by A B Whelan
“Did you find any other evidence to suggest another suspect?”
“No, we did not. However, sometimes, the lack of evidence tells us more than the evidence itself. Forensics compared the pieces of fiber found on the four victims, which they eventually matched to the carpet in the trunk of Froelich’s car. The Duhamel girl had no fibers on her.” Agent Reed lifts up a box of assorted cookies from the desk and extend it toward me. “Biscuits?”
To not to come off as rude, I take one.
Henson turns to Reed. “May I?”
“Please.”
“Sarah Duhamel grew up in Santa Clara, Utah,” Henson begins, wheezing slightly. “It’s a small town about ten miles from St. George. She just turned nineteen when she took a bus to Las Vegas to pursue her dream of being a dancer. Soon after she arrived in Vegas, she was kidnapped and brutally murdered. Nothing about her as a victim stands out when compared to the other four victims.”
“You can study the case files and draw your own conclusion,” interrupts Reed.
Henson shakes his head vehemently and wipes the sweat from his mustache. “All there. Every detail. I’m just trying to get to the point here.”
Reed forces a smile and crosses her legs.
“Only the absence of carpet fibers and the words of a serial killer separates Duhamel from the other four victims,” Henson concludes hastily. “Agent Reed and I put our heads together and looked at a few other unsolved murders in the Nevada and Utah areas. There was one promising lead, but we suspect there will be more. As you can imagine, the amount of data is enormous.”
“I can imagine, sir,” I say, feeling excited. I sense an offer here. “How do I fit into the picture?”
“Agent Brestler told us about your excellent work in data processing and your keen eye for detail. We could use someone like you to help us comb through the hundreds of unsolved murders in California, Nevada, Arizona, and Utah.”
“That’s a wide net to cast,” I say, envisioning myself growing old in front of a computer screen.
Henson pours himself a glass of water. “The Bureau has authorized us six months to compare murder cases in those four states. If we find anything tangible, then we get more time and resources.”
“Who’s on the team?”
Reed smiles. “You’re looking at them.”
“All right. Which office will we be working from?”
Reed gives a sly smile. “I’m single and Henson’s divorced with no kids. We understand that you are engaged and Brestler has a family here, so we will use the San Diego office as a base to accommodate you two.”
I’m not engaged, but I don’t correct their assumption. I barely spend any time with Doug as it is and taking a work assignment in another state would surely be the last nail in the coffin for our relationship.
“All right. I’m in. When do we start?”
Agent Reed pops up and approaches me. “Great! Welcome to the team. We’ll meet for our first briefing on Monday morning at eight.”
We all shake hands. Brestler then shoves the mountain of files into my arms. “A little light reading for you this weekend,” he says before ushering me out of his office.
5
Three months into our classified investigations, Agents Reed, Henson, Brestler, and I have identified eight murder cases with suspicious circumstances where either the suspect in custody denied his involvement with one specific victim’s death, or in two cases the murders were still unsolved.
We have been working in a spacious and bright office on the fifth floor, overlooking Vista Sorrento Parkway with its small bleak hills and untended lands marking the horizon. The pinboards were home to a complex net of pictures, notes, and newspaper clippings. In the center of the room, a rectangular table is laden with files, paperwork, and laptops. The investigation has been a tedious job of constant reading, researching, data analyzing, and brainstorming. Sometimes I daydream, gazing at the sunbathed streets outside and wishing I was at the beach, living another life. But what we are doing was damn important work. There is also an upside to being confined to the office: we are allowed to drop the suits and wear more comfortable attire in the office—khakis and a standard FBI polo shirt, though Doug said I looked like a college boy in that getup.
Brestler was offering us fresh pastries and coffee from a local French bakery he brought in to celebrate our success when Henson bursts into the office, ambushing us with a stern face and sharp expression, flanked by two keen agents I recognize from around the office.
“Agent Collins, please step away from the computer!” Henson calls out, arm extended toward me, gesturing me to follow him.
His detached demeanor and cold tone shoot a ripple of shock through me as if a dozen razor blades have been released in my chest.
I swallow the bite of chocolate croissant in my mouth and put down my coffee.
“What’s going on?” I ask, pushing away from my desk.
“I need you to come with us. You’ll be briefed soon.”
Brestler steps forward and places a hand on Henson’s shoulder. “Bob, what’s going on here?”
Henson shrugs off Brestler’s hand. “All work is hereby suspended until further notice. Gentlemen,” he instructs his companions, “collect Agent Collins’s computer.” They squeeze past him in their suits and ties, moving with purpose.
The colleague, with whom I went to the Beer Garden last week when our team grabbed a drink after work, leads me into an interrogation room. Though his conservative ass has never accepted Anaya and me as his equal. I’m aware he’d be happy to see either of us fall.
“You’re scaring me, Bob. Have I done something wrong?” I ask, sitting down on the chair I’m offered.
“Please address me as Agent Henson during this interview.” His lips stretch, but it’s not a smile that comforts me.
The door opens behind me and Tim Ellis, Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s San Diego office, steps into the room.
I don’t know Ellis well. He, unlike my old boss back in the PD, never joins his agents in the break room for coffee or shares his thoughts on sporting events. All I know about him is from office gossip or the Facebook search I conducted on him before I joined the Bureau.
The chief is a former Marine who walks with a straight posture, bursting with confidence. He starts his mornings with an hour kayaking in the harbor and ends his days with Krav Maga. He is married to his high-school sweetheart, and they have two girls in high school and one in college.
He puts a laptop on the table and props his butt on the edge. “I’m sorry about the theatricals, Agent Collins, but in special circumstances like this, we must follow protocol to the tee. Today, at 1008 hours, your DNA profile was entered into the Federal DNA Database, as well as CODIS. A routine follow-up procedure for all of our agents.”
“I-it had to come back clean,” I stutter, doubting my entire being.
Ellis pats my shoulder and turns to open his laptop. “Indeed. However, our DNA analyst found a similar profile to yours in CODIS. A male relative of yours that you had failed to mention on your paperwork. Consequently, his name didn’t pop up when we did our background check on you. Based on the similarities in your genes, we suspect he’s your brother. So forgive me if I’m a little suspicious about your failure to mention him.” Seriously, that’s it? Then what was all the theatrics about? Oh, lord, Henson must have loved humiliating me.
Then as the words sink in shock presses me against the back of my chair. “I don’t understand, sir. You are telling me that I have a what? A brother I don’t know about?”
Ellis purses his lips and straightens up. “According to the DNA analyst’s report, yes. See, the problem we are facing here is that we suspect you failed to mention him on your paperwork because he has a criminal record.”
A million thoughts violently swirl in my head, making me dizzy. “Sir, I know I’ve only been working for the FBI for a few months, but you must believe me when I say that I have no idea what you are talking abo
ut. A brother? Who? Where does he live? What’s in his criminal record?”
Ellis glances at the screen of his laptop. “He did some time in the Larry Smith Correctional Facility in Banning for assault on a woman about eight years ago. Then nothing. He falls off the face of the earth.”
I prop my elbows up on the table and drop my head into my hands. Then I rub my face with my hands and smooth my hair back to refresh myself, so I’m able to comprehend what I’m hearing.
“I don’t understand what’s going on. I need to talk to my parents. May I see his profile?”
Ellis turns the screen toward me, and I see a picture of a young man with a thick head of hair. His handsome features buried underneath an uncared-for, tired and bruised layer of skin. But his eyes cut deep into my soul. “I’ve never seen this man in my life,” I announce with confidence.
I don’t look up from the screen, but from the corner of my eye, I see Ellis and Henson communicating in silence.
A series of knocks on the door is followed by Reed’s dramatic entrance. “Chief. Henson. Whatever you think Agent Collins did, she didn’t do it. We’ve been working side by side every day for months; she is an excellent and dedicated agent. She goes above and beyond to fulfill her duties—”
“It’s okay, Anaya. It’s just a misunderstanding,” I interrupt her, closing the screen of the laptop.
A wave of relief washes over her face. “Oh! Chief?”
“All good here, Agent Reed. You may return to your station,” Ellis orders.
Reed puts a hand on her heart and exhales loudly as she looks back at me. “You red-breasted sapsucker! You scared the crap out of me!”
Anaya is an avid birdwatcher who tends to call people the most exotic and strangest bird names. Her cubicle is postered with pictures of wild Alaska. Her dream is to see the great gathering of bald eagles for the salmon rush. When she showed me YouTube videos of that spectacular event, I wanted to go there too. After those dehumanizing days in the office, spending time in the pristine wilderness, far away from civilization, started to sound very appealing to me.
“Henson, you too,” the chief ordered the fat man. I now loathed him for being so eager to bust me for something I didn’t do. I was glad to notice the registered shock on his face at Ellis’ words.
“Chief, I’ll take a polygraph test if you want, but you must believe me, I’ve never seen this man. I grew up with my brother, James, and my sister, Heather. I still don’t understand how this man, this criminal, is my real brother. I can’t imagine my dad cheating on my mom, but I also don’t live in a dream world, I understand it could happen. My dad did often travel for work and would usually be gone for days at a time. If he somehow had another family in another state or city, my mom would probably have never known about it. But what you are saying means …” I turn away because the mere thought of his statement hurts me. I thought I knew my parents. Yet forensic evidence doesn’t lie; people do though.
“Agent Collins.” The chief’s voice draws my attention to him. “I’m sure you understand that we, as the Bureau, need to investigate this. Lying on an application or withholding the truth is a serious offense with discipline up to and including termination. Now, I do believe you. That’s not the problem. However, we still need to untangle this mess.”
“I understand, sir. If it’s true that I have another brother, I need to find him too.” I utter the words between clenched teeth.
“How about you take a few days of paid administrative leave to sort things out on your end. In the meantime, we will wrap up our little investigation here.”
My face burns with shame. “Yes, sir. I’ll do that.”
Halfway to the door, Chief Ellis steps in front of me to partially block my path. “I really do hope this clears up fast, Collins. You’ve been doing a hell of a job for the Bureau, and I’d hate to lose you.”
“Thank you, sir.” I bob my head and step into the hallway, tears pushing against my eyes.
6
Leaning against the door and holding my head with one hand, I’m waiting for my mother to answer the door. After studying all the information on my mystery brother and driven by a feeling of betrayal, I drove to Temecula—a rapidly growing city an hour’s drive north of San Diego—to find more answers. My parents moved up here about four years ago after my mother took a head nursing position at a local nursing facility for the elderly.
The heat radiating from the concrete patio underneath my feet is slowly enveloping me in an uncomfortable bubble, increasing my aggravation. Coming home to visit is something I typically enjoy. Now, though, I’m rattled and unhinged.
I look at the fish in the wine barrel by the front door, swimming to the surface for food at the sight of me. Bees buzz and land near the water, coming for a drink on this hot afternoon. I think with fond memories of my dad’s fresh honey with butter on warm toast; he harvests the honey from a single hive he cherishes. I rub my face to dismiss the memory because I feel blindsided and lied to, and I won’t leave until I find out the truth.
I go around back because nobody answers the door to let me in. I find my mother hunched between two rose bushes in the backyard by the pool.
“Mom!” I call out to her.
Startled, she falls back onto the yellowing lawn. “Oh, Jeez, Victoria, you scared the life out of me!”
“What are you doing?”
“What do you think? I’m pruning the roses.”
The slow warm breeze brings a whiff of cigarette smoke to my nose. I don’t react to it, though I always wondered why Mom never got rid of that nasty habit. Now I know; her dirty secret was driving her on.
She peeks at her watch. “Why aren’t you at work, sweetheart?”
“I need to speak to you.”
“Well, then let’s go inside. It’s like purgatory out here. I’ll fix you a strawberry lemonade.”
We go into the kitchen where it’s nice and cold, the air conditioning buzzing rhythmically. I sit down on my childhood chair—old furniture that feels so alien yet familiar to me. Mom’s cat crawls onto my lap. As my fingers dig into her soft fur, I begin with a blunt question. “Mom, did you have another child apart from the three of us?”
The bag of frozen strawberries drops from her hands and onto the counter. I help her pick up the runaway berries.
“Oh, thank you, honey. I’m so clumsy these days,” Mom chuckles softly.
I cut the lemon and squeeze the juice into the Nutribullet I bought her for Christmas. She adds the frozen berries, sugar and water. I wait until the mixer stops and ask her again. “Did you and Dad have a kid before me?”
She smiles. It comes off more like a grimace, her hands shaking. “Of course, we didn’t. You would have known if we had, wouldn’t you? Now, what is this silly inquisition all about anyways?”
I put down the knife and lean against the cabinet. “The Bureau checked my DNA profile against their database—it’s a routine procedure—and they found a match. They say he is my bother.”
Mom’s eyes enlarge at my statement, but she doesn’t seem to be as interested in this development as I am. “It has to be a coincidence, honey. I have three children. I did not have another before you.”
I watch my mom’s skin, awaiting the pearls of sweat to appear. I take her hands into mine and place my thumbs on her veins to check her pulse on the sly. She is disturbed by my question, but she appears to be telling the truth. Although I’m not a lie detector.
I drop her hands and turn away. “This whole thing doesn’t make any sense.” I bite down on my lip and look back at her. She is pouring the lemonade into two tall glasses. “Was Dad ever unfaithful?”
She smashes the pitcher onto the counter, spilling red liquid onto the cream-colored tile. “Never! You hear me, young lady?” She points her index finger at me. “Your father is a decent man. He lives for this family.”
“He was gone a lot,” I push, hoping to chase her into a slip of the tongue.
“Yes, he was gone a lot—work
ing. He sacrificed his life so you could have a happy childhood void of pain and sorrow.” Her lips quiver as she eyes me with utter disappointment.
“What pain and sorrow are you talking about?”
Mom touches her face, then her hand slips down over her heart. “Victoria, I need you to leave. I’m not feeling well and need to lie down. This heat gets to me.” She fans her face with her hands.
“Are you alright, Mom? I didn’t mean to excite you.”
“No, no, honey, it’s the heat. Truly.”
She walks me to the door. “You need to push this silly idea from your head. They made a mistake at the FBI, or it has to be a coincidence. You three are my only children. If your father did have some bastard out there, I’m sure I would have found some regular unexplained large withdrawals from our bank to support them. Which I didn’t.”
“Will you ask him for me?”
The tone of mom’s skin darkens with a rush of blood to her face and chest. “No, Victoria. I will not. He is always exhausted when he comes home from a long trip nowadays. I will not bother him with this nonsense.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s up, as usual, in St. George, Utah for the first week of the month.”
I catch a glance of a framed picture behind her on the wall, a photo of my mother and father posing at the beach. They were a young, beautiful couple in their early twenties, full of love and life. They were the kind of attractive couple whose presence must have drawn adoring and envious eyes. I wondered how many advances by other men and women they both were tempted with during their thirty-six years of marriage. That train of thoughts makes me wonder if any of those temptations ever led to an affair. If they did, they would never tell me. But this isn’t some random case I’m obliged to investigate. This suspicious craziness has put my job on the line. If my parents have a secret, I intend to find it, though I’ve never been so scared in my life to find a skeleton in a closet.
