The Other Daniel - A Camille Grisham Novella

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The Other Daniel - A Camille Grisham Novella Page 2

by John Hardy Bell


  The cold, hungry stares of the media sharks were something else altogether. There was no casual curiosity with them; no respectful distance. The sharks only wanted blood, and in six months of pursuing Camille’s story they had gotten plenty. But true to every shark’s nature, it was never enough. No matter how many sound bites they got, they wanted more. No matter how dutifully her ex-police sergeant pit-bull of a father fought them off, they found a way to slip past him. No matter how bright and festive the atmosphere around her was, they managed to darken it.

  The man sitting near the café entrance was just such a shark. Camille knew it the moment he walked in, though his humble smile, weathered tweed jacket, and crisp blue linen shirt offered an admirable disguise. Despite making a concerted effort not to look in his direction, she could sense that he had been watching her. His attention was subtle – passing glances mostly – but it was persistent. When she finally returned his attention with the hardest glare she could summon, he shifted nervously in his chair and promptly looked away. The real sharks rarely looked away, and for a moment Camille wondered if she had misjudged his intentions. Perhaps he was nothing more than the young English Lit professor that his attire suggested him to be. Or maybe it was a rare case of the prey finally getting the best of the predator. Either way, Camille couldn’t help but feel relieved when he stood up, took one last pull from his coffee cup, and hoisted his messenger bag around his shoulder.

  The thousand-yard death stare strikes again, she thought as she allowed an easy smile to spread across her face. That stare was by far the most effective weapon of defense that she had. And she didn’t even need a license to carry it.

  Once he was out of sight, Camille turned her attention back to the unhappy couple. The husband’s eyes were now firmly planted in a newspaper while his wife’s drifted impassively out the window. She was very pretty; elegant yet understated. But behind the carefully constructed veneer, Camille saw a broken woman. A woman not unlike herself. But unlike Camille, there appeared to be no fight left in her; no death-stare capable of combating the predators. She didn’t know what tragedies may have stained this woman’s past, but she was well aware of the tragedies that stained her own. She lived with them every day. Yet she still had the will to fight, and the strength to push back when she needed to. That strength wasn’t always easy to come by, and Camille would need a lot of it in the days and weeks ahead, but she was confident it would be there.

  She found herself staring at the woman in an effort to get her attention. She had little more to offer than a smile and a nod of understanding, but she hoped that the quiet acknowledgement from a kindred spirit would be enough to help her find the resolve to look beyond the black hole of hopelessness sitting across the table from her.

  Unfortunately her gaze was not enough to break the spell of whatever daydream the woman had retreated into.

  It was enough to attract her husband, however. His eyes narrowed as they fell on Camille and she could sense the makings of a smile come across his chemically-tanned face. Camille smiled too as she imagined his reaction to the stiff middle finger she was about to shoot in his direction. She was on the verge of pulling the trigger when something diverted her attention.

  The man with the messenger bag was approaching her table.

  Suddenly forgetting about her crusade against Mr. Chemical-tan, Camille grabbed her coffee mug and stood up. She had been right about the shark’s intentions all along and was upset with herself for not leaving the moment she saw him.

  Her abrupt movement caused him to stop a few feet short of the table. He smiled in a way he probably thought was disarming and took his hand out of his pocket as if he were preparing to extend it.

  Camille stopped him before he could begin the pitch for whatever it was he wanted to sell. “Sorry, I was just leaving.”

  He blocked her path as she tried to walk away, still trying to disarm her with his less-than-charming smile. “Just a quick moment of your time. That’s all I ask.”

  Resisting her first instinct to shove him into the table, Camille rigidly stood her ground. “If you start by telling me you’re with the Post or the Mile High Dispatch, that moment will be quicker than you can possibly imagine.”

  “I promise I’m not with either one. My name is Jacob Deaver and I should say, in the interest of full disclosure, that I am a former journalist with the Boston Globe. Former being the operative word. No respectable news agency would touch me with a ten-foot pole now.”

  “And this is supposed to make me feel better about talking to you?”

  He chuckled nervously. “Probably not. But I swear my intentions are good.”

  “A journalist with good intentions. That would certainly be a first.”

  “That’s precisely why I left journalism.”

  “If you aren’t angling for a story then why are we talking?”

  “I never said I wasn’t angling for a story. I merely said I wasn’t an active journalist.”

  His voice was laced with a know-it-all smugness that reminded Camille of the college kids who usually occupied the café. Despite his thick beard and conservative appearance, he probably wasn’t much older than any of them. He certainly wasn’t any more tolerable to be around. “Did you come in here with the intention of invading my personal space or did the notion just randomly strike you?”

  The self-assured grin he fought to maintain suddenly abandoned him and the hand he had prepared to extend fell into his pocket. “I didn’t follow you here if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  Camille didn’t believe him, but saw no benefit in belaboring the point. “Either way I don’t have time to chat. And even if I did, it wouldn’t be with some kid who has nothing better to do than waste his time pursuing a story that has already been told a million times.”

  “I’m not a kid, Ms. Grisham. And I can guarantee this story hasn’t been told.”

  She had been prepared to walk away, but his unwavering tone gave her pause. “What makes you so sure about that?”

  “Because I haven’t had the good fortune of meeting you until now.” With that, he lowered his messenger bag and pushed a chair back from the table. “Two minutes. Please.”

  Camille watched with wary eyes as he sat down. She continued standing. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Jacob Deaver.”

  “You’ve already told me your name. But you haven’t told me who you are.”

  “I’m someone who wants to give you an opportunity that no one else has.”

  She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “And what opportunity would that be?”

  “The opportunity to let the world hear from you in an unfiltered, unedited way – your thoughts, your experiences, your opinions.”

  “Same spiel I’ve heard countless times, Mr. Deaver. Still not interested.” Camille turned to walk away, but the words he said next stopped her cold.

  “What if I told you that a major publisher has solicited Daniel Sykes for the rights to his authorized biography?”

  “I’d say that has absolutely nothing to do with me and I’d keep walking,” she answered in a voice that came dangerously close to faltering.

  “What if I said that it has everything to do with you?”

  Camille suddenly felt the urge to sit. “Then I guess I’d ask you to explain.”

  Jacob cleared his throat as if he were about to recite a rehearsed speech. “I’m a former employee of the publishing house behind the book and I personally know the author who has been hired to write it. It’s going to be published, Ms. Grisham. And the timetable for getting it to press is very short.”

  “How short?”

  “Five, maybe six months at most.”

  “And you said this is an authorized biography of Daniel Sykes, meaning he has an active role in the project?”

  “From what I understand, he has been corresponding with the author for at least three months. Sykes had apparently lobbied for in-person interview sessions, but the prison refused to
sign off on it.” He smiled. “I don’t think the author was too keen on the idea either.”

  Camille failed to see the humor. “Explain what you meant when you said this has everything to do with me.”

  Jacob’s smile went away. “You might want to sit down.”

  “I still haven’t decided whether or not this conversation is worth my time.”

  “Fair enough. The book was originally designed to be a tell-all of Sykes’ life, from his childhood through the present. But during the process of creation it was decided that the focus should be narrowed.”

  “Narrowed to what?”

  “His capture. Specifically the role that you and Agent Andrew Sheridan played in that capture.”

  Camille’s legs felt wobbly and she could no longer fight the urge to sit. “What are you talking about?”

  “Based on what I’ve heard, Sykes has no plans to discuss the details of his murders, the reason he committed those murders, or anything else related to his past. He only agreed to do the book if you and Agent Sheridan were the featured topics.”

  “How could they allow him to do that?” Camille asked, as if she hadn’t already known the answer.

  “Apparently there was some initial opposition to the idea, mostly fueled by fear of a libel lawsuit. But ultimately there was too much money to be made not to go forward. Same sad story as always.”

  Camille had been fully prepared for the bright atmosphere of the City Perk Café to fade at some point, and that’s exactly what happened. What she wasn’t prepared for was how dark it would actually get. “So what’s your interest in this?”

  “As I said before, I want you to have the chance to tell your side of the story. Make no mistake, Ms. Grisham, this book will not be objective. The goal is to cast you, Agent Sheridan, and possibly the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation in the most negative light possible. In my opinion there has to be some kind of counterbalance to that.”

  The mention of Agent Sheridan in the same sentence as ‘negative light’ almost brought tears to Camille’s eyes. Her name had been dragged through the mud in almost every way imaginable. She was used to it and wouldn’t lose a moment’s sleep if it happened again. But to go after Andrew Sheridan, a man who was a hero by any measure of the word, a man who was no longer here to defend himself, was downright criminal. And Camille knew it was something she absolutely could not let happen. “It will never make it to print. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “I’m afraid that ship is already sailing.”

  The measured confidence in Jacob’s voice shook her. “He has a wife and nine-year-old daughter for Christ’s sake. How could someone even think about—”

  “I understand that. But what you have to understand is that you have a lot more to lose in this situation than anyone else. If this book is released with even half the garbage that Sykes is trying to put out there, it could seriously stain your reputation. With everything you have going on – Elliott Richmond, the questions about your friend’s murder – you can’t afford to have anyone undermining your credibility. The best option you have is to go on the offensive; strike down anything that Sykes says before he even has the chance to say it.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?”

  Jacob hesitated, as if his response was one that he had to pull from the depths of his being. “Write your own book.”

  Camille bit down on her lip to stop herself from yelling. Of all the ways the sharks had ever attacked her, Jacob Deaver’s attack was by far the most brutal. In less than five minutes he managed to tap into every vulnerability that she had – Daniel Sykes, Andrew Sheridan, her best friend’s murder, and the person responsible for it – and he used it to pitch a book. Even if everything he said about Sykes was true, Camille didn’t believe for one second that he tracked her down out of some altruistic need to save her reputation. He saw an opportunity to build his own.

  “I think your two minutes are up.”

  Jacob’s hooded eyes widened. “Ms. Grisham, please hear me out. I’ve read everything there is to read about your story. I know you tried to save your partner. I know you tried to save those two girls that Sykes ended up killing. But the people behind this book are going to say something very different. How do you think it’s going to be for the families of those victims to hear only one version of the story? Sykes’ version of the story? It will be devastating. You have the opportunity, right now, to stand up for their belief that you did everything possible to save the people they loved. You have the opportunity to confirm what you and I both know is the truth. For your sake, for the sake of those families who are still mourning, don’t let that opportunity pass.”

  In Camille’s mind she was screaming at him, throwing coffee mugs, pushing over tables, calling him every obscene name imaginable. When she opened her mouth to actually speak, she could only manage the faintest of whispers. “Goodbye, Mr. Deaver.”

  As she stood up from the table he gently grabbed her hand. Aside from the fact that he was a stranger putting his hands on her, something about his touch made her recoil.

  “I know this has probably been a lot to take in, and I apologize if you feel ambushed. That was honestly the last thing I wanted to do. But everything I’m telling you is true, as is my sincerity in wanting to help you. Perhaps with the benefit of time you’ll be able to see that. If you do and would like to talk more about it, I’m staying at the Brown Palace Hotel.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper on which he had already hand-written a telephone number. “You can call the front desk and they’ll connect you to my room. I’d be happy to meet with you whenever, where ever. All I ask is that you consider it.”

  Camille studied the paper a moment longer than she intended to. The hesitation bothered her. “There’s nothing to consider,” she replied, hopeful that the sudden doubt in her heart did not reveal itself in her voice. Then she took a deep breath, cast one last glance at the French Bistro cheeriness of the City Perk, and walked away from Jacob Deaver.

  When she reached the door, she looked back at him. The hand that he held the paper in was still extended, as if he fully expected her to come back for it.

  Much to Camille’s horror, she almost did.

  CHAPTER TWO

  PROS AND CONS

  Desperate to take her mind off of the unfortunate encounter with her would-be biographer, Camille picked up the notebook the moment she walked into her apartment. It was a seventy-page blue spiral with a wide-rule designed for third-graders with sloppy penmanship. The fact that she wasted time dwelling on such trivial details was a big reason why the notebook had remained blank since she bought it two weeks ago. Her flagrant indecision was another.

  Camille got the notebook after finishing a lengthy telephone conversation with a man she had every hope of never speaking to again. Special Agent Peter Crawley was an instructor at the FBI Academy and one of the brightest minds in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. He was a mentor and a friend. He was also one of the reasons why she decided to give up her shield.

  Crawley had been the Agent-In-Charge of the Circle Killer task force. Camille and Andrew Sheridan were the first two field agents asked to join the effort. When Daniel Sykes was finally apprehended three years later, the number of agents on the task force totaled ninety. Yet in the end, Camille, Sheridan, and Crawley were the only three there when Sykes’ terror spree came to an end.

  Only one of them emerged with their FBI career still intact.

  Agent Sheridan lost his life trying to capture Daniel Sykes. Camille lost faith in herself, the agency she had given eight years of her life to, and a world that allowed monsters like Sykes to even breathe the same air as everyone else. Agent Crawley lost countless hours of his existence trying to convince her not to quit.

  But his efforts had ultimately been in vain, just as they had been when he assured the Bureau’s top brass that the circumstances surrounding Agent Sheridan’s death could not have been prevented. Crawley knew the truth of what happene
d in that basement. He knew that Agent Sheridan should not have died. He knew that the two coeds whom Sykes had been holding captive for a month should not have died. But because of his belief in Camille’s value to the Bureau, he thought it best to omit that knowledge from his testimony.

  The review board ultimately agreed with his assessment and recommended that she resume active field work immediately. Crawley recommended that she take a long vacation, pay a visit or two to the Bureau head-shrinker, and do her best to leave Daniel Sykes in the past.

  Camille chose the third option.

  There were plenty of reasons why she knew she had to quit; chief among them was the inescapable fact that every day she entered the BAU offices she would have to look Crawley in the eye, fully aware that he knew the truth. He would have done his best not to judge or think less of her, and for a while he probably would have succeeded. But Camille feared that every reminder of Agent Sheridan’s absence would make her presence less and less tolerable, until Crawley’s decision to overlook her failure became his biggest regret. There was no one in the Bureau she respected more, and the idea of incurring the wrath of his disappointment was more than her already fragile psyche could have withstood.

  She may not have had Crawley’s blessing when she tendered her resignation letter, but she still had his admiration; and that admiration would remain as long as she wasn’t there to remind him of the agent that he needlessly lost. That assurance was one of the few things that helped her sleep at night.

  She had barely closed her eyes in the two weeks since he contacted her.

  Despite her recent practice of ignoring every phone call she received from the dreaded 202 area code, Camille took Crawley’s phone call right away. True to his reputation as the most emotionally-barren man on the planet, he didn’t waste a second of time with personal pleasantries.

 

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