The Strategist

by John Hardy Bell

  Completely unaware of the scene she had made, Camille was shocked to see that the eyes of most everyone out there – police, neighbors, news crews – were trained on her. She tried to meet their unfeeling stares with a hard glare of her own, but her eyes burned from tears that wouldn’t stop flowing and the only way to manage the pain was to keep them closed.

  From behind she heard the jingle of handcuffs and knew the officer was coming back.

  “That’s her,” she heard him say.

  “And she says she knew the victim?” a soft female voice asked in response.

  “That’s correct, ma’am.”

  “Okay. I’ll take it from here then,” the female voice said from a position directly behind Camille. “Thank you Officer Davies.”

  Camille opened her eyes in time to see the officer crossing the sidewalk in front of her. He kept his hard glare fixed on her until he reached a small group of officers huddled in the driveway of the house next door. Soon they were all staring.

  “Miss, you really shouldn’t have crossed the police line.”

  Camille jumped as she looked away from the officers to the woman now kneeling beside her.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you,” she said with a thin smile. “Officer Davies told me that you were a friend of the victim. I wanted to come out to talk to you. My name is Chloe Sullivan. I’m a detective with DPD homicide.” She extended her hand.

  Camille looked at it without extending her own. “Her name is Julia.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Julia Leeds. That’s the name of the victim you’re referring to, right?”

  Sullivan cast her tired eyes downward. “That hasn’t been officially confirmed, but we believe so.”

  Camille turned away from the detective and focused her attention on a pair of teenage girls standing on a lawn across the street. They looked sad and overwhelmed by everything happening around them. It was refreshing in a strange way. Teenagers never seemed sad or overwhelmed by anything these days that didn’t involve their online social network.

  “How long have you known her?” Detective Sullivan asked.

  “Sixteen years,” Camille answered, still looking at the girls. Judging by their similar physical appearance, they were probably sisters. Camille felt a pang of jealousy. She had lost her sister today.

  “And when did you last see her?”

  Camille redirected her attention to the detective. That’s when she noticed the notepad. Aside from the badge, it was the main tool of the police detective’s trade, used more frequently and much more effectively than a firearm ever would be. The sight of it made Camille tremble. “Can you tell me what happened first?”

  “We’re still in the process of establishing that. I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

  The detective looked to be the same age as Camille, possibly a few years younger. Pretty young female cops had it rough on the street, from perps and colleagues alike. And Detective Sullivan was prettier than most. But behind her deep set hazel eyes was something very formidable. She may not have had the most imposing physical presence, but it was obvious she was no push over either.

  “Camille Grisham,” she answered and watched the detective scribble her name.

  “Ms. Grisham, are you aware of any family she may have in the area? So far we haven’t been able to establish a point of contact.”

  Julia’s parents died in a plane crash when she was twenty-six. The only other family that she ever spoke of was her sister Nicole who lived in Castle Rock. Camille had only met her twice, and to hear Julia talk, the two of them weren’t particularly close. Regardless of their relationship, the idea of Nicole not knowing made Camille feel sick.

  “Her sister’s name is Nicole Blair. All I know about her is that she’s a veterinarian at the Douglas County Animal Hospital.”

  Sullivan nodded as she wrote. “That should be enough to find her.”

  Camille stood up and turned toward the house. From her new vantage point she could see more of the activity happening inside. There were at least ten people in the living room, most of them men in plain clothes, walking around with flashlights, dusting the walls and windows, and holding items stored in zip lock baggies. A short man wearing an Animal Control jacket stood inside the doorway while another one sat on the front porch smoking a cigarette.

  The investigator in Camille worried about the integrity of the scene with so many people operating in such a small area. But the investigator in her was mostly gone. All that was left was a devastated shell of a person who could only pray that the men in that house were working their asses off to find whoever did this.

  “Ms. Grisham, when was the last time you saw Julia?”

  Camille saw one of the investigators walk out of the house carrying a black plastic bag. Her breath caught as she tried to answer the detective’s question.

  “Ms. Grisham?”

  Camille was silent as she watched the man put the large bag into the back of an unmarked white van.

  “Ms. Grisham?” Detective Sullivan repeated in a voice that was losing its measure. “Can you tell me when you last saw the victim?”

  “Yesterday,” Camille finally answered.

  “How long were you with her?”

  “The entire day.”

  “And did you notice anything out of the ordinary in terms of her behavior?”

  The investigator got inside the van and quickly drove away. Camille watched until it disappeared around a corner.

  “Ms. Grisham?”

  “No I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary in terms of her behavior.” She turned her full attention back to the detective. “Look, I can appreciate that you have to ask these questions. But I need to know exactly what happened to her. And don’t tell me that you’re still in the midst of the investigation and haven’t determined it yet, because I know better than that. The first responders knew within two minutes of being here exactly what happened, so I’m pretty sure you do too.”

  The detective’s lips parted and for a moment she seemed to be at a loss for words. She blew a lock of curly brown hair from the corner of her eye and took in a deep breath. “Ms. Grisham I understand you’re upset, but at this point I’m not really at liberty–”

  “I don’t think you have the slightest idea how upset I am right now.” Camille’s eyes began to sting again and she had to put her hands over them.

  “Yes I do.”

  “Then at least give me the common courtesy of being honest.”

  Detective Sullivan rolled her eyes. “It’s not about common courtesy. It’s about maintaining the integrity of our investigation.”

  “Look, I was an FBI agent for eight years, so I know all about maintaining the integrity of an investigation. And I know that you telling me how my best friend died will do absolutely nothing to compromise that integrity. For Christ’s sake, you’re a homicide detective. How stupid do we have to pretend to be?”

  The detective’s cheeks turned crimson red and the muscles in her jaw nearly bulged through the skin. “The fact that you were an FBI agent means absolutely nothing to me right now. But your tone does. Do you want to try that again?”

  As much as Camille always hated to admit it, she never had the respect for local law enforcement that she should have. When she was brought into an investigation, it was usually because the locals had neither the resources nor the ability to complete the task on their own. Most cops don’t take too kindly to having their cases taken away from them, especially by snobby D.C. types with fancy suits and inflated egos. And the working relationship Camille had with them reflected that territorial animosity. But she was no longer an agent and Detective Sullivan wasn’t some subordinate she was forced to work with. The cocky attitude wasn’t going to fly here.

  “I’m sorry, detective. I was out of line,” Camille said contritely. “It just feels like my entire life is flashing in front of my eyes, and when the flash is done everything is going to permanently go black. Desperate doesn
’t begin to describe how that makes me feel.”

  Detective Sullivan didn’t look the least bit prepared to accept the apology as she began flipping through her notepad. “The ME’s initial report indicates that Ms. Leeds was shot with a high caliber weapon. Her two dogs were also killed, presumably by the same weapon, though that hasn’t been confirmed. We don’t have enough yet to fully establish motive, but based on the point of forced entry and the condition of the house, it looks like a home invasion. Do you know what kind of vehicle she drove?”

  “A Range Rover.”

  Detective Sullivan nodded. “Officers located it this morning in an alley on the 3800 block of Gilpin. Does she know anyone in that area?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “We’re working on a couple of leads related to the car and its location, but we don’t have anything solid as of yet.”

  Whether she was aware of it or not, Detective Sullivan was relaying information to Camille the same as she would a fellow officer. Terms like ‘high caliber weapon’ and ‘point of forced entry’ only mean something in law enforcement circles. Maybe the revelation of her FBI past had an effect after all. Or maybe the detective had a lot to learn when it came to talking to the average person about investigative matters. Either way, Camille was grateful for her sudden candor, even though it hurt like a punch to the stomach.

  “We could really use your help in filling in some of the gaps, Ms. Grisham.”

  “I don’t know how much I can offer,” Camille said as she fought to maintain her balance on increasingly wobbly legs.

  “I’ll go back to my original question about her behavior. You said you didn’t recognize anything out of the ordinary yesterday. What about the days prior?”

  Camille shook her head. “Yesterday was the first time I’d seen her in almost two years. I just moved back here from the east coast. Today is my first full day home.”

  Something came over Detective Sullivan’s face that looked like sadness. She quickly blinked and it went away. “Did you have phone conversations?”

  “For the last month and a half we probably spoke on the phone every day.”

  “And during those conversations, did she ever indicate that something was wrong? Perhaps a bad fight with a boyfriend or a dispute with a neighbor?”

  “Julia hasn’t had a boyfriend in over a year, at least not one that I knew about.” She paused to search her memory for anything else. “The only thing she complained about was work.”

  “What did she do?”

  Camille got stuck on the work ‘did’. Julia was already being spoken of in the past tense and it made her want to scream again. “She’s a lawyer.”

  “Criminal?”

  “Corporate. Defending big companies against lawsuits, stuff like that.”

  The detective was scribbling notes at a furious pace. “And what was it that she most often complained about? Colleagues? Clients?”

  “The first and only time I heard her complain about work was during the drive home from the airport yesterday. It wasn’t anything specific. It just sounded to me like she was tired of being a lawyer.”

  “Are you sure there wasn’t anything else to it?”

  Camille hesitated. She had asked Julia the same question. Every instinct she had at the time told her that something wasn’t right, and she pushed for answers. But the more she pushed, the further Julia retreated. In the past, the only time Julia put up a wall was when it came to talking about her relationships, especially the bad ones. Camille had wondered if that was the case here too. Even though the subject seemed to bother Julia to the point of not wanted to say a single word about it, she never gave even the slightest impression that it was anything approaching life and death status.

  Camille cleared her throat and continued. “Julia isn’t a complainer, not about work or anything else. So when she started talking the way she did, I just got the sense that it was her way of telling me there was something else bothering her.”

  “So what was bothering her?”

  “She didn’t say. But we were supposed to have dinner this evening to…” Camille’s mouth started quivering and she had to stop.

  Detective Sullivan immediately stopped writing, slipped her notepad into her jacket pocket and put a hand on Camille’s shoulder. “We can stop for now. I know this is incredibly hard on you and there is still a lot to process. Trying to recall too much right now may even be counter-productive. With so much else on your mind, you might miss certain details of a conversation or an encounter that you otherwise wouldn’t. If you’d like, we can resume this after you’ve had some time.”

  Camille nodded and was about to communicate her thanks when a male voice stopped her.

  “Detective Sullivan.”

  Both Camille and the detective turned around to see a tall, stoutly built man in an ill-fitting shirt and loosened tie standing at the crest of the hill staring down at them.

  Detective Sullivan dropped her hand from Camille’s shoulder and used it to wave at the man. Her posture was decidedly more rigid now. “Detective Graham.”

  As he descended the hill toward them, Camille could see something of a subtle smirk peeking out from under a thick, gray goatee, though she hoped she was reading that wrong.

  “Is this the witness that Officer Davies was talking about?” he asked Sullivan without looking in Camille’s direction.

  “She’s not a witness. She was a close friend of the victim,” Sullivan corrected.

  “People who are closest to the victim often make the best witnesses,” Graham countered in a condescending tone. Then he turned to Camille. “Detective Walter Graham,” he said as he stuck out a catcher’s mitt of a hand.

  Camille tentatively took it. “Camille Grisham.”

  An instant gleam of recognition cut across Graham’s face that Camille didn’t like in the least. Such recognition meant he knew one of two things about her, neither of which she was ready to talk about.

  “Paul Grisham’s kid. I thought you looked familiar,” he said with an affected smile that was almost comical in its insincerity. “I worked with your old man for a long time. Hell of a cop. I always hoped we could partner up on the detective beat one day. But he was smart enough to take the early pension. I bet his golf game is out of this world by now.”

  “I wouldn’t really know,” Camille muttered. She hadn’t realized that both of her hands were balled up in tight fists until she felt the pain from her fingernails. Something about Detective Graham had immediately rubbed her the wrong way.

  “And man, was he proud of you,” Graham mercilessly continued. “He had FBI banners and decals all over his cubicle. You would have thought he was the agent.”

  Sullivan chuckled, though it was peppered with a nervous edge.

  “Thank you for the kind words,” Camille said with a tight half smile. Then she looked at Sullivan.

  The detective quickly took the cue. “I was just wrapping up with Ms. Grisham. She was able to shed some light on the victim’s state of mind during the final twenty-four hours before her death.”

  “So you were with her yesterday?” Graham asked Camille before his partner could continue.

  “Yes. I already told Detective Sullivan that.”

  “I understand. But just for my own clarification. Approximately what time did you last talk to her?”

  Camille sighed and shot another quick look to Sullivan. “She was at my house – my father’s house – for most of the day and left about four p.m.”

  “And was that the last time you talked to her? When she left your father’s house?”

  “Yes. Well, actually, she did call me later. But I missed the call.”

  Graham suddenly pulled out his own notepad. “And what time was that?”

  Camille paused to search her memory. “If I had to guess, I’d say about eight-thirty.”

  Graham wrote in his notepad then looked at Sullivan. This time there was little doubt about the smirk.

  “Did
she leave a message?” Sullivan chimed in, seemingly irritated that she hadn’t gotten this information before now.

  “No.”

  “Did you call her back?” Graham asked.

  Camille took in a deep breath. She had conducted her fair share of interrogations, and this was beginning to feel a lot like one. “No. It had been a long day and I was getting tired. We were planning on meeting up tonight for dinner, and I figured that whatever it was could wait until then.”

  Graham nodded as he continued writing. “Was there something specific you were supposed to meet about?”

  Sullivan cut in. “It’s all in my notes, detective. If you want to review them we can go back–”

  “Why would I want to review notes when I have the witness right here in front of me?” Graham asked curtly.

  “Like I told your partner, Julia and I hadn’t seen each other in a long time and we wanted to catch up.”

  Graham looked at Sullivan as if he expected her to fill in the blanks.

  “The victim indicated that something was troubling her, though she didn’t say what. She and Ms. Grisham were supposed to talk about it today,” Sullivan reported.

  “Is that correct?” Graham asked Camille.

  Camille shook her head in disbelief that she was answering these questions again. Graham was the worst kind of cop: an arrogant asshole who had no idea of how much of a hack he truly was. Idiots like him made her disdain for local police feel completely justified. “Just like it says in Detective Sullivan’s notes.”

  Camille saw something harden in Graham’s face.

  “I was just about to give Ms. Grisham my card,” Sullivan said to Graham. “I thought it would be best for her to let the smoke clear then have her come in so we could talk more about Julia and their scheduled dinner.”

  “Unfortunately we don’t have the luxury of letting the smoke clear, Detective Sullivan,” Graham said with a stiff glare that looked completely at home on his leathery, bloated face. Then he turned to Camille. “I know this is a very difficult time, and I’m truly sorry for the loss of your friend. But as Detective Sullivan may or may not have told you, we don’t have much to work with right now. Any information we can get about Ms. Leeds, no matter how seemingly insignificant, will be extremely useful. Hell, you’re a former federal agent. You know better than most what I’m talking about. So if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like for you to come downtown with us so we can ask a few more follow-up questions, maybe get a written statement. We’ve done about all we can here anyway.”