Mendez Genesis

by Edward Hancock II

  “Do you have any suspects, Lieutenant?” asked the female FBI Agent.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss the particulars of an open investigation with just anyone off the street, Agent Starling.”

  “Agent Kim,” she said, coldly.

  “Shoulda known,” Danny chuckled, nudging Lisa, “You’re no Jodie Foster.”

  “Danny,” said Captain Steelman quietly, “Everyone, let’s all calm our nerves here. Now, Danny, give me a status report on the investigations into the deaths at Rock Springs Cemetery. As your commander, I authorize you to update me in the presence of Agents Kim and Beene.”

  Without anyone realizing it, Captain Steelman had taken his own shot at the two FBI agents. Lisa recognized it and, she thought, so had Danny. Hidden behind a mask of professional courtesy, there it was. The assurance that everything was going to be okay.

  “Sir,” Danny began, “as per our last discussion, it is still my contention that the evidence points to a homicide. And to one particular suspect.”

  “ME report?”

  “ME’s official report just came in this morning, Captain. We’ve been pushing them for something official but they’ve been dragging their heels as usual. Guess they figure no arrest, no rush. Lisa and I were just beginning our review of the data when you called requesting our presence. We have not had time to fully incorporate the ME’s findings into our investigation, let alone follow up.”

  “Who is your prime suspect?” The Chief asked.

  “Currently, we are following leads and focusing on whom we believe the available evidence points toward.”

  “And that would be…?” The Chief asked, gritting his teeth in frustration.

  “Scott Bryan.”

  “Scott Bryan?” asked the Chief. “A disabled child barely 130 lbs dripping wet, possessing no motive and, to my knowledge, no criminal history?”

  “Being disabled cannot give him a free pass, Sir. Just last month, a 98-year-old man in a wheelchair robbed a bank in Idaho without so much as a nail file for a weapon. Some six months ago a disabled man in Dallas was convicted of sexual assault on several minors. What about that terrorist leader of Hamas that the Israeli’s killed a while back? He was a quadriplegic and was responsible for the deaths of God knows how many. I remember hearing stories in high school about one famous old west outlaw that continued to rob banks for years after shooting three of his own toes off. Disabled people commit crimes too, Sir. They run stop signs, litter, jaywalk and rob banks just like any other citizen.”

  “We’re talking murder here, Officer,” scowled the Chief. “You’re asking me to sell murder to a jury with a clean cut disabled teenage honor student who was related to one of the victims as a murderer. What evidence do you have to support such a farfetched conclusion?”

  “Sir, again I don’t think it’s wise to discuss the particulars of an open investigation with outsiders and, with all due respect, selling the case to a jury is the DA’s problem, not ours.”

  “Frankly, Lieutenant, I couldn’t care less what you think is appropriate. If I want your opinion on what you think is appropriate, I’ll ask for it. Now, where is your evidence?”

  “He survived,” Danny said, a bit more angrily than he intended.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Scott Bryan. He was there when the other three died. Claims he cannot remember the details of what happened. What I can say as far as the ME report goes is that not one of the victims struggled or seemed to fight their attacker. There wasn’t any sign of violence and yet they all died while this supposed disabled weakling survived? To me that suggests his involvement. At the very least, it throws up a red flag.”

  “So this is more of a gut feeling than an assertion based on evidence?” asked the Chief.

  “With all due respect, Chief, most of police work involves gut feelings. But if I’m being honest, Sir, this is not exactly a gut feeling, no.”

  “So there’s more?” asked the Chief.

  “Sort of,” Danny said. “We’ve gotten word that Scott Bryan’s father and a neighbor were found dead on the same day a couple of weeks ago. Found within a couple of hours of each other, as I understand it. Scott Bryan was not in school and he has no alibi but the investigating officer did not deem it a homicide so I haven’t had access to much of the information. From what I know, Scott’s father was autopsied and, if I could compare the results alongside the results from Rock Springs, I might be able to find a connection.”

  “He has no alibi when his father died of natural causes. You’re reaching.”

  “Suspicious causes, Sir. I believe there was nothing natural about it, which is why I would appreciate access to the autopsy results. Without access to those files I have only my suspicion. With those files, I can let the facts speak for themselves. And one way or the other we can close the door on Scott Bryan.”

  “Danny, how certain are you that Mr. Bryan’s death was a homicide?” asked the Captain.

  “Very sure.”

  “Would you stake your badge on it?” The Chief asked.

  “Every day and twice on Sunday, Chief.”

  “Agent Beene,” the Captain said, turning toward the tall man, “How long before your full team is on the ground and set up?”

  “Four days. Three if I press the panic button.”

  “Danny,” the Captain had all but taken over the meeting. “You’ve got three days. Agent Beene, do not press that button.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “You’ll have access to those files, Danny. You have my word.”

  Danny couldn’t help but smile triumphantly. He’d expected the Chief to say something to overrule the Captain’s promise but when it didn’t come, he wasn’t disappointed. The urgency of the situation was not lost on anyone, including Danny. A few minutes of reveling in his own personal victory wouldn’t matter.

  “Chief,” Captain Steelman continued, “I want it understood that this team has my full confidence. That anyone under Lt. Peterson’s command will be given that same confidence, including Detective Mendez.” Smiling at Lisa, he added, “Especially Detective Mendez.”

  “I’m glad you said that, Tom, because it is your butt in a sling if there’s any more insubordination or any screw ups. And, just to be clear, I’ll be taking your badge along with any officer under your command who fails to maintain his tongue from here on out.”

  When the Chief got up to leave, he shook no one’s hand. He said bye to no one. He left no instructions and no indication of his intentions. He simply stalked out, nodding politely to the FBI agents, leaving only a momentary silence as the Captain slowly registered the warning he was just given and the fact he was suddenly the ranking policeman in the room. Danny felt bad for him. He’d basically had his nuts ripped off right in front of everybody, then been expected to take charge.

  “Agent Beene, may I show the two of you out?” asked the Captain.

  “We will be in touch,” said Agent Beene.

  “We’ll be watching,” Agent Kim added.

  “You do that.” Danny sneered.

  Agent Kim regarded Danny silently with an almost serpentine glare that, he had to admit, unnerved him slightly. He watched them until the door was shut behind them and their shadows had disappeared from view.

  “Now,” said the Captain, clearing his throat. “Danny you’ll have those reports by this afternoon. Get me something, anything. Someone. Anyone. This case has dragged on long enough. I don’t care if we have to put a one eyed, three-legged, mangy, malnourished, castrated dog named Lucky behind bars. You just get me the evidence for a conviction in 72 hours, you hear?”

  “I will, Cap.”

  “I know you will. You’ve never let me down. Either of you.” The Captain smiled at Lisa.

  “We won’t start now,” she said.

  “Thank you, Captain.” said Danny.

  “For what?”

  “For backing us up. For risking your badge, your career.”

  “Danny. We’r
e all counting on you to do your job. Everything else can wait. Whether it’s a homicide or not, solve this case. And solve it quickly or we’re all going to be sitting in the breadlines wishing you had.”

  * * *

  Like most police officers she knew, Lisa distrusted the feds. Unlike most of the police officers she knew, Lisa’s distrust was borne out of actual experience rather than a simple age-old rivalry that had come to be expected of local law enforcement and members of Club Fed. Ever since the Star Club killings, being around people claiming to be feds always made Lisa edgy. She couldn’t wait to get to a phone so that she could call and check on Agents Beene and Kim. If they were who they claimed, Roy would be the man that could tell her. He could sniff out a phony a mile away and could detect computer tampering like nobody’s business.

  Roy was a man with a bit of a shady past, but his past had worked to his advantage, securing him a mid-level personnel position at the FBI field office in Dallas. Necessity is the mother of invention and law enforcement had gotten very inventive in the past few years. He had ties to every field office including the main headquarters and could gain access to files that even the FBI Director himself needed approval to open. If ever the inmates were left in charge of the asylum, it was with Roy. Agent Beene’s first name was Fred. Despite his commanding appearance, Lisa found it difficult to take him serious. He stood about 6’2 with high cheekbones and a surfer’s tan that went well with his thick dirty blonde hair, cropped short, parted to the left. He seemed to be grinning even when he spoke, though it was by no means a friendly gesture. Neither did Lisa assume it meant anything jovial, warm or inviting. He didn’t appear to be too thickly muscled, but he was most certainly quite solid. Whether FBI or not, he was a physical force to be reckoned with; and his name was Fred.

  “Fred the Fed” Lisa had dubbed him upon his departure from the captain’s office, eliciting a stifled chuckle from Danny. Agent Kim was easier to take serious if not to trust. She was, as her name suggested, Asian, and didn’t feel the need to offer much in the way of pleasantries. She was about Lisa’s height – a little shorter perhaps, but not much – with short cropped ebony hair that shined like she was auditioning for a new shampoo commercial. Her eyes were not slits, though they possessed a definite serpentine quality even amid the slight roundness that suggested a possible Caucasian mixture in her Asiatic bloodline. Both dressed in neutral gray suits, Agent Beene opting for a navy blue and black-checkered tie. Everything about them attempted intimidation. Had Lisa been a civilian, the game might have worked. As it was, she was dealing with Fred the Fed and his mysterious Geisha gal partner.

  Standing outside the Captain’s office, Lisa voiced what was likely on Danny’s mind too.

  “We’re going to have to watch our butts, Danny.”

  “And step up our game,” he finished. “We have to solve this case. What do we have on Scott Bryan that we can use?”

  “Let’s get back to the office and find out, before Fred the Fed and Agent Geisha beat us to the punch.”

  Walking down the stairs, Danny let out a chuckle.

  “What?” Lisa asked.

  “Fred the Fed,” he snorted, causing Lisa to smirk with glee.

  “Good one eh?”

  “I’m just sorry I didn’t think of it first.”

  * * *

  Gilmer’s Wal-Mart was positioned just across the road from a small video store decorated in pink, black and white. Teresa Roelig parked her car at the far end of the Wal-mart parking lot. She was closer to the highway and, from this vantage point, she had a better view northward, toward the passive exercise salon where Scott Bryan was currently ensconced. She hated just “watching.” She much preferred action, but this was the assignment she was given. He’d been in there almost an hour. If he kept to his pattern, he’d be done soon and, most likely, head straight home. Maybe stop off at some fast food place for a drink.

  A slight rain was falling – a drizzle, really; a mist – just enough to make the main highway and some of the oil-topped side roads slick and dangerous. The engine was not running, but the battery-operation provided enough power for auditory entertainment, air conditioning and other minor necessities. Teresa had her windshield wipers on their lowest intermittent setting. Every now and then, she even turned the wipers off and back on again, just to limit sudden movements as much as possible. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, but she needed a clear view of Gilmer Passive Exercises and of Scott Bryan.

  Two days to go, Lt. Peterson had warned her. Then the feds took over. She’d have to step things up and make something happen. Two days to go on a case she’d only been added to a few days before. Once or twice, Teresa had gone into the exercise salon and pretended to be considering it as a recreational activity. The owner provided her with three free exercise sessions to “give it a go.” To date, she’d only used two but thought it best not to press her luck too far. She’d considered going back and “trying out” one of the tanning beds, but she couldn’t justify it as more than a pleasure trip if she was to be honest with herself.

  She hadn’t gotten much out of Scott that could help the investigation and she figured she might be hurting the investigation by being too visible. If nothing else, she thought, she’d found the perfect place to work on her tan once things settled down for her.

  Just as Scott was exiting the building, a loud squealing followed by a horrendous bang drew Teresa’s attention toward Highway 271, the road in front of the Wal-mart. Three cars sat mangled and at least one was spewing what she hoped was just steam. Less out of instinct than an annoyed sense of duty, she left her car and jogged toward the carnage. Already people were exiting their cars, assessing the damage. One lady, looking to be in her late 60’s, held her neck and claimed to need a doctor, though in Teresa’s opinion, she was jogging around pretty healthily for a woman claiming possible whiplash. A younger man, with dark black hair, was apparently alerting police on his cell phone that his precious Chevy Tahoe had been involved in an accident with the elderly woman’s Plymouth Breeze and another vehicle, a Cutlass Supreme.

  The Plymouth was a total loss. Sandwiched between the hulking SUV and the resilient Cutlass, the poor Plymouth hadn’t stood a chance. Both its hood and trunk lids were bent at steep angles. The Tahoe had some dents and, Teresa noticed, a busted headlight but not much else. The hood, it seemed, might have been dented slightly. The Cutlass was a mess, though it was only rear end damage and, most likely, easily fixable. It was driven by a Hispanic woman holding fast to a belly that was obviously about ready to spring forth with life. From the woman’s cries, though Teresa spoke no Spanish, it was apparent that the springing forth might be any moment now. Frantic, the woman came running up to Teresa, shouting urgently in Spanish.

  “Does anyone speak Spanish?” she shouted, seizing the woman gently by the wrist.

  “I do,” said a voice from behind. It was Scott Bryan. Standing on his metal forearm crutches, breathing laboriously as if he’d run all the way from the strip mall that housed Gilmer Passive Exercises. Teresa stood frozen for a few seconds, looked around, spotted his car parked haphazardly on the side of the road and began to sweat profusely. What was she to do? Blow her cover and reveal herself as a cop? Ruin weeks of investigations all because some idiot forgot how to drive and caused this woman to go into labor? Maybe she could pretend to be a nurse or some other health professional.

  “She’s saying ‘It hurts. My baby is coming.’ She keeps saying it over and over. Her baby is coming and it hurts. She’s probably in labor.”

  “We need to lay her down somewhere,” Teresa said, still not revealing herself for her true identity. “I’ll call for paramedics.”

  “Ambulance is on its way,” said the man with the cell phone. “Police and paramedics. I’m a doctor.”

  “Good,” Teresa said. “Help this woman.”

  “Young man,” he said, turning his attention toward Scott Bryan. “I could use an interpreter if you don’t mind.”
<
br />   Turning his back on Teresa, Scott Bryan waddled off behind the doctor who was now carrying the pregnant woman toward the back of his SUV. Moments later, sirens filled the air and Teresa headed back toward her car, breathing a sigh of relief. Procedure would have called for her to secure the scene, coordinate everybody, get the necessary information and write up a report. Investigations, stakeouts and such, however, took precedence. At least they did in her mind. She’d done her job, left the chaos in the capable hands of the citizenry and the arriving officials and saved the integrity of an ongoing investigation all in one movement. Maybe this cop thing wasn’t as hard as she first thought. As she reached for her keys, she felt a hand reach up to her shoulder.

  “Leaving so soon?” Turning, she saw the grinning face of Scott Bryan. The metal forearm crutches no longer supported his weight. His left hand held fast to the crutch, though it was raised off the ground just slightly. His right hand had released the crutch entirely, allowing it to dangle precariously from his gaunt forearm.

  His hair seemed darker too. A trick of the sun, probably. She looked toward the wreck and saw the dark-haired doctor standing behind an EMT who was, she guessed, helping the Hispanic woman deliver her baby.

  “I have to get back to the office,” Teresa stammered nervously.

  “Not going to follow us home then?” he asked, as if daring her to do just that.

  “Us?”

  “You’re next,” he whispered, maniacally.

  “Next for what?” she asked, opening her car door, turning her body only half away. “My dance card is full I’m afraid.”

  “Next to die,” he whispered, leaning in so close that his breath actually tickled her earlobe.

  Pushing against him, she said forcefully “Do you realize you’re threatening an officer of the law?” Almost as soon as she’d said it, she realized she’d just blown her cover. If ever there was a time she wished life had a rewind button, this was it.

  “Run,” he whispered. “Run away and hide before it comes for you.”