by Simon King
“Sorry there’s not more I can help you with, but it’s identical to the rest.”
“I don’t get it,” Sam said once they were back in the car. She opened the laptop almost immediately and began comparing the latest victim to the rest already open on her screen. Just as she was making fresh notes in her pad, her cell rang.
“Hi Mumma.”
Sam listened intently as Mumma relayed what little information she had. There were no working cameras in the building, nor those on either side. The nearest one she could access was almost half a block away and that meant hundreds of people walking past. She was trying to locate the police officer to see who had been in his company, but for the time being, nothing had proven successful.
Once she had passed on everything she could, Mumma hung up and Sam returned to her laptop as Tim continued making his way through traffic.
“Let’s head to the hotel, drop our gear and regroup. I’m sure a plan will come to form once we find our starting point.” Sam smiled, gave Tim a thumbs up and continued her investigation.
It was while Sam was taking a shower that she thought of a way forward. It made sense to her and once back out in the main room, hit the laptop while Tim headed for the bathroom.
She grabbed a seat on her bed, sat cross-legged and held the computer in her lap as she began typing in earnest, searching for the extra files Mumma had added for each of the victims. Only once she found the right section did her fingers pause while her eyes darted across the screen. By the time Tim had returned from his own bathroom time, she had a small list before her.
“Joanne Houghton,” Sam said aloud.
“Who?”
“Trent Houghton’s wife. That’s who we go and see next. Followed by Martha Lewiston, Brock’s mother.” Tim nodded as he grabbed a can of Coke from the small bar fridge, snapped the top and began to guzzle the cool liquid. Sam watched him, only too aware of her own affiliation with the drink.
“Probably the best place,” Tim agreed as he set the can on the table. “You want to drive?”
4
The drive out to Garfield Ridge took a little over twenty minutes and as Samantha worked her way through traffic, Tim sorted through some of the folders Sam had assembled on the laptop’s screen. He sat silently, the radio playing random tracks that were barely loud enough to be heard.
“Hmmmm,” Tim mumbled surprised as they waited at a red light.
“You find something?” Sam asked.
“Not sure. But I wonder how upset our beloved Joanne Houghton is, now that good old Trent is dead and buried?”
“What do you mean? They’re married, children,” Sam said as she accelerated on green.
“Maybe, but according to these police reports, it looks as if good old Trent liked to touch his woman up.”
“Touch her up?”
“Seven call-outs for domestic violence in the past three years. Although she never charged him, the police certainly spent enough time at their home.”
“Sounds like a charmer.”
“That he does,” Tim offered, continuing to flick through more folders. “Let’s see if Mrs Houghton thinks so.”
The dog began barking almost immediately when Tim knocked on the door of the modest home. They could see it running back and forth at a frantic pace behind the smoked window, a shadow lunging this way and that as its growls echoed down some unseen hallway.
A moment later, a voice sounding distant and unenthused, began to shout for the dog to shut “her damn yappin”. When the door finally opened, a woman peered out at them through a narrow crack, thick glasses balancing on a nose that looked much too small for her face.
“Whatcha want? I ain’t got money.”
“We’re not after money, Ma’am,” Sam began. “We’re with the Washington Crime Service. My partner and I were wondering if we could talk to you about your husband.” The woman paused as she eyed them suspiciously, then opened the door a little further.
“Crime service? I told the police everything I know. Not sure whether I have anything else.”
A child maybe five or six years old walked up beside her mother, pulled on her skirt and held her arms up. The woman ignored her for the most part.
“This is different, Ma’am. Not so much the crime, but rather the insurance payout that accompanies this unfortunate incident.”
“They ain’t paid me a dime yet. Will this hurry it up?” Sam nodded, feeling the woman’s immediate interest rise at the sound of the cash register dinging in her mind.
She finally pulled the door open wide enough to offer them entrance, yanking the child aside by one arm before gesturing them inside.
“Damn it, Lucy. I told you to get to bed for your nap.”
After leading them down a dim hallway, the room opened into a bright living room, with the huge window opened entirely. The breeze flowed through the room as the curtains flapped lazily. There was a smell of flowers in the air, but Sam immediately recognized the cheap air freshener that covered the other smell, the one lingering beneath.
“Won’t you sit?” Joanne Houghton offered them, sliding her own chair out from the kitchen table.
Whilst the home wasn’t the cleanest, it also wasn’t the worst they had seen. This was the kind of home that could be described as disorganized, without feeling dirty.
“Thank you,” Tim said as he sat.
“Would you like a tea or coffee?” Both declined politely as the girl came back into the room, this time carrying a rabbit almost the size of herself.
“Lucy Houghton, if I have to tell you to leave that damn rabbit alone one more time, I’ll-” she began, but never finished the sentence as the child flashed both visitors a grin before disappearing back to the far side of the house.
“I can’t imagine it’s easy losing your husband with a little one,” Sam offered.
“There’s another one upstairs sleepin and damn straight it ain’t easy. Only thing keeping me sane is knowing that soon there’ll be some insurance money to see us through.” She stopped suddenly and eyed Tim suspiciously. “There will be insurance money, won’t there?”
“I’m sure the claim will go straight through, Ma’am.”
“Ma’am, makes me sound old. Please call me Jo.”
Alright, Jo. Did the police ask you whether you know who murdered your husband?”
“They did and I don’t. Not a clue.”
“Did Trent have any enemies? At work maybe? Or even any hobbies he may have had,” Sam asked.
“Hobbies? The only hobbies that man had were drinking and beat’n on me.”
“Did you ever report it?” Now it was Tim’s turn to sit forward.
“Report it? Hell no. He would have killed me if I did.”
“But the police were called, were they not? On more than one occasion.” Jo paused as if thinking about her answers and Sam understood that the woman was still frightened. Despite knowing her abuser was dead, she still carried the fear as if he could walk through the door at any moment.
“My sister called them a couple of times,” she began, paused, then added, “plus the neighbor. Old George across the street stepped in once and Trent nearly whooped on him, too.”
Sam listened as Tim took over some of the question, trying to see whether the woman knew more than she was letting on. Spousal retaliation wasn’t something foreign to her and she knew that sometimes, others would step in to save the victim before things really went too far.
“Jo, do you think any of them could have hurt Trent?” Tim asked, as if reading Sam’s thoughts. The question stirred something inside Joanne Houghton, but not the way Sam had predicted.
“Someone like who? My sister? Old George? Mister, Trent may have been an asshole. He may have beat up on me some after the drink had taken hold of him. But he provided for us just the same. The bills were paid, our mouths were fed and the kids always had clothes. He did his job and despite a few questionable moments, he was a good husband.” She paused for a bit, something
biting into her. “He was tryin’ to get help. He really was.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.” Tim was almost blushing as he said the words, opening the way for Sam to slide back into the prime seat.
“My partner didn’t mean your sister, Jo. We sometimes find there to be others that could step in, like distant friends, or victims of abuse themselves, anybody that may take offense to your husband’s actions.”
“Like I told the police, there’s nobody I know. Somebody took my Trent from his family and left us here to fend for ourselves. I just hope they find the son of a bitch that did this.”
“I’m sure they will, Ma’am,” Sam offered.
“I’m not sure if that got us anywhere,” Sam whispered to Tim as they climbed back into their car. As she dropped into the passenger seat, he snapped his seatbelt into place, closed the door and gripped the wheel while simply staring out through the windshield. “You all good?”
“How long ago did he die?” he suddenly asked, his eyes remaining fixed on nothing in particular.
“About a week,” Sam answered.
“Did you see the faint bruise on her cheek? The yellowing had almost completely disappeared.”
“I din’t notice. But we already know he beat her up.”
“Yes, but what if she really does know more than she’s letting on?”
“You really think so?”
“Her husband died a week ago, Sam. And when we questioned her about it, how many tears did she shed exactly?”
“None,” Sam offered, unsure of where he was going.
“Even if that crap about him always providing was true, you’d expect some sort of reaction this soon after his death. I mean, he died violently. That’s traumatic for anybody to stomach, but the woman who carried his children?” He paused briefly, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “Nah, I don’t buy it. My guess is she’d already moved on, maybe even long enough for her new boyfriend to take care of business.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. The police have already said that this Black Death is the killer.”
“Yes, but what if Black Death was this woman’s boyfriend? What if the rest are some sort of cover up?”
“We need to find a link between the victims. That’s the only thing that will give us a break in this.”
Tim nodded, turned the key and fired up the engine. A moment later, they were retracing their way back out to the main road and on to the next interview.
Brock Lewiston’s mother lived just three doors down from her son’s apartment and when she answered the door to Tim and Sam, at first didn’t want to answer.
“Mrs Lewiston, we’re with the Washington Crime Service. We would just like to ask you some questions about your son, if that’s OK?”
Just as Sam thought the old woman was going to close the door in their faces, she pushed the door closed, unlatched the security chain and re-opened it for them.
“Please, come in,” she beckoned, her face still caught in the grip of grief.
Once seated at the second kitchen table of the day, Sam again explained the reasons for their visit and opened up the conversation to any fresh information the grieving mother might have. But again, she shook her head and simply repeated what their previous interviewee had already told them.
“Is this your son?” Tim asked, pointing to a photo frame sitting on a small table near him. The woman didn’t answer, simply nodding instead.
Tim rose a little and reached for the frame, picked it up and stared at the chubby-looking man standing on a small boat.
“Did he like boating?”
“That was taken at a friend’s birthday out at the lake. He wasn’t much of an active person.”
Sam couldn’t help but notice the woman’s quiet demeanor, especially as she spoke of her son specifically. She wondered whether it was the grief, or something else. It was almost as if…
“I noticed that Brock lived quite close to you,” Tim continued, returning the photo.
“Yes, just a couple of doors up.”
“Was there a reason for that? I only ask because normally kids try to get as far away from the parents as possible. I know I did.” He tried to sound jovial, but Martha wasn’t budging, remaining almost stone-faced.
“He just liked being close, that’s all.”
No matter how much Sam and Tim tried, the mum didn’t open about her son, nor anything that might help them in any way. Sam would later comment about how closed off the conversation was.
Once they were satisfied that question time was over, they thanked Martha and headed back to their car, pausing briefly in the hallway for a final thank you.
“Please, if you can think of anything, no matter how minor, here’s my card. You can call day or night,” Sam finished, shook her hand a final time and walked back out into the sunshine.
“Well, that could have gone better,” Sam said, dropping into the driver’s seat. Tim slipped in beside her, snapped in his seatbelt and motioned for her to drive. “In a hurry? Where am I going?”
“Just head back to the hotel,” he half-whispered, waited for Sam to pull out onto the road, then held up a small envelope.
“What is,” Sam began, looked at the small envelope, then hissed in disbelief. “Noooo, did you steal her mail?”
“I did. Look at this,” he said, holding the white envelope up for her to see. “No postage marks and the initials on the front.”
“BD.” It took her a brief moment, but when it hit her, Sam felt the familiar cramping of nerves. “She was here? Oh my God.”
Not wanting to risk an accident, Sam pulled the car into a side street, then watched as Tim opened the envelope. It was still sealed, surprising the pair.
“Where did you find it?”Sam asked.
“By the door. There was a pile of mail and brochures and stuff on the hallway table. This was sticking out just far enough for me to notice.” He reached inside and pulled out a small slip of paper. On it were written just four simple words.
Things will get better.
“What does that mean?” Sam whispered, staring at the words.
“I don’t know, but one thing’s for sure. Whoever wrote these words? They think they’re on some kind of mission.”
“You think so?”
“I have a hunch. Let’s get back to the hotel. There’s something I need to check out.”
Once back in their room, Tim didn’t hesitate to grab the laptop and immediately started searching, setting his intuition free to wander across the keyboard. Sam grabbed her cell and called Mumma to see if there had been any new developments.
“Mumma? What is it?” she asked, listening to the weeping woman on the other end. Tim looked up from the screen, suddenly aware of the tone in Sam’s voice.
For a brief moment, Sam thought that Mumma’s grief for Victor had briefly reappeared, maybe catching the emotional woman off guard at an inopportune time. But when the woman next spoke, the hammer smashed into Samantha’s own chest, the very air suddenly gone from the room.
“Sam, Jim Lawson just died.”
From where he sat, Tim saw Sam’s expression change instantly, the pain and shock crossing her face like a thunderstorm across a windswept plain. He set the laptop down, stood and mouthed something to her, trying to find out the news. But all Sam could do was slowly hold the phone out to him, unable to speak as the strength went out of her legs.
She dropped down into the nearest chair, one hand covering her mouth as the tears began to fill her eyes. A single thought ran through her mind as she barely heard Tim’s own shock begin to take hold. The dream she had that very morning, a final dream and a last moment she shared with him, was all she could think of.
As Tim ended the call and slowly shuffled across to his bed, Sam wiped away her tears and tried her best to recall what Jim had told her during that brief exchange. She recalled him sitting in his favorite place, holding a can of beer in his lap as he watched a beautiful sunset unfold before his very
eyes. And that is exactly how she hoped he left this world.
The grief both agents dealt with that afternoon wasn’t anything either could share and thus spent their time closed off in their own rooms. Maybe it had been fate that in this hotel, they had been given the opportunity to rent a two-bedroom suite and had accepted it absently.
It gave them the space they needed to grieve in their own way. For the most part, Sam just lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as she remembered the man who had been a part of her entire life. He had been a part of her family for most of his own, a crucial player in the whole Lightman affair.
In his own room, Tim sat on the edge of the bed with his head hung in despair. He’d known Jim for a long time and often marveled at how the man could somehow read his very thoughts when near him. It was as if he had a higher purpose, to guide and counsel those affected by grief and the horrendous acts of this world.
John Milton phoned each of them later that afternoon, offering his condolences as he spoke of the amazing service Jim had provided over the years. To both, it was the kind of phone call that reminded them of the incredible bond between the entire Pogrom team and the immense responsibility they played.
But as each ended the call, they returned to the darkness, a place both knew they had to endure before they could ever hope to return to service. Grief wasn’t something to be dealt with lightly and when it came to Jim Lawson, he was as much a part of every person’s family as their blood relatives. For him, the grief would run strong for a long time to come.
“I can believe he’s gone,” Sam whispered as she sipped her tea the following morning. Despite lying awake for the majority of the night, she did manage to finally drift off to sleep a little after three. Even Harry Lightman must have understood, giving Sam a reprieve from his usual infestations of her dreams.
