by Zack Klika
Agent Sanchez didn’t often find himself conversing with generals. For the most part he was happy to shoot the shit with other enlisted soldiers in his unit. But here he was, holding his own with not one but two generals. If only the boys could see him now.
The office he was in had more pictures of senior-ranking officials than a White House photo album. The carpet was a deep blue with red trim, and the walls were a well-maintained eggshell color. Hanging on one of the walls was an antique revolver, framed in a glass case, its background an American flag.
A patriotic office to say the least.
“We should halt the operation immediately,” said Brigadier General John Kalowski, the deputy commanding general of Fort Campbell.
General Kalowski was seated in a chair to the right of Sanchez and for some reason wouldn’t look at him. Sanchez didn’t know why the general disliked him, but it didn’t matter one way or the other. The man behind the oak desk in front of them liked Sanchez plenty.
“What do you think, Agent Sanchez?” asked Major General Timothy Youngblood, the commanding general of Fort Campbell and General Kalowski’s senior in rank and age.
“Well,” Sanchez started, pausing when he noticed the general to his right squeezing his hand into a fist over and over again, “I’d like another few weeks if possible. I’m close, sir.”
General Youngblood looked at the two men across from him. He was shorter than Sanchez by a few inches, but that just made the stories that surrounded him all the more entertaining. It was said that he earned a Bronze Star Medal after saving four wounded soldiers from a group of ten insurgents during his last deployment to Afghanistan. General Youngblood must have had help, but Sanchez knew the people who helped the hero were rarely mentioned in stories.
Sanchez knew a thing or two about Afghanistan, having spent almost four years in the region. Three tours to Afghanistan and not a one to Iraq. His luck was shit and always had been. He’d heard there was a swimming pool on one of the bases in Iraq.
Bastards, he thought.
“You said that last time,” General Youngblood said. “Still no idea who’s supplying Buck with the weapons and ammunition?”
“No, sir,” was all Sanchez could muster.
General Youngblood cracked his knuckles and avoided General Kalowski’s stare.
“And now there are two dead civilians linked to Jennifer Carlson and the local reporters are calling to confirm the extent of her injuries?”
Sanchez had been instructed to keep Jennifer’s investigation contained. No civilians or outside police departments were to take hand in it. Buck and Danny changed everything. Two dead civilians couldn’t just be picked up by CID, even if they were connected to the investigation of a soldier’s murder. It didn’t help matters that someone leaked the details of Jennifer’s mutilation to the local reporters. That same person also told reporters that the Army and local law enforcement were working together and had named a suspect. The investigation he had fought so hard to keep close to pocket was crumbling apart, and fast.
“Yes, sir,” said Sanchez. “I wasn’t able to confiscate the murder weapon used on Danny Smith, but I believe it will turn out to be the knife that was used on Jennifer, sir.”
“What a clusterfuck,” General Youngblood said.
General Kalowski looked like he wanted to agree, but decided it best to keep his mouth shut.
“Close the case,” General Youngblood finally said.
“Sir?” Sanchez said.
General Youngblood shot Sanchez a look that was meant to instill fear. Sanchez sat motionless. Stared right back at him. General Youngblood broke first.
“You said you think you have the suspects who murdered Jennifer, along with the murder weapon. I want you to lead the investigation to a conclusion.”
“What about the stolen weapons and ammunition, sir?”
“They are no longer your concern. It would seem that part of your investigation was a lost cause. It’s been almost two years and you’re still not any closer to finding out where the guns or ammunition went from Andrew Brown’s truck. Either Buck took them and has been hiding them under your nose this whole time, or someone is supplying them. But now Buck and Danny are dead. There’s no one left to chase. At least you can close Jennifer’s case.”
Sanchez was starting to get the picture. General Youngblood continued on.
“Right now there are only a few reporters asking about Jennifer Carlson’s death. The base doesn’t need the press digging any deeper about a soldier who was found murdered the way she was. You have more than enough evidence to close her case as you see fit. If someone were to figure out Jennifer’s whole story, well, it wouldn’t be good. For anyone involved.”
“Understood, sir,” said Sanchez.
Chapter 32
Riley knocked two times. There were two vehicles in the driveway of the single-story home. Someone had to be home. Neighbors were out and about mowing their lawns. Some kids were playing basketball in the streets. Overall, a neighborhood anyone would be proud of.
“What are we doing here?” Thomas asked.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Riley said.
After a few moments, a young boy answered the door. He had a crew cut. Most likely because that’s all the barbers on base knew how to cut. She felt bad for all the kids who had to grow up with a hard-ass mom or dad, moving around every three years, never really enough time to make lasting friendships.
“Hello,” said Riley. “Is your father home?”
The boy smiled and ran back into the house.
“Who is it?” a voice shouted from inside the home.
Captain Holt emerged from around the corner and stood in the doorway. He had the same haircut as his son and the same boyish features. Riley imagined it was hard for him to instill fear in his soldiers with such young looks.
“How can I help you?” he said.
“I’m Sergeant Riley with the Fort Campbell Daily. And this is Sergeant Thomas. I have some questions about Andrew Brown’s accident.”
Captain Holt’s demeanor went from pleasant to ice-cold. He stepped onto the porch and shut the door behind him.
“His case has been closed for a long time.”
“I know,” said Riley. “I’m just trying to figure out why the stolen weapons weren’t mentioned in his case file.”
His face went white.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Riley’s lie detector went crazy. She had hit the nail on the head.
“You don’t have to lie to me. I know about what happened.”
“Then you should be talking to Agent Sanchez. It’s his case.”
And with that Captain Holt was gone, slamming the door in her and Thomas’s faces. Agent Sanchez, thought Riley. She didn’t buy into coincidences. Which could only mean one thing: Sanchez was running point on a cover-up. And possibly trying to plan another one for Jennifer’s case.
Chapter 33
Conn entered the chilled room that housed the Clarksville police station’s forensic team. This is where the magic happens, she thought. More than half of the crimes she had investigated were solved because of the work the techs did in this room. An invaluable resource. Miles, the lead forensic tech, met her at the door.
“I’ve got good news, Detective,” Miles said.
“We’ll see about that.”
He smirked. “It looks like the DNA on the knife matches Danny Smith’s and Jennifer Carlson’s.”
“That is good news,” said Conn. “What about Buck’s gunshot wound?”
Miles walked her over to a computer screen that showed a 3-D mockup of Buck Miller’s bullet wound. He clicked a button, and a line of dashes traced the bullet’s path from a few inches outside of the entrance wound to a few inches outside of the exit wound.
“The trajectory of the bullet is consistent with other self-inflicted wounds,” Miles said.
Everything was wrapping up perfectly. Justice had been serv
ed for Jennifer Carlson, and an arms dealer had been taken off the street. One at a time. There was no other way when it came to policing.
“Thanks, Miles. Let me know if you find anything else out.”
On the way back to the police station, Conn gave Agent Sanchez a call.
“DNA on the knife matches Jennifer’s,” she said. “And forensics confirmed Buck Miller killed himself.”
The other line stayed quiet for a few seconds. She thought that would be good news to Sanchez.
“If that’s everything,” said Agent Sanchez, “let’s hold a press conference later this afternoon.”
“Okay,” Conn said, pausing before speaking again. “It doesn’t bother you we don’t know why Jennifer was killed?”
“I had my forensic team comb through Jennifer’s room and personnel file. They didn’t find anything out of the ordinary in her room. And her files didn’t tell us much either. She had no family. No friends. No boyfriend. Everyone in her unit said she kept to herself for the most part.”
“Something just feels off,” Conn said. “What about her phone records? Anything there linking her to Buck and Danny?”
Riley and Lee had gotten in her head. She was starting to doubt that Buck would have killed himself. Starting to doubt a lot of things about this investigation. Like Sanchez’s motives for closing the case without wanting to figure out why Jennifer had been killed.
“We never found her phone. My team checked with all of the major carriers in the area, and none of them had a Jennifer Carlson signed up for a phone plan. It’s possible she didn’t have one or had a burner that got taken when she was killed. Her bank records didn’t tell me anything either. She opened an account when she joined the Army, but there were only cash withdrawals from the same ATM over the past two years.”
“I just hate not knowing why someone like her had to die.”
“For now let’s be happy her killer has been dealt with.”
He was right.
Conn said, “I’m headed back to the station to prep for the press conference.”
“Good idea,” Sanchez said. “I’ll meet you there.”
Tall trees shielded the sun from Conn’s eyes as she took the back roads to the station. The main roads of Clarksville had been getting congested from all of the new construction that would turn two lanes into four.
Conn couldn’t help but feel that Riley was right about Sanchez. She checked her jacket pocket and found the card with Riley’s phone number on it. She wasn’t sure if she could trust her, but it might be worth giving her a call after the press conference.
Why was he so quick to close the case? No cell phone found. No family or friends. No past. In a normal investigation that would be a big, waving red flag that something was wrong. Why would Agent Sanchez want it closed so fast?
There was something to be said about how the priorities of a CID agent and police detective differed, namely, a police detective worked in a town they usually planned on staying in. They cared about their city and for the well-being of the people in that city. A CID agent was shuffled around different duty stations that might or might not mean much to them. CID agents never had enough time to get to know their neighbors. Conn saw that as one of the many problems of military law enforcement. There had to be a sense of community or the system would eventually fail.
A few reporters were huddled around the police station’s front steps when Conn arrived. A police officer kept them at bay. She parked her car and put on her game face. She tried to walk by them undetected, but they were like vultures and started taking photos of her and hurling questions her way. Going in through the back probably would have been better.
“Do you have anyone in custody for the murder of Jennifer Carlson yet?” asked a young man with glasses. Another reporter, an older woman with gray hair, shouted from the back of the group, “Why won’t your department release the details surrounding her murder? The public has a right to know if they are safe or not.”
Conn knew the older woman was right. The public had every right to know what had happened to Jennifer and Buck and Danny.
“No comment,” was all Conn said as she beelined it towards the front doors, a camera’s flash going off and causing a small degree of flash blindness. She pushed through the doors.
The situation inside the police station was not any better. An extra 9-1-1 dispatcher had been brought in to handle the increase in calls from citizens around the city who wanted to know what was going on. There were even a few people who requested more patrols in their neighborhood. Conn found it odd that people thought they could call the police station and expect an officer to show up as their personal guard for the night.
She saw Johnson was busy writing a report, probably about Danny’s crime scene. She couldn’t tell if he was still upset with her or not. Shouldn’t be. There would be no court proceedings now that Buck was found dead. The press conference would likely be the last time Conn and Johnson had anything to do with the case.
“Was it a match?” Johnson asker her.
Conn took a seat opposite him, behind her desk.
“Yeah. DNA linked the knife to Danny and Jennifer. Sanchez said that’s good enough for him, so he wants to hold a press conference here and say the case is closed and the killer has been found.”
Johnson kissed his teeth.
“Of course he does,” he said. “What about Buck? You believe he killed himself?”
His anger was beginning to flow. Conn knew how to cork it, though.
“Not at all,” said Conn.
Johnson looked up from his computer screen as she went on.
“What would you say if I told you someone reached out to me and said they wanted to find out what really happened to Jennifer?”
Johnson looked back down at his computer screen.
“I’d say leave it. My stomach still hurts just thinking about what would have happened to us if Lee had been killed.”
Conn nodded. He was right, but she had left too many cases alone in the military. Right now she had a chance to investigate a case that she knew shouldn’t be closed. Lee was right about one thing: Buck wouldn’t have killed himself. So who shot him? Was it the same person who killed Jennifer?
The press conference was given on the curb in front of the police station. Captain Landel, Agent Sanchez, Detective Lane, and Detective Johnson were there. Detective Conn counted five reporters in all. Not a bad turnout.
Captain Landel stepped in front of the others. “Please, everyone. Let’s get started.”
The reporters quieted down and snapped off photos of the woman who looked like she should be leading a gymnastics team, not a press conference concerning the murder of two people and the suicide of a third person. Conn knew better.
“On Wednesday, October 11, at approximately 11:45 p.m.,” Captain Landel said, “Clarksville police officers were dispatched to the Fork Creek bridge on a report of a wounded soldier. Arriving officers discovered victim Jennifer Carlson, a specialist in the United States Army who was stationed at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. She was pronounced dead at the scene of the crime.”
Conn looked over to Sanchez and Johnson, who were both standing perfectly still. This wasn’t their first time, but it was hers. And she was having a hard time not moving around.
“A detective from the department’s homicide squad was sent out to the crime scene. Seeing as it was a dead soldier, my department reached out to CID, who then sent out an agent to work in conjunction with our team. During the course of the investigation, the detectives determined Jennifer Carlson’s murder was a crime of passion. A suspect was identified and eluded capture. That suspect was found early this morning.”
Conn almost lost her cool. That wasn’t part of the report she had seen. It was all wrong to her. There was no apparent motive. No way to know if it was a crime of passion. They weren’t even sure if it was Buck or Danny who had killed her, or both, or neither one.
“Agent Sanchez,” Captain Landel said,
motioning for him to take over.
Agent Sanchez stepped forward as Captain Landel walked over to Detective Lane and stopped at his side.
“The suspect’s name is Danny Smith,” Agent Sanchez said. “Before police or myself had a chance to question him, he was found dead with Jennifer Carlson’s murder weapon on his person. What myself and the detectives at the Clarksville PD believe happened is that Danny Smith found out his girlfriend, Jennifer Carlson, was sleeping with a man named Buck Miller and in a wild rage killed her. He then proceeded to track down Buck Miller, presumably to kill him as well, but Buck Miller killed him instead and then committed suicide because he couldn’t handle the death of Jennifer Carlson.”
As the story sank in, Conn got a funny feeling. A nauseous feeling. Agent Sanchez went on.
“I would like to thank the hard work and dedication of the Clarksville Police Department and its detectives for all of their assistance and cooperation in this troubling time. Jennifer Carlson’s death is a loss for us all and she will not be forgotten.”
Sanchez nodded to Captain Landel and stepped back into line.
The press conference was a total sham. Conn might as well have just stayed inside for all the good her preparation with Sanchez had done. He had played her. Had known exactly what he was going to do. She wasn’t even angry about it. It was her fault. She knew how CID liked to operate—open-and-shut cases—but for whatever reason she’d thought Agent Sanchez might be different. Her inclusion in the case and his collegiality were all a front.
None of the reporters knew about Buck or Danny, so the number of questions escalated quickly once their parts in Jennifer’s murder were disclosed. Conn glanced at Sanchez, who avoided her stare. Captain Landel tried to calm the crowd.
“That concludes the press conference,” Captain Landel said and walked back into the police station. Conn followed, with Sanchez and Johnson in tow.
When Conn got back to her desk with a coffee, she noticed Sanchez wasn’t there. He had slipped out. She hurried out the front door and caught up to him in the parking lot before he could get into his car.
“No good-bye?” Conn asked, feigning a grin.
