a hassle to contact her during her shifts. There had been a few times that Hall had had to physically show up at her work to speak with her. He hated going there. Parking was horrible. The hallways were always crowded. And the smell. God, the smell made his stomach drop, his nostrils flare, and his head spin.

He placed the note back where he had found it and realized that he hadn't seen his wife in weeks, aside from brief interactions here and there. He went over to the sink to clean up and stood, staring at the image reflected in the mirror. He found himself once again stroking his hair, remembering his wife’s touch. As he climbed into bed, his hand brushed the cool, empty area that was her side. A breeze from the slightly open window seemed to blow right through him, leaving an echoing pain in his heart.

Hall slept for seven hours, which was an eternity of sleep for him. He had always had difficulty separating work and home, and his mind was constantly racing. Death surrounded all aspects of his life. There was no way of escaping its cold grip.

Hall decided it was teatime, knowing once he was awake all efforts to get back to sleep were futile. While the kettle heated on the stove, he had a quick shower and a nice shave. The detective had it timed perfectly so that the kettle would begin to whistle just when he had two or three strokes left with the razor. After pouring his tea, Hall made the daily call to let Brown know that he was on his way to pick him up.

Brown had quickly learned that Hall expected him to be prompt each morning. Their first day together, Hall had been agitated at being made to wait. After a few minutes, the detective had left his car and feverishly knocked on Brown's door. Since then, Brown was at the door each morning, waiting.

Don't you enjoy some time sitting home? Brown asked as he squinted his eyes, yawning. Eyes on the road, Hall ignored the question and asked Brown to read last night’s notes back to him. With fresh wits, he thought maybe they would remember something they had overlooked before. Brown rattled off the information.

Female. Stab wounds. Possible prostitute. Druggy. Possible murder. Dropped meters from the water.

Just then Brown's phone rang. It was the coroner's office.

When the detectives arrived, the doctor walked them to the body. It lay on a silver table, reminiscent of the appetizers at the gala. I wonder if the platter people make these medical tables as well, Hall thought to himself.

The coroner unveiled the body and began to explain that they had still yet to identify the girl and were waiting for the Fingerprint Bureau to run her through their system. They had, however, been able to determine the murder weapon. The doctor pointed to the wounds, which had obviously been inflicted by a knife, and explained that it had been a stiletto knife with a six-inch stainless-steel blade and a false edge. Hall knew that determining the exact type of knife used in a crime had helped solve and close multiple cases in the past. The coroner showed Hall and Brown the measurements of the victim’s wounds as she explained that the length of penetration for each was a millimeter or two off. The doctor showed there wasn't drag, indicating that there had been little resistance once the blade went in. This meant that the blade had repeatedly entered and exited the victim’s body before slicing open her throat. She had bled out, the doctor said.

Hall and Brown inquired about the toxicity report and the coroner explained that it would take some time to get it but assured them that she would contact them once anything came in.

As they walked back to the car, Brown asked where they were going.

To visit a few friends, Hall answered.

They called on various prats and tweakers who roamed the streets, every one of which had an arrest record. Hall knew that sometimes you had to release the little fish to catch a bigger one later. One after another, they questioned people. Each time, nothing came of it. Hall was desperate. No one knew a thing about what happened, or at least no one was saying anything. There was one more stop to make, one more man he could see. Though he would rather not deal with this person, Hall was at his wit's end. He headed to Burton Street.

The detective circled the ritzy area. Fancy restaurants. High-end flats. Lavish hotels. Hall knew his informant had to be here. He could feel him nearby.

Who are we looking for? Brown asked. Hall once again ignored his partner as his eyes darted, searching for his prey. There. There the little twat was, his head sticking out the window of a moving van like the delinquent jackass he was. This man was an inconvenience, cancer to the system. As many times as he had been put behind bars, his lawyers had always found him a way out.

Hall decided he'd cut the van off a few blocks ahead and parked on a corner, waiting for the van to pull up. He sucked his gums, sliding his tongue across the front of his teeth. Lunging to the corner, the van barely made the legal yield. Hall flipped on his lights. The car accelerated forward and parked in the van’s path. Popping open the car door, Hall stood up. Walking toward the car, the detective scanned the area, looking for any suspicious activity within the vehicle. As Hall moved closer, he hoped the man in the van wasn't too far gone to be of use, staring into the pale blue, bloodshot eyes which were gazing straight at him.

Firmly, Hall’s gloved hand gripped the slit where the window slides into the door. Slinked back into the passenger seat, the man waited, staring daggers at the detective. Hall didn't care. Shouldn't care. He needed to make sure he showed how little he cared. Choosing to ignore his rising frustration, the detective smiled.

Hello, gents. The driver stared straight ahead. The pale-eyed man in the passenger seat said nothing. What can you guys tell me about the girl from last night? The passenger suddenly erupted, yelling. The detective was taken aback by the outburst. The intoxicated man wasn't even looking at him. He was looking through him. Turning, Hall found a young man paralyzed mid-step. The detective repeated his question. Revulsion crossed the man's face.

What makes you think that I know anything about some trick's body you found out in the water? The detective shrugged and allowed the two men to leave. A single finger emerged from the window of the van as it drove away.

CHAPTER 2

NURSE

Tension was high within the Whittington that afternoon. Sabel was running on fumes. Twenty-four hours in the ICU would make anyone loopy. They were down two nurses and Sabel’s nerves were wearing thin. Six cups of coffee were all that fueled her, but they also sent her to the ladies' room twice as often as usual. Every time she made it back to her station, she was requested somewhere else, yet another patient needing her. It was as if all of London had decided to enter the hospital that day. She worked and watched on as the ailing geriatric patients continued to decline in health.

Whenever she could, she escaped into the room of Mrs. Ashe's, a sixty-year-old coma patient, where machines were clicking, compressing, and beeping. An accident had caused Mrs. Ashe to slip into a coma ten weeks ago, while on holiday in Bali. Next to the machines sat Mr. Ashe, who rarely left his wife’s side. Mr. Ashe was in his mid-sixties and devilishly handsome for his age. During her visits to the room, Sabel would peek through the window of the door, watching Mr. Ashe hold his wife’s hand and stroke her hair as he talked to her. The affection he felt for his wife was evident, and it made Sabel yearn for a love like that. If Mrs. Ashe only knew how lucky she was. Sabel shook her head at the absurdity of being jealous of a coma patient, telling herself it was due to the lack of sleep.

Sabel and Mr. Ashe had become amiable over the past few weeks. She appreciated his company, despite the horrific circumstances that had him there. He would often share stories of his life with his wife — how they met, the adventures they had shared.

There would be no stories today. Neither Sabel nor Mr. Ashe seemed able to handle an extensive conversation. Her nerves were begging her for another cup of coffee, and he looked tired. He had probably been there since her shift started. She quickly reviewed the chart and machines and nodded at him on her way out.

Beeps, pings, and a plethora of other hospital noises waned in the background of Sabel's thoughts. Feeling groggy from lack of sleep, she huddled down below the counter and popped a few pills to give her the energy she needed to finish out her shift. Sabel swallowed a swig of water and the pills cascaded down her esophagus, falling into her stomach where they would dissolve, dispersing the medication through her bloodstream. The water hit her hollow stomach and for a moment she relaxed her head, allowing the feeling to wash over her.

Taking a rest? A deep voice pierced her tranquil trance. Her eyes fluttered open, peering hazily at the figure in front of her. A tall, blonde, thirty-year-old Dr. Smith stood, his azure eyes shimmering as if waves were trapped inside. Their gentle wake captured Sabel. Her heart thrashed at the sight of him. She smirked.

No, just letting my wits catch up with the rest of my body. What about you, doctor? There aren't any lives in dire need of your assistance at the moment? Chuckling, he smoothed back his hair. In her late thirties, Sabel had a thin frame despite her short stature and horrible eating habits. Her slim midsection and youthful looks allowed her to acquire certain benefits inside the hospital. Unfortunately, her boss