by A J Rivers
Rather than going through the hassle of driving around the block just to walk through the gates, I exit out the side door of the station. This brings me to a cement sidewalk that leads around to the brick walkway bisecting the square. I follow it to the library and hurry inside. There isn't much time before the library closes for the day, and I don't want any of the librarians dissuading me from getting on one of the computers. They are set up in small banks throughout the library, four computers to a desk, so they're positioned back-to-back. Partitions between the computers provide some sense of privacy and separation from the person right beside you.
Nobody seems to be at any of the computers in the far corner of the library, so I claim one and sign on using my library card. I still see the card as a defining moment for my return to Sherwood. Before it, there was still the sense that at any moment I could just pick back up and leave. Like there was still no permanence here, despite the constant tug on my heart. It was the same tug from when I left years ago, only even stronger now. Then one day the weather forecast was rainy for the next week, Janet had brought me a giant container of potato soup, and I needed a couple of books to bring it all together. I walked right into the library, and the next thing I knew, I was holding a library card.
It seems ridiculous that something so small could be more impactful than much more significant events. But sometimes it's the tiny details that stand out against the bigger picture. Like the missing board that can bring down a house. Or the mislaid word that reveals a killer.
I open the email from Eric and find a link to the secure location in the cloud, where he uploaded the scans of all my case files. It reminds me of the mysterious video clip I got from Mary Preston. Another message from a dead girl. The thought of all the questions still hanging over the bombing and Greg's appearance makes my heart clench, but I can't think about that right now. I have to concentrate on what's in front of me.
As the pages scroll on the screen, my suspicions unfold with them. I watch as the intricately woven scheme rises out of the history of my career. There's a thread here somewhere, I just have to find it.
A sudden commotion from the front of the library breaks my concentration. I jump up and run toward the shouted voices. Down a row of stacks ahead of me, I see a man stand and take a few steps. I rush toward him and come around the corner just as the too-loud, startling sound of gunshots ring out, and he collapses to the floor.
Inundated by screams, I take a few more steps to him and drop down to my knees beside the man. Blood spreads out across his clothes, and he lets out a deep groan. I look toward the shooter, and my stomach drops.
Savannah stands just a short distance inside the door to the library, her feet wide apart, and her hands still clutching her police issue firearm. It shakes in her hands as she stares, wide-eyed and clearly stunned at the man she just shot. I get up and start toward her, reaching a hand up to try to encourage her to lower the gun.
“Savannah, what's going on?” I ask.
She keeps staring, not answering me. The shock has settled in, and she's lost touch with what's happening around her. Seconds later, the door to the library bursts open with a sound almost as loud as the gunshot.
“Back up, Emma,” Sam shouts.
It's not a suggestion; it's an order. It hits me in the gut, and the feeling only twists harder when I see him pointing his gun at me.
“Sam, what are you doing?” I ask.
“Back up, Emma,” he says again. “Get on your knees with your hands on your head.”
He won't look directly at me, and there's tension in his jaw that goes beyond just the intensity of the moment. I don't understand what's happening. Everything inside me says to go to him, but this is not the time to do that. I know I've done nothing, but I do exactly as anyone should in the situation. I lower down to my knees and put my hands on my head, clasping my fingers together.
It's a simple truth that so many seem to struggle with, but that saves lives. When the police tell you to do something, you do it. The time to argue is later, once the situation is de-escalated. Cole comes around Sam and takes my hands, pulling them down to behind my back so we can cuff me. Using the chain between the cuffs in one hand and his other on my shoulder, he helps me to my feet and brings me over to a nearby chair.
“What's going on?” I ask.
“He's still breathing,” another officer calls out.
“The paramedics should be here any second,” Sam says. “Just keep him awake.”
“Sam,” I say fiercely, and he finally turns his eyes to me. “What is going on?”
“We got a call with an active shooter threat for the library,” he says.
“Alright,” I say. “Then why am I in handcuffs?” I ask.
“The call came from you,” he says.
It feels like every word I could possibly say is sucked out of me, along with my breath and my ability to think. It takes a few seconds for me to process it enough to respond.
“What do you mean it came from me?” I ask. “I didn't do it.”
“Calling in a false report of an active shooter in a public place is a crime. It becomes more serious when the police respond with deadly force," he says in a near-monotone, delivering a rendition of the situation rather than speaking directly to me.
"I know that," I tell him, but he keeps talking. "Sam, I understand." Lifting my voice above his stops him. "I know how dangerous this is because I've seen it before. It's another one of my cases. You need to listen to me. This is just like everything else that's been happening.” I'm frantic now, trying to get out as many words as I possibly can just so he will listen to me.
“Stop talking, Emma. Stop talking right now. You have the right to remain silent, and I suggest you take that right very seriously. Because as of right now, I have no choice but to arrest you.”
I'm devastated as Cole pulls me to my feet again and leads me out of the library, reciting my Miranda Rights as we go. He brings me right back along the same path I followed from the police station and escorts me into an interrogation room. He says nothing to me, but takes off the handcuffs and walks out, leaving the locked door behind him.
Chapter Forty-Four
Four years ago
Travis heard the car doors slam and was surprised at how many of them there were. Usually, there was only one. Officer Phillips. Sometimes another officer would come along, depending on why she was coming. It might be a very young officer, new to the force, and just getting his feet wet with such a complicated and extensive investigation. It could be a detective ready to fill him in on the direction of their search. But this time, several doors slammed, one right after the other, the staccato like gunfire.
He went to the door before they knocked and opened it to see Officer Phillips standing next to a young, beautiful woman. She wasn’t wearing a police uniform like the three men standing behind her or like Officer Phillips. Instead, she was dressed in a sleek black suit with a black trench coat over it. Her blonde hair was pulled back away from her face in a severe bun. Naturally beautiful, she wore only mascara and a hint of lipstick.
Officer Phillips spoke first.
“Mr. Burke, we have a search warrant,” she said, holding out the folded papers to him.
Travis took them, not bothering to look down at them. This wasn’t the first time this happened, and most likely, it wouldn’t be the last. Things got moved. People second-guessed themselves and changed hiding spots. The memory of significance on items faded. So they searched. And they searched. And they searched again. They were always looking for what they wouldn’t find. He never stopped them. He never even tried. There was no reason to. Just like the very first night when they showed up, and he pleaded with them to find her, he always gave them full access.
“Of course,” he nodded, stepping aside and inviting them in. “Officer, you know my home is always open to you. I’ve told you from the beginning there’s nothing that’s off-limits. Search anything you want to. If it will help find Mia, I
want you to find it.”
He wanted to impress the blonde woman, and he seemed to have accomplished it. She gave him a slight smile, stepping toward him with her hands in front of her, one holding onto the wrist of the other.
“That’s very generous of you, Mr. Burke,” she said. “If only everyone involved in investigations of this manner were as cooperative as you, it would make our jobs so much easier.”
It was difficult to tell if there was sincerity in her voice or if her youth had diluted the disdain and softened the edge he could see in her eyes.
“Well, I don’t see any reason not to be,” he told her. “I can’t expect you to find what you’re not allowed to search for. So, my home is open. I could show you around if you’d like.”
She barely waited for the words to come out of his mouth before shutting him down.
“Thank you for the offer, but that won’t be necessary. We aren’t here to search the house again.” He looked down at the search warrant in his hands, reading it at the same time she told him. “We’re here to search your truck.”
“That’s a new truck,” he explained. “They already searched the old one. Of course, they’re more than welcome to search it again if they want to. It’s in the junkyard, but they could probably find it.”
“No, Mr. Burke. We aren’t here for your old truck,” she said.
“But I didn’t even have that truck when Mia left. She’d been gone for months when I got it.”
“Gone?” the woman asked.
Shit. He slipped. It was the first time he lost his footing, and he could see in her eyes she knew it.
“Gone from here,” he tried to clarify. “She left months before I got that truck. My old one was in terrible condition and ended up breaking down.”
The front door opened again, and two more officers appeared. One of them held a thick black leash in one hand. His other hand was looped through a fabric strap attached to the back of the bulletproof vest of a K9 officer.
“Great,” the woman said. “You’re here. The truck is right outside.”
“Why is there a dog?” Travis frowned. “I don’t do drugs. I never have.”
“That dog isn’t trained in sniffing out narcotics,” the woman told him. “He detects the presence, past or current, of human remains.”
Travis felt sick. He swayed slightly on his feet. He knew he was screwed. Now it was just a matter of time.
The woman started to follow the dog but turned back to him.
“Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m with the FBI.” She extended her hand. “Agent Emma Griffin.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Now
There's a camera right above my head. I know it's there because I've watched the feed many times before. I have the compulsion to look up at it, to talk to it, and plead with whoever is watching the screen to understand what's going on. But I hold myself back. I need to keep myself calm so that when Sam does come in, I'm able to communicate the situation to him as clearly as I possibly can. There's no time to waste.
But he doesn't seem to know that. Time ticks by. Seconds that seemed so precious blend into minutes. They stretch on and on until I lose track. I can't tell how long I've been sitting here. The room is small and plain, with no windows or clocks. That's all by design. The discomfort and disorientation I'm feeling is the intent. I know exactly what's happening and how the rooms are designed to influence how the people inside them feel and think, yet I'm falling under it. I can understand now how people accused of crimes seem to start crumbling around the edges so quickly.
After what feels like hours, or maybe minutes, Sam comes into the room, and I get to my feet. I want to fold myself into his arms, but this isn't my Sam. This is Sheriff Samuel Johnson, and he's staring at me with suspicion and distrust. I wonder if Liza will come into the room with him. It's not uncommon for there be two officers present during questioning, and I would expect it considering my relationship with Sam. But I'm relieved when she doesn't come in, and he closes the door behind us.
“Have a seat, Emma,” he says.
I sit down, and he perches on the edge of the seat across from me.
“Sam, you have to listen to me. There is something very serious going on, and something else is going to happen if we don't figure it out,” I tell him.
“What do you mean by that?” he asks.
“Don't talk to me like that,” I say. “Don't talk to me like I'm another one of the crazy people who come in here wearing tinfoil hats, trying to recruit soldiers in their war against the Illuminati. Someone is taking cases that I worked and using them to discredit me. It's going backwards.”
“That's not what we're here to talk about,” he says. “This is about what happened at the library.”
“I didn't have anything to do with that,” I insist.
“I have a recording of the call,” he says.
He pulls out a device and plays a recording of a 911 call. The voice is muffled and whispery, but it’s there clear enough. “This is Agent Emma Griffin. There is an active shooter…”
I shake my head. “That's not me. You can't possibly think that's my voice.”
“It's too whispered to be able to make a conclusive identification,” he says.
“Forget about that,” I say. “You tell me. You know my voice as well as anybody else. Do you think that sounds like me?”
“It doesn't matter what I think. It's not just the voice. The call went on long enough to track the number, and it comes up as yours. The 911 call stating there was an active shooter at the library was calling from your phone,” he tells me.
I shake my head harder.
“No. That's not possible, Sam.”
“Emma, stop arguing. You can't fight with the technology.”
“Yes, I can. I'm not asking you to believe me. I'm telling you it's not possible. I didn't have my phone when I was at the library.”
“And who did?” he asks.
“You did!”
“What?” he asks, surprise lifting his eyebrows.
“Or I guess your receptionist did. We talked before I left, remember? I told you I was going to bring my phone to the station. I wanted you to have your tech guys look at it and find the program that's operating in the background. I brought it over here just a few minutes after that and left it at the front desk for you. I haven't had it all day.”
“At the library you said you knew what was going on. That you had seen it before. What did you mean by that?” he asks, shifting forward on his seat.
“Exactly what I was just trying to tell you. Someone is using my cases to cause all this. A few years ago, I investigated a swatting incident,” I explain. “Do you know what that is?”
“I've heard of it,” he says. “Why don't you explain it to me?”
He's having me do that for the camera. He wants to record what I have to say so that he can use it against me if he needs to. I don't care. He can record anything he wants to, as long as he lets me say the words.
“Swatting is a seriously messed-up internet trend used by gamers to punish others. They find their target’s home address, and then they call the police. They make up some story about severe danger happening at that location. It could be that there's an intruder, or they're being held hostage. Most of the time, it has to be an active shooter or bomb threat. It has to be something very serious and urgent. The police then send the SWAT team to investigate. In some cases, the objective is humiliation, but in others, it could be considered attempted murder. And with any luck, the entire incident is live-streamed out to all the other gamers. And the one who did it gets to feel in control,” I tell him.
“And people do this for fun?” he asks.
“Sort of,” I say. “Like I said, it's usually used as a form of punishment or social control. The ones who are the most wrapped up in it will try to show their power by staging clear-outs. Essentially the same thing, only there isn't one individual person being targeted. Instead, they try to cause an evacu
ation of a large public place. So, a school or an office building or shopping mall. They'll call in a bomb threat or announce an active shooter and watch the news and wait for the aftermath.”
“How can they possibly get away with that?” he asks.
“The anonymity of the internet,” I say. “They're able to hide behind screen names and these personas they've created to share with each other. The people don't actually know who each other are, and very rarely will they take public credit under their real name for these instances. Obviously, swatting causes a lot of issues. It takes up police manpower and resources. It traumatizes the person who's on the receiving end of it. But it can get a lot worse.”
I clear my throat and continue.
“I had a case a couple of years ago involving a serial swatter. He was really young and isolated, but then he discovered this online gaming community where he was suddenly admired and respected. He created this entire online life, this identity that was wrapped around the idea of him being a puppet master. He could cause anyone to do anything, according to him. Even within this online community, he kept up several fake personas just to bolster his own status and to effectively pin the blame on others. Anyone who crossed him or who stood up to him would get a visit from the local SWAT team. He staged clear-outs of several different public places and cost unbelievable amounts of money, loss of manpower, and resource damaged. Eric and I were on a task force, and we were able to infiltrate this community and track him down. But before we made the arrests, the perp swatted another teenager who he was angry with for talking inside a game to a girl he liked. He told the police inside there was a man with a gun holding up his family. He gave an address. Unfortunately, it was the wrong one.”
