by Hy Conrad
“Bill Carlisle? Are you sure?” Callie tried to recall the last time she’d had a conversation, any at all, with the aristocratic publisher.
“I’m sure. And that leads back to my question. Why come home to Austin? Was mine the only offer you received?”
“Pretty much. Yes.”
“And in six months, if another offer comes along that can take you away from Austin, would you grab it?”
“My father…” Callie didn’t quite know how to put it. “My father and I haven’t talked, seriously talked, since he left office. Once or twice he tried. Once or twice I tried. I felt like a coward for running away. And, strangely, that feeling’s just gotten stronger over time.”
“I get it.”
“I didn’t knowingly betray my father, certainly not over some family squabble, if that’s the rumor you’re not believing.” She sighed. “I’m telling you things that are none of your business. As for my running away again, I won’t. You can take the word of a sixth-generation Texan. Or you can write it into my contract. A yearlong commitment, binding on my part, non-binding on yours.” She gave it a moment’s thought. “With cause, of course. You can’t fire me because you’re tired of my face.”
Oliver Chesney nodded. “There’s a lot of your father in you. Not that I’ve ever met him.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“I mean in the way you phrase things. Your cadences. Your humor.”
When Oliver offered her coffee again, she assumed it was because he needed some himself and she accepted – milk, no sugar. He got it from the Mr. Coffee on his bookcase, assuring her that it was less than an hour old. She settled into the metal chair and, over their matching cups of stale coffee, they discussed state politics, how it had changed or hadn’t changed. They discussed the city’s growing tech population and the ever-evolving race relations. The publisher of the Free Press seemed to have a genuine concern for his city. This struck Callie as both naïve and kind of wonderful. She had spent many a childhood evening sitting cross-legged on the landing at the top of the stairs, peering down through the balusters into the entry hall, eavesdropping on all the movers and shakers of the great state of Texas as they passed through with their whiskies and wine, casually debating the world of power and favors.
“I’ll be interested to see what you come up with,” Oliver said. He’d given up on the remnants of his coffee. “There are always oddities in this town. Something curious will show up on the police blotter then disappear by the next morning. There’s always some explanation, if you care to believe it. Someone will report statewide corruption and the next day they’ll claim it was an accounting error. It’s a tight little circle. Only someone with connections on the inside could have any hope of penetrating it.”
“Connections on the inside?” Her smile fell and her voice took on an edge. “Is that the reason you’re hiring me? As an insider?” She had never considered this.
“What?” Oliver blanched. “Oh, no. God, no. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You think that I blew the whistle on my father and that I’ll do it again. For you and your free readers.”
“I think no such thing,” he stammered. “Honestly.”
Callie got to her feet, almost spilling her stale coffee. “Is that what this is about? Hiring Buddy McFee’s daughter to snoop around the State Capital? Use the family connections? Or maybe make up with my dad and spy on what he’s doing. And if it’s not Buddy himself I rat out… Well, I am the sitting governor’s goddaughter. Of course, you knew that.” Callie realized, in a dispassionate, nearly out-of-body way, as if she were floating near the ceiling tiles and gazing down, that she was over-reacting. But, dammit, she couldn’t help herself. Plus she was kind of enjoying it. It was therapeutic.
Oliver looked genuinely shocked. “Calm down. I don’t expect you to spy on your dad. And I’m not saying he ever did anything truly illegal. That’s not for me to judge.”
“You’re a newsman. Of course, you judge. My father was never prosecuted.”
Oliver refused to raise his own voice. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“But you’re hiring me because I’m his daughter. That seems clear.”
“I’m hiring you because you’re you.” He turned his chin and rubbed his stubble. “Which includes that you’re Buddy McFee’s daughter. Look, Callie, at the end of the day, you’re a reporter. Is it any surprise that I’m hiring you to be a reporter?”
“You’re right,” she had to admit. “I apologize.” In a conscious effort, she lowered her shoulders, trying to let some of the tension fall away.
“Did you think I was bringing you in to do movie picks or restaurant reviews? We get those for free, by the way. Everyone and his sister want to write reviews.”
“I just don’t want to make mistakes, okay? It’s going to be hard enough for me coming home.”
Oliver nodded. “And I don’t want you pulling any punches, even if your Governor godfather happens to be involved.” He motioned for her to sit down again, but she didn’t. “As for your father, they say he’s doing consulting work.”
“You know as much as I do.”
“They say, and they don’t say much, that he helps out on publicity and damage control. Access, too. The McFee’s have always had plenty of access.”
“There’s nothing illegal about damage control or providing access. If I work for you, I’ll be using my own access.”
“And if there’s a case where you feel a conflict of interest, you should feel free to stop. Turn it over to me. I won’t ask any questions.”
Callie cocked her head. “Except that by knowing there’s a conflict of interest, you’ll know that my father’s involved.”
“Or your godfather, or your uncle on your mother’s side, or your brother. If you want to be a journalist, you may have picked the wrong town. Or the wrong family.”
A deep breath. “True.”
“Do you want time to think this over? I can give you a few days.”
Callie glanced around the office, at the particle board desk and the stacks of books in the corner and the small window that looked out to the parking lot. “Sure. If you can give me a few days, that would be great.”
“Or you can start tomorrow. Whatever you want.”
CHAPTER 2
The pair of reinforced steel doors held a pair of reinforced windows, each about a foot square and situated around eye-level. Callie did her best not to look in, but as she paced the small waiting area, her eyes kept wandering in that direction. Every time she heard the whir of a blade or the scrape of metal on metal, she winced. “Who the hell puts windows in an autopsy room?”
The homicide detective shifted in his chair and glanced up from his phone. “You don’t have to stay. I just need to get this prelim, now if not sooner.”
“I was hoping we could go for a drink, as long as I’m in town. I dropped by the station and they said you were here.” ‘Here’ was the basement of the medical examiner’s office, just a few blocks from the Texas State Capital. “At O’Neil’s maybe? You still drink bourbon? We can bring each other up to date. Where’s your partner? You still have the same partner? Emily?”
“Emily,” he confirmed. “She’s in her first trimester.”
Callie liked Emily and was genuinely happy for her. “Hey, that’s wonderful.”
“Yeah, wonderful,” State McFee said without enthusiasm. “I’m trying to cut her some slack with the workload.”
“A pregnant homicide cop? Sounds like a challenge.”
“I’m dealing with it.”
“I meant for her.”
“She can get reassigned to a desk whenever she wants. Right now she prefers to throw up in my passenger seat.”
“Well, she won’t be drinking bourbon tonight. How about you?”
“I can’t,” said State, glancing back to his phone. “Where are you staying?”
“The DoubleTree on 15th. It’s fine.”
Even to a casual observer,
the two would seem unmistakably related. Both had their mother’s patrician features, fair skin and blue eyes as well as Buddy’s Irish-red curls, before they’d thinned out and turned gray. State kept his relatively short, a younger version of Buddy’s hair, while Callie tried hard to turn her curls into waves and wore them a few inches past her shoulders.
“You should stay with us,” State offered. “There’s a comfy pullout in my study.”
“How do you know it’s comfy?” Callie’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “Have you been using it? How is everything on the home front?”
“I said comfy to entice you. I don’t know for a fact. Honestly, you should stay with us.”
“I already checked in. Besides, Yolie’s not my biggest fan.”
State winced. “Please don’t call her Yolie.”
Callie looked around, just for effect. “She’s not here.”
“Don’t get into the habit. You know she hates it. And she knows that you know that she hates it. It’s Yolanda.”
“Yolanda,” Callie repeated. “Yolanda thinks I’m a bad influence.”
“On who? On me?”
“On everyone, I think.”
“She doesn’t really know you.”
“Well, thanks for the offer. If I take the job and come back, then yes, I’d love to stay with you, if it’s okay with Yolanda. It’ll just be till I move my stuff and find an apartment. If I take the job.”
“No problem.” State finished his text and pocketed his phone. “How about breakfast tomorrow? Come over to the house. The boys would love to see you.”
“I doubt the boys even remember me. How old are they now? Five?”
“That sounds about right.”
“You don’t know?” It was moments like this that reminded Callie of the obvious, that State was nearly a carbon copy of their dad. Buddy McFee had been a loving, even doting father, when he happened to be around and paying attention. That kind of intense contact, followed by long days of absence from their lives, had made his two children adore him all the more.
“Sorry.” State had already turned his focus to the case file on his lap. “I was distracted. You were saying…?”
“Nothing.” Her own focus had been distracted by the sound of rushing water and the squeal of a sliding drawer. Was the procedure in the next room almost over? “You said this was a rape and murder?”
“Uh-huh.” State scanned the report. “Briana Crawley. Twenty-one-year-old U.T. student. A junior. African-American, from out of state – Phoenix, to be specific. Her body was found in Westlake, in the middle of an open field.”
“Westlake?” She was surprised. It was one of the wealthiest suburbs of Austin, only a few miles from the ranch. “Do you get many murders in Westlake these days?”
“There’s evidence the body was moved. So, no, we don’t. The highway patrol officer who found her last night has reason to believe…”
“Last night?” Callie glanced toward the steel doors. “I thought you had this chronic backlog for autopsies. Shame of the city. That’s what the papers say.”
“Are you being a reporter? Because you’re sounding like one.” There was disapproval in his tone. “Did you already take this free paper gig?”
“I haven’t decided. And you didn’t answer my question.”
State rolled his eyes, a habit they’d both picked up from their mother. “Yes, there is normally a backlog. But this case is getting priority. Front of the line.”
“Why?”
“Jesus, Callie,” he said, slapping shut the file. “Give it a rest.”
“Just curious. ‘Front of the line’ always means something, especially in Texas.” She rattled off the possibilities. “Was the victim important? That would get you to the front. Is her family important? Is this part of a larger, ongoing case? Is there a suspect involved who is rich or influential or controversial?”
“Or maybe it’s just time-sensitive.”
“Okay.” It was surprising how quickly the McFee siblings fell into old habits. State, two years her senior, had always held the secrets to life: the rules for high school; the name of a classmate who had a puppy-love crush on Callie; what the U.S. senator was doing at the house all evening long, locked away with their father. Callie’s role was to keep asking questions until she’d pieced together enough information to quench her curiosity. “So why is this case time-sensitive?”
“That’s none of your business.”
She wouldn’t be deterred. “Do you have a suspect already?”
“Again. None of your business.”
“If you’ve arrested someone, then it is my business. I mean, everyone’s business. It’s part of the public record.” She cocked her curiously. “Why haven’t I heard about this on the news?”
“I don’t know. I’m not the victim’s publicist.”
Callie reacted with a faux shiver. “That’s a little cold.”
“Whether it gets publicity or not, we’re on this, okay? We’re not sweeping it under the rug.”
Callie shrugged. “All the same, a rape and a murder in Westlake.”
State inhaled through his nostrils, a sign that he was trying to control his temper. Before he could speak or even exhale, one of the reinforced steel doors eased open and a weary-looking, middle-aged woman in blue plastic scrubs and a hairnet walked out. “Detective McFee?” In one hand was a surgical mask, in the other a few sheets from the autopsy room’s printer, stapled together.
“Dr. Cummings, thank you.” State accepted the sheets before they were offered.
“It’s a prelim. But we have an approximate TOD. Two hours or so before the highway patrol arrived on the scene.”
“Good,” said State. “That’s good. And the lividity tests?”
The doctor rattled off the facts. “She’d been moved shortly after death, which was what we assumed going in. Now we know. Pending the toxicology screen, we can hypothesize the COD to be strangulation by a pair of ungloved hands, probably male. There’s also a post-mortem tear across the front of the neck, caused by some type of ligature, perhaps a cord, perhaps a necklace that was ripped off. Not the cause of death. No usable prints on the body. We took samples from the neck area for DNA, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. That kind of match is always problematic.”
“What about DNA from the rape kit?”
“We don’t call it a rape kit when it’s homicide. But yes, we took samples and we’re sending them out. If there are no complications, we should have something in a day. For comparison and elimination. To have it all court-ready will take longer. Much longer if there are complications.” She reached behind her neck and, with one fluid pull, removed her mask. “The dear put up a fight, bless her heart, so we’re going to find something. Was Ms. Crawley a local girl?”
“From Arizona,” State answered. “Her parents are flying in tomorrow. I assume they’ll want to come by.”
“Yes.” The medical examiner swallowed hard. “Thanks for the warning. Someone will be here. Not me. Parents are the part I hate the most. Sorry if that seems callous.”
“Not at all.” State tucked the pages into his case folder then turned on the McFee charm. “I can’t thank you enough. I know this screwed up your whole evening. But Dad always said you were the best. I didn’t want to trust it to anyone else.”
“No problem.” Dr. Cummings eked out a smile. “Please say hello to your father for me.”
“I will.” The mention of Buddy McFee seemed to remind State of his manners. “Oh, and this is my sister. Jocelyn Cummings. Callie McFee.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Callie with a nod, resisting the urge to shake the woman’s ungloved hand.
“Oh.” Dr. Cummings pursed her lips the tiniest bit but otherwise displayed no reaction. Callie was used to this. People would recognize the name. A second later their faces would freeze in place as they did their best to reveal nothing, no disgust or sympathy or anything in-between. “Nice to meet you, too. Your father is a wonderful man.”
“Thank you. I know.”
“Well.” Jocelyn Cummings retreated to the safety of her reinforced door. “We still have some cleaning up to do before my team can call it a day. If you’ll excuse me…”
State thanked her again and Callie waited until the door had firmly closed. “I love it when people find out who I am.”
State ignored this moment of self-pity. “So, are we on for breakfast? You can’t leave town without seeing your nephews.”
“I know, I know. I can’t believe I let it go so long.”
For the first year or so, Callie had made a monthly pilgrimage to see her brother and the few friends who hadn’t abandoned her, a three-plus hour drive from Dallas that seemed to take longer each time. For the past year and a half, she hadn’t visited at all, blaming it on her workload at the paper, or her social life which, if she had to be honest, didn’t really exist. “Are you sure you don’t want that drink? My treat.”
“I’m actually having drinks with Dad and Gil. At O’Neil’s. And I’m late. I’d ask you to join us…”
“No, no, no. Dad and I can’t meet in public with drinks in our hands.”
“I won’t even tell him you’re in town. See you around nine a.m.? I’ll try to talk Yolanda into waffles.” State pushed the file under his arm and headed for the door. There was something about the way he did that, as if he were taking a relay baton and racing off to the next runner.
“Is Dad involved in this?” Callie asked. “I mean, you were in a rush to get the prelim, and now you’re in a rush to go have drinks with him.”
“No, he’s not,” State said, perhaps a decibel too emphatically. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”
They took the stairs up to the main floor and emerged out onto Sabine Street, where they indulged in one of their usual, awkward hugs. Callie watched her brother half-trot around the corner onto 12th Street, heading toward O’Neil’s.
She was still standing by the handicap walkway, hugging herself in the light breeze, wondering about her father and State, when a taxi pulled up and deposited a middle-aged African-American couple at the curb. She watched as the driver retrieved two pieces of luggage from the trunk. Even without this, Callie would have known. It was the grief. Grief almost poured off them as they stood at the curb, clutching each other’s hand, looking lost, staring up at the letters on the stone-clad wall: Travis County Medical Examiner.
