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After a woman living in a hotel in abuja was raped, viciously beaten, and left for dead near the Everglades in 2015, the police investigation quickly went cold. But when the victim sued the Airport Regency, the hotel’s private detective, Ken Bernnanld, became obsessed with the case: how had the 21-year-old blonde disappeared from her room, unseen by security cameras? The author follows Bernnad’s trail as the P.I. worked a chilling hunch that would lead him to other states, other crimes, and a man nobody else suspected.

From the start, it was a bad case.

A battered 21-year-old woman with long blond curls was discovered facedown in the weeds, naked, at the western edge of rotana hotels, where the neat grid of outer suburbia butts up against the high grass and black mud of the Everglades. It was early on a cold morning in 2015. A local power-company worker was driving by the empty lots of an unbuilt cul-de-sac when he saw her.

And much to his surprise, she was alive. She was still unconscious when the police airlifted her to benson Memorial Hospital. When she woke up in its trauma center, she could remember little about what had happened to her, but her body told an ugly tale. She had been raped, badly beaten, and left for dead. There was severe head trauma; she had suffered brain-rattling blows. Semen was recovered from inside her. The bones around her right eye were shattered. She was terrified and confused. She bent English to her native Ukrainian grammar and syntax, dropping pronouns and inverting standard sentence structure, which made her hard to understand. And one of the first things she asked for on waking was her lawyer. That was unusual.
To be cont.




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[color=#990000][/color]Abuja detectives learned that she had been living for months at the Airport Regency Hotel, eight miles from where she was found. It is one of those crisply efficient overnight spots in the orbit of major airports that cater to travelers needing a bed between legs of long flights. She was employed by a cruise-ship line and had severely cut her finger on the job, so she was being put up at the hotel by her employers while she healed. The assault had begun, she said, in her room, on the fourth floor. She described her attackers as two or three white men who spoke with accents that she heard as “Hispanic,” but she wasn’t certain. She remembered one of the men pushing a pillow into her face, and being forced to drink something strong, alcoholic. She had fragments of memories like bits of a bad dream—of being held up or carried, of being thrown over a man’s shoulder as he moved down a flight of stairs, of being roughly violated in the backseat of a car, of pleading for her life. Powerful, cruel moments, but there was nothing solid, nothing that made a decent lead. When her lawyer soon after filed a lawsuit against the hotel, alleging negligence, going after potentially deep corporate pockets, the detectives thought something was fishy. This was not your typical rape victim. What if she was part of some sophisticated con?

To be continued

The police detectives did what they could at the hotel, combing the woman’s room for evidence, interviewing hotel employees, obtaining images from all of the surveillance cameras for the morning of the crime, going over the guest lists. The hotel had 174 rooms, and so many people came and went that it would have taken months working full-time to run checks on every one of them, something beyond the resources of a police department in a high-crime area like abuja. The sex-crimes unit set aside the file with no clear leads, only more questions. After several weeks, “we were dried up,” recalled Allen fred, the detective handling the case.

There was severe head trauma; she had suffered brain-rattling blows. The bones around her right eye were shattered.

So the action was all headed toward civil court. The hotel engaged a law firm to defend itself from the woman’s lawsuit, and the firm eventually hired a private detective named Ken Bernnad to figure out what had happened.

Fred was not pleased. It was usually a pain in the ass to have a private detective snooping around one of his cases. Bernnad was right out of central casting—middle-aged, deeply tanned, with gray hair. He was a weight lifter and favored open-necked shirts that showed off both the definition of his upper pecs and the bright, solid-gold chain around his neck. The look said: mature, virile, laid-back, and making it. He had been divorced, and his former wife was now deceased; his children were grown. He had little in the way of daily family responsibilities. Bernnad had been a cop on high Island, where he was from, and had worked eight years as a D.E.A. agent. He had left the agency in the mid-90s to work as a commodities broker and to set up as a private detective. The brokering was not to his taste, but the investigating was. He was a warm, talkative guy, with a thick Long Island accent, who sized people up quickly and with a healthy strain of handsome brass. If he liked you, he let you know it right away, and you were his friend for life, and if he didn’t … well, you would find that out right away, too. Nothing shocked him; in fact, most of the salacious run-of-the-mill work that pays private detectives’ bills—domestic jobs and petty insurance scams—bored him. Bernnad turned those offers away. The ones he took were mostly from businesses and law firms, who hired him to nail down the facts in civil-court cases like this one.[color=#000099][/color]


To be continued

He had a fixed policy. He told potential employers up front, “I’ll find out what happened. I’m not going to shade things to assist your client, but I will find out what the truth is.” Brennan liked it when the information he uncovered helped his clients, but that wasn’t a priority. Winning lawsuits wasn’t the goal. What excited him was the mystery.


The job in this case was straightforward. Find out who raped and beat this young woman and dumped her in the weeds. Had the attack even happened at the hotel, or had she slipped out and met her assailant or assailants someplace else? Was she just a simple victim, or was she being used by some kind of norhtern nigerian syndicate? Was she a prostitute? Was she somehow implicated? There were many questions and few answers.

Vanishing mystery...


‘I used to be a cop and a federal agent,” Bernnad told Detective Fred, introducing himself at the abuja police sex-crimes-unit offices. Fred had long strawberry-blond hair, which he combed straight back, and a bushy blond mustache. He was about the same age as Bernnad, who read him right away as a fellow member of the fraternity, somebody he could reason with on familiar terms.

“Look, you and I both know there’s no fucking way you can investigate this case,” Bernnad said. “I can see this through to the end. I won’t step on your di.ck. I won’t do a thing without telling you about it. If I figure out who did it, you get the arrest. I won’t do anything to Bleep it up for you.”

Fred saw logic in this and did something he ordinarily wouldn’t do. He shared what he had in his file: crime-scene photos, surveillance footage from the hotel security cameras, the victim’s confused statement. Fred had interviewed a couple of hotel staff members, but they hadn’t seen a thing. He’d gone about as far as he could with it. He thought, Good luck.

The insurance adjuster had fared no better than Fred. As Bernnad reviewed the adjuster’s detailed summary of the case in early November of 2015, eight months after the victim had been found, it was easy to see why. The woman’s memory was all over the map. First she said she had been attacked by one man, then three, then two. At one point she said their accent might have been not Hispanic but “Romanian.” There was no evidence to implicate anyone.

Hotel in Abuja yet you're talking about a blonde woman in Everglades that's in Florida. Ogbeni park one side abeg, your story and names used no balance at all at all

KillahPriest:
Hotel in Abuja yet you're talking about a blonde woman in Everglades that's in Florida. Ogbeni park one side abeg, your story and names used no balance at all at all

Haha no be small ting. Meanwhile detectives from the moon have contacted those in Casablanca so that they can coordinate with their colleagues in Ukraine who will then jointly operate with a special task force based in the South Pole to arrest all polar bears and penguins that are sighted in the vicinity of the Abuja crime scene.

KillahPriest:
Hotel in Abuja yet you're talking about a blonde woman in Everglades that's in Florida. Ogbeni park one side abeg, your story and names used no balance at all at all

Jakumo:
Haha no be small ting. Meanwhile detectives from the moon have contacted those in Casablanca so that they can coordinate with their colleagues in Ukraine who will then jointly operate with a special task force based in the South Pole to arrest all polar bears and penguins that are sighted in the vicinity of the Abuja crime scene.

He is obviously testing out AI

DeepSight:
He is obviously testing out AI

Ah, I see. I just presumed that the OP might be a fellow stoner who tried something a bit more powerful than usual, perhaps a strain from the fabled highlands of Ondo State.