Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1)

by Douglas Wickard

  “I’ll need to send it to the Lab. Can you get it for me?”

  “Yes. Of course. Tomorrow.”

  “Pardon me for a second. I need to call the ER. Is there somewhere private?”

  Dr. Garrison escorted Dan back into the unit. Dan stole a glance into Angie’s private cubicle. Her parents were sitting in chairs beside the bed. His heart went out to them. What would he do if it were his little girl? Alexandra. The phone rang in the ER several times before somebody picked up.

  “Let me speak with Beth.” Dan observed Dr. Garrison’s beauty. Even with no sleep, she was a vision of grace and strength. She entered Angie’s stall. She laid her hand on Angie’s forehead. He could tell she was a wonderful doctor. Caring and supportive. And fiercely protective. Angie’s parents were asking questions when Beth came on the line.

  “Beth, this is Detective Hammer. I’m upstairs with Dr. Garrison. Can you get me Officer Evans on the line?” There was a pause. “He should be sitting with George Madden, the guy who brought in the girl. Maybe another officer.”

  Through the receiver, he could hear Beth call out Evans’s name. The phone went mute. Several minutes passed before he heard the line go live and footsteps approach.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” It was Evans all right.

  “You still have Madden down there?”

  “Yep.”

  “I want you to drive him out to where he found the girl.”

  “Now?”

  “Start a search. I’ll radio the precinct for backup. I want every available cop out there combing that area.”

  “Why all the hurry, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

  “I’ve got a hunch Angie’s not the only one.”

  “Should we wait for you?”

  “No. I want to chat with her parents. Wherever you are, I’ll find you. It shouldn’t be too difficult.” Dan ended the call, surprised to see the doctor standing beside him.

  “You are not talking to her parents. Not tonight. Doctor’s orders.” Her voice turned soft. “Haven’t they been through enough? Have some bloody compassion, Detective.”

  Dan pushed forward. “Compassion doesn’t save lives. When can I speak with Angie?”

  “She’s heavily sedated. She needs time to rest. To heal. I’m not cheerleading for a quick awakening.”

  Dan checked out his reflection in his shoes. He needed a shave. Badly. He rubbed his fingers over his stubble. “You’re right.”

  “Give it a rest. She’s been through hell.”

  “Just so you understand, Doctor. Angie’s our only link.”

  “Angie’s going to be fine. She’s safe here. Give it some time, for God’s sake.”

  “Will you be here tomorrow?” Dan didn’t fully understand why he asked her that question. Permanence, maybe. He wanted to know somebody could be found at the same place, at the same time, every day with a moderate amount of consistency.

  The doctor checked her watch. Again. In her line of work, she probably checked it frequently. “Don’t you mean, today, Detective?”

  Dan looked at his cheap Timex. The silver metal was chipped and in need of repair. “Right.”

  “To answer your final question, Detective, no. I will not be here. One of the good things about being on call. After morning rounds tomorrow, the rest of the day belongs to me.”

  “Tough job.”

  “Somebody’s got to do it.” She offered a half smile. He’d been waiting all evening for it. “I could say the same thing about you.”

  “I guess.” Dan escorted the good doctor down the hallway, past the waiting room to the elevator. He pushed the down button. The dial lit up from gray to yellow. Within seconds, the metal door opened. “After you,” Dan said, doing a grand gesture with his hand, his business card conveniently displayed for easy retrieval. For some reason, he was trying to win this woman over. He motioned for Dr. Garrison to enter the silver cave first.

  Surprisingly, she took him up on both of his offers.

  June 14, 2007

  2:06 AM

  Friday

  10

  After questioning George Madden, Janice called Louis Santiago, the Night Editor at the Post and Courier. Louis’s voice carried an air of superiority. That “been there, done that” sort of attitude. Janice could care less. In her book, Louis was all right. He reminded her of an antique piece of furniture -- a hard back with a soft, cushy middle. An Oreo cookie. Besides, Janice knew Louis honestly liked her. Respected her. Louis thought Janice had “moxie.”

  Louis had appropriately nicknamed Janice “Mouth,” which to most people would be offensive, but to Janice it was endearing. And true. Janice did have quite the mouth on her!

  Janice also realized she wouldn’t be the only one reporting on this story. This was front page news. It would take precedence over everything. She had to have all her ducks in a row, so to speak, in order to convince Louis to let her be the first one out of the gate. What she didn’t know, at the time, was the gruesome magnitude of what was about to unfold in the next few hours. Their sleepy town of Charleston, South Carolina was about to be put on the map in a major way and Janice “Mouth” Porter was about to be the Reporter responsible for making it all go down.

  She called Santiago from the hospital, slipping outside and using her cell. She gave a brief overview of what Madden had told her, enough to spark some interest. Experience had also taught her, it didn’t hurt to ask questions to peripheral people standing around the scene as well. The cleaning crew, in this situation, was more than willing to spill the proverbial beans. The only snag was the ER staff. Nobody in there was talking. Not a peep. They went about their business as if nothing had ever happened.

  Santiago’s voice was like gravel when he finally did pick up. Janice could picture him, hunched up over his cluttered desk, his balding head reflected in the florescent lights overhead.

  A lot of editors might not have given Janice the price of admission, but Louis, God bless him, was all ears.

  Of course, Janice’s voice was as loud at two o’clock in the morning as it was in a bowling alley ordering another beer. “Louis, it’s Mouth!”

  “Porco dio.”

  “I got front page on this one. Help me out.” Janice was twisting a strand of hair to the point of hurting, intuiting Louis’s ebbing interest.

  “I’m listening.” He fumbled on the desk for a pencil.

  “You want some coffee?”

  “Hold on for one hot second. You know never to call me without details. How many times…”

  Janice stopped listening. She never listened. In fact, she cut him off. “… Krispy Kreme coffee?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? I haven’t heard a peep. Nothing. What are ‘ya coming in for? Nothing’s come over the scanner.”

  Intrepid reporters. Always screening the police scanner for the possibility of a lead.

  “They’re keeping it quiet. Real quiet. But let me tell you, when you hear this one, it’s gonna send shivers right up your spine!”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s what my wife keeps saying. I’m waiting.”

  Marriage. A mental note. Shoot her if she ever considered changing stripes.

  Janice continued. She didn’t want to leak too much, but she had to feed him enough to keep his limited attention span piqued. “A girl was found out on Old Towne Road. Left for dead, but somehow she managed to crawl out onto the road, or something. I just finished talking with this person, Madden. He was the one who found the girl and took her in.”

  “She dead? How old?”

  With that toss of a tidbit, she had him. Hook, line and sinker. “This story is going to rattle a few chains, Louis, not to mention, sell papers.” And everybody understood what that did for an author’s byline.

  She could visualize Louis, massaging his temples, holding onto his pencil in that awkward slant only lefties do.

  “Where are you?”

  “At the hospital. The girl’s alive, Louis. She lived. I want this one. I’m
up for it.”

  “Let me at least try and get hold of Finch.”

  “Finch? Who the fuck is Finch? Fuck Finch.” She thought of a bird, fluttering in some wooden cage. “Louis, come on. This one’s mine. I found it. I want it. It’s got my name all over it, Dammit!”

  “Sorry, Mouth. Finch is the police reporter on duty tonight.”

  “Police reporter on duty?” She snorted at the absurdity. “Since when does Charleston, South Carolina have a police reporter on duty?”

  “Don’t worry about it, he probably won’t pick up.”

  “Can’t blame him. When’s the last time you used him? The attack on Fort Sumter?”

  “Very funny. You got a name yet on the girl?”

  “Angie Kessler.”

  “How’d you get that? They usually keep that information sealed tight, like a nun’s twat.”

  “Hospital Admitting.”

  Louis shook his head. Who else but Janice “Mouth” Porter would feign relative and get the kids name? “Don’t forget, lots of half and half with my coffee.”

  “You need to start watching your cholesterol.”

  Janice ended the call, left MUSC and ran the twenty blocks to Dunkin Donuts. It was the least she could do. She was too lazy to go get her car and drive to the Krispy Kreme. While waiting for the slower-than-molasses counter person to fill up the Styrofoam containers, her mind was organizing material. It was important to have a strategy. What’s first? Title. She needed a great headline hook on this one.

  Story of a lifetime…

  She also knew, in order to make morning deadline, she would have to hurry. She kept checking her watch. If anybody were to see her, they would probably think she had some sort of spastic tick.

  The counter person had obviously sampled one too many Boston Cream donuts and was, unfortunately, testing Janice’s last nerve. Janice’s body language was screaming out, “Just give me the Goddamn half and half on the side.” She grabbed the coffees, threw a five dollar bill on the counter and ran. For her life.

  I’m on a deadline. A story is breaking.

  Louis was waiting as Janice barreled through the wooden doors.

  “It’s only you, Mouth. You’re on your own, at least until six, so make it good.”

  “Yes!” She gave Louis a high five and a huge kiss on his grainy cheek, passed him his coffee, ran to the Metro desk and turned on the computer. She pulled her pad from her jacket pocket and started writing, random thoughts at first, notes, just to get her going. Then, gradually the focus would materialize. Put it all out on the table first and see what showed up. The computer beeped and belched as it went through the obstacle course of software.

  At this point, nothing had actually happened. Angie Kessler was alive.

  Then, as if on cue, she heard Evans’s voice come over the scanner. Unmistakably Evans, loud and clear. Always available when she needed him, the handsome oaf, holding onto the radio handset and flicking another cigarette butt. One of Roger’s, she was sure.

  “Advising all available units. All available units. We got a Code 30 out here on Old Towne Road.”

  Evans kept repeating the site, “Old Towne Road.” It sounded peculiar to Janice, annoying almost. Unless, of course, he was signaling something. Something unspoken. Code 30? Read between the lines, Janice. What’s he saying?

  “What’s a Code 30, Louis?” Evans was reiterating something he didn’t want any ordinary reporter to pick up. Unless a certain reporter was already familiar with the Angie Kessler case. As far as Janice knew, she and the original officers were the only ones privileged with that information, unless…

  Louis flipped through a reference book that listed the codes officers use. “Let me see… Officer needs help. Emergency.”

  “Holy shit!” Janice flew up from her chair so fast she knocked over her coffee.

  Louis leaped up with her. “What?”

  “Get a photographer out there. Now!”

  “What?”

  “A photographer.”

  “Where?”

  “Old Towne Road. And make it snappy.” Janice was already sticking her pad and pen back into her jacket and heading for the exit.

  “What about the story?” Louis asked.

  “On my Mother’s grave…”

  “On your Mother’s grave?”

  Janice watched Louis hold his hands up in the air. Exasperated. She wished she had a camera. She caught Louis in a vulnerable moment. One she could use some day. As blackmail.

  “Dammit, Louis, don’t you get it? They found another body.”

  “C’mon.”

  “With all due respect, Sir, move your ass!” The last thing Janice witnessed before leaving the office was Louis picking up the telephone.

  June 15, 2007

  2:22 AM

  Friday

  11

  Dan Hammer was an honorable man. But, he wasn’t perfect. He made mistakes, like everybody. Dan thought it had to do with timing. Or possibly… opportunity.

  Did Dan know how taken he would be with Dr. Garrison?

  Did he understand the seriousness of Angie Kessler and her violent attack? Absolutely. It would have been downright stupid to say he didn’t. After all, he was the one who played by the rules, never cheated and hardly every cussed. A squirrel was on the loose and it was his job to find him.

  So, what happened?

  Between arriving at Old Towne Road and the ground floor exit of the hospital, when he touched Dr. Garrison’s hand, initiating a friendly handshake. What was all that about?

  A light rain coated the windshield of his Plymouth as he crossed the James Island Bridge. Actually, it was more like a fine mist. Fog was rolling in over the lowlands. It caused him to use his windshield wipers and drive slower than usual. He was enjoying his sudden bout of quiet time. Solitude. No radio. No static. No FM.

  The hypnotic motion of the wipers kept him company. The scanner blinked from channel to channel, red pinpricks of light exploding like tiny flares inside its black metal frame. The night dispatcher was transmitting intermittent calls, each more jumbled than the next. As Dan reached over to turn down the volume, he wondered why he never played a musical instrument as a kid. Interesting the things one thinks about when alone.

  Sometimes, Dan surprised himself.

  Heading west on Highway 61 en route to Old Towne Road, Dan once again reflected on his meeting with Dr. Garrison. It poked into his consciousness, like the headlights peeking through the wet murkiness from the opposite side of the median. What time was it anyway? Dan looked at his watch with its green glow-in-the-dark hands. After two. He yawned. It was that “in-between time.” “Dead time.” Like flying. That patch of space between takeoff and landing when there were no interruptions, no conversations, no cell phones. Free air. Dan craved it. It allowed him an opportunity to ruminate. Think things over. Create theories. If he enjoyed writing more, he would keep a journal. His brain was very methodical. A machine, almost. He collected information and immediately began organizing. Prioritizing. Call it “mental triage.” Columns appeared. Numbers. Tools showed up, like on a computer. He could bold, highlight, and underline…it all sounded crazy.

  Dan rubbed a small circular patch on his side window. He glanced out into the darkness. Tonight, his attention was far away, far from where it should be. A monster was loose. So why weren’t his thoughts with Angie? Or Angie’s perpetrator? Her mutilated body?

  His mood was mirroring the weather. And, of all things, he was reflecting on his brief encounter with Dr. Garrison. Again. And in such high definition detail. The way she wet her lips in the middle of a sentence. The sheer force of her, the stamina she exuded when explaining herself. The crease in her forehead each time her undivided attention was on Dan. Direct and focused, she listened, her interest keen. Disciplined. Facial features that didn’t require makeup, defined only by sharp lines and soft curves. She carried off both extremes very well.

  Her presence stole too much of his time, too much of his a
ttention.

  Focus Dan. Keep your thoughts centered.

  On Angie. Little Angie. Angie needed all of his concentration right now.

  A rise occurred in his pants. Unplanned and disconnected from any sexual thought. Or so he thought. It just sort of happened. By itself. Masturbation was usually not an option. Okay, occasionally Dan would jack off, choke the chicken, whack-the-Willy, for medicinal purposes, only.