by Cat Connor
“You found the cat and took it to Bob Connelly’s,” I replied, shaking his hand then introducing Caine. “This is SAC Caine Grafton.”
They shook. With pleasantries out of the way, work mode resumed.
“What happened here?” Caine asked while he pulled on the shoe coverings and gloves another officer handed him.
“Cassandra Smith, a fifty-one year old social worker with Child Services was murdered. Agent Conway was first on the scene and with her when she died. We don’t have a motive yet. Follow me.”
I stayed where I was.
“Conway?” Caine said. I got the message and walked behind Darren and Caine into the well-known interior of Cassie’s home. Hundreds of photos of kids smiled down at me from the hallway walls. Their eyes followed me. I figured I could handle those eyes watching me as long as I didn’t have to acknowledge losing a friend.
I almost walked into Caine, not noticing he’d stopped outside the kitchen. Darren entered the room. Caine and I stood in the wide doorway. Last night the room had been bathed in warm light and the delicious aroma of homemade lasagna. Today it was blood splatter. I shivered.
“Okay?” Caine asked.
“Sure.”
I shuddered. My eyes flicked to the refrigerator door. Photos fixed with magnets covered the entire surface. There were photos of me, Cassie and Carla at various outdoor events over summer. Some of us hanging out in Cassie’s backyard, or my backyard. My eyes landed on a picture of Lee, Sam, Carla and Cassie. I remembered taking it.
“Cassie said the Unsub seemed interested in those photographs.” I pointed to the refrigerator. “He gave her a picture. This one.” I took the picture from my jacket pocket and gave it to Caine.
He showed Darren and the questions began.
“You know the victim well?”
“I know Cassie very well.”
“What’s your connection with Cassandra Smith?”
“She was the social worker assigned to protect Carla Torres. Carla’s mother was murdered.” I breathed in to steady my voice. “Cassie was convinced that Carla would be better off with me than in foster care. She was my friend.”
“This is where the injuries were sustained. The Unsub then dragged Cassandra down the hallway …” Darren walked back down the hall and into Cassie’s room. He pointed to a bloody patch on the floor by the bed. “We believe she was left here for a few minutes.”
“That could’ve been when I came in the back. Cassie told me I spooked him. She used that time to get to the bathroom.”
“When I came in here, that door was open.” I pointed to the french doors. “Once I determined the Unsub was gone I found Cassie in the bathroom.”
I blinked trying to stem the prickling at the back of my eyes. Cassie’s body called to me. I moved carefully, avoiding blood and crouched beside her. Her out-of-focus eyes stared at nothing.
“Oh Cas, who did this?” I wanted a reply but none came. There was a smell of bleach by her hands. I hadn’t noticed it earlier. It tickled the back of my nose and triggered a memory. I sniffed. Chlorine. Chlorine bleach. “Caine – she has chlorine on her hands.”
The crime scene took on a new meaning. I scanned it for anything else that would go with the chlorine. Familiar poetry. Notes. Bourbon. Possessed by the past, I walked back through the house searching everything again with new eyes. Caine and Reid followed me in silence. The kitchen gave off the strongest smell of chlorine. My nose led me to the sink and a teacup. I sniffed and recoiled. The cup had contained chlorine bleach. I pointed it out. “She must’ve been soaking it to remove tea stains.”
I opened the cabinet under the sink and discovered a large bottle of Clorox. One mystery solved and it wasn’t sinister. I’m pretty sure the sigh that escaped me was audible.
“Do you have any suspects?”
“Only you,” Darren replied.
Caine bristled. “SSA Conway was not involved in this unfortunate incident.”
“I’m not in the habit of killing my friends and I sure as hell wouldn’t beat someone to a pulp then call police,” I muttered at Darren. “And I don’t wear combat boots. You find a shemagh anywhere? Are my eyes different colors?”
He shook his head.
“We only have the description you gave. My officers weren’t able to confirm it with the deceased.”
“You need to look elsewhere.”
“I’m starting with what’s in front of me,” Darren replied.
It felt as though he wanted me to be involved. My annoyance intensified. “What else do you have or are you content to waste time with me?”
“Did Cassandra have a partner? A boyfriend? Anyone she’s been dating?”
Nothing then.
“No one permanent. She dated a guy from Alexandria a few times but said it wasn’t going anywhere.” My brain started to kick in. “Have you looked for her day planner – his phone number will be in there.”
“There was no day planner that we’ve found.”
“It might be in her car. Or maybe she uses her laptop as a day planner. That’s in her home office.”
My cell phone chirped. I looked at the screen. Chrissy. I looked at my clothes. Blood soaked. Time to go home and shower.
“I have to go. I’ll write my statement tonight and email it to you.” I took my card from my pocket and handed it to Reid. “You can reach me anytime. Keep me informed.”
He shook my hand. “Don’t leave the country.”
“If I were you I’d start checking for bugs and wireless cameras. Something is not right here,” I said, barely keeping a nasty edge from my voice.
“You Fed’s think everything is about terrorists and spies,” he scoffed.
“I’ll walk you out,” Caine said, turning me toward the door before I could snap a retort at Reid. My hand strayed to my hip. My fingers brushed the grip of my Glock. It took real will power to shove my hand in my pocket and not decorate the room with Reid’s blood.
“Is he for real?” I snarled at Caine as we stood on the driveway. “Don’t leave the country; it’s all about terrorists and spies. Who the does that fucktard think he’s dealing with?”
“I’ll handle him.”
“Thanks.” I looked at him. “Cassie was a federal employee – can Delta B investigate?”
I knew Delta A couldn’t. It’d be like investigating a family member’s murder. Not good to be so close.
“No reason why we can’t run a parallel investigation. I have the impression you are not filled with confidence by Mac’s old buddy?”
“Nope.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
Hell no.
I avoided the question. “I gotta go clean up and visit a high school.”
Two
Joey
“Good afternoon, I’m Supervisory Special Agent Ellie Conway.” I glanced around the classroom, bestowing what I hoped was a congenial smile upon the occupants. “You don’t have to spit out that entire title every time you speak, SSA or Agent will do just fine.”
I rocked back on the heel of my right boot and waited for the room buzz to settle. Slowly the music that filled my head faded to soft background noise. I didn’t have time to explore why I could hear Bon Jovi singing ‘Joey’, so I let it fade. If it were important, it’d be back.
The class teacher, Audrey Walker, stood beside me, an elegant and bright woman in her early fifties. She spoke quietly and the classroom fell into a serious silence as the students all paid close attention. Audrey had extended an invitation to me via our media liaison Special Agent Chrissy McQueen. She’d asked if I would speak to her high school junior English class – she was attempting to show them there was still a place for poetry in today’s world. I figured it would provide a much-needed distraction on what had become a bitter Wednesday afternoon.
Earlier I’d felt as though someone was watching me and now twenty-five pairs of eyes were on me. I found it unnerving.
Speaking to the students was easier than I’d exp
ected – time rushed by and almost before I knew it, I’d been talking for thirty-minutes. The kids had a ton of questions for me. It was interesting answering them but observing the classroom dynamic was far more fascinating. A young man at the back of the room slumped in his chair. I picked up a jumbled vibe from him, as if he wanted to take part but didn’t know how. He’d been fiddling with a cell phone. Which now resided in Audrey Walker’s desk. His fingers now toyed with a pen and his eyes remained firmly fixed on the desk in front of him. He didn’t seem to be interested in the class or having a Special Agent visit. Something about the intensity with which he tried to ignore me piqued my curiosity. He doth try too hard.
A girl in the middle of the room waved her arm so violently I thought she’d dislocate her shoulder.
“You – in the blue sweater – what’s your name?” I pointed at her, controlling the rising mirth at her enthusiasm.
“Lily, Agent Conway. I’m Lily.” Her voice positively bubbled.
“Hi, Lily. What was your question?”
“What’s your favorite movie?”
I replied, “Die Hard 4.0.”
My trouble radar detected sudden movement from the back of the room. The disinterested boy looked up and a smile flickered across his face. He muttered something under his breath.
“Did you have something to share with the class?” I asked looking straight at him.
“Live Free or Die Hard.”
Engaged.
“I have an international copy of the DVD, therefore …”
He interrupted, “It’s a better name anyway. They should’ve gone with 4.0 here, it makes more sense.”
Lily faltered for a moment then took a breath and threw something else out, “Do you still write poetry?”
“No, Lily, I don’t.”
The kid at the back of the class closed down. Damn.
“Why not? We all have your book; we persuaded Ms. Walker to let us study your poems for extra credit.”
A cold ball grew hands and clawed inside my chest. Books appeared from bags and sat upon desks. They all appeared to have my book. My eyes flicked to the back of the room. No book on that desk.
I smiled. “Are they your books or school books?”
“Ours,” the class replied.
Immediately I saw a way of deferring the imminent questions about why I no longer wrote. “Anyone want them signed?”
Giggling and squealing broke out from the middle of the class. Lily spoke, “I do!”
I had a bag with me and in it I had a few copies of my dreaded poetry book, Whispers on the Water. I figured I would give a few away to anyone who wanted one but only one teen seemed bookless.
“One by one, bring up your books.” A line formed. I signed books and chatted briefly with each person. I was there to talk about poetry – of which I knew little to nothing but used to write it once with my husband – and to talk about being a Special Agent with the FBI to whoever wanted to listen. The kid from the back of the class appeared in front of me, empty-handed.
“I don’t have your book,” he said. His eyes looked sideways rather than at me.
“That’s fine,” I replied. It was interesting that he came up anyway.
He looked at me. “You really like Die Hard 4.0?”
“Yes I do.” I grinned. “I liked all the Die Hard movies.”
He shot a half a smile at me. “Bruce Willis is the man.”
“He most certainly is.”
“You ever gone die hard on anyone’s ass?”
I pulled a copy of the book from my bag and opted to ignore his question. “What’s your name?”
“Joey,” he replied.
I understood then why I’d heard Bon Jovi as I entered the classroom. I opened the book to the title page and picked up my pen.
“You don’t have to do that, I can buy it. I’m not a charity case.”
“I never said you were. I would like you to have this.” Something about Joey bothered me. He was tough with sharp edges but I saw hurt. It troubled me so much that I wrote a message in the front of the book and added my cell phone number.
“What’s that for?” he asked, reading it.
“You ever need me, call,” I said.
“Why would you do that? You don’t even know me,” he replied, still looking at the page with my phone number on it.
“I don’t know you. You don’t know me. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”
“What makes you think I’d need a Fed?”
“I have no reason to think you’d need a Fed, but if you need someone. I’m willing to listen.”
“I won’t call.” He started to walk away then turned back to face me, recognition flying from his eyes like daggers. “I know who you are,” he said quietly. “You’re that Fed whose husband was gunned down saving Carla.”
I am that Fed.
“Anytime Joey, just call.”
He shrugged and grasped the signed copy of my book firmly in his left hand. Then he was right in front of me again. Without warning, he thrust his right hand at me. We shook.
“I live in the same building Carla Torres used to. We walked to school together every day. She is my friend, her mom was … effing nuts.”
Carla Torres was the young girl Mac gave his life to protect. Ironic, I was planning to visit Carla to give her bad news and here was an old friend. It’s a small world. Too freaking small at times.
“Do you still see her?” I couldn’t remember Carla mentioning she’d seen Joey lately but I did know who he was. She’d talked about him a lot early on.
He shook his head. “She’s in a foster home and doesn’t go to school round here anymore. We text each other.” He shrugged and shuffled his feet. “I’m real sorry about your husband, you know.”
Yeah. Me too.
“Do you want to see her?”
He nodded.
I looked at Audrey then back at Joey. “Wait right here,” I told him.
Audrey and I walked over to the door. “How much longer before school finishes for the day?”
“Five minutes,” she replied.
“Any objections if I hang around and take Joey with me when I go?”
“None; you can try calling his parents and letting them know Joey is with you … but I doubt they’ll answer or care.”
No surprises there.
A quick phone call told my team I was visiting Carla and I wouldn’t be back in the office until tomorrow. There was a small argument, as both Sam and Lee tried to insist on going with me. It wasn’t going to be easy telling Carla about Cassie. I won. It’d take us thirty minutes to get there.
I thanked the class for letting me talk to them and left a pile of Butterfly Foundation and FBI leaflets on the teacher’s desk for the students. The bell rang.
“Hey Joey, we’re going on a field trip,” I said.
He didn’t argue. The teacher gave him back his cell phone and we left the school grounds in silence.
“Where are we going?” he asked as I reminded him to buckle up.
“To see Carla. Is that okay with you?”
One shoulder gave a semi-shrug. “How come you care so much about loser kids?” he asked, pressing the fast forward button repeatedly on his iPod.
As tempted as I was to brush it off and tell him I was just doing my job. I didn’t. I could hear my mother’s voice rattling like wind in my skull, reminding me that I couldn’t save everyone and, if I’d just given up this crusade of a job, I’d still have a husband. Even in death, the woman was a bitch.
“I wasn’t so different from Carla,” I replied, flicking on the headlights. The weather had closed in; snow was coming. A tingle moved up my spine and I felt invisible eyes on me again. I checked my mirrors. Everything looked fine.
“You weren’t no loser kid,” he scoffed. “Look at you – loser kids don’t turn out like you.”
“Ever heard the expression, ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’?” I didn’t wait for his answer. “I was
the kid who had to look after her little brother because their mother was a lunatic. She beat us, locked him in cupboards, disappeared for days on end ...” I glanced at Joey. “Just because life starts out bad doesn’t mean it has to stay that way. You choose how to live your life.”
He fell into a deep silence. I hoped he was thinking about how he could rise above it too. In the distance, I heard music and recognized the song. ‘Joey.’
“Why do you care?” he asked, subdued.
“Because I had a dream,” I replied, letting Martin Luther King’s voice resound in my head, my own voice didn’t do it justice but I felt every word as I said it. “‘If you lose hope, somehow you lose the vitality that keeps life moving, you lose that courage to be, that quality that helps you go on in spite of it all. And so today I still have a dream.’ Martin Luther King Jr, The Trumpet of Conscience. And I have hope.”
Hope drifted into oblivion with Mac’s death but Carla was slowly resurrecting it. My vitality relied on caffeine and it took what was left of my courage to get out of bed in the morning. At least I was still getting out of bed. I looked for another way to explain it to Joey without sounding like a history lesson.
“Do you know who Christopher Reeve was?”
“The paralyzed guy? Superman?”
“Christopher Reeve once said, ‘Once you choose hope, anything’s possible.’ If it’s good enough for Superman, it’s good enough for me.”
I pulled into the driveway of the foster home where Carla was staying.
“Let’s go,” I said. I got out of the car and pushed the door shut behind me. Joey caught up on the path to the front door.
“What if she doesn’t want to see me?” He chewed on a fingernail.
I knocked on the door and smiled at him. I saw Carla at school about once a month and every two weeks we met for lunch at the mall and went shopping, or hung out with my dad and sometimes my team. Usually Cassie was with us too. I hadn’t dropped by her new foster family’s house before. Cassie usually picked her up on the weekends. The invisible eyes were watching me again.
We waited.
A woman answered, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She looked at me then past me. I turned my head expecting to see someone coming up the path. There was no one. I showed my badge and asked to see Carla.
