The Strategist

by John Hardy Bell

  Camille looked at Detective Sullivan who promptly looked away. She was disappointed that Sullivan backed down, but she couldn’t be upset with her. Sullivan may have had the makings of a solid detective, but it was obvious she was in no position to call the shots. Being a young female meant the deck was already somewhat stacked against her. And Graham was making it very clear that he wasn’t interested in making the road any easier.

  But he was absolutely right about one thing. Time was not on their side. No matter the crime, the window for successfully solving it is always incredibly small. In most cases, the vast majority of useful evidence, witness statements, and anonymous tips are collected within the first forty-eight hours of the incident. After that, the trail begins to run cold. Even though she wanted nothing more than to crawl into the nearest hole and die, she knew she couldn’t. The fact remained that she was possibly the last person who Julia talked to. She may not have had a lot to give to the detectives, but right now it was probably a lot more than anyone else.

  “I’m parked a few blocks over,” she said to Sullivan.

  “We’ll drive you to your car then you can follow us from there,” Graham answered.

  Camille made her way under the yellow police line and back into the street. The two teenage sisters she noticed earlier were now standing beside their father. All three of them looked at Camille as she passed. The collective empathy in their faces almost made her cry again. She also thought about her own father. She would have to call him. He was probably awake by now, and if he wasn’t already worried to death he soon would be. The words he spoke last night echoed in her mind: “I’ve never worried more about you than I have for the last two months.”

  Camille feared that before this was all over, the last two months were going to seem to him like a perfect day on the golf course.

  CHAPTER 13

  Camille sat in a conference room inside the downtown Criminal Investigations Division, while Detectives Graham and Sullivan worked feverishly at their computers; most likely logging witness statements and crime scene evidence. At least that’s what Camille’s experience told her they should be doing. Before escorting her inside, Graham made the token offer of a Krispy Kreme doughnut and a cup of coffee. Camille declined both. All she wanted was to write her statement and get the hell out of here as fast as she could.

  She called her father while she waited. He had seen the news report but didn’t make the connection to Julia. When Camille made the connection for him, he was quiet for a long time. If the news had made him emotional, he would rather put the phone down and walk away than let Camille hear him cry. To him, sadness was an entirely private matter, not to be shared with anyone else in the world, including those closest to him. It was a complete sense of detachment that masqueraded as cast-iron toughness, and it allowed Paul Grisham to survive the streets for over two decades without a single scratch – to either his body or his psyche. The trait was passed on to Camille, and for a time she wore it with great pride. Then she encountered a mass murderer who rudely informed her that she wasn’t made of nearly the same kind of stuff as her father.

  After what felt like an hour of silence, Paul told Camille that he would meet her as soon as he could arrange for a ride. He didn’t seem the least bit upset that she had taken his.

  Graham and Sullivan finally made their way into the conference room some twenty minutes after Camille’s phone conversation ended. They were each holding a cup of coffee and a manila folder. Sullivan was smiling as she took a seat in the chair nearest Camille. Camille didn’t smile back.

  When Graham sat down on the other side of the table he immediately opened his folder and began sifting through the contents inside. “Sorry for the wait Camille,” he said without looking up. “Paperwork is one ugly bitch.”

  Sullivan glared at him and shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “We’ve contacted Julia’s sister in Castle Rock,” she said as she opened her folder and pulled out a blank witness statement form. “She’s on her way to meet the coroner as we speak. Once she establishes a positive ID, we can release Julia’s name and more information about the crime to the public.”

  “Then we pray that the tips start rolling in,” Graham continued. “A case like this lives or dies on the number of snitches who come out of the woodwork and how loud they’re willing to sing.”

  Camille nodded then turned to Sullivan. “How is Nicole doing?”

  “She slept in this morning and hadn’t watched the news, so she had no idea. Those kinds of phone calls are the worst part of what we do.” Sullivan cast her eyes down and the same look of sadness came over her that Camille noticed earlier. This time she didn’t blink it away so quickly.

  “Detective Sullivan has a witness statement for you to fill out,” Graham said to Camille without a hint of the emotion evident on Sullivan’s face.

  On cue, Sullivan slid the paper across the table to Camille.

  “But before you do that, I have a couple of questions,” Graham continued.

  “I have a couple of questions too,” Camille interrupted. “Actually I just have one. Do you have any idea who did this?”

  Graham and Sullivan looked at one another.

  “No we don’t,” Graham answered tersely.

  “Not yet anyway,” Sullivan interjected. “We only have a couple of leads so far, and they’re slim at best. But we’re working them the best we can.”

  “So was it a home invasion?” Camille asked.

  “That’s certainly a possibility,” Graham answered. “All of the trademarks of a home invasion are there, but in cases like this we always have to pursue other angles so as not to prematurely rule anything else out.”

  “Which is why we wanted to bring you in for some follow up, Ms. Grisham,” Sullivan continued. “The sooner we can get a complete picture of Julia Leeds and what was happening in her life prior to last night, the sooner we can start to focus the investigation.”

  “Of course I want to help in whatever way I can,” Camille said. “But I honestly don’t know much more beyond what I’ve already told you. I wish I would have pushed her harder for answers, but I didn’t want to make a bigger deal out of it than it was.” Camille felt her eyes begin to swell and reached for a nearby box of tissue.

  “Why do you think she was so unwilling to talk? Was she normally a secretive person?” Graham inquired.

  “No. Not with me anyway.”

  “But do you think there were aspects of her life that she could have kept hidden from you?”

  Camille hesitated before answering. “I can’t sit here and say that she told me every single thing happening in her life. But she didn’t keep things hidden either, especially the big things.”

  “Like relationships?”

  “I knew about most of them.”

  “But not all.”

  Camille sensed Graham was going somewhere specific with this line of questioning and she braced herself. “I lived in Washington D.C., detective. I saw Julia once every couple years, and we only got to talk on the phone a few times a month. There’s no way I’m going to know everything.”

  Graham put up a hand. “I certainly understand that, Camille. I’m not suggesting you should. But you mentioned that a couple of months prior to you returning here, you talked to her almost every day.”

  Camille nodded.

  “So that would have given you more opportunities to talk about things like relationships.”

  Camille blew out a loud sigh. “Detective Sullivan and I have already had this conversation. Julia wasn’t involved with anyone romantically.”

  “How do you know that for sure?”

  “Because that’s the kind of thing girls talk about,” Camille answered with a sarcastic half smile. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sullivan once again shift nervously in her chair.

  Graham bit the corner of his lip as he pulled an eight by ten color photo out of the manila folder and passed it to Camille. “Do you recognize this car?”

  Camill
e took the photo and eyed it closely. The burgundy Ranger Rover she had ridden in twenty-four hours before was barely recognizable. All of the windows, including the windshield, had been smashed out, the trunk and hood were open, and all four wheels were gone. It was balanced tenuously on a pile of cinder blocks and wedged in between a dumpster and an abandoned washing machine. “It’s Julia’s,” she answered as she slid the photo back across the table.

  “That’s correct. It was found by patrol officers in an alley approximately seven miles from the victim’s home. On the street adjacent to the alley, the officers spotted a gray Chevy Impala. That vehicle happened to match the description of a car seen by one of the victim’s neighbors around 12:30 this morning. The neighbor was awakened by the sound of loud music outside his house. When he looked out the window he saw the Impala parked along the curb two houses down. That would put it directly in front of the victim’s home.”

  Camille felt her stomach tighten as Graham continued.

  “The neighbor watched from his window while the car idled on the curb with its lights on and windows down. According to his statement, the car sat for approximately two minutes before driving away. The neighbor then reported hearing the music again while the car drove off.”

  “So you think this car was somehow involved?” Camille asked as she cradled her queasy stomach.

  Sullivan chimed in. “The neighbor claimed he had never seen that particular vehicle in the area before, so it raised some suspicion. But we had nothing to go on except a light-colored Chevy blasting rap music from its radio. That could have described literally thousands of cars in this city. Then we found a vehicle with the exact same description parked on the street less than 200 feet from where Julia’s Range Rover was found.”

  “And that’s where it gets interesting,” Graham continued. He pulled out another piece of paper from the folder and began reading from it. “Officers ran the plates from the Impala, and it came back as being registered to a Steven Clemmons. When officers interviewed him, he claimed not to have left his house since arriving from work last evening, though there were apparently no witnesses to corroborate that. Officers then asked him where he worked. Turns out he’s a mail clerk at the law firm of Brown, Wallace, and Epstein.”

  “When you told me that Julia was a lawyer it set off all kinds of alarm bells,” Sullivan added. “So I did a little research and came up with something pretty interesting.”

  Camille felt the bottom of her queasy stomach completely drop out. “I already know, Detective Sullivan. Julia was a partner at the same firm.”

  Graham’s face widened with a smile that Camille could only describe as hideous. “If that’s not a crazy coincidence, I don’t know what is.”

  “So are you saying that he was merely visiting Julia the night she was killed?” Camille’s face suddenly burned and she desperately wanted to pound her fist against the table. “Or are you saying he’s the one who actually killed her?”

  “There are theories being discussed, but so far there’s no evidence to support them,” Sullivan said. “If we could establish a link between Julia and Clemmons aside from the fact that they worked in the same building, it would at least give us more ammunition to approach Clemmons with. We have detectives at the firm right now interviewing Julia’s colleagues and we’ll see if that bears anything. But you were a close friend, Ms. Grisham. You’ve had conversations with her that her colleagues probably would not have had. I know it’s hard to remember everything, especially given your current state of mind, but if you can think of anything that Julia may have mentioned, even something in passing that may have hinted at personal issues with a colleague or anyone else for that matter, it would really help us out.”

  Camille dabbed at the corner of her eye with a tissue. “I wish I could. I’ve replayed every conversation I’ve had with her for the past few weeks. Every single one. And I can’t come up with anything aside from what I’ve already told you.”

  “It’s okay, Camille. We don’t want to tread the same ground here,” Graham said almost dismissively as he closed the manila folder. “I just thought that hearing this new information would spark something. But it’s likely that the victim’s colleagues can better speak to the matter anyway, considering they saw both her and Clemmons every day.”

  “But we do want to thank you for coming in and talking,” Sullivan added with a thin but sincere smile. “I know how difficult it was to do so.”

  Camille nodded as she threw the damp tissue she had been holding into the wastebasket. She almost felt compelled to return the detective’s smile. But the presence of Graham wouldn’t allow her to do it.

  Sullivan pulled a pen from her breast pocket and handed it to Camille. “My card is attached to the witness statement. If you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to call. We’ll be sure to keep you in the loop regarding any developments in the case.”

  “I appreciate that,” Camille said, her emotion-battered voice barely registering above a whisper.

  Sullivan and Graham stood up at the same time. Sullivan extended her hand to Camille, Graham headed straight for the door.

  “Take all the time you need with that statement,” Graham said as he reached for the doorknob. “You’re basically just writing down everything you told us. Of course, being a former FBI agent, I’m sure you know those things like the back of your hand. By the way, I’m sorry things ended the way they did. But I know from my experience with your old man that you Grishams are a feisty breed. I’m sure you’ll be busting serial killers again in no time flat.”

  Even though Graham’s words sounded complimentary, the sneer on his fat face left little doubt about the real intent behind them.

  Fuck this asshole straight to hell, Camille thought, fighting like crazy to keep the words from actually coming out of her mouth.

  “Detective Sullivan and I have a briefing to attend, so when you’re finished you can give your statement the officer outside. He’ll make sure that it gets to one of us.”

  “I’ll do that,” Camille said, giving Graham the finger under the table.

  “Goodbye, Ms. Grisham,” Sullivan said as she walked out of the room. “And thank you again.” The look in her eyes made Camille think that she was on the verge of apologizing. But she kept going, then closed the door behind her.

  Camille sat at the table staring at the blank statement. After she wrote her name and date of birth she couldn’t seem to get much further. Her mind swirled with images of Julia, lines of dialogue from their conversations, and questions of how different things may have been if she had only taken Julia’s phone call last night.

  Even though her heart was overwhelmed with grief and sadness, she knew that she somehow had the capacity to handle it. But the one feeling she could not handle was guilt. Camille had already experienced enough of that to last two lifetimes. But she couldn’t stop wondering why Julia had called. Did she suddenly get the urge to talk about what had been bothering her? Was she fearful about something? Did she just want to hear Camille’s voice again? The sad fact was that Camille would never know because she couldn’t take five measly minutes to call back.

  More than Agent Sheridan or his daughter or the teenage girls in Daniel Sykes’ basement, Camille knew that that one missed phone call would haunt her for the rest of her life; a life that seemed to be losing more of its significance by the second.

  Her right hand began to tremble and she had to cup it with her left to stop the shaking. After a few deep breaths she eventually steadied it. It wasn’t until she lifted the pen to continue writing that she realized she had ripped the statement into about twenty pieces.

  CHAPTER 14

  Paul Grisham took a taxi to the downtown police administration building where he had worked for the better part of ten years and waited for his daughter. When he talked to Camille she was preparing to be interviewed by two detectives, one of whom he actually knew quite well. Walter Graham was far and away the biggest jackass the department had to offer;
a sexist, bigoted hack whose connections in the political realm far exceeded his effectiveness as a cop. And if Camille could see through him as quickly as he thought she would, Paul knew the chances of the interview going smoothly were not particularly good.

  He couldn’t remember a time when he was more desperate to be by her side.

  The news he received this morning was devastating beyond comprehension. Through her sixteen year friendship with Camille, Paul had come to love Julia like she was his own daughter. The personal loss he may have felt, however, was insignificant compared to what Camille was experiencing. There wasn’t another person alive whom she was closer to than Julia, himself included. The two months prior to Camille’s arrival home had been absolute hell. If it weren’t for Julia, Camille not only would have been completely consumed by that hell, but she may never have made it back home at all.

  Now, with Julia no longer there to help cushion her fall, Paul feared for Camille. She may have been tough as nails, but she had also dealt with more pain and loss than any one person should ever have to endure.

  Last night, when he was still giddy with happiness over his daughter being home and hopeful that she had taken her first steps on the road back to normal, Paul urged Camille to keep her thoughts squarely on the future. The past was the past, and even though things didn’t end with the Bureau the way she would have wanted, life does go on, and hers was still young enough not to be defined by one tragic incident.