The Murder of Janessa Hennley

by Victor Methos

  When the police arrived, she was on the kitchen floor, eviscerated, with severe trauma to the mouth, vaginal cavity, and anus. Several of her teeth and fingers were missing, as was much of her face. A photo of the scene showed a young girl with parts taken out of her, like a butchered cow with the prime pieces of meat cut off. But the edges of the wounds appeared ragged, not smooth as they would have been with a sharp instrument. They were more akin to teeth having torn the flesh away. It almost looked like someone had tried to eat her.

  The detective’s exposition revealed that he thought Janessa had run through the house for some time as the intruder cut up her back. Her ankle was broken, and a blood trail in the backyard told them she had made it out but was dragged back inside.

  There was nothing else of note. No wonder they didn’t have any suspects, Mickey thought.

  The toxicology came back negative for the entire family except for Janessa. She tested positive for Viibryd. Mickey knew about Viibryd from an article in the Journal of Forensic Psychiatry he’d read some months ago. It was the most powerful anti-depressant available with minimal side effects.

  A wave of pity surged through him.

  He closed the PDF, sat back in his chair a while, then walked down the hall for a cup of coffee. The break room was empty. He made a fresh pot and sat at the lunch table, staring out the windows at the lawn outside. Workers were tearing it up to insert artificial grass, and nothing but dirt surrounded the building.

  A janitor came in and nodded to him as he emptied the trash bins and wiped down the counters. Mickey finished his coffee and went back to his office, then pulled up his email and wrote to the ASAC in charge of the Violent Criminal Apprehension Unit. His office phone rang.

  “This is Parsons,” he said.

  “Hi, Agent Parsons. This is Sheriff Clay, how are ya?”

  He paused. “I’m good. What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you got that email I sent.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got it right here.”

  “Good. So?”

  “So, what?”

  “So, what do you think? Can you help us?”

  “I think we will be able to.”

  She yelped with excitement. “I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. The Hennleys, the grandparents, have been on me nonstop since this happened, and I promised them I would get the FBI involved. How long until you get here?”

  “Well, not every case requires us to be there. We can work in conjunction with your detectives and just make our labs available. But they’ll probably send someone out on this case. There isn’t much to work with.”

  “You’re tellin’ me. I swear I interviewed every one of the family’s friends. They all said they had no idea who would want to hurt them. That they were the nicest folks you’d ever meet.”

  “Whoever did this spent the most time with Janessa. She’s likely the reason he was there.”

  “She was a sweetheart. Kinda threw our little town for a loop.”

  “I’m sure. But I’ll send out the email, and someone will get back to you.”

  “Great. Thanks, Mickey.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Mickey hung up and then checked out the sheriff and the town online. He read a few news articles about the killing, then finished the email he was drafting, letting the ViCAP Unit know that it was a verified case.

  He sent the email and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. His head throbbed, and he felt short of breath from just the brief walk to and from the break room. The day had just started, and he was already spent. He emailed his secretary on the floor above and asked that she forward any calls to his cell phone. Then he left for the day.

  The morning coolness had faded, replaced by the afternoon heat when Mickey woke up. His mouth felt like he had been chewing cotton, another side effect of the medication. He rolled to the side and took a sip out of an old bottle of water on the nightstand.

  He stared at the ceiling a while before going to the bathroom. Then he dressed in workout shorts and a tank top. The gym wasn’t far from his condo, and he decided to walk, since the weather was pleasant.

  As he was stepping out the door, his cell phone rang. It was his daughter.

  “It’s noon there,” he said. “What’re you doing out of class?”

  “Just felt like calling you, Daddy. I wanted to catch you before you went to bed.”

  “How’s Jim?”

  “He’s good. He’s calling in sick today. Got some sort of throat thing.”

  Mickey walked to his Jeep and put the key in the ignition but didn’t turn it. “I got your birthday card. I liked it.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t afford a present. Being in college is more expensive than I realized.”

  “I told you to call me if you needed money.”

  “I know, but I want to save that for when I really need it. And you’re already paying tuition. We’re okay. Just some nights eating Top Ramen is all. How are you feeling?”

  “Not bad. I was just about to go to the gym and lift. How are your classes?”

  “Good. I have one on the history of the Byzantine Empire that you would love. The professor’s a total libertarian who critiques their social policies. Everyone in the class is arguing all the time. It’s really fun. How ’bout work? Any interesting cases?”

  “Nothing much. Just a case in Alaska that sounded curious.”

  “Are you going out there?”

  “I don’t go out anymore, sweetheart.”

  “Why not?”

  He paused. “I’m not entirely sure. Just thought the exposure for the Bureau might be too much.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You should get out, Daddy. I can’t stand the thought of you locked up in that dark basement.”

  “I retire in two years. I can take just about anything for two years, I think.”

  “Well, I think you should go. Life’s so short. You gotta do what makes you happy, and I doubt that’s following procedure.”

  He grinned. “I’ll think about it.”

  “It would make me happy if you did it.”

  “I said I’ll think about it.”

  “Okay. Jim’s getting up, better run. I love you, Daddy.”

  “Love you too.”

  He hung up and turned the key then pulled out of the driveway and headed to the gym. He thought of a young girl on a linoleum floor, screaming for help that never came.

  8

  Sheriff Suzan Clay kicked the mud off her boots before stepping inside the police station, her phone glued to her ear. When the receptionist put her on hold, she hung up instead of waiting. She walked into the Sheriff’s Office. Two of her deputies, their feet up on their desks, sipped coffee and discussed the latest Icedogs hockey game.

  “Sheriff,” they both said in near unison.

  “Don’t you boys have speeding tickets to write?”

  “It’s like a hundred degrees outside, Sheriff. We’re just waiting for it to cool down.”

  “It’s seventy-eight. But can you at least wait with your feet off the desks? Lord Almighty, it’s like I’m at home with teenagers.”

  She walked past her secretary, who mumbled something about messages from the jail before returning to a phone conversation. Suzan removed her boots and placed slippers on her feet, then turned on her computer. She picked up the phone and tried calling the crime lab to check on some results from the Hennley case. Placed on hold again, she hung up.

  She flipped on her fan, aimed it at herself, and closed her eyes a moment, enjoying the cool wind. When you had winters that dipped to twenty below, seventy-eight degrees could get muggy.

  “Sheriff?”

  “What?” she said without opening her eyes.

  “Um, FBI called. They said they’re gonna send someone out.”

  She looked to her secretary. “When?”

  “Tomorrow, I think.”

  “Do they need us to pick them up from the airport?”

 
; The secretary stepped inside the office and put her hands behind her back like she didn’t know what else to do with them. “Um, no. I think they’re just renting a car.”

  “Did they actually say that, Janice, or are you guessing?”

  “Guessing.”

  “Okay, don’t worry about it. I’ll call them and see if they need me to pick them up.”

  Her computer was making a grinding noise. She hit it with her palm, and it stopped. After Googling the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, she checked for Mickey Parsons. There was nothing on the FBI site about him, but there was a number. She called it and the one she had called before but no one answered, so she left messages asking for a call back.

  Curious, she Googled his name.

  The first article that came up bore the headline: FBI’S ANGEL OF MERCY FORCED INTO DESK DUTY.

  She pulled out a small bag of pretzels from her desk and popped one in her mouth, then read the article. Apparently Mickey had been the top profiler for the unit before a controversial shooting nearly ended his career. He was cleared of any wrongdoing, but they’d still put him on desk duty afterward.

  The allegation was that he had shot a dying man as a mercy killing. A forensics team found evidence that the victim was trying to kill Mickey with some sort of explosive device. Mickey’s comments about the incident were sealed.

  She flipped through a few more articles, all discussing Mickey’s career and the cases he had closed. He’d arrested a paranoid schizophrenic in Los Angeles who’d been kidnapping infants out of windows and strangling them. The man attempted to kill Mickey with a modified AR-16, and Mickey had just barely escaped with his life after shooting the man through the groin.

  Another article detailed a case he assisted on in South Africa. A politician there had been kidnapping and murdering prostitutes. Mickey came up with the profile of a black man, mid-thirties, and deformed in the upper torso, probably the arms or shoulders. When they finally arrested the man based on a tip from his brother, they saw that his left arm had been blown apart from a mine.

  Her phone rang, and she answered without looking at the ID.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Sheriff Clay?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Mickey Parsons again. I just saw I missed your call.”

  “Oh.” She put down her bag of pretzels and hurriedly chewed what was left in her mouth. “Oh, yeah. Hi. Um, well, I was calling to see if… Well, I was calling about something else, but now I wanted to see if you were the one coming out to help us.”

  “No, I’m not a field agent anymore. The Bureau will have one of the special agents in the unit assigned to your case.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I was kinda hoping it’d be you.”

  Silence for a moment. “I appreciate your confidence, but I haven’t been in the field for six years. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help.”

  “I mean, if that’s what you think is best. Oh, and I wanted to see if I needed to pick up whoever came out here from the airport.”

  “No, we’ll rent our own car.”

  “Okay.” A long pause. “Well, I guess that’s the only reason I called. You sure you aren’t gonna come out here?”

  “Sheriff, why would you care if it were me?”

  “I was trying to find your number and came across some stuff online, and I thought—”

  “Most of what’s written about me online is bullshit. I’m no different from any other agent here, and now I’m actually worse since I’ve been hitched to a desk for so long. Believe me, you’re better off with a younger man.”

  “Okay, if you say so. I don’t want to pressure you.”

  “If there’s nothing else, I have a few things to do here, Sheriff.”

  She ran her hand along the desk, wiping away a few crumbs. “No, that’s it. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. He’ll be out tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

  “Thanks again.”

  As she hung up, she exhaled, then skimmed an article that said Mickey Parsons had the most closed cases in the Behavioral Science Unit of any special agent who had worked there.

  “Oh well,” she mumbled under her breath. She left in search of a temporary office for whoever was coming out here.

  9

  Mickey cued up a yoga video on Netflix. He followed the movements, trying to calm his breathing and not suck in too much air. He relaxed into cobra and really pushed down with his arms, getting a good stretch in his lower back, which had bothered him ever since an injury crushed two of his discs. Several surgeries later, he was nearly at ninety percent, with the exception of the occasional pain that still followed him.

  He finished his yoga, then showered and dressed. He didn’t feel like wearing a tie today. Instead, he wore jeans and a sports coat with loafers.

  He grabbed a coffee at Starbucks then sat in one of the cushioned chairs and watched people coming and going. It was generally a college crowd. Most of their conversations were about parties, either not being invited to the right ones or going to them and being bored. He remembered discussions from people this age in the sixties, and they were much, much different. Wars and philosophy and altering what was wrong with the world. Something had definitely changed.

  Mickey thought it had something to do with promises. In his generation, a promise was sacred. A man was judged by how many promises he could keep. But there wasn’t anything like that with this generation. Promises were just words, and character was something you faked.

  He walked to the elevator in the Bureau, then swiped his card and punched the button for the basement, opting not to sign in today. He walked along the linoleum and took out his keys. As he put the key into the lock, he froze. His chest felt tight, and there was acid in his stomach. Finally, he unlocked the door and stood there.

  Nothing but dead paper. Stacks of it. Reams of it. The soft buzz of his computer was the only sound. The sole window in the office looked out on nothing but gray dirt.

  He exhaled loudly, shut the door, and locked it. He stared at the office a long while, so long that he wasn’t sure if it was ten minutes or an hour. No one else was down here to disturb him, and he lost himself.

  Mickey walked back to the elevator. He debated leaving, but then went up to Kyle’s office. His secretary put her phone on mute when she saw him.

  “How are ya, hon?”

  “Good. How’s Tommy and the kids?”

  “Great. Having a barbeque in two weeks from tomorrow. You need to come by.”

  “Sure.” He glanced around. “Where’s Kyle?”

  “In a meeting. Have a seat and I’ll buzz him.”

  He sat down in the waiting area and pulled out his cell phone. He ignored the quiet beep from his watch, letting him know it was time to take his meds, as he texted his daughter.

  “you sure i should go?”

  “yes, daddy. get your butt down there and go hiking. go horseback riding or something. just get out of that basement!!!”

  A woman in a suit departed Kyle’s office without looking at anybody. Kyle stuck his head out and nodded to Mickey.

  Mickey sat across from him and looked at the decorations on the walls. Mostly photos of Kyle with various politicians, Bureau administrators, and celebrities.

  Kyle groaned as he leaned back. “Heavy is the crown, huh?”

  “I suppose.”

  “That woman is threatening a sexual harassment suit because she says one of our agents groped her, and I didn’t do anything about it. Do you know how much time and money go into training an agent? I’m supposed to fire the guy for grabbing somebody’s ass?”

  “I came here to ask you a favor,” Mickey said.

  “Shoot.”

  “There’s a request for help that came in from Alaska. A small town in the south. I’ve cleared them, and I’d like to be the one to go out.”

  Kyle tapped the pen he held against his knuckles. “Mickey, I don’t know if that’s going to be possible.”

  �
�I’m just going to see if there’s anything they missed. That’s it.”

  “I’m not worried about your skills, even though you haven’t been in the field since forever. What I’m worried about is how small town yokels are going to react to a special agent with HIV.”

  Mickey shifted in his seat. “They’re not going to know, Kyle. That’s not the first thing I share with people. It’s a private matter that I didn’t even need to share with the Bureau. I did that out of courtesy. And you stuck me in the basement for it.”

  “That was for the scandal and all the bull—”

  “I’m not stupid, Kyle. The Ricks shooting was the justification you needed, so I couldn’t sue if I wanted to. Even though I told you I wouldn’t if you guys decided to let me go.”

  Kyle tapped the pen against the desk. “Why do you want to go? Most agents can’t wait to get taken out of the field.”

  “Personal reasons.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know if I’m going to make retirement, Kyle. I was thinking of leaving the Bureau early next winter. I just want to be out one more time.”

  He shrugged. “Fine. I’ll clear it with the SAC.”

  “Thanks.”

  He rose and turned to leave. Before he was out the door, Kyle said, “And, Mickey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This is it. This is the last time I’m letting you in the field.”

  10

  The flight was more nerve-racking than Mickey thought it would have been. He was sweating, and his heart pounded like a hammer. He had never enjoyed flying, and now, after his diagnosis and the daily loss of strength, it was even worse.

  An insurance salesman sat next to him. He tried to strike up a conversation about the dangers of flying, and then brought up life insurance. Mickey sipped a cup of beer and kept his eyes forward. His watch buzzed, and the man asked what that was.

  “It’s time to pray. I’m Muslim.”

  The man didn’t say anything else to him the entire flight.