by Casey Hill
“I want to show you something here.” He offered Reilly a pair of latex gloves, which she took and put on. “See the blood there on the cement, and the wound on the victim’s head?” He pointed with the end of a pen he’d pulled from his pocket. “Does anything about it look odd to you?”
“Has the body been moved? By the paramedics I mean.”
“No, the ME hasn’t arrived yet.”
Reilly bent closer, resting carefully on one knee, and inspected the head wound, being careful not to touch the body. It matched the size and shape of the bloodstain on the ground and the amount of blood seemed appropriate for a head wound of that size. She looked closer, her instincts on high alert. Everything seemed correct for the circumstances, but yet something nagged at the back of her mind. She wrinkled her nose, thinking.
“What is it?” Rob asked.
“I’m not sure. You’re right; something just seems — off somehow. I mean the size of the wound and the amount of blood appears consistent, but . . .”
She paused, and he picked up her thought, “But something about a young, strapping guy falling from a height of two stories and just dying instantly just doesn’t wash.”
“Exactly.”
“I thought the same thing,” he replied. “And then I thought okay, even if he was really drunk or on drugs or something, which we won’t know until the tox screens come back, and whatever he’d ingested earlier caused him to die from the fall, why didn’t any of the geniuses in the dining room hear anything? We need to talk to some of those people. Did they all clear out once the police were done with them?”
“I think so,” she replied. “Want me to check if there’s anyone left?”
“Let’s both go and check. I want to see what the dining room looked like anyway.”
They proceeded into the dining room, where a mess of empty bottles, shot glasses, a few soggy quarters and spilled alcohol awaited. The two remaining officers originally on the scene and the just-arrived coroner were already there. Rob knew the coroner, Dr. Hendrickson only slightly, but had dealt with her before and knew her to be thorough and tenacious. He introduced Reilly and following Rob’s queries, the officer informed them that all witnesses had been questioned and released.
“I want to check out the arrangement here,” Rob told Reilly, when the others moved on. “Witnesses seem to consistently support the contention that the vast majority of the partygoers were in this room when Jake began shouting. There were what, about 35, 40 people here when you arrived?” She nodded and he continued, “So taking into account Jake himself, the person he said he heard throwing up in the bathroom, the victim, the guy who pushed him, and maybe a couple other people who were in another part of the house at the time … let’s estimate we’ve got about 30 or so people in here then.” They looked around, visualizing that many individuals crowded around the large, banquet-sized dining table for a drinking game.
It was indeed possible that so many could have fit in this room, thought Reilly, albeit there would be a few who probably chose to stand. She counted 18 proper dining chairs, an overstuffed rectangular ottoman dragged in from the nearby living room, an expensive-looking leather office chair, and five barstools whose lone mate stood near the breakfast nook on the opposite side of the kitchen. That totaled 24; 25 if two slender people shared the footstool. There was at least one more barstool available for use, but it had been left behind at the breakfast nook. So, Reilly reasoned either not everyone was accounted for, or at least 5 people stood while the game was being played.
Rob spoke up then. “What are you thinking?” he asked and she told him what she’d deduced.
“I was considering something similar,” he said. “Also, these guys aren’t worried about getting colds or flu. There are only six glasses on this table — that’s a whole lot of sharing. Guess they figured the alcohol would kill the germs.” He barked a brief laugh. “Not really. One reason I didn’t go in for games like this in college — all my buddies kept getting sick with colds and crap the week after every frat party. I stuck to having my own beer glass.”
Reilly looked at the table, and wrinkled her nose “They were certainly drunk enough by the time I got here.” Her stomach roiled at the stench of alcohol. It stank in here — not just of alcohol but also sweat, mixed with a particularly pungent male cologne. “Though they seem to have spilled as much as they drank,” she added, noting the still-wet beer stains surrounding the table.
“I wonder if they spilled all that during the game, or whether they jarred the table when they heard Jake yell.”
Reilly used her cellphone camera to snap several photos of the dining area, the party deitrus, the table itself and a vodka bottle — one of the few empties that was lying upright and not on its side, which struck her as curious.
She brought the bottle to her nose, and holding it by the neck, sniffed the bottom and sides. She definitely detected vodka, which seemed to get stronger as she neared the neck.
That was strange she thought; given that the bottle was upright, one would assume that any spilled liquid would have pooled at the bottom, creating a stronger smell in that area. Inhaling again, Reilly moved her hands to the base and sniffed inside the bottle, but detected little or no odor there. Puzzled, she moved away to the kitchen where there were no competing alcohol scents, though the cologne was still present there too.
Rob followed and watched as she stood the bottle on the countertop, put her hands behind her back, and inhaled the interior; once, twice, then a third time. Turning to him she said, “There’s an extremely weak alcohol smell in this, as though someone had poured out the contents, then briefly rinsed the inside and filled it again with water. The outside of the bottle has a stronger smell than the inside, suggesting some of the vodka splashed on it while it was being poured out. It should be the other way around.”
“Nice observation, but how is it relevant?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. Like you said, it’s just an observation.” Feeling silly, Reilly quickly returned the bottle to its original position alongside a crime scene marker on the floor.
Much to Reilly’s relief (for the sake of her nose if nothing else), they then left the dining area and made their way upstairs towards the bedroom, and the balcony from which the victim fell.
She followed Crichton into the master suite. It certainly looked as though some kind of scuffle had occurred. A reading lamp had toppled from a small table, the chair beside it was overturned, and the draperies hung askew, as though they’d been pulled, perhaps by the victim to try and prevent a fall.
He and Reilly began to move around the room, although they weren’t sure what they should be looking for. Other than a few objects overturned, a small table and a couple of books from the surrounding bookshelves, nothing stood out.
All of a sudden she realized how tired she was and was grateful when having given the remainder of the house a thorough comb-over, Rob suggested they call it a night and offered her a ride back to campus.
As his car wound their way through the hills toward the FBI Academy, they discussed what (little) evidence had been found. Rob wanted to know in detail about what the witnesses had said, and needed more information from Jake on what had occurred that evening both before and after the accident.
He told Reilly that he would use his contacts at the police department to obtain copies of everyone’s witness testimony. With that information, as well as the police toxicology report, he might be able to form a more complete picture of what had occurred. “Mayridge, the investigating officer and I go way back. He knows I’ll want to take a closer look at this, since Jake is a material witness. Drunken idiot.”
Reilly wasn’t sure what to say. “He did seem pretty drunk, and a little confused about what actually happened. But I guess they all were, sir.” She wasn’t entirely sure why she was standing up for Jake, especially since she had no idea if he was involved. “Do the police have any idea who the victim is?” she asked then, changing the subject. �
�Faye and I didn’t recognize him from campus.”
“I didn’t either, which suggests he isn’t one of ours, thank goodness,” he muttered, no doubt thinking of the PR nightmare that would rain down on the Academy if the trainee had been one of their own. “I just hope the guy who pushed him isn’t either.”
“Hope the police find him soon and I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” Reilly said, frustrated that she hadn’t had the presence of mind to look over the crime scene, or check out the partygoers in more detail before the police arrived.
She felt an overwhelming urge to prove herself to Rob Crichton, who had impressed her from the first moment she met him, and whom for some reason Reilly felt was a kindred spirit.
Chapter 7
The following morning, training got off to a slow start. It was a sobering pall of grey that hung over the sunny morning and the party attendees’ faces. Reilly noticed it at breakfast and so did Faye who unlike the others was chipper and eager to hear what Reilly had learned.
“Not all that much,” she admitted. “We examined the crime scene, but we missed talking to any witnesses. Rob’ . . . er, SSA Crichton is going to get hold of the witnesses’ testimonies from the investigating officers. When Faye’s eyes widened, she frowned. “What?”
“Did you just call SSA Crichton by his first name?”
Reilly blanched. “Did I?”
“Yes, you did actually. I don’t want to pry, but what is going on between you two? Why did he want you to stay on last night?” She put her hands on her hips disapprovingly. “Is he making passes at you?”
“Of course not,” Reilly assured her hastily. “He asked me to stick around because of Jake’s involvement — we were first on the scene and he wanted to get some initial observations. And he asked me to call him by his first name last night because saying ‘SSA Crichton’ all the time when no one else was around got laborious for him, I think. He’s an honorable man, I assure you.”
“Hmm,” Her friend didn’t seem convinced. “Well, if he tries anything, you let me know.”
“He won’t.” Reilly was a good judge of character and she knew in her heart of hearts that Rob Crichton was nothing like that. He wouldn’t dream of making passes at a student, and she guessed he would be scandalized by the very thought. She knew he was simply anxious about his nephew’s involvement in the incident and likely wanted to ensure that Jake didn’t end up talking the fall for anything.
Later that afternoon, Rob called Reilly aside after lectures. “I have copies of last night’s witness statements from Mayridge,” he said. “I’d like it if you and Ms Williamson could run an eye over them, make sure the majority tallies with what you know.”
Faye was delighted about the possibility of helping Agent Crichton investigate an actual case. “It’s an unbelievable opportunity for one-on-one instruction isn’t it?”
“He’s not officially investigating remember?” Reilly reminded her as they made their way towards Rob’s office in the behavioral unit, but she knew what her friend meant. It was an amazing opportunity to have some hands-on involvement with a real live case, and she was going to grab it with both hands and help Agent Crichton and the authorities any way she could.
SSA Crichton’s secretary ushered them into his office.
His office was much like he was, Reilly observed — simple, yet classic, but not at all pretentious, functional and comfortable, but not off-putting or sloppy. His desk was good-sized and neat, save for a nearby work-table where Rob indicated they’d be working. Bookcases crammed with reference and crime books, papers, binders filled with notes from past cases; and mountains of files lined the edges of the room, shrinking the square footage considerably and leaving just enough room for the trio to pull out their chairs enough to sit down. The table itself was half-covered with files, notes, crime journals, psychological studies, and a copy of the new DSM-V, already resplendent with tab markings jutting out of previously referenced pages.
Rob leafed through all the reports already and relayed the basics: the victim was a stranger to most of the attendees the night before and no ID had been present on the body during examination. “Any guests who had introduced themselves said he gave his name as Bill,” he told them. “And said he came with ‘a friend’. Those who encountered him described him as either shy or arrogant. But by all accounts, it seems that the now-deceased Bill didn’t converse much. And while he was present in the dining room during most of the drinking game, apparently he only watched, nursing a beer and occasionally cheering a good shot. The majority of witnesses indicated that the victim had left the room and returned a few times prior to the accident, as had all but the most serious of ‘contestants.’”
Since most of the witness reports reflected identical stories, Faye and Reilly were able to scan through the accounts more quickly after the first few. Overall, the police had taken a total of 37 reports. Since two of those were from Reilly and Faye themselves, it meant 35 individuals had been present at the house when the accident occurred.
“The majority seem to agree,” Rob said. “Most of the partygoers were in the dining area drinking. It seems the game started with about a dozen guys and a few women, but there were about half a dozen more people watching at the start. Nobody can agree 100% on who started the game, but it seems that Jake was definitely one of the ringleaders. Once the game got rolling and people started cheering and placing bets, most came in, a few more joined, and everybody was pretty plastered by the time the fall happened. Nobody remembered much about the victim, but a lot of these guys don’t remember much, period, except that somebody kept bringing in more bottles of water every time they got low.”
“What about the person who was throwing up in the downstairs bathroom?” Reilly asked, recalling Jake’s story from the night before.
“Right here,” said Faye, holding up a statement. “Her name is Jennifer Hinton. She’s a friend of one of the non-academy folks. She came with someone named . . .” here she paused and consulted the report, “Hailey Morris. It says here she’s a friend of the guy who arranged the party.”
“Yes, I’ve got the party host right here,” Rob chimed in. “His name is Jackson Halvorsen III.”
“With a name like that, you think he’d have more class than to let people trash his relative’s house.” Faye muttered, remembering the ruined lawn.
“So let’s summarize what we know so far,” Rob went on. “According to the statements, a group of guys — some say three guys, others say about five, including Jake - decide to start a drinking game. The game gets rowdy, the entire party winds up in the room, the booze never ends, and even though people wander in and out, everyone seems to be there except for poor Jennifer, who is unwell. Then Jake who went in search of another bathroom and our victim Bill, who no one seems to know much about and no one really remembers. And of course the person who according to Jake was in a fight with Bill and may or may not have pushed him off the balcony, but makes himself scarce thereafter in any case. Suddenly all hell breaks loose, Jake yells emergency, everyone comes running, and panic ensues.”
“What is the victim’s full name?” asked Faye. “You said he had no ID on him.”
“The police haven’t formally identified him yet. We’re assuming he didn’t drive there, since he told witnesses he came with a friend,” said Rob, “so he may not have had his wallet. But it seems awfully convenient that he winds ups dead, and doesn’t have a wallet on him. Most men I know myself included, feel like something’s missing if we try to leave the house without our billfolds whether we’re driving or not.”
“I didn’t want to be the one to say so, but I thought that was odd too,” agreed Reilly, adding almost to herself, “My dad is a drunk who could forget his own kids, but he never forgot his wallet.”
Missing Rob and Faye’s interested glances, she continued, “I have a few other issues with the whole story. First – like Agent Crichton and I agreed last night, it’s odd that such a big, strapping guy like our
victim died from a simple fall off a second level balcony at a residential home. Nobody seems to remember this Bill interacting in a volatile manner with anyone, or in fact, interacting at all. Seems most of the witnesses agree that he seemed quiet and even-keel the entire night. Yet Jake says the same guy was involved in a heated argument with someone who is yet unnamed.”
“And by all accounts, my nephew had his butt firmly planted in a chair at the head of the table, most of the time leading the whole game. According to most, he had a death grip on a bottle of vodka, which he drank from when he lost. Unfortunately for the police, and indeed himself, he’s the only one who was aware of the argument and can tie the unidentified party guest and the victim together.”
“But now that we know for sure that the victim didn’t get smashed with the others, I’m even more suspicious of his fall,” Reilly ventured. “And if he wasn’t drunk, which we can assume he was not, why would he lose his temper, especially when he seemed to be interacting with so few people in the first place?”
After an awkward moment of silence, Rob spoke up. “There’s something else that bothers me about this whole story,” he said. “And it’s why I’d hoped you two might be able to shed more light on what really happened at the party.”
Reilly and Faye looked at him, wondering what he was going to say.
“It’s the whole thing about Jake hanging on to a vodka bottle and drinking from it all night.”
At the mention of a vodka bottle Reilly’s ears pricked up.
“He’s not usually into hard alcohol?” Faye ventured.
“Oh no,” Rob replied, “He’s quite into the hard stuff. But he usually drinks tequila.” He paused, then continued, “One time when Jake was 12 he was staying over at my house – I got called out on a job and he and some friends busted into my liquor cabinet. They got completely drunk on high-proof vodka — a nearly full gallon bottle of cheap stuff left over from a party. Jake and two of his friends downed the whole thing in about half an hour. Threw up everywhere.” The older man’s expression turned serious. “Jake has despised vodka ever since. He can’t even smell it without feeling nauseated. I doubt very much that he was drinking vodka last night.” Rob looked at the two women. “And if he lied about that, what else has he lied about?”
