by Brian Shea
“I’m not saying that. I’m just saying we’ve got to look at all the possibilities. That is one theory that’s been kicked around, and one that I need to examine.”
“Be careful throwing that around. The wrong person catches wind and we’ll have a media shit storm,” Jones said.
“I know. I’m keeping that one close.” Cavanaugh paused, raising his eyebrows. “So what do you think?”
“I guess anything is possible. I’d be hard pressed to name anyone who was angered to the point of taking the law into their own hands. It was a bad case, but Pentlow was at the bottom rung of a much bigger problem.”
“Okay let me ask it a different way. Do you think that anyone investigating the case seemed more affected?”
“It’s a child rape case. Those hit everyone hard. Another girl was stabbed and left to die alone at the Hope Graffiti Park.” Jones stopped talking. The memory of the little girl still woke him from sleep. Some deaths haunt, and that one had more than most. He shook off the thought. “But like I said, Pentlow was a pedophile but the group that trafficked those girls ranked much higher if you’re prioritizing a hit list.”
“Maybe the others were too hard to get? Or maybe whoever did this is planning to work their way up the proverbial food chain? I don’t have any idea where this thing may lead.” Cavanaugh tapped a notepad rhythmically against his thigh. “So no one comes to mind?”
“Nobody fits the bill.”
Jones stood silently contemplating the implication of Cavanaugh’s line of questioning.
“There is another piece to this. And what I’m about to tell you now stays within the confines of this room,” Cavanaugh said. “Too early to let it out.”
“Understood.”
Jones watched as Cavanaugh walked over to Pentlow’s corpse, still bound to the bed. The large latex gloved hand of the football-star-turned-detective withdrew a pen from his breast pocket and he bent low, hovering over the face of the dead man. Jones heard a minor cracking sound as Cavanaugh used the pen to pry Pentlow’s mouth open. The dead man’s jaw creaked like a rusty hinge. Cavanaugh moved back and gestured with his head for Jones to come closer.
“If this is one of you Homicide guys’ idea of a sick joke, I’m not interested.”
“Just look,” Cavanaugh said.
Cavanaugh stepped out of the way and Jones moved closer, looking in to the now-open mouth. Taking a small flashlight from his pocket, Jones illuminated Pentlow’s oral cavity. Something glimmered from within, bouncing the light back at him. Jones squinted hard to make out the object.
“Is that a coin?” Jones asked.
“Yup. A nickel to be exact.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Our doer left a calling card,” Cavanaugh said.
“You’re thinking this might be a serial case?” Jones asked.
“Tokens aren’t common and so I’m leaning in that direction. That’s a game changer for us in Homicide. Don’t get too many of those. I already put a call into the Bureau. They’ve got an impressive database. If this guy’s done it before, they might be able to shed some light.”
“You start by asking me if I think a cop could be the doer and you top it with the fact that it could be a serial murder. When you put that together you’ve got a really bad headline. Serial Killer Cop will be every reporter’s wet dream,” Jones said as he stood erect, distancing himself from the dead man.
“I’m not saying it’s a cop. I just want my initial theories flushed out before someone from the Bureau arrives.”
“Was he tortured?” Jones asked.
“It doesn’t look that way. Autopsy will give us more, but it looks like he was bound and then shot once in the forehead at close range.”
“Why a nickel?” Jones asked.
“It’s not just any nickel. It’s a Buffalo Nickel,” a female’s voice said loudly from the doorway.
Jones almost jumped at the introduction of the loud comment to their whispered conversation.
Both he and Cavanaugh spun in unison like two oversized ballerinas to address the new arrival. Jones blinked twice, shocked to see an attractive redhead in her mid-to-late thirties standing at the threshold of the room.
“And you are?” Cavanaugh asked.
“Agent Cheryl Simmons, FBI.”
“Wow that was quick. I didn’t expect them to send someone out. I figured maybe a returned phone call or follow-up email,” Cavanaugh said.
“Well this is my case. I was in town visiting a friend when my supervisor called me.” She looked past Jones and Cavanaugh at the supine body of Pentlow. “I guess it’s safe to say that my mini-vacation to Austin has been cut short.”
“Wait. Did you just say this was your case? I haven’t even finished processing the scene,” Cavanaugh said taking a step in the direction of the female agent.
Jones watched as Cavanaugh’s jovial demeanor shifted and the big man folded his arms in quiet protest. Jones also noticed the smaller framed Simmons didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. If anything, it looked like she enjoyed the challenge. Her lip line began to crack into a smile.
“Pump your brakes big boy. I’m the best thing that could’ve walked into your life. This case would sit unsolved on your desk for years.”
“I’m not so sure about that. I’ve got a solid track record and my solvability rating is higher than most,” Cavanaugh said.
“Listen I’m not here to get into a pissing contest with you on this. I’ve been working the Ferryman case for almost four years.”
“Ferryman?” Cavanaugh asked.
“His signature is the nickel in the mouth. Let me guess—was this guy homeless?” Simmons asked.
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Strange,” Simmons responded running her index finger along the lower line of her lip. “I’m stepping in to check out my scene.”
Jones noticed that the agent never answered Cavanaugh’s question. She moved around the room and then stopped at the mirror.
“My boss has already placed the call to your lieutenant,” Simmons said dismissively.
“Don’t go touching anything. This ain’t your scene as far as I’m concerned. I’m going to step out and make a call,” Cavanaugh said as he brushed past Simmons in the small space. “Jones, keep an eye on our visitor.”
Jones stood awkwardly next to the dead man. He threw his hands up in mock surrender and smiled. “I’m just a visitor.”
“Homicide?” Simmons asked.
Jones shook his head. “Sex Crimes.”
“Why’d you get the call?”
“The dead guy was involved in a case I worked a short while back,” Jones said.
“And?”
“And now he’s dead, so I guess they figured I might be able to point them in the right direction.”
“Can you?”
“I don’t think so,” Jones said.
“I’m going to need a full list of people that worked that case with you,” Simmons said.
“Okay. Might I ask why?” Jones asked looking out toward the open door of the room where Cavanaugh was red-faced and deeply involved in an intense phone conversation.
“I’ve been hunting this guy for years. I’m good at what I do, and I’ve never been able to close the gap.”
“So you’re thinking that because this killer is one step ahead of you, he’s one of us?”
“It’s definitely on the table as a very short list of possibilities.”
Jones stared at the woman in a light-turquois button-down shirt and navy-blue slacks. The green hue of her shirt accentuated the fiery red of her shoulder-length hair. She moved deeper into the room and closer to Jones. A hint of cinnamon wafted as she closed the gap. The smell was a welcome distraction to the stink of death.
“Well it’s all yours,” Cavanaugh boomed reentering the room, exasperated.
“I thought you’d see it my way,” Simmons said with a cocky smile.
“I’ve been told to assist you in any way that I can.”
“Since your team has already begun processing the scene, it doesn’t make sense for me to waste time calling in our techs. Finish up and send me the full case file. If you’d be so kind as to attend the autopsy for me and forward that as well?”
“So, you pretty much want me and my team to do all the grunt work while you take all the credit?” Cavanaugh asked through gritted teeth.
The others in the room stopped their work, pausing to watch the feud unfolding between the two. It looked like a rematch of David and Goliath, and just like the epic biblical battle, the smaller statured combatant was victorious.
“To put it bluntly, that grunt work you’re referring to would be a complete waste of my time, but it needs to be done. I work on seeing the bigger picture. If you feel that you’re not up to that task, then I will happily make arrangements to have someone else assigned.”
Jones looked on as Cavanaugh’s cheeks flushed. If this were a cartoon, a kettle would whistle and steam would explode from his ears.
Cavanaugh exhaled long and slow. “I’ll take care of it. No worries.”
With a momentary truce achieved, everyone in the room returned to their tasks, and Jones looked for his opportunity to slip out. He edged by Simmons and made his way toward his towering friend.
“Who’s Nick?” Simmons asked, looking at the mirror.
Jones turned to face the redheaded agent, whose back was to him as she stared at the bloody message. “I’m guessing it’s Nick Lawrence.”
“Is he out of your office?” Simmons asked.
“Nope. He’s out of yours.”
“Mine? Nick’s with the Bureau?”
“I thought you guys all knew each other,” Jones teased.
“Do you have a number for him?”
Jones scribbled Nick’s contact info on the back of a crinkled business card that he pulled from his overstuffed wallet and handed it to the agent.
“Thanks. I’ll be reaching out to him. Best if you don’t give him any advance notice. Understood?” Simmons said eyeing him intently.
Jones nodded and turned to leave. He shook hands with Cavanaugh and mouthed good luck punctuated with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.
He left the room containing the departed Pentlow. A light breeze swept across the second-floor landing of the Stagecoach Inn that temporarily muted the odor. Jones had been around death enough to know its stink was now interwoven deep into the fibers of his clothes where they’d linger for the remainder of the day.
6
His head violently banged against the plastic surface of the airplane’s window, alerting Nick that he’d reached his final destination. A de-icing issue in Austin had delayed his departure, and with each passing minute he’d worried that his opportunity to be by Izzy’s side had slipped by. He took out his cell phone as did the other two men crammed into his row. The message to Declan was brief. Landed. See you in a few.
Nick shuffled out with the drove of wayward passengers whose bodies, like his, were adjusting to the release from the confines of the past few hours. At a little over six feet tall, Nick never thought of himself as a large man until seated in the cramped space of an airplane. It seemed as though in the last few years airlines had taken away all of the comforts, in particular, leg room. Meals had been replaced by snacks and any additional space had been filled with more seats, making the once luxurious method of travel one of mere convenience.
Exiting onto the sidewalk outside the baggage claim area, Nick scanned the row of cars in the pickup area. Stretching, he inhaled deeply, taking in the dampness of the Connecticut air as a long-term parking shuttle roared by, leaving him in a wake of diesel fumes. He coughed, choking on the acrid taste. Across the way he saw Declan standing outside a black SUV. No smile on his friend’s face tonight. He crossed the walkway, and the two men shared a quick embrace followed by a hearty slap on the back.
“It’s good to see you, brother,” Declan said. “But I hate that it’s under these circumstances.”
“What’s the status?” Nick asked, concern for Izzy permeating the air.
“She’s in ICU and they aren’t allowing visitors. Her surgery is scheduled for early tomorrow morning. Val’s at the hospital now and will call if something changes.”
“What’d the doctors say?”
“Not much so far. They err on the side of caution these days. An overly litigious society has left most doctors tight lipped about giving any early prognosis. Rest assured she’s in good hands. The docs at Yale New Haven are some of the best in the country,” Declan said.
Nick sat in silence taking in the gravity of the situation as the two made their way south on I-91 from Bradley International Airport. He pulled out his cell phone to let Anaya know he’d landed and to check on her trip to Michigan. He looked at his watch and realized she was still in the air and would be for a little while longer. Nick slipped it back into his pocket and stared out the window. A light, but continuous, icy drizzle fell and a thin layer glazed the windshield as the wipers struggled in vain with their task.
“Miss this beautiful weather?” Declan said.
Nick laughed. “Not for a minute.”
“You’re not going to believe how big the girls are getting. Sprouting like weeds, but crazy as ever,” Declan said.
“Last time we talked you mentioned that Laney started a half-day pre-K program. How’s she adjusting?”
“The staff is amazing. I was nervous they wouldn’t be able to accommodate her needs, but that’s been quelled. She’s starting to become more vocal and the meltdowns are less frequent,” Declan said smiling.
“That’s good stuff. I hope that when my time comes to be a father that I can do half as well as you.”
Declan laughed. “Is the commitment-phobic Nick Lawrence thinking about settling down? My God, what has Anaya done to you?”
Nick felt conflicted at hearing Anaya’s name while rushing to see Izzy. The unresolved feelings bubbled up inside him.
“We’ve got a good thing going. Let’s see where it takes us,” Nick said dismissively.
“I’d better be invited if there’s a wedding.” Declan stopped and gave Nick a wary glance.
Nick felt his cheeks warm and knew that he’d reddened. He was angry at his body’s betrayal.
“Wait a minute.” Declan cocked his eyebrow. “Has there already been a wedding? Did you guys elope?”
“What? No.”
“Well, something’s definitely different.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nick said.
“I can’t quite place it, but something’s off.”
“Can you keep a secret?” Nick asked, already knowing the answer.
Declan’s response came in the form a big shit-eating grin.
Nick turned and faced his friend, pausing for added effect. “I’m going to be a dad.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time. How far along?”
“Eight weeks.” Nick exhaled loudly. “Anaya told me this morning.”
Declan shook his head. “Wow! You’ve been on an emotional roller coaster of a day.”
“She’s going to kill me. I promised I would wait until we made it through the first trimester.”
Declan’s laughter erupted. “You didn’t even make it to through the first few hours.”
Nick started laughing and for a brief moment forgot where they were headed.
“Val’s going to be so excited. She loves babies. You know that you’ve just made my life a living hell,” Declan said.
“Why’s that?”
“Because now she’s going to want another one. She’s going to catch baby fever.” Declan’s face softened into a smile. “But I guess it’s a win for me. The trying is the best part anyway.”
New Haven 30 Miles prominently displayed on the green highway sign ended the levity of their conversation. The two men slipped back into silence. The only sound was the rhythmic scraping of the wipers as they cut their path across t
he icy windshield.
Although relatively short in distance, the remaining miles of the journey seemed to pass slowly. The anticipation of seeing Izzy in her current situation added a burdensome mental load. Nick followed Declan into the main lobby of the building. The all-too-familiar medicinal smell filled his nose and sickened his stomach. He’d been around it too often in his life and never under good circumstances. Maybe the birth of his child would change that?
Val was standing at a small rectangular table set against the wall with her back to them as they entered the waiting room. She methodically churned a thin plastic stir stick into the steaming cup of coffee in her hand. The flat gray of the evening’s transition to darkness seeped into the room and blended with the soft glow cast from the ceiling lights. A wave of stress-induced exhaustion swept over Nick and an involuntary yawn caught him by surprise.
Val spun at the sound. The tension in her shoulders dropped at the sight of Declan. Nick hoped that he’d have that same effect on Anaya as their years together passed.
“Hey babe,” Declan said moving his hands to her slender hips.
Nick watched as the two shared a quick embrace.
“Oh Nick. Come here,” Val said, opening her arms and gesturing him in for a hug.
Nick accepted the invitation.
“It’s good to see you again. I’m sorry it took something like this for me to get back this way,” Nick said as they separated.
He eyed the coffee pot and slipped past Val, grabbing a cup for himself.
“Any word?” Declan asked.
“Nothing new,” Val said.
“Well, I’ll take no news as good news at this point,” Nick said, taking a sip.
“We should probably head back to our place in a little bit. It’s late and they’re not allowing visitors tonight,” Val said.
“I’m staying. I’d never forgive myself if I wasn’t here and—” Nick stopped short, fearing that if he spoke the words they’d become a dark reality.
“If you’re staying, then we’re staying too,” Declan said.
Val nodded her agreement. Nick admired how she gave her support without a moment’s hesitation.
“Are you guys sure? What about the girls?” Nick asked.