by B D Grant
Bill shrugs. “Yeah, she’s waiting for you.” Bill glance around Susan’s desk. “Where are the goods?”
“On your desk,” she says about the tan plastic bin he’d handed her before entering Doherty’s office. “I wasn’t going to go through it until I debriefed and figured out what Lane’s up to.”
Bill looks past her at the bin sitting on top of his desk. “I’ll try Lane,” he says, taking out his cell. He nods behind him to Doherty’s office. “Chop chop,” he says to her, bringing his cell to his ear as he walks past her to his desk.
Susan straightens her blazer. She could really use an aggravating statement from Ash right now to pump her up before facing her boss’s boss. She forces her chin high as she enters the office.
Doherty isn’t in the office and it instantly annoys and worries Susan to see the woman is seated in his seat behind his desk. Could Doherty have been relieved of his position and this woman is his replacement? The woman, in her freshly pressed blazer that probably cost three times what Susan spent on her clearance rack blazer, is staring down at her cell, both of her thumbs are typing away on the screen at lighting speed. She sees Susan walking in and sets the phone down to greet her. “Hello, Susan. I’m Daphne,” she says in a soft, overly feminine voice like she was reading a bedtime story to a small child. Susan wonders if she really talks like that or if it’s for her sake. “I work with the council. How do you do?” Susan relaxes stepping closer to the desk. Daphne is attractive, even if her voice is a bit too much in her oversized black blazer that’s a shade darker than her straight, chin length hair. The collar on Susan’s blazer has never been as smooth as the collar is on Daphne’s even when she’d first bought it two years ago. Daphne probably has hers dry cleaned.
“Happy to be back,” Susan says with a smile, more happy to hear that Daphne works for the council and isn’t here to replace Doherty.
“Have a seat,” Daphne instructs, seeming to have made herself at home in Doherty’s private office organizing the desk in neat stacks and lining up the pens to the right of her.
The two comfortable arm chairs facing Doherty’s desk have cardboard boxes marked “shred” stacked on them, all full to the brim with papers and folders. She considers just setting them on the floor, but there are boxes scattered across the floor as well. Not worth it. Off to the side of Doherty’s desk is a beat up metal folding chair. Her butt hurts just looking at it. Daphne waits.
“I’ve been sitting all day,” she tells Daphne. “I prefer to stand.”
“Have it your way,” Daphne says absently, moving a pen up just a hair more to have it line up to the notebook in front of her. Next she places a yellow highlighter a couple inches to the right of the pen, making sure that they line up at the bottom. “I was hoping you could tell me how it was that you were able to get both the pastor’s and…” she looks over at Doherty’s computer screen in front of her, “…Mr. Heincliff’s bodies shipped to us in such a rush.”
Susan glances at the notebook again. Daphne must have read her email to Doherty about the Andre Heincliff alias. If it had been Bill who told her the suspect’s name, then she would have written it down.
“It helped that the first body was already processed when we ended up with the second.” She stops, waiting for the next question, but Daphne remains silent, looking at Susan with a small, expectant smile on her face. Susan takes a deep breath slowly releasing it, then continues. “With paperwork going on for the first suspect, we were able to be somewhat speedier with the second. You know, copy and paste. We replaced the pastor’s name with the second guy’s alias.”
Daphne carefully places her elbow on the desk so as not to disturb the evenly-spaced writing implements. When she looks up from the desk, Susan knows that she isn’t going for it. “You’ve been working for the department long enough to know that transferring suspects doesn’t happen the same day the body is rolled in.” Susan isn’t sure if she’s asking a question or stating a fact, so Susan opens her mouth to reply but Daphne turns from her to look down at the desk. She lifts a paper from the desk, holding it out at arm’s length with an ever-so-small curl to her glossed lips. Susan has to walk around the boxes to get within reach. Daphne stays comfortably in Doherty’s chair.
With a thin smile, Susan reads the correspondence from the Wyoming Chief of Police to Doherty. Whole passages have been highlighted in bright yellow. “Why are we receiving communications from Wyoming wanting further information on possible terrorist cells?” Daphne asks when Susan’s only halfway down the page.
Susan lowers the paper, looking at Daphne straight in the eye. She may not have done things by the book, but she isn’t going to tuck her tail between her legs just because this chick works for the council. “My team was in charge of tracking down whoever was responsible for the hospital attacks. Expediting the suspect’s transfers was part of that duty.” She pauses, thinking how best to put it. “It’s possible that their police force was under the impression that the instances we were investigating were more mainstream acts of terrorism.”
Daphne picks up her pen looking through her lashes at Susan. “So you made the chief of police think that these two were part of some mass terror cell?” She makes a sour face as she says it.
Susan looks down at the ground, keeping her voice as professional as possible. “Neither Bill or myself answered their questions in regards to why we were searching for these men so intensely. At one point, I briefly mentioned the use of viral agents and that someone with the right credentials could get their hands on them...I may have also mentioned that I had thought would be best to use those agents on oneself to have the most controlled and effective vector in transmission...” she looks up and is surprised to see that Daphne’s smile has broadened, “Well, after that, everyone seemed less interested in paperwork.”
Daphne nods knowingly. “So they thought they were in danger of being exposed to some sort of virus?”
Susan can’t help but smirk, although it’s probably the wrong move. In truth, they were probably more worried about their entire state being exposed. She and Bill hadn’t bothered to keep their voices down when discussing the high rate of transmission. “Yes,” she says, “probably something like that.”
Daphne stares down at Doherty’s desk for a long while. Her smile is gone, replaced with a thoughtful look that pulls at the tiny crow’s feet running from her eyes. Would she fire them for this? Surely, it would just be Susan since she was in charge of the team. Besides, Bill had only followed her lead.
“There’s something else,” Susan expels with her breath. “I had to get them back quickly because of what was found in the back of the second suspect’s car.” Daphne tilts her head down, looking up expectantly at Susan though her eyelashes. “If you read my email to Doherty, you know the second suspect who died running from police was a Seraphim. The crime scene investigators who worked the crash after the suspect was taken to the hospital found a cardboard box in the trunk of the car.” Daphne looks over at the computer as if checking Susan’s email to confirm what she’s telling her. “In the box was information about each of the hospitals that were bombed.”
“How do you know that the pastor hadn’t given the box to him before he committed suicide?”
“That was a thought at first, but there were things in there to indicate he was the one planning the attacks. There was information about other Seraphim who hadn’t been attacked yet—addresses, building schematics, burn phones, lots of petty cash. Everything except the gear he would have needed to actually follow through on any of it.”
Daphne is on the computer now, her face hard as she watches the screen. She clicks quickly, absorbed in typing for a moment.
It takes a moment before she speaks, still looking at her screen. We should have sent people to cover these locations as soon as you go them.”
“Well, there was nothing to show us that he had anyone else working for him. The burn phones were full of numbers we could link to Pastor Dave in Louisiana
and then in Wyoming, and then the call logs ended once it looks like the pastor died. He may have continued to plan attacks on Seraphim, but I think he’d used up all of his resources.”
Daphne relaxes, pulling one hand away from the keyboard to rest her chin on her knuckles. “You’re certain there was no one else?”
“We would have called Doherty directly if we weren’t.” Susan pauses. It’s not the exact truth, but it’s close enough. Daphne could be a Veritatis; the possibility sends a wave of worry through her before Susan realizes she probably would have been called out already. “I did try to call Doherty to fill him in, but I couldn’t through to him,” she adds. Daphne points at the correspondence from Wyoming that Susan is still holding, motioning for her to hand it back. “In the future,” Daphne says, taking the paper from Susan, “I expect you to follow the law to the letter, including those surrounding proper paperwork. At least while I’m in charge.”
“Agreed.” Susan says, relieved, but she doesn’t move for the door.
“I look forward to reading your full report by the end of the day. I hope you won’t leave anything out this time,” Daphne says, setting the correspondence down before returning both hands to the keyboard. She types feverously, not bothering to look back at Susan who hasn’t moved.
There’s no point in dragging it out. “Are you going to tell me where Detective Doherty is?”
Daphne looks up, her brow furrowing in confusion, and her hands rest on the keyboard. “No one told you?” “Bill and I haven’t been told anything.”
Daphne purses her lips. “It was one of the detectives from your team who made the call. I had assumed…” she straightens in her seat. “Detective Lane notified the office of high levels of Seraphim activity in Baton Rouge, where he was following one of your leads. He identified some of those Seraphim as people of interest in our investigation on the school raid. Doherty sent a small group out to assist him in bringing them in.” Daphne pauses, glancing down at her desk, unsure how best to proceed. “During their efforts, SWAT was called, and the building went on lockdown.” She meets Susan’s eyes again. “I know there were shots fired, some of ours injured.”
Susan shuts her eyes for a second, trying to take in what’s being said. Injuries, shots fired, some of ours. Daphne keeps talking.
“No fatalities were reported.”
Susan feels heat in her neck, her head clouded. “Where did they take the injured?”
Daphne jots down an address on one of Doherty’s sticky pads and hands it to her. “With a case this extensive, we don’t have time to waste.”
“Understood,” she says. She snaps the address from Daphne’s outstretched fingers. Lane was doing his job, and so were the others. She could have been the one to follow Catherine McBride, but she didn’t. Blaming herself won’t help whoever it was that got hurt. She’ll find time to feel guilty later.
Chapter 18
A security guard stops our car when Mom slows to turn into the parking lot with twenty or so cars in it in the middle of a vast, undeveloped commercial property. He’s impressively menacing for someone whose job is to watch parked vehicles. His muscles bulge out from under his uniform, making me think that he should be wearing at least a size larger.
Bryant had already prepared for an interior search of the car. About five miles back, we’d pulled over into an empty gas station, and he’d placed all of our weapons in the trunk.
The guard checks ID’s. “I don’t have ID,” I tell him. I don’t have anything besides the clothes on my back since being taken by Gradney Sipe. He looks up from Mom and Bryant’s licenses to eye my suspiciously in the backseat. “She’s my daughter,” Mom tells him.
“You aren’t going to give them any trouble in there are you?” he asks, jotting down Mom and Bryant’s information. “No, sir,” I say meekly. He steps back from the car moving to the back of the car to look down at our license plate and writes it down. “You can pull in,” he says, pointing us to the visitor’s section of the parking lot. “And don’t speak to any of the locals about anything related to the goings-on inside. If anyone asks why you’re here, make something up.”
The parking lot has a large pristine lawn that encircles the four-story building. Beyond are thick woods, all with posted for sale signs listing the “will build to suit” thirty-three and one-half acreage. The building itself would be quite dull if it weren’t for the occasional glimpse of someone on the roof holding a semiautomatic rifle.
There are more security guards once we get inside. Metal detectors are front and center as soon as we step past the threshold. They loom over us; we are forced to either retreat back outside or succumb to the metal detectors’ silent demands for assessment. Guards stand at the metal detectors, watching everyone who enters. Bryant goes for the detector on the left; I follow Mom to the metal detector on the right. With no lounging area setup inside the entryway it would be too suspect for anyone to not go straight to them.
I go through the metal detector looking at the wide staircase at the other end of the entrance hall. Mom and Bryant are both stopped by the guards once through the detectors. I walk through without the guards giving me a second glance. The elegant wooden handrails sticking out from the staircase are the size of my head where they curl at the end. The wooden staircase stained dark curves to the right as it ascends to the next floor. I like the handrails the more I look at them curling in a flourish. It’s the only attractive thing the original builders seemed to have taken particular pride in that I can see.
Otherwise, the decor is plain, a pair of unadorned metal elevators tucked off to the right. The walls are, for the most part, bare, a few evenly-spaced rods suggesting something that once hung. I pass the detectors without much pause and head for the staircase. The floral intricacies winding down the banister are striking. I glide my fingers up the wide staircase, taking the first few steps. I turn to lean against the banister as Mom joins me. I hear footsteps descending the stairs so I move closer to the right side of the staircase even though there’s plenty of room. The man in a dark gray suit steps off of the stairs giving Mom and I a cordial nod as he hurries to the front doors. The guard at the detector Mom and I had gone through waves him under the metal detector, not stopping him when the detector buzzes. Mom and I wait as Bryant finishes his chat with the guard that stopped him.
“The second floor is where all the conference rooms were, so that’s where the council is having their hearings and trials,” Bryant says when he joins us. Bryant had been in the building when Sidney sent the call out that I needed help, so he knows the basic layout.
When we reach the second floor, there’s another set of stairs that go straight up. There’s no pretty banister or intricate design this time.
We turn to our right and head down the hallway. The walls are bare, but there are tiny holes surrounded by large rectangles where the wallpaper has just barely faded. I picture portraits of professional, balding old men.
At the end of the short hall, Bryant takes us to a set of doors where a guard stands. He doesn’t make eye contact with any of us as we walk up; I hope Bryant knows what he’s doing.
I’m eyeing the bench between the elevator doors to the guard’s left wondering if the same person who stained the stairs also stained the wooden bench when the elevator dings. Another security guard steps off of the elevator closest to us.
He looks directly at Bryant. “Detectives want you downstairs to give a statement of the day’s events.” He looks between the three of us and the double doors. “They’ll still be in there when you get done.”
Great. I can already feel boredom setting in. Bryant turns to us as he walks towards the security guard. “I’ll be back.”
“We’ll be fine,” Mom tells him before Bryant gives us a reassuring smile and steps onto the elevator with the guard. When the elevators close Mom turns to face the shut doors that the guard is stationed beside. “Will’s in there,” she says, staring hard at the doors.
I look betw
een her and the doors. “How do you know that?”
“The guard at the metal detectors told me. He’s the first Seraphim to be put on trial for the raid.”
“Trail, already? The council just got here yesterday. How can he already be on trial?” I step toward the doors, but Mom takes my arm.
She pulls me to her side and wraps her arm around my shoulders, kissing the side of my head. “He’s going to be in trouble no matter what for not reaching to them prior to the raid. We just have to hope that they see how imperative it was for him to move on the Rogue school.”
That’s why the security guard knew it would be a while before they’d be opening the doors to the courtroom, because my uncle’s trial had already started. I wonder if Bryant knew this whole time that Uncle Will was going to be put on trial and just didn’t want to tell us. I had watched some publicized trials when I was still living a normal life at home with my parents. It could take years from the time that a crime was committed for a suspect to stand trial.
It took the Supreme Council less than twenty-four hours. No wonder Dad and Jake made the drive here from New Orleans to give their statements so quickly.
As I watch the doors, I imagine Uncle Will was walking into the courtroom with a group of lawyers around the same time that I was sitting down to have my blood drawn by Kian Sipe. The guard stationed outside of the courtroom is nice enough to inform us a few minutes after Bryant’s leaving that there is no admittance once a trial has begun as if we hadn’t already guessed that. My mom, sweet as she normally is, openly scowls as the minutes tick by. Fearing that she may be about to chew the guard out, I direct her to the bench by the elevators. She seems to melt into the bench once we’ve sat down. Her feet slide out from under her and her back presses into the bench as she lays her head back pushing her hands down into the tops of her thighs as she stretches. She tilts her head up, shutting her eyes as her lips make tiny, silent movements. She might be saying a prayer for Uncle Will or expressing her gratitude for finding me alive. The stress could easily be getting to her. She’s gotten me out of trouble just to turn around and find out that another loved one could be in serious trouble. I want to ask her how she’s been, tell her how much I’ve missed her, but I remind myself that we aren’t alone. The guard is probably watching me watch my mom as I stare over at her taking in how her forehead dips down to the bridge of her nose.