by Brad Carl
"Yes, it seems that way," Jackson replied and then snapped his fingers. "But I just remembered something."
He trotted back to his desk and woke up his computer by shaking the mouse. Balinda Simmons's email was still opened on his monitor. He printed the two screenshots of Henry Fields and brought them back to the conference room.
"Up until a couple of hours ago we had no record of what he looked like. I received these photos from a local TV station. We still don't think Fields was involved with Salazar. But since he took off the way he did...you may as well have these for your file."
"Interesting," DeMarco said. "I appreciate it." She gathered all the paperwork into her briefcase and stood up. "Thanks again for your help, gentlemen," she said.
"Our pleasure," Chief Perkins said, handing her a couple of business cards. "Here are our cards, just in case."
After saying their goodbyes at the door, the two police officers walked back into the office.
"They didn't make them like that when I was in the academy," Perkins said. "She's a hot number."
"She could probably kick both of our asses at the same time," Jackson commented.
"Wouldn't that be fun?" Chief Perkins joked. He then paused and looked at his worn-out sergeant. "Go home and get some sleep, Jack. Thanks for staying."
#
At seven thirty that evening, Delia DeMarco rented a room at the Stone Creek Inn in Adler. It had been a long day, and she needed a good night's sleep before hitting the road and heading back to the Windy City. The Stone Creek Inn was a comfortable and quiet hotel with an adjoining restaurant. After grabbing some dinner, she went back to her room, took a quick shower, and got dressed for bed. She opened her briefcase and laid the report and paperwork in front of her on the desk.
She picked up the pictures of Henry Fields and studied them for a moment. Nothing about him jumped out at her. She knew all the major players, of course, but there were always ones out there she didn't know.
Agent DeMarco reached into her briefcase for her smartphone. Using its camera, she scanned a picture of Henry Fields and uploaded it to the FBI database. She included a message that read: "Request facial recognition."
DeMarco didn't know if it would come back with any type of match, but having the FBI take a look wouldn't hurt anything. Chances were good this guy was just a drifter. He more than likely had had enough excitement and near-death experiences to last a lifetime and decided to run away from it all.
She set her phone down and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. When she returned a few minutes later, her phone was already flashing. Delia picked it up, glanced at the results, and did a quick double take. She had expected the results to come back negative. Squinting to make sure she was seeing everything accurately, it became clear to her there was a match. But something wasn't right about it. Reaching into her briefcase, Delia grabbed the business cards she had received from the Gable Police. She tried to reach Chief Perkins first, but it went to voicemail. Sergeant Jackson answered on the second ring.
"Sergeant, this is Delia DeMarco," she said.
"Yes ma'am," Jackson replied as politely as possible. It wasn't every day the DEA called his mobile phone. He was sitting in a recliner watching television.
"I'm sorry to bother you so late," Delia said, "but I just discovered something I thought you should know before I turned it over to the FBI."
In one motion, Jackson pulled the lever on his recliner and sat up.
"Wow. Ok. What's that?"
"The Henry Fields story piqued my curiosity, so I ran the pictures you gave me through facial recognition in the FBI database. It came back with an eighty-one percent match."
"What does that mean, exactly?" Jackson asked, wondering if it meant Fields had a police record. But that wouldn't explain why DeMarco was turning it over to the FBI.
"Henry Fields is not Henry Fields," Delia explained. "His name is Barrett Greyson. And he's wanted for questioning about his involvement in a murder."
"Really?" Jackson exclaimed. His wife shushed him to not wake up their children. "Are you sure?" Jackson added, more quietly this time.
"Eighty-one percent sure, Sergeant."
TO BE CONTINUED
(Turn the page, dear reader)
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