The Strategist

by John Hardy Bell

  Despite a major bout of jet lag and a night of sleep that could best be described as inconsistent, Camille was out of bed, showered, and dressed by 6:15. The two hour time deficit and drastic change in scenery had done little to alter a morning routine that had been a constant since her days in the academy. Old habits, she was coming to discover, die very hard.

  She smiled as she walked past her father’s closed bedroom door and down the stairs. When Camille was a child, he was usually gone long before she woke up. Even on days when he didn’t have to work, she was often awakened by his heavy footsteps padding down the staircase one to two hours before the sun made its first appearance. Now, six years retired from the daily grind of making his doughnut run in time for morning roll call, Paul Grisham had apparently found another way to enjoy the hard-earned fruits of his labor aside from regular trips to the driving range. He slept in.

  You certainly earned it, big guy.

  Before she went to bed, Camille set the coffee maker to start brewing at six, the same as she had every morning in D.C. for the past eight years. By the time she came downstairs, the smell of fresh coffee had wafted into practically every corner of the house. As she sat at the kitchen table, skimming the business section of the previous day’s newspaper and sipping on a cup of Seattle’s Best, she realized that this could have been the start of any other morning. But it wasn’t like any other morning. There would be no briefing from the Bureau chief, no psych profile to review, no bagel and cream cheese breakfast with Agent Sheridan. There was only a cup of coffee, an outdated newspaper, and the first full day she would face in a long time with absolutely nothing to do.

  Despite her own lack of an agenda, she was positive her father would have something in store for her. As he had declared last night, her pity parade was officially over. He may have respected what she had gone through and supported her decisions along the way, but he also fully expected her to pull herself out of the murk that she had been slogging through, and to do it quickly. That meant no sitting on the couch watching General Hospital while she half-heartedly plotted her re-entry into the world of the productive. How far he was willing to go to ensure that such a scenario was never allowed to play itself out remained to be seen, but as long as she lived under his roof, Camille knew she would have no choice but to play along.

  For now, she simply wanted to enjoy the stillness of a house that she had yet to fully reacquaint herself with. As she walked around each room, she tried to focus on something that would help re-establish her history with it.

  In the kitchen there was the red and green vase that she made for her mother in eighth grade ceramics class. Despite its cracked rim and overall hideous appearance, someone always made sure there were fresh flowers in it; a tradition her father currently maintained with pink and red carnations. On the living room floor was the gold afghan that her mother shampooed at least once a month. On the mantle over the fireplace was the outstanding service award that her mother received from the Colorado Bar Association for her five years as a district court judge. Next to that was a picture from the 2001 Race for the Cure. Camille and her mother stood arm in arm at the finish line, both of them dressed in pink from head to toe.

  In spite of an always radiant smile, the chemo had taken a major toll on her mother’s appearance at that point. Most of her hair had fallen out, and her once bright face was gray and gaunt. She had been diagnosed with breast cancer eight months earlier and signing up for the race had been her way of declaring war on a disease she was determined to beat. For that day, with Camille running beside her the entire three miles, Olivia Grisham did beat it. Early detection, a double mastectomy, and aggressive chemotherapy had given her hope that there would be many more races to run.

  But there wouldn’t be. The cancer spread much faster than the doctor’s anticipated and had quickly become inoperable. Olivia died three weeks before her daughter was accepted into the academy.

  When Camille decided to apply, her mother was the first person she told. Though she expressed initial misgivings the same as any parent would when their only child tells them she wants to be the next Clarice Starling, Olivia eventually embraced the idea. Whenever she found a story related to the FBI, she would clip it from the newspaper. When Camille shared her dream of living and working in Washington D.C., Olivia convinced Paul to start looking at houses in the area. Near the end, when the hospice nurses would visit the house, she always told them they had to work extra hard to keep her alive because her daughter was on her way to becoming an FBI agent and she planned to be there to see her first big arrest. She told them it would be one of the proudest moments of her life.

  Unfortunately, that first big arrest came long after Olivia passed away; and nothing about it, Camille concluded, would have given her reason to be proud.

  As she continued looking around, Camille realized that most everything here reminded her of her mother. She had been dead for nearly nine years, but the house was still decidedly hers. Camille knew that her father’s disinterest in changing the décor had very little to do with his lack of style. It had everything to do with preserving the memory of his wife. Keeping the house unchanged meant keeping her alive; just like keeping Camille’s room unchanged was his way of keeping her home.

  But no matter how much her father tried, home could never be what it once was. Camille’s connection to it died along with her mother. And every year that she found an excuse not to come back, every Thanksgiving and Christmas she flew her father out to D.C., the cold reality that her mother would never be there to hug her stung a little bit less.

  As she walked out of the living room, Camille finally understood why this house felt so foreign to her: she needed it to be that way. For as much as she wanted to feel the safety and security of being home, she knew that she had the ability to be little more than a temporary guest here. To try to be anything more threatened to open up wounds that she had neither the strength nor the will to endure. All it took was one glance at a decade old picture of her mother to remind her of that. Best to keep those memories locked away in that deep place along with every other painful thing in her life.

  “So much for enjoying the stillness,” she muttered to herself as walked into her father’s office and sat down at the desk.

  The room was filled with the standard memorabilia that came from twenty-seven years of being a first rate cop: service awards, pictures with four different mayors, a gold plated replica of his badge, and a framed retirement banner covered with the signatures of practically every member of the Denver Police Department. Her father was as respected as any officer in the department had ever been, and the testaments to that were on proud display all around her.

  Of all the rooms in the house, Camille felt the most out of place in this one. In the past, it had been a source of inspiration for her. She spent countless hours staring at pictures of him in his uniform, reading the true crime books that lined his bookshelf, listening to dispatch chatter on his police scanner, and dreaming of the day when she would get to wear a badge just like his.

  Now the room felt like a shrine that she was desecrating by her mere presence.

  I really should have checked into a hotel.

  As she stood up from the desk, her eyes drifted to the bookshelf where she noticed that most of the true crime and procedure books she grew up reading had been replaced with historical novels and golf magazines.

  But one thing hadn’t changed.

  The handheld police scanner sat in the same corner of the top shelf as it always had. Judging by the thick blanket of dust covering its face, it probably hadn’t been touched in the decade since she last used it. By this point, it was more ornamental than functional anyway; another sentimental keepsake from a bygone era.

  Camille picked it up off the shelf and sat back down at the desk. She blew away a mound of dust and hit the power button. To her surprise the green LED display lit up and the sound of crackling static emitted from the speaker. The 200 channel scanner could hone in
on frequencies as far south as Houston and as far west as Los Angeles, but it was automatically set to pick up Denver police dispatch.

  After about thirty seconds, the static gave way to the sound of a female voice.

  “Corner of 12th and Logan. We have a Hispanic male, late forties, early fifties, possibly homeless, lying on the sidewalk, unresponsive. Need EMS support, over.”

  “Copy that, twenty-four,” a male voice answered. “Stand by for fire rescue.”

  After a few seconds of silence, a different voice. “Traffic lights on Colfax between York and Colorado Boulevard are malfunctioning. We have major tie ups in all directions. Requesting units to help monitor traffic flow.”

  “Two one copy, we’ll send units that way now.”

  It was the kind of garden variety chatter that one always hears on a police scanner. There were domestic violence reports, requests for back up on suspicious traffic stops, reports of elderly people in need of assistance because of chest pains. Before the Bureau, Camille could have listened for hours on end. But now that she understood the true nature of police work, and the fact that most of these calls would end uneventfully no matter how exciting they may have started out, there wasn’t much to hold her interest.

  She left the scanner on the desk while she walked back to the bookshelf, hopeful that she could find something in her father’s book collection mindless enough to distract her for a few hours. She had begun skimming through a Tom Clancy nonfiction book about nuclear submarines when something came over the scanner that redirected her attention.

  “This is six two eight, we’ve located the vehicle possibly belonging to the deceased in an alley on the 3800 block of Gilpin Street. Burgundy Range Rover, license 289 Alpha Charlie X-Ray. All four wheels have been lifted and it looks like most of the engine has been stripped.”

  “Roger that six two eight,” a female voice responded. “Do we have confirmation that the SUV is registered to the victim?”

  “Affirmative. The plates came back as a match. There’s a possibility the suspect or suspects may still be on site. Requesting additional units to secure the Range Rover and sweep the area.”

  “Copy six two eight. Additional units are en route to your location.”

  Camille dropped the book and ran over to the scanner. Burgundy Range Rover. The same as Julia’s. But there had to be hundreds of them in the city. Besides, why would her car be anywhere near 38th and Gilpin? She lived clear on the other side of the city.

  Another voice on the scanner.

  “Detectives have been dispatched to the original crime scene. Any word on the status of animal control?”

  “Animal control is on scene but forensics has requested they not remove the dogs until their cause of death can be confirmed.”

  “Roger that eight two. And there were two of them?”

  “Correct. Dalmatians, I believe.”

  Then a second feed cut in. “Be advised of increasing media and spectator activity outside the victim’s residence. We need units to cut off outside traffic over a three block radius starting at the 400 block of Monroe Street.”

  Camille remembered the address that Julia left for her. 335 Monroe Street. An immediate shockwave of numbness shot through her body and she could no longer feel the scanner in her hand.

  “Copy that. Additional units are en route to the original crime scene and forensics is standing by at the secondary site to survey the victim’s vehicle.”

  After that, the scanner lost the frequency and went silent.

  Camille stood frozen, desperately trying to process what she had just heard. She knew what her instincts were telling her, but no other part of her could begin to come to terms with it. Though there was no confirmation of the victim’s identity, the fact that he or she drove the same car as Julia, lived in the same neighborhood, and had the same breed of dog meant that coincidence should have been officially off the table as a possibility. But Camille held tight to the possibility anyway.

  Fighting back the panic that was beginning to surge through her, she calmly walked into the living room and turned on the television. This time of morning, the local newscasts were primarily concerned with the traffic and weather and she had to switch between three different stations before she finally found one actually reporting the news. After more bleak reports about the job market and an overblown account of the latest political strife in the Middle East, the scene switched to a high helicopter shot above a large, two story house that was roped off with yellow tape.

  “We want to update you on a developing story we’ve been following involving a possible homicide in this home on the 300 block of Monroe Street,” the anchor said as the helicopter shot continued. “Police are now saying that an SUV possibly belonging to the victim has been found in an alley in northeast Denver, though that information has not been officially confirmed. Authorities have apparently identified the victim but are not releasing her name. What we do know is that a woman was found dead in the home sometime early this morning. Details surrounding that death are still not known, but sources have told 7 News that homicide detectives are on scene and are currently pursing tips related to the SUV. We will have continuing coverage of this developing story all morning and will pass along more information as it becomes available.”

  Camille had no memory of running through the house frantically searching for her father’s car keys, nor did she remember getting into his Chevy Suburban and peeling out of the driveway. It was as if she made the drive to Julia’s house in a complete state of unconsciousness, unaware of the traffic around her, how fast she was going, or how she even got there.

  But she became fully aware when she came upon the patrol cars blocking entry onto Julia’s street. The two officers standing guard eyed her with suspicion as she came to a stop in front of them. She had considered telling them that she lived in the neighborhood and needed to get through, but quickly thought better of it. Instead she turned the car around, parked half a block away, and made her way to Julia’s on foot.

  The further she walked the more activity she saw. Neighbors were standing in the middle of the street talking to each other, their subdued conversations punctuated with shock and disbelief; satellite news trucks were lined up in caravans along the curb while TV reporters scrambled to prepare for their live feeds.

  She had already put in back to back calls to Julia’s cell phone, but there was no answer either time. As she made a third call, she still somehow believed that she would come upon Julia’s house and see her standing outside with the rest of her neighbors.

  Listening to Julia’s voicemail greeting for the third time, Camille finally saw the house. There were no satellite trucks, anxious reporters, or gawking neighbors standing in front of it; only police cars and uniformed officers as far as she could see.

  The outside of the house was illuminated with standing flood lights. Behind the closed blinds she saw shadows and the occasional pop of a camera flash. The police set up two perimeters of yellow tape in front of the house – one on the sidewalk near the curb and one across the front porch. Camille crossed the first police line without a second thought. A uniformed officer quickly made his way over to her before she could get any closer. But she didn’t need to get any closer. She already saw what she needed to see.

  The custom made address plate above the front door was green with gold letters, written in a fine cursive script eerily similar to Julia’s. When everything else around her went black, Camille could still see the plate as if it were burned into her brain.

  335 Monroe St. Leeds.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Ma’am, you need to step behind the line right now! Do you hear me? This is a crime scene! If you don’t step back I will arrest you!”

  The words sounded as if they were coming from someplace distant, even though the officer who spoke them stood only a few feet away. Camille looked away from the address plate and into the patrolman’s strong, beet red face.

  “I’m only telling you one more
time,” he said with lips that were coiled tight with rage. “Get behind the line.”

  Camille continued to stare at him with a blank expression that only seemed to fuel his anger. She suddenly felt a pull on her shoulder as the officer attempted to move her backward. But she didn’t budge. Instead she brushed his hand away and side stepped out of his reach. When the officer put a hand to his holster and took a defensive posture, she immediately realized her mistake.

  “I’m a federal ag—” Camille nearly bit through her tongue as she stopped herself from saying the word ‘agent’. That had almost been as big a mistake as raising a hand to him, but the words were instinctive.

  “What did you say?”

  Camille tried to swallow but couldn’t. “I know her.”

  As the officer approached with his hand still on his holster, Camille extended her arms to hold him off.

  “Please. My friend lives here. I’m just trying to figure out if she’s okay.”

  The officer stopped, though nothing in his icy blue eyes communicated the least bit of sympathy. “You still need to let us do our job, ma’am. I don’t want to physically put you across that line, but I will if you don’t—”

  “You don’t understand. I can’t leave. Not until I know that she’s…” her voice trailed off as something heavy moved from her chest into the back of her throat. She grabbed his thick forearm with both hands. “Can someone please help me? I don’t care who it is. I just need someone to tell me that Julia’s okay. She’s not answering her cell phone and I just need to hear her…” The heaviness in Camille’s chest and throat suddenly expanded into her mouth, and before she realized what was happening, she let out a guttural scream that sounded almost inhuman in its agony.

  The officer struggled to pry Camille’s clawed grip from his forearm. Once he did he walked her to the base of the grassy hill leading up to Julia’s front porch. “Sit here,” he said flatly as he helped her down. Then without saying another word, he ran up the stairs and into the house, brushing past two large men in suits standing in the doorway.