Wall of Silence

by Gabrielle Goldsby

  For the first time in a long time, I felt some of the pressure around my heart lift. I had to crack a smile. Marcus could always get one out of me, no matter how hard I tried to be mad.

  He unlocked the door to the file room. “I was sorry to hear about Smitty. You going to be okay?” He touched my shoulder, and I had to blink several times to keep the tears from brimming over. Damn, I was turning into the biggest wuss.

  “Marcus, I didn’t come here to cuddle. Show me what I’m supposed to be doing here, so I can get on with it.” I hoped he wouldn’t take offense, but I needed to get some semblance of order in my life. Hard work was the only thing that would keep me from feeling sorry for myself.

  “You got it, woman. Follow me.” He led me around large shelves overflowing with files from cases that had been worked on in the last ten years. As we walked, he explained some basics I would need to know. The files were color-coded according to the year they were opened.

  Marcus pulled out a file and opened it. “See this? It’s a log we keep whenever a new piece of evidence or info is added to the file. You folks are not supposed to return the file unless it has all its parts. Nor are you supposed to add anything without having me or Chandra code it. But it happens all the time. That’s why every year we have to go through this gigantic process of making sure each file is fully intact.”

  “What if it isn’t?” I really didn’t care, to be perfectly honest, but Marcus was my friend, and the least I could do was pretend to find his work interesting.

  “Well, then, that’s where the fun begins. Technically, we can’t send files out to storage unless they are complete. Your desk is over here.” He pointed to a desk piled high with case files.

  My job would be checking files that were not intact and trying to find the slob detective who had the missing material.

  “All you have to do is scan in the barcode and you’ll see the name of the last person to check out the file. That’s the cop who probably has the missing documentation.”

  “What if they don’t know what they did with it?”

  Marcus shrugged. “The file gathers dust for a while. Occasionally we find things in the wrong case file, but most of the time we just note the log and send it off to storage incomplete.”

  I knew from my cold case work that once a trail went cold, cases were seldom picked back up again unless we received new information or a confession. On those occasions files were pulled out of storage. Thank God criminals were dumbasses and often couldn’t keep their mouths shut. That’s where Smitty and I came in, I thought sadly.

  Marcus went on to blind me with science about how each piece of information was bar-coded based on category, such as “crime scene photo,” “informant info,” and so on. A white gunlike apparatus read the barcode on the folder and the file name popped up on the computer.

  Marcus loved his work, and the pleasure on his face as we talked made me wonder about my own happiness. I could never be this happy running a records room for the rest of my life. But did I really want to be a detective for the rest of my life, either?

  In my first three weeks as a Records lackey, I had two psychiatric evaluations that came to nothing, but my ribs weren’t hurting so much anymore. I avoided any and all contact with the detectives from my division. I also didn’t answer my home phone, which had developed the annoying habit of ringing off the hook. Much to my delight and or chagrin, depending on the time of day, I had also not heard from Riley, and thoughts of her intruded at the oddest moments. I did my best to ignore them.

  I could have contacted her, of course. I could have asked her what she was doing with my photograph and how the “coincidence” of her following me around really came about, but instead I let time drift by. By this point, if her story was remotely true, she would be back in northern California and on her way to a career in physical therapy of some sorts. I told myself that even if there was an innocent explanation for the photograph and stalking behavior, Riley was a straight woman. What would be the point in getting in touch with her?

  Marcus said I was one of the best workers that they’d had down there in years. The reason being I liked the slow, mind-numbing work. I didn’t have to think or feel or use anything other than common sense. I was in the midst of doing just such a task when I came across something that made me pause.

  “Hey, Marcus, look at this.”

  Several of the documents that should have been in the file were missing, and from the looks of it, whoever had taken them hadn’t even bothered to remove them properly. There were still ragged pieces of paper in the seam of the folder where they had ripped the pages out.

  Marcus had no doubt seen it all before. “Someone was in a hurry, and whoever it was is going to hear from me.” He picked up the electronic gun and scanned the barcode.

  I scrolled down my screen and clicked on the last date that the file had been checked out. In blocky red letters, the name of the guilty party appeared. I couldn’t stop the gasp from escaping my throat. “Detective Joseph Smith” flashed accusatorily before Marcus clicked out of the window and snapped me out of my stupor.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m cool.” This had been my automatic answer to most questions since Smitty’s death. But you know what? I wasn’t cool. I felt like I was in a fog and couldn’t find my way out. Things had been happening to me that I had no control over. I felt powerless to stop whatever was going on, so I just sat back and let life wash over me.

  I grabbed my keys and told Marcus I was going to get my lunch. With the way I was feeling, I wasn’t sure I would even be back. Is this what it was like to have an emotional breakdown? I took the elevator up, making sure not to meet anyone’s eyes directly. It was a relief to finally reach the exit, and I walked out into the damp air gratefully.

  Rain had left the ground wet and smoke gray, and the sky wore a matching cast. Dreary though it was, being outside made me feel less lonely. I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked, head bowed, as thoughts of the last three weeks weighed me down. All of them kept leading back to two things that just didn’t add up.

  Smitty just didn’t seem like the type who would ever commit suicide. Cops didn’t do things like drive their cars off the sides of cliffs. That was the kind of thing that some drama queen would do. I would like to say that I’d never given this subject much thought, but everyone in my grim line of work has at some point. I would venture a guess that most cops would eat their own bullet rather than drive a car off a cliff. What if you survived and were maimed, or some such shit?

  I stopped abruptly. White fog billowed out in front of me as I stood there frozen on the sidewalk. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe something happened to the brakes, or Smitty fell asleep.

  Call it instinct, call it wishful thinking, but I knew with a certainty I couldn’t explain that there was more to this “suicide” than a man deciding to kill himself because he hated his job or his marriage was rocky. The fact that Smitty had left a suicide note had closed my mind to alternatives. I was still baffled by his few words, but I wasn’t satisfied with the obvious conclusions. If there was another explanation for his death, I wanted to uncover it.

  I ran back to the office as fast as I could, thrilled when I found no one in the file room. I logged in and pulled up Smitty’s accident report. Thanks to Marcus, each page held the file number of the original evidence pictures. The investigation seemed textbook. For whatever reason, it looked like Smitty had simply driven off the cliff. I printed out the documents, thumbing through the file Smitty had damaged while I waited.

  Why would he tear out the pages? The case involved some porn ring masquerading as a cult. According to the ledger on the front of the folder, the missing pages had to do with the witness information. I tried to pull up the file on the computer, but was surprised to get an “access denied.” The case was over four years old, but it should still have been in the database. I clicked on another window, pulled up Smitty’s investigation code, and clicked on the
file number to check the status. A blinking red “file not available” message told me I’d just reached a dead end. Not only had someone tampered with the paper file, it looked like they’d removed the computer record completely. I went over to the long wall of shelves and found the place where the rest of the porn case files should have been, but weren’t.

  Puzzled, I racked my brain for the next course of action. I didn’t feel like traipsing upstairs and going through Smitty’s desk, at least not until the area was clear, which meant I had to wait until the early morning hours. There had to be something I could do in the meantime.

  I was vaguely aware of Chandra laughing at something from beyond the walls of files that screened me. I had been nothing but nice to her since I joined the Records team, even offering to take her to lunch a few times, but she still treated me like a pariah. Risking her wrath by interrupting one of her many personal conversations, I rolled my chair around the shelves and beckoned her with my finger. She resisted for a while, but my presence was a disruption to her personal life, so she finally pulled her headset off and flounced toward me with a lot of exasperated sighing. The woman even walked insolently. Her hips swayed from side to side in her long wraparound skirt, and the tight bodysuit left nothing to the imagination.

  “And don’t be checking me out, either.” She glowered down at me sternly. “You ain’t my type.”

  My pleasant thoughts screeched to a halt. “What makes you think you’re my type?” I asked.

  “You trying to say I’m not?”

  Her question was probably one that I myself would have asked in a similar situation, but coming from Chandra it was just, well, shocking. She actually made me forget what I was going to say. “Yes. I mean no.”

  “Uh-huh.” She popped her gum and leaned over my shoulder to look at my screen. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re cute and all, but I’m married now. You’re about two years too late. So, what are you trying to do here?”

  I blinked at the screen. Straight woman were soo…I don’t know what they were, but I needed to stay away from them. “Is there any way I can pull up all the cases that a certain detective has looked at in the last year? Marcus showed me how to find out who checked out a certain file, but he didn’t show me how to do anything else.”

  “What do you need to see that for?”

  “Aw, come on, Chandra, help me out here.”

  She folded her arms. The cute thing wasn’t working for me today, so I made up what I hoped was a plausible excuse.

  “Look, I just want to make sure that those idiots upstairs aren’t screwing around with me and Smitty’s cases, okay?”

  “If you get me in trouble for this, I’m going to have that ass, comprende?”

  Mind you, I didn’t like her tone of voice, but I was trying to accomplish something. “Okay, I got it. Now will you show me, please?”

  I watched carefully as she navigated the database through pull-down menus and eventually typed in “Foster Everett.” So she does know my name, I thought smugly.

  Every case I had ever requested popped up on the computer screen. “Wow, that’s awesome, Chandra, thanks!”

  “Mm-hmm.” She was still unimpressed with me. Her hips were already sashaying back to her desk as I offered suitably flattering praise and thanks. “Just remember what I said. If you plan on messing up something, you didn’t learn that from me.”

  My hands shook slightly as I returned to the menu and keyed in “Joseph Smith.” A long list of entries appeared. About a week before he died, Smitty had requested several files that were no longer on the premises. It looked like his request had been frozen because he’d died before they could be transferred from storage. The odd thing was that even though he was my partner, I didn’t recognize the cases he was looking into. They weren’t ours.

  Out of curiosity, I entered my code into the criminal records database and typed in “Riley Medeiros.” The only thing that came up was an address in Oakland, California, and a code ARS, which meant she’d had a record as a minor and this had been sealed. There was also a reference to a Children’s Services record dating back some twelve years. It was no longer listed in the database. I typed in my name and the division address. I could have Riley Medeiros’s files in my hands in about three weeks. All I had to do was push send.

  Impatient with myself, I clicked out of the screen instead and looked at my watch. It was after six and I hadn’t eaten. Today was Thursday, chili day at Secrets, and normally I was the first in line when the small kitchen opened. But I hadn’t been to the club since I’d dropped Riley’s car off that night. I was still reluctant to go back. I knew Stacy wouldn’t leave me alone until I told her everything.

  I stood up and stretched the cramping muscles of my back, logged off the computer, and shut off my lamp.

  As was her habit, Chandra had gone home for the evening without so much as a good-bye. I guess the bonding session wasn’t as meaningful as I thought.

  *

  The Records division doors automatically locked behind me as I walked toward the elevator. As usual, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I could not resist looking behind me. For some reason this hallway always creeped me out. It was a relief when I was finally in the relative safety of the enclosed elevator.

  I picked up a burrito on my way home and made sure to check behind me as I turned the two corners that would lead me to my apartment. I had been cautious since the attack. If I didn’t know better, maybe I could have convinced myself that I was the target of a gay-bashing, but my attackers were looking specifically for me, and were told by someone not to harm me too badly.

  I entered my building with a sense of relief and pulled my keys out of my pocket. The plan was that I would let Bud take a quick spin around the studio while I ate my dinner/lunch, and then both of us were going to turn in early and hopefully get some sleep.

  What is it they say about best-laid plans?

  Chapter Eight

  I’d actually been in a deep sleep for once when a sound at my window had me reaching instantly under my pillow for my Glock. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding loudly. I had almost convinced myself that it was my imagination when I heard it again and slid my feet to the floor. Someone was trying to raise my window. The sound I had heard was the squeaking of fingertips on glass. Someone had climbed up my fire escape and was trying to get into my apartment.

  In a half crouch, I moved toward the curtained window, adrenaline pumping. I forced myself to relax as I waited for my would-be intruder to show his hand.

  Tap, tap, tap. What the fuck? The person attempting to break into my apartment had the audacity to knock, like perhaps I would open the window and tell them to have at it. I was about to make my move when I saw a hand reach in the gap below the window. Stepping away from the now billowing curtain, I readied myself for a gun battle as a dark form gained entry so quickly I almost gasped aloud.

  “Don’t even breath, asshole,” I said in a voice that could have been misconstrued as calm. I stuck my 9 millimeter between the intruder’s shoulder blades, ready to fire in an instant.

  “Foster?” The gruff familiar voice was deep, but definitely female.

  “Riley?” I almost lowered my gun in shock before I remembered she had entered my home uninvited. “Stay right there. Don’t you move.”

  I pushed her to her knees and backed away to flip on the light. Riley could easily have passed for your stereotypical house-breaker in tight black jeans, a knit cap that obscured all but her ponytail, a black leather coat, and a black T-shirt.

  I circled her, gun poised. “How dare you come here.”

  “Foster, listen to me. We don’t have time—”

  “Time for what? You want to finish off whatever you were trying to do when you took me back to that damn broken-down theater?”

  Her face tightened and her delivery was jumpy. Nerves, no doubt. “I never lied to you. This is all a mistake. I was waiting until you calmed down, then I was going to explain everythin
g.”

  “Explain, huh? You broke in through my window to explain something to me?”

  She started to get up. “We don’t have time for this. Please trust me.”

  “Get down,” I said coldly. It was all I could do not to jump on this woman. The fact that I was a law enforcement officer and the fact that I wasn’t one to rush into a fight I might very well lose kept me from doing just that. “Put your hands behind your head and lie down on the floor.”

  Her face paled as the realization that I was not kidding hit home. “No. Please don’t. You’re making a mistake.” Riley was doing a really good job of looking anxious. “We have to get out of here.”

  “Why?”

  “Please just come. We can talk in the car.”

  “You know, if this is about that kiss, you should really lighten up. It wasn’t all that great anyway,” I told her snidely.

  A look of hurt passed over her face before she hid it. “If I lie down, will you listen?” she pleaded calmly, as if she was the one dealing with a nutcase and not me.

  “Yeah, I’ll listen if you lie down.”

  I had no intention of listening to whatever lies she wanted to tell me. Once she had sprawled her long frame on the floor, I took a set of handcuffs from my dresser, dropped them on the floor, and kicked them toward my captive. “Put them on.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” she said softly.

  “Yes, I do. I don’t trust you.”

  “You’re wasting time,” she complained, reaching for the cuffs. “We need to get out of here. You have no idea—” Her statement was interrupted by the sound of pounding on my front door.

  “Police. Open up, Everett.”

  I stared toward the door. “Foster, don’t answer that,” she whispered fiercely.

  I trained my gun on her again. “Don’t move, damn it. I didn’t call them, but they have good timing. You can tell your story to whoever books your big ass down at division. I don’t have time for it.”