The Eyes Have No Soul

by Matthew W. Harrill

  Her only concession was her footwear. She glanced down at the pair of khaki walking shoes she wore everywhere, the word 'Berghaus' emblazoned on the side in black stitching. Dried mud crept up the sides of the soles, evidence of her walk through the gorgeous autumn woodland on her way to the bus, the golden leaves of the American Linden mixed with the reds and greens of fading oak. Clare preferred the outdoors. It was the unexplained circumstance of her parents' death that had led her from the woods and into the forensics labs, via a degree from Boston in Criminal Justice.

  Only half an hour before, she had been in the lab, white-coated and studious, working her way through the backlog of rape kits that had been pouring into the department. This particular kit had been proving most elusive. Despite the extensive set of swabs and clothing, all results appeared to just fade away before her, the analysis always proving inconclusive. Clare was a firm believer in logic and ran her finger over the small golden badge on the lapel of her blouse as if to remind herself why she was doing this.

  The call had come out of the blue. Captain Latchford wanted to see her. This could mean only one thing. Her test results were in, and she had an interview for patrol. At long last, she would be one step closer to a place that would make a difference, a place she could use her skills to find the answers both she and Jeff had sought for the last dozen years. She had never wanted anything more for herself than closure.

  Turning away from the mirror, Clare pulled on the handle of the restroom door. Her hand slipped, slick with sweat. She really was nervous now. Wiping her hand on the ridged fabric of her skirt, she tried again and made it into the hallway. The door slammed shut behind her, and she jumped. Clenching her jaw, she thrust her hands down by her sides, taking a deep breath and ignoring the chuckles of a couple of passing beat-cops.

  The hallways of the precinct were much the same in nature to that of the restroom. Clare felt, as she often did, that she might well be walking the set of Hill Street Blues with the crowded bulletin boards dripping leaflets of rule and instruction, missing people, out-of-date social events. The cops that held sway here didn't realize they were in the twenty-first century. The musty scent of old, curled paper stuck in the back of her mouth. The hallways were cloying in the early autumn and unbearable in the summer. At least, her labs were clean and air-conditioned.

  Polished floor tiles gleamed as the over-bright panelled ceiling illumination shone back up at her, causing Clare to squint. As she reached the conference room, the location of her interview, the notices were replaced with framed scenes of faded old Worcester and the officers, men with integrity, who had founded this station. It gave her pride to know that at one time, there had been people interested in the actual job of policing.

  Clare took a deep breath and closed her eyes, steadying her nerves. Inside this room lay her future. Beyond this door were the answers she sought and had worked so hard for, how her parents had died. She knocked once, the sound echoing down the empty hallway behind her, and entered.

  The centerpiece of the conference room was a flag that hung from the ceiling. The dark blue background hosted the shield she had strived to earn, with the words 'Worcester Police Department' emblazoned in gold beneath it. This symbol had always given Clare hope, and more than a little longing for resolution. Yet today, the flag went unnoticed as Clare stared in disbelief at the people gathered around the table beneath it. All men. The scene looked like the parole hearings in The Shawshank Redemption, and her stomach began to tighten.

  Two of the group Clare did not know, but she recognized Detective Paul Barton and his cohort, Lieutenant Nick Morgan in an instant, sneers on the faces of both. There was no sign of Captain Latchford. This did not bode well. She approached and took her seat.

  One of the unknown men, bordering on elderly with sagging jowls and a belly that threatened to burst his uniform asked, “And you are?”

  “Clare Rosser, sir.” He had rank over her whether he displayed it or not. “Be polite,” Mom had said in one of her last lucid moments before Boston. The memory had stuck.

  In response, the old man turned to his colleagues. “Looks like they'll let anyone apply for patrol now.” He proceeded to wheeze a laugh at his own joke.

  Clare let it slide. This was too important. Her entire life had built to this moment. “If I may, I was called here by Captain Latchford. Is he not part of the interview panel?”

  Barton, a thug with tiny, suspicious eyes, squinted at her beneath a crop of curly brown hair and shuffled papers on the table in front of him. “I'm afraid Devin had to step out. A case of… what did he call it?”

  “Boiling, twisted guts is how he described the feeling,” supplied Morgan, a short, suave man but known to contain a ferocious temper behind his dark looks. “As it stands, you're double-booked. Please go to room forty-two, where your interview will take place. Thank you.”

  And that was it. Struggling to breathe amidst the testosterone wafting from this collection of alpha males, Clare turned with as much dignity as she could muster and left.

  Her destination was only a few doors down. The wooden door was painted white with frosted glass, the kind that looked like it had a grid of metal wiring going through. It was a typical soulless representation of the entire precinct in Clare's opinion. The polished brass nameplate read 'Captain Andrew Harley' in black letters. This meant a rejection. To Clare, it was the worst kind of no. Yet, she persisted.

  Clare knocked three times on the door and waited. Patience was a virtue. There were voices within, jovial in nature. The glass darkened, and the door opened after a brief pause. Wearing his trademark oversized blue suit trousers and a beige shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the aging detective Mike Caruso finished a joke, walking past her without acknowledgement. Clare was left in the hallway, an open door between her and the captain's desk.

  A few awkward moments passed before Harley glanced up. “Ah Clare, there you are. Come in and take a seat.”

  On his deathbed, Harley will be perfunctory. Doing as bidden, Clare shut the door behind her, sitting opposite the captain, arranging her skirt to her satisfaction, and brushing her hair back. The room was soundproofed. Despite its age, there was an utter lack of noise anywhere, now that she sat still. It was unnerving. Resting her hands in her lap, Clare waited for the Captain to finish reading through his documentation. It gave her a chance to study his face. With a granite jaw and receding grey hair, he was every bit the aging commander, safe in the knowledge that he would end his career exactly where he had started it. The yellowed tips of his agitated fingers and slight wheeze when he breathed told a different story. Harley was a well-known chain-smoker who no doubt wanted nothing better than to be outside puffing away. The room stank of stale smoke, more than should be from an outside smoker, testament to the fact that he didn't always obey office rules. Clare suspected that with the stress of the job he wouldn't make retirement.

  “So then. Clare. Clarey-Clare. Let's see.” His voice, while deep, had traces of his addiction in it, the graveled tones he used to end sentences, the slight breathlessness.

  “What do we have here? Born, Worcester, nineteen eighty-two.” He paused and glanced up at her as if he couldn't quite believe the fact. “You attended Davis Hill Elementary School, Holden. You then moved on to Wachusett Regional High School, Holden. Not one for adventure, are we? Ah, here we have it. You graduated with a Degree in Criminal Justice, Boston. Then straight back here, enrolling in the department as an analyst, exceling in forensic science ever since.” The unspoken question was left hanging.

  “Why do you care why I stayed? Most people stay near where they're born and raised. My brother was here, as you well know. I felt obliged to look after him. As it was, I was home every weekend until he joined me in Boston. You know all of this. This isn't a real job interview. Why persist with the charade?”

  Harley shuffled through his documents, ignoring her question, the noise of sheet scraping sheet irritating her. “Ah yes Jeff, your younger half-brothe
r, the only other occupant of your house other than Steve the cat.”

  The mention of the tortoiseshell stray she had fostered brought a small smile to Clare's mouth.

  “You brought up your brother alone?”

  “I had no choice. It was that or the foster care system, which was pointless since he was almost eighteen. After my parents…”

  “Ched and Patricia Rosser,” Harley supplied as if their names weren't already burned into her soul.

  “Found dead October twenty-second, two thousand and two. Cause of death?” He looked up, his face unreadable. “It appears this was inconclusive.”

  “There was more to it than an inconclusive result, and you know it,” Clare argued. “You were there, in my house when I arrived, with no crime scene left to analyze, after an hour of examination!”

  “There were suspicious circumstances with no evidence. I know this, Miss Rosser. My report is still perfectly legible.”

  “There were stains on the floor…”

  “No evidence. It says so in this report. This signed and authenticated report.”

  Harley pushed a folder yellowed with age across his desk toward her, opening it so she could read. The words 'death by natural cause' burned into her mind. There was no such thing. Not with so many police there, and Feds to boot.

  Harley stared at her. Unbowed, Clare stared straight back, only averting her gaze to brush her hair back once more.

  Harley grunted at her evident admission of subservience and continued to read. “All right then. Written test scores came back as ninety-eight percent. That's quite exceptional. Your use of logic is without flaw, just about.”

  Clare was stunned, blinking a couple of times; she caught her breath. “Does that mean I get the job?”

  “In a word, no.”

  Clare's heart sank. She had expected this result given the turn of events, yet she had fostered a glimmer of hope in her heart. Harley had done this on purpose, baiting her. He had never liked her, not since the first time they had met, her as a student challenging his sloppy methods at the scene of her parents' death. If he were to have a motto, she was sure it would read, 'never question the alpha-male'.

  “Logic is not the only way to solve a crime. We were looking for a demonstration of insight, of gut instinct in your written test. You failed to think outside of the box, and in our patrolmen, especially those who have aspirations to detective, we want those that see the trees and notice more than a collection of wood and leaves.”

  “Those test scores must without any doubt put me ahead of anybody else who has taken them.” Clare was growing incensed. The decision had been made, against all logical reasoning.

  “That's not your problem. You are a great forensic expert. You use facts and rules and apply them to the job. That is enough for what you do in analysis. It is not the only required skill to make detective. We both know why you want the job, and it is not to solve any other crime but that which you perceive has been committed on your parents. Let me be as clear as I can to you.” Harley leaned forward, his eyes piercing. “That. Case. Is. Closed. If you keep persisting in trying to find answers that are not there, you will find yourself out of a job in this department and, without a doubt, on the wrong side of a jail cell. Give it up. Keep doing what you do best. Good morning.”

  The dismissal brooked no argument. Captain Harley turned away, picking up his cell phone. Soon, he was chortling to another colleague, the topic of discussion sexist and ribald.

  Clare remained seated, glaring at her nemesis. She wouldn't be dismissed this way. At least not until Harley noticed her still present and flicked his hand toward the door, dismissing her without even looking. Maintaining her dignity, Clare left without looking back, though inwardly she was seething. Her dream was shattered.

  Chapter Two

  This wasn't over. Clare stood staring at Harley's door, trying to imagine how that conversation could have taken any other direction. Her dreams dashed again.

  “For now,” Clare growled at the office, the scent of defeat only a whiff in her nostrils.

  “What's for now?” A voice, polite and very familiar, enquired. Versace perfume confirmed the presence of a friend.

  Clare turned away from hurling imaginary insults at her nemesis, to find the diminutive Tina Svinsky, all bubbles and cheer, smiling up at her. “Walk with me.”

  Tina fell in beside her, the frenetic movement of a shorter person attempting to keep up with her taller companion comedic in nature. Clare produced a rueful smile. Tina Svinsky was ten years her senior and at an inch over five feet in height, five inches shorter. During Clare's tenure in forensics, Tina had become the darling of the precinct. She made detective younger than anybody in the history of Worcester P.D., served on several multi-jurisdictional federal taskforces combating organized crime, and had earned the nickname 'The Golden Sweeper' for her insight and seemingly preternatural ability to clean up an ever-growing list of murder-one cases. The world was going straight to hell, except for Tina's aptitude for solving crime. She had become everything Clare wanted to be.

  “So do you want to tell me what happened back there?” Tina said this without looking at her as they traversed the hallways of the precinct. Fortunately for Clare, the station was a large enough hub that she could avoid Harley should she so desire.

  “He stiffed me,” Clare muttered. “I didn't make patrol again. That's the third time in six years. The promotion panel was full of his cronies and they sent me to him for my own personal interview.” She snorted a laugh of derision. “Apparently, I am one hell of an analyst but will never be detective material so I'm not even going on the beat.” Her comment was ladled in sarcasm.

  “Where was Captain Latchford? Isn't he responsible for promotions in his department?”

  “They said he was taken ill. Right before I went in. I had the call from him not thirty minutes before the interview.”

  A janitor bustled past, pushing a bucket on wheels with the handle of his mop. He kept his head down as he passed the two women, but Clare watched him as he moved to the far side of the hallway. The janitor stole a glance at her as he slunk around a corner on his way to what she presumed was his lair in some distant part of the building. He looked at her as though he knew her, his face somewhat familiar; it creeped Clare out.

  Tina followed Clare's gaze. “Everything all right?”

  “I feel like I know that guy.”

  “The janitor?”

  Clare brushed her hair back with a finger. “I don't know. It's one of those days, I guess.”

  Tina reached round with an arm, constricting Clare with a tight squeeze. Small definitely did not mean weak. “I'm sorry, sweetie. I wish there was something I could do.”

  “Can't you speak to your bosses? I can do this, Tina.”

  “Sorry, hun. They are out of town. That's the thing about working for multiple jurisdictions. Nobody knows from one day to the next where they might end up. Besides, you know they keep their own counsel on who they choose to join their ranks. Until you are noticed, or I join the ranking officers of the task force, your job is here. Your best chance is doing something unprecedented.” Tina stopped at a gray door, very nondescript and unassuming. She placed her hand on Clare's arm. “Look, I'm here for a week or so. I'm babysitting some junior detectives who're looking into thefts at the unopened wing of St Vincent's hospital. I've got to head out now to that half-staffed county jail for a couple hours. That's where they're holding the suspects. When I get back, let's get together to work on highlighting your transferable skills and honing the instinct you don't appear to need. In time, maybe you will get that chance.”

  “My analysis of the situation concludes you are correct.”

  Tina grinned impudently in return, evidently pleased that she had gotten through, and with a quick bob of the head, disappeared into the dark room beyond the gray door.

  Clare signed and resumed her trudging march to the forensics lab.

  Two flights of stairs and
several sterile hallways later, Clare was still wondering what her purpose in life really was as she entered her home away from home, the Worcester Police Department's forensic analysis labs. She took a deep breath, leaning forward until her forehead touched the rough surface of the doorframe where varnish had long peeled away. They were going to want to know what went on upstairs. She pulled on the cool stainless steel handle, breaching the divide between the archaic past and the scientific future of policing.

  The forensics lab was one of the few parts of the precinct to have been upgraded. Along with the morgue, which would once not have looked out of place in a fifties horror flick, Clare's lab had been granted funds by a state committee who were attempting to bring policing into the twenty-first century. Naturally, the upgrade had been resisted by Harley and his troop of eighties throwbacks. In a rare move, the District Attorney had thrown out their objections and forced them to embrace the technological advances of the new world. Everybody had an agenda.

  Clare pulled the door closed with a little too much force. The slam caused all three of her colleagues to stop and look up from their respective niches in amongst shelves bearing reference books, ultra-modern spectrometers and other assorted gadgetry. She took a moment to breathe in the scents. Ancient knowledge, passed down in writing since the first great scientists realized that evidence could solve cases with irrefutable proof, mixed with newly polished wood and modern fabrics. It calmed her. The lab was bright with fake lighting, but this was new; the aim was to simulate day. No wonder the team had the reputation of living in another world from the rest of the precinct.

  “Here to pick up your junk?” asked Sunny Chen, a second generation Chinese American, without looking up from the mass spectrometer. His words were blunt, but he meant well.

  “Not this time.” Clare attempted to put a brave face on, but her voice was full of frustration.