Lack of Jurisdiction

by G. K. Parks

  “Alex,” Eastman called as I entered the control room which was now packed with Secret Service agents, “what’s happening?”

  “A body was discovered on the seventh floor. COD and TOD are unknown. Are they calling the police?”

  “I don’t know. A couple of the federal agents came in and asked questions about the monitors and then shoved me out of the way, so they could watch the surveillance feed. Do we know what happened or who died?”

  “No.” Spotting the Secret Service agent I followed to the scene entering the office, I made a beeline to him. “What do we know? Was he still warm?” It was a morbid question, but I was under the impression that the camera distortion must have been timed to fit in with the hanging, self-inflicted or otherwise. Therefore, when the corpse was discovered, it still should have been warm.

  He narrowed his eyes. “I can’t say much, but it wasn’t recent.” He glanced at Eastman. “The two of you were in the control room and radioed for the team to check out the camera. Go wait in the conference room with the other two PDN employees. We’ll send someone in to question you once we figure this mess out.”

  There was no point in protesting, so I exited the room without another word. Paul asked a few questions and protested the roles we were relegated to, but by the time the elevator doors chimed, he was next to me.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “You tell me,” I growled, entering the elevator and hitting the close door button. “I only left you alone for a few minutes, and when I came back, monitor nine was on the fritz. What the hell happened in those three minutes I was gone?”

  He snorted. “You really think I had something to do with this? In case you’ve forgotten, Ms. Parker, I’m in charge of this team and fortifying hotel security. So why the hell would I orchestrate a murder?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I didn’t do it. And as soon as we’re dismissed, turn over your I.D. and get the hell out. You’re fired.”

  “Actually, I quit.” I shoved the radio and temporary security pass at him. “And if you come anywhere near me or Martin Technologies, I will take out a restraining order and file stalking charges against you.”

  “God,” he muttered, “I can’t believe that I ever hired someone like you. A paranoid, delusional, psycho bitch.”

  “Keep talking and I’ll add a few more items to that list.”

  As soon as the elevator doors opened, I stormed out. Death made me bitchy, and my ex-boss was at the top of my suspect list. First, he came into the control room, smelling of liquor and asking inappropriate questions, and then he supposedly missed the disturbance on camera nine, and now there was a dead man inside the hotel. Maybe that was paranoia, but I preferred to call it cautious.

  Opening the door, I stepped inside. At least in the conference room, Mike and Kenneth could act as a buffer. The room was windowless and isolating. Were the cops on the way? Who was taking point on the murder, if it even was a murder? So many questions needed answers, and here I was, unable to get them and not permitted to leave. My role at the hotel was over. Either I was fired or I quit, and oddly enough, my mind was focused on which of those would be the case instead of the corpse on level seven.

  Eastman kept his distance and made small talk with the other two PDN employees. Kenneth was no longer green, but he was a ghostly shade of pale. The fact that his boss kept dithering on about sports scores wasn’t helping to take the edge off. Typically, I would have offered whatever sage advice I had based on personal experience, but I didn’t want to interact with Eastman or anyone he was talking to. Mike seemed to catch on to this because he would glance in my direction every so often. The minutes ticked by, and the faintest sound of sirens echoed in the distance.

  Another hour later, and I wondered if I imagined the sirens. Then I spotted a uniformed police officer at the conference room door. He spoke a few words to the Secret Service agent who accompanied him. Then he opened the door.

  “Ms. Parker? May I have a word?”

  “Absolutely,” I replied, standing.

  Eastman glanced up, looking startled. “For the record, gentlemen, Ms. Parker is no longer a PDN employee. Nothing she says is representative of PDN or its mission.”

  The law enforcement officer ignored Paul, and I rolled my eyes, resisting the urge to comment further. It would be childish to sink to his level. I was better than that, and there were more important concerns, like the dead guy swinging from the utility cable.

  Five

  “Detective Jacobs would like a word with you,” the cop said, escorting me to the stairwell. When the door opened, Jacobs was speaking with a group of Secret Service agents. After a few minutes, he excused himself and came toward me.

  “Parker,” he smiled, “funny running into you here.”

  “What? Were Detectives O’Connell and Heathcliff too busy to make the drive themselves?” I quipped. Jacobs was one of the cops at the precinct, but not someone I worked with. Maybe we said hello in the hallways a few times, but that was it.

  “Don’t ask.” He rolled his eyes. “We’ve identified the deceased, but at this time, we’re not sharing information with any outsiders. Suffice it to say, he’s the night clerk, but given the current international conference, they asked if he could pick up a few extra shifts.” He flipped open his notepad. “What can you tell me?”

  “I don’t know the guy. When the camera went wonky, I followed a Secret Service agent and discovered the body.”

  “No,” he shook his head, “what can you tell me about the security personnel that was hired?” He lowered his voice. “Specifically, the guards that discovered the body.”

  “I don’t know much. Everyone went through extensive background checks and psych evals before being granted security clearance by the government. We’ve all been vetted, so you should ask whoever’s in charge of that.”

  “What was your spat in the elevator about?” He looked up from the notepad, finding a look of surprise on my face. “I did a preliminary review of the security footage around the time the body was discovered.”

  “My boss, well, ex-boss decided to infringe upon my private life in an attempt to make some under the table deal with one of the businessmen at the conference. I don’t take too kindly to being used.”

  He nodded and made a few notes. “All right, thanks. Officer Sarcone will escort you back to the conference room. And, Parker, try not to put anyone in the hospital while you wait to be formally questioned.”

  “Then don’t make me wait too long.” I tossed a sly grin at him and went upstairs. My reputation and smartass attitude were both well-known throughout the police department, so I wasn’t worried about Jacobs taking my hollow threat seriously.

  “What did they want?” Eastman asked as soon as I returned to the conference room.

  “To say hi.” I rolled my eyes. “What do you think they wanted?” Since I didn’t work for him, there was no need to be respectful.

  “When are they planning to question us?” Mike interjected, probably afraid he’d have to separate the two of us. “It’d be nice to get back to work or go home. Shit, it’d be nice just to get out of this room.”

  “Soon,” I muttered, sitting at one end of the table.

  Shutting my eyes, I leaned back and visualized the scene. There were too many unknowns. And asking Mike or Kenneth any questions would potentially compromise their interviews, so I resisted. The room remained silent, and my mind wandered to questions concerning jurisdiction. Since the deceased was a hotel employee, the ME would have to determine if it was murder or suicide before the local authorities could investigate. However, with dozens of potential international suspects and Secret Service agents already onsite, I’d wager Homeland Security or the FBI would step in and take over.

  “How the hell are you so goddamn calm?” Eastman asked, and I opened an eye and assessed him. “Yes, I’m talking to you, Alexis. There’s a man a few levels away that died on our watch, and the four of us are being treat
ed like suspects. Aren’t you going to do something about this?”

  “Nope.” There were a million arguments I could make and accusations I could throw at him, but there was no point. You can’t argue with stupid, just like you can’t argue with pompous, and Paul Eastman was a stupid, pompous ass. “I have no jurisdiction here. I’m not even private security anymore.”

  Before Eastman could say something he’d probably regret, the door opened, and a man dressed in the standard dark suit walked in. “Sorry to keep you gentlemen waiting.” He noticed my presence as an afterthought but didn’t bother to amend his apology. “I’m Agent Walton, FBI.” He held up his identification before taking a seat at the conference table. “From what I understand, two of you found the body.”

  “That’s correct, sir,” Mike spoke. “It was me and Kenneth that went to check out the area after Mr. Eastman reported the camera was acting strangely.”

  “Okay.” Walton jotted a note. “Why don’t the three of you get some coffee and stretch your legs while I ask Mr. …”

  “Mike Talbot,” Mike supplied.

  “Mr. Talbot a few questions.” Not needing to be told twice, I left the conference room. Kenneth followed close behind, but Eastman prattled on about who he was and how his people shouldn’t be questioned without his presence or representation from PDN.

  “Buy you a soda?” I offered as a few uniformed officers monitored our movements like we were wanted fugitives.

  “I don’t want anything.” Kenneth shook his head. “That was some freaky shit. It looked like something out of a horror film.”

  “Eh. I’ve seen worse, but let’s not talk about any of that.” Okay, so the only thing I actually wanted to talk about was the scene. Crime solving was my most beloved pastime, rivaled only with being a wiseass. “How long have you worked for Mr. Eastman?”

  “Since he’s been at PDN, but I’ve been there longer. Let’s see, four years in private security,” he made a face, squinting in recollection, “and this is the first time anything freaky has ever happened. Most of the time, we guard a building as it undergoes renovations or get hired on as temps when new businesses begin or require added security, like this.” I nodded, glad that he found something less morbid and relevant to talk about. “How long have you been consulting on security matters?”

  “A little over two years, and before that, I had a badge and gun. This is all I’ve ever known, so strange doesn’t really register.” Hopefully, he would find my words reassuring, but before he could say anything else, one of the police officers escorted Kenneth away to be questioned by a detective. “It’s going to be a long night,” I muttered, leaning against the wall near the conference room.

  The next six hours were filled with nothing but questioning and waiting. The four of us were separated for the interviews to be properly conducted, and everyone with a badge wanted a crack at us. The local police department was considering this a homicide. The FBI was investigating in the event it turned into some type of federal or international crime. The Secret Service was conducting its own internal examination to figure out who screwed up and which heads would be on the chopping block. Frankly, I was surprised the OIO, Homeland Security, the NSA, and every foreign government who had a citizen present in the hotel also didn’t come to question us.

  “Ms. Parker,” Agent Walton said, entering the room and dismissing my current inquisitor, “all PDN employees are relieved of duty for the duration of the conference.”

  “Well, I’m sure Mr. Eastman has mentioned that I’m not included in that particular subset any longer.”

  “You’ve picked a strange time to quit. Is there a reason for it?”

  “Personality clash, I suppose. He thought he could use my background and private connections to enhance his pocketbook. We disagreed.”

  “I see.” He shook his head, not wanting to get into the juvenile nature of my current unemployed status. “In the meantime, we’re taking everyone in for more formal questioning. Whether you’re a PDN employee or not, you’re still a material witness.”

  I smirked. Material witness and feasible person of interest, but comments like that could lead to handcuffs and a reading of my rights. Instead, I smiled appeasingly and stood. “Lead the way, SAC Walton.”

  The questions were the same. Basic and rudimentary. It didn’t matter if we were in a conference room in the hotel or inside an interrogation room at FBI HQ, this was the preliminary interview. Eventually, the investigators would determine if a crime was committed, which of us had means, motive, and opportunity, and then the questions would start to sound much more accusatory. At the moment, they were your garden variety, ‘where were you’, ‘can anyone verify your alibi’, and ‘did you know the dead man.’

  Aside from the questions which were delivered separately by each law enforcement body so the same things were being asked in triplicate, there was nothing else to do but wait. Thankfully, my inquisitors were still being pleasant since I had yet to become an actual suspect, so they took my dinner order, kept my coffee mug filled, and allowed as many bathroom breaks as I liked. Maybe playing nice did have benefits.

  After another lull in the questioning, I glanced at my watch. It was morning, and I’d been here all night. On the one hand, I could leave anytime I wanted since I wasn’t under arrest, but I didn’t want to piss off the investigators. Or at least that’s what I kept telling myself. In actuality, I wanted someone to request my expertise and offer me a job. Maybe it was a pipe dream or a delusion based on lack of sleep, but in the past, I’d consulted for the police department and FBI. And since I was familiar with PDN, the conference, and a couple of the Secret Service agents and their mission, it would make sense to seek assistance from an inside man, so to speak.

  “Ms. Parker,” Jacobs entered the interrogation room with two steaming mugs, “I’m sorry for the delay. I’m sure you didn’t expect to spend all night in this room.”

  “Well, I also didn’t expect to encounter a dead guy in the hallway. Shit happens.” I inhaled deeply. “Any idea how much longer this will take?”

  “You’re free to go whenever you like,” he whispered, leaning in.

  “Yeah, I know, but it seems like someone might need my help.” I tossed a glance at the two-way mirror, wondering if anyone was paying a bit of attention. “Did you catch the case, or is it out of your jurisdictional line?”

  “I’m not sure yet. My boss, Lt. Moretti, is having a chat with Agent Walton in order to make that determination, so needless to say, one way or another I still have to get the proper paperwork filed.” He grimaced.

  “Well, I’m at your disposal.” Hint, hint.

  “I appreciate that.” He began on his report while I drank some more coffee. At this point, I might float away. “Why did you leave the control room a few minutes before the mechanical difficulty with the camera?”

  “Eastman and I got into an argument, which I’ve already explained, but suffice it to say, I stepped out to get some distance and air. The Secret Service agent on our level can vouch for me.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just wondered.” His brow furrowed, and it seemed we might have the same thought. “Who initiated the argument?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. I blame Eastman, but it was my reaction that led to heated words,” I elaborated, recalling as much of the conversation as possible. “At first, I thought he was asking me out, but then things went in a completely different direction that I never expected.”

  “Did he have any prior knowledge of how to push your buttons?” Jacobs asked, chewing on his pen cap.

  “Detective, just ask the question.”

  “Do you think Paul Eastman purposefully caused the argument so you would leave the room and miss the homicide taking place in the hallway?”

  “So it was a homicide.” I bit my bottom lip, considering everything I knew. Mostly, I realized how much I didn’t know. “Maybe he did. Off the record, my immediate thought was he was involved, but I have no hard evidence.”
>
  “Tell me what your duties were during the conference,” Jacobs said.

  “Monday, I was assigned to guard the sealed basement doors, which was sort of my idea, but then Paul sent me home early that evening. Today,” I shook my head, “sorry, yesterday, I was positioned in the control room.” My days were jumbling from being up for close to thirty hours.

  “Okay, that could be anything or nothing. Once we sort this out, I’m sure we’ll have more questions.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “I’ll see who drew the short straw, and if this is a police matter, then you’re free to go. I’ll be back in a few.” He left the room, and I sighed. Ten minutes later, he opened the door and jerked his chin at the exit. “Take off, Parker. This is our show, and someone from the precinct will be in touch tomorrow or the next day with a follow-up. If you remember anything in the meantime or run into problems, give me a call.” After handing me his card, he disappeared into the next interrogation room, and I wandered out of FBI HQ. At least I was free from the invisible shackles of a federal building.

  Being completely exhausted but too keyed up to sleep, I took a taxi back to the hotel and picked up my car. Then I stopped by my office and ran backgrounds on Paul Eastman, Kenneth Anderson, and Mike Talbot. No one had a criminal record. Afterward, I searched for any news stories on last night’s murder, but there was nothing but a brief paragraph about a hotel employee dead at the conference. It wasn’t even described as murder. That would probably change in the coming days.

  The conference itself was concluded. An American engineer was hired to design the plans, workers from each nation would work on that particular part of the railway, and an international corporation was in charge of the actual train construction. Everyone wins. So if the conference was a success, it was hard to fathom that the death of the night clerk had anything to do with it. So who was he? Why was he killed? And why did his murder coincide with the European business conference? None of it made any sense.

  Hell, I didn’t even know the guy’s name. There was no reason I should be investigating. Curiosity killed the cat, and I’m sure it would do the same to me. Locking up my office, I drove home, listening to my missed voicemail messages on the way.