In the bleak midwinter asacm-1

by M. R. Sellars

  Still, Agent Johnson was definitely going to owe her one for bailing on this. She didn’t care if he had a bad case of the flu or not. Tit for tat, that’s how it worked. He got out of it, and she got stuck with it, so he owed her. Moreover, if he was responsible for putting her name on the short list as a backup, his payback was going to be a bitch; namely her, and she had no problem bearing that moniker when she needed to.

  What really bothered her was that the bureau had plenty of agents working from the Saint Louis headquarters, and she’d pulled more than her share of crappy assignments over the years. Wasn’t it someone else’s turn to work a holiday for a change? And why just her? Shouldn’t she at least have another agent from her squad along for the ride? Two sets of eyes were always better than one.

  Or maybe it was just that she wanted to have someone to commiserate with?

  Again, these were just more examples of questions and comments that you didn’t give voice, which is why they were now trapped on the inside with the rest of her thoughts and making a confusing din between her ears. On the flip side, it was possible she should be considering it a feather in her cap that the SAC, and possibly even someone in DC, had picked her out of the pool of agents. Unfortunately, the end of that feather was sharp, and right now it was poking through her cap and into her head in a most annoying fashion.

  Constance ripped open a creamer and poured it into the steaming mug of coffee. Then she tore the tops from a pair of sugar packets and dumped them in as well. The caramel clouds of diluting cream were already losing their billowy shapes as she dunked her spoon and gave a quick stir.

  She lifted the cup by its handle, then pursed her lips and blew across its rim before taking a tentative sip. It was still a bit too hot, so she placed it to the side for a moment. Letting out a quiet sigh, she experienced the moment of self-condemnation she had already known was coming.

  She needed to stop feeling sorry for herself. She knew the score the day she entered the academy at Quantico. She had chosen this career because it’s what she wanted to do, and that hadn’t changed just because she didn’t like the timing of an assignment. Given some of the things she’d witnessed in her time as a field agent, she could easily find far better reasons to hate her job. But she didn’t. Sometimes it gave her nightmares, yes. But she was never one for walking away from a puzzle.

  Especially not until it was finished.

  She had to take the bad with the good, and she knew it, even if it meant not spending the holidays with Ben. She sighed again, but this time it was out of resignation mixed with a tenuous sort of contentment.

  “Everything okay, hon?” the waitress asked.

  Constance looked up, not quite startled but a bit surprised since she hadn’t heard the woman return. “Yes… Fine…” she replied. “It’s just that it’s already been a long day.”

  The woman gave her a knowing nod as she placed a short glass in front of her. “Tell me about it. Here’s your grapefruit juice, hon. Your breakfast should be out in just a couple of minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  When she was once again alone, Constance pulled out her cell phone and thumbed in a speed dial code, then tilted her head and tucked the device beneath her hair and up against her ear. After the third ring the speaker clicked and she heard a gruff voice say, “This is Ben Storm. You’ve reached my phone. I ain’t here. Leave a message.”

  “Ben, it’s me,” she said after the beep. “Looks like we have to put our plans on hold. I’ve been sent out of town on an investigation and I’m not sure exactly when I’ll be back. I’ll call you later.”

  Constance hung up then glanced at the time on the small screen. Ben was probably still in the shower right about now, which would explain why he didn’t answer. It felt later to her than it really was, probably because she’d already been up and working for several hours.

  She slipped her cell back into her pocket, then shifted in the booth and pulled a large envelope out of the faux leather portfolio lying at her side. She’d had time for no more than a quick glance at it earlier before getting started on her four-hour journey north. The SAC had called her in at oh-dead-thirty for a briefing so spotty that it gave new meaning to the word, and until now every moment since had been rush, rush, and more rush. In fact, when she’d first arrived in his office her hair had still been slightly damp from her shower. Fortunately, he hadn’t seemed to care, or even notice for that matter.

  She leaned against the padded back of the booth’s bench seat and unwound the string on the interdepartmental envelope. Considering what she’d been told during the meeting-which wasn’t much-the packet seemed a bit light and that was a concern. Starting from scratch with a new investigation was one thing, but this one was supposedly ongoing and as she understood it, had been for several years.

  With an involuntary frown tweaking her features, she withdrew a sheaf of papers, most of which appeared to be reports filed by other agents over the span of the case. Protruding slightly from the top edge of the thin stack of official documents was a laminated sheet. Constance thumbed through the papers and extracted the rigid page.

  Sandwiched inside was an aged photocopy of a section of newspaper clipping. A hyper contrasted picture took up the majority of the page, but it was really nothing more than black and white shapes with very little detail. The most you could tell was that it looked like there might be one or two people, and maybe a house pictured-then again maybe not, the quality was literally that poor.

  There was no caption, nor was there any story beneath the photo. Constance rummaged through the papers once again searching for any other laminated pages, but she found none. She then slowly flipped through them a third time, keeping her eyes open for un-laminated copies just in case. Still nothing.

  “Here you go, hon,” the waitress’ voice hit her ears again.

  Out of habit, Constance turned over the short stack of documents, placing them face down on the seat next to her.

  “Thanks,” she said, forcing a smile as she looked up at the server.

  The woman in pink shook her head. “You work too hard, young lady. You’re going to give yourself indigestion.”

  “It comes with the job,” Constance replied.

  “Well at least try to relax a little and enjoy your breakfast.”

  “I will.”

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, I think I’m good. Thanks.”

  “Okay, hon. I’ll check back with you in a bit.”

  Constance waited until the woman was back at the counter and busy filling a coffee mug for another patron who had just arrived. Only then did she slip the laminated sheet out from beneath the other papers and flip it face up.

  She held the landscape copied page by the short edge and stared at it again. She checked the opposite side, but found nothing, so she flipped it back over and continued staring, purposely cocking an eyebrow and pursing her lips into a thoughtful frown. Other than the blown-out, useless picture, the only thing that remained on the page was a headline and the dateline of the story. At least those words were still legible, even though they were less than crisp around the edges; a fault of the copier technology of the day, from the looks of them.

  The dateline below the photo read Hulis, MO – December 26, 1975.

  The sensational, six-column, two-inch block headline overhead proclaimed, MERRIE AXEMAS.

  CHAPTER 8

  11:03 A.M. – December 22, 2010

  Sheriff’s Department

  Hulis Township – Northern Missouri

  “Hrrmmph…”

  The curious grunt that issued from the sheriff was accompanied by the popping creak of springs as he shifted in the wheeled desk chair he currently occupied. After staring silently at his visitor for an extended measure of heartbeats, he pursed his lips thoughtfully, then rocked back in a slow arc before finally allowing himself to slump the last few inches and fall heavily against the backrest.

  FBI Special Agent Constance Mandalay
stood on the opposite side of his desk, her credentials held forth, displayed in a well-practiced manner. The portly, uniformed man opposite her didn’t seem particularly interested in the badge and ID, but she wasn’t going to put them away just yet, even though she had identified herself verbally upon entering. She simply held his gaze, intent on establishing her authority as a federal officer.

  Audibly matted against the tense quiet of the room, the chair popped and let out a dull twang as it settled under the sheriff’s now cantilevered weight. Constance wondered to herself if one of the springs had finally surrendered for all eternity. It wasn’t that the sheriff was morbidly obese or anything of that sort, but he definitely looked like he had done hard time at the dinner table. However, the real reason for the thought was that the piece of furniture looked like a broken relic from the post World War II 1940’s. Of course, when you got right down to outward appearances, so did the man sitting in it.

  Sheriff Addison Carmichael let out a second harrumph, then raised an eyebrow and drew in a deep breath as he twiddled a pencil between his fingers. After a moment, he absently drummed it on the duct-taped arm of the heavy-framed chair while using his free hand to groom the gray-white thicket that lined his upper lip. Finally, forcing a long sigh out through his nose, he tossed the freshly sharpened #2 onto the stack of papers filling his blotter and then gave the petite FBI agent a shallow nod.

  “Go on and put your badge away, honey,” he drawled. “I already know damn well what they look like.”

  Constance quickly slid her index finger to the side and flipped the worn leather case shut, then slipped it into the inner pocket of her blazer.

  “Sheriff Carmichael, I’m sure you know…” she started.

  He interrupted. “Skip.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Skip,” he repeated. “Everybody around here just calls me Skip. Always have. If you’re gonna work with me, you might as well too.”

  “I see,” Constance replied with a nod. “Well, Skip, as I was…”

  “Where’s Agent Drew?” Sheriff Carmichael asked, speaking over the top of her once again.

  “Agent Drew was reassigned,” she answered after an annoyed pause. “In fact, he’s no longer with the bureau’s Saint Louis office.”

  “Yeah, guess I’m not surprised. They send me a different Fed every year.”

  “Actually, you were supposed to be meeting with Agent Johnson, but he came down with the flu.”

  “Well, he would’ve been a new one too.” He shook his head. “So you pulled the short straw this time, eh?”

  “I was assigned to this case if that’s what you mean. Is that a problem?”

  “Dunno,” he grunted. “Is it?”

  “It shouldn’t be.”

  He huffed. “I actually kinda liked Drew. He had a sense of humor.”

  “As I said, Agent Drew has been reassigned. Besides, my SAC thought a fresh set of eyes might be in order.”

  “Yeah,” he sighed. “They always do. That’s exactly what Drew said when he showed up the first time. And Agent Keene before him… I could go on. You make number five, ya’know that?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So now, as usual, I’ve gotta waste my time bringing you up to speed.”

  “Not necessarily. I’ve read the file.”

  “And so did the four in front of you, sugar. Let me ask you this: Did you learn anything with all that reading?”

  Constance bristled slightly at the condescending sobriquet but allowed it to slide for the time being. “I’ll admit, the file is a little sparse on hard information.”

  “That’s because we don’t have any. Besides, readin’ and knowin’ are two different things, young lady.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m a quick study. Like I said, it really shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Woulda, coulda, shoulda… You Feds are all a bunch of damn parrots with the same vocabulary, you know that?” he grunted, then gestured toward a wooden chair. “Well, since you’re here, go on then… Sit down.”

  Constance sighed. It appeared this man still wasn’t taking her seriously, so she dug in. “I think I’ll stand, thank you.”

  The sheriff snorted. “Yeah, right… Go on… Take a load off.”

  “Really, I’m fine. If you’ll just…”

  “Listen, sugar,” the sheriff interrupted yet again. This time he rocked forward in the chair, then rested his elbows on the paper-strewn desktop as he tilted his head down and looked at her over the top rim of his glasses. “I know what you’re doing, and I ain’t got time for your little bureaucratic, girl-power bullshit.”

  “Excuse me? My what?”

  “Position and power, honey. Basic psychology. Right now you’re trying to prove that you can write your name in the snow bigger and better than anyone else because you’re a woman with a badge who has something to prove. On top of that, you’re showing me that you’re the one in charge because you work for the FBI. So look…I get it. You’re a Fed, I’m a small town cop. We’re all one big happy family as long as you’re on top. Fine. But I’m here to tell ya’, you can stop dancin’ because I’ve already done this waltz with every damn one of your predecessors.

  “Now…” He waved his finger at her then thrust it toward the chair. “Since you’re standin’ there in a pair of brand new high heels, and we both know you’re dyin’ to sit down because your feet are killing you, quit tryin’ to prove that you’re the alpha bitch in this pack and just park it.”

  Constance stood her ground and snapped, “I take it you have some sort of problem with women, Sheriff Carmichael?”

  He shook his head and replied in an exasperated huff. “Damn, you’re a piece of work… First off, I said call me Skip. Secondly, hell no, I don’t have a problem with women. I love ‘em. I even married one. Got three daughters too.

  “What I do have a problem with, however, is people wasting my time playing games like you’re doing right now. So either sit your ass down or get the hell out of my office, Special Agent Mandalay. Your choice.”

  Once his diatribe was finished, the sheriff picked up his pencil and returned his attention to the paperwork at hand, as if Constance wasn’t even in the room.

  Well, at least he was paying attention enough to catch my name, she thought to herself while continuing to stare at him long enough for the second hand to make a quarter orbit around the clock face. Personality-wise, Ben-the homicide detective she’d been dating for some time now-was a younger version of the sheriff: gruff, opinionated, and more than willing to speak his mind. He definitely hadn’t been mellowing with age, either. For a fleeting moment she wondered if she was stuck in some sort of Dickens-inspired nightmare and the Ghost of Christmas Future was torturing her with a glimpse of what may come. She gave a small shudder at the thought and then shook it off.

  Finally she conceded. Draping her coat over the uncomfortable-looking straight back of the chair, she let out a small sigh then perched herself in the seat. As it turned out, appearances were not deceiving at all. The chair was just as uncomfortable as it looked.

  “There, I’m sitting,” she announced. “Are you happy now?”

  A full minute passed before the sheriff answered. Without looking up from his work he grunted. “Not my feet that’s hurtin’, young lady. Question is, are you happy now?”

  She regarded him quietly for a moment, then asked, “Okay, I’ll admit it; I’m curious. How did you know my feet were hurting? Lucky guess?”

  “Those shoes would hurt my feet. I figure they gotta hurt yours.”

  “You barely glanced at me when I came in. How did you even know I was wearing heels?”

  “I ain’t deaf yet, honey. I heard ‘em the minute you hit the front door.”

  “Okay,” she conceded. “But that still doesn’t explain how you know I just bought them.”

  The sheriff sighed and tossed his pencil back onto the papers again as he leaned back. He gave her the sort of look a teacher would bestow upon a student w
ho wasn’t grasping the idea that one plus one equals two. “This a test?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean did your other Fed buddies tell you to screw with me?”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Sweetheart…” he muttered, then shook his head. “Okay. Fine. Let’s get it over with so we can get some police work done.” Wagging his finger up and down at her, he began to explain, “That blazer you’re wearing is a Charles Gray of London, unless I missed my guess, but I don’t think I did because my youngest daughter has one just like it. Not the highest dollar, but pricey, nice, and it’s current on the style. The one you’re wearing has been custom altered to drape properly because you carry your sidearm in a belt rig-on your right, by the way. That tells me you’re particular about your appearance and like to keep up with fashion, so it stands to reason that the shoes would be important too.” Now directing his index finger at the doorway, he continued, “But, when you walked in here a few minutes ago, you were favoring your left foot, even though based on the way you move it’s obvious you’re no stranger to walking in heels. In fact, I’d say you could even run in them if you were pressed.

  “Anyway, then you stood here in front of my desk and kept shifting your weight from foot to foot, which means your right was bothering you too. That little dance tells me either you’re wearing new shoes that aren’t broken in yet and they hurt your feet, or you really have to pee. Now, I may be wrong, but I’m pretty certain that if you had to pee that bad you would have asked Clovis to point you at the restroom before you had her bring you in here to talk to me.”