by Jen Talty
“Down to the 7-Eleven just two blocks away.” Jones stepped aside, letting the medics roll in the gurney. “The 7-Eleven attendant said they came in screaming and crying and he could barely understand them.”
Shane was still trying to absorb the surroundings as the medical examiner wrapped a body bag around the young girl.
Shane’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen. “It’s the captain.”
“You’ve always been his favorite,” Jones chided.
“Hello?” Shane put it on speaker.
“Heard you had a visitor,” Captain Terrence Morrell said. He and Shane had butted heads a few times, but not where it mattered.
“I’m hoping when I step outside he’s long gone.”
“He is,” Morrell said. “I’m heading to his house now, but he’s pretty pissed off.”
“I would be, too, if I thought my kid had been murdered,” Shane said.
“I get it,” Morrell said. “But would you have called the Feds in as a personal favor before the body had even been ID’d?”
“Fucking great.” Jones rolled his eyes. “Special Agent what’s-his-name?”
“No,” Morrell barked. “He called the D.C. office and now we’re getting two agents from the Violent Crimes Unit, even if the vic isn’t his daughter.”
“Why?” Shane didn’t like the sound of that. He had less of a problem working with the Feds than Jones did, but no one wanted to work with a team of Feds from D.C. “There’s no reason to ask the FBI for their help.”
“He’s a powerful Congressman with sights on the presidency, who already compromised the crime scene. We might need the FBI to placate Cleary and help clean up any mess he might make.”
“They’re just going to get in our way,” Shane said.
“Deal with it,” Morrell said. “I want you both at the morgue right after you wrap things up at the crime scene. Cleary is demanding to view the body tonight.”
“Wonderful,” Shane muttered as he tapped the red button on his phone to end the call. “Let’s go talk to the kids before we leave.”
* * * * *
Shane pulled into the parking area of the morgue at Strong Memorial Hospital. “Hey, Siri, call Kevin Rogers.”
He closed his eyes, trying to forget his last visit to the morgue just a little over a year ago.
“Hey, Dad,” Kevin’s voice boomed over the speaker of his cell phone. “What’s going on?”
“I’m going to be later than I expected,” he said. “Just wanted to say goodnight.”
“I’ll wait up.”
“No, you won’t,” Shane said. “You need your rest.”
“Whatever.”
Shane tapped his chest. The disappointment in his son’s voice was undeniable. “We’ll have a big breakfast in the morning.”
“Grandma is making that French toast bake thing, so we can just pop it into the oven in the morning.”
“My favorite,” Shane said as Jones pulled into the spot next to him. “Got to go, little man.”
“I’m not little,” Kevin said. “I don’t want to be called that anymore.”
Shane shook his head. So many things had changed. “Love you.” He tapped his phone and stepped from his vehicle, pulling his coat tight as the wind howled.
Captain Morrell met Shane and Jones at the door to the back hallway of the hospital, where the morgue was located. A flash of his wife’s body, badly mangled, her face partially smashed in, sent a shiver across his spine as his muscles contracted, shooting pain messages to his brain. He pushed the memory from his mind.
“Cleary and his wife already ID’d the body. It’s Emily.” Morrell was in his early fifties. Completely grey. About five-ten. A little on the heavy side, but physically fit. Tonight, he looked as though he had aged ten years.
“That sucks,” Jones muttered.
“We need to tread very carefully on this one,” Morrell said. “Cleary is a well-liked man; not just in the political arena, but locally as well. People are going to want answers and fast.”
“Does the press know yet?” Shane asked, taking in a few slow, shallow breaths as they made their way down the long corridor to the waiting room where he could see the Cleary’s sitting on something that barely passed as a sofa.
“Not yet,” Morrell said. “Cleary’s wife says she knows you.”
“Alice,” Shane said. “We went to the same high school. Couple of years older.”
“Then I guess you know Kara Martin as well.”
Shane felt his heart swell as he sucked in a harsh breath before letting it out slowly. “What does she have to do with this?” It had been a long time since he’d heard that name.
“She’s one of the Feds coming in tomorrow. Local connection. His wife mentioned she recognized the name.”
“Yeah, I know her. Knew her. Haven’t talked to her in years,” Shane said, pushing any memory he had of the woman who broke his heart out of his head. “Anything we need to know before we talk to Cleary and his wife?”
“He’s still drunk, so don’t push too hard. He can get real mean when under the influence, but get what you can,” Morrell said. “I’ve been here as a friend, trying to remain impartial. I want you to do your jobs, and that means no special treatment, but it also means to remember that Cleary holds a government job…” Morrell paused. “… more importantly, they’ve just lost a child.”
Shane blinked a few times, picturing his son in his hospital bed. Dry, cracked lips. Body so weak and frail he couldn’t lift a small cup to his mouth. Death had only been days away and had he not gotten his new heart, his son would not have survived. Still, nearly losing a child wasn’t even remotely close to the actual devastation of having a child murdered. “We understand,” he said.
The congressman sat on a short sofa that Shane knew from his own experience to be hard as a rock. Mrs. Cleary leaned into her husband, one arm tightly wrapped around her body. She clutched at his free hand. She looked up as Shane and Jones sat across from them. Her eyes glazed over with emptiness and shock. “These are two of my best detectives,” Morrell said, making the rest of the introductions before saying his goodbyes, leaving Shane and Jones alone with the grieving couple.
The congressman’s hands noticeably trembled. His bloodshot eyes were moist.
“We’re sorry for your loss,” Shane’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Most of this is a formality, but you understand procedure. The clock is ticking, and we have to examine every possibility.”
Alice cupped her face and moaned.
Mr. Cleary banged a hand on the coffee table. “I want whoever did this to pay,” he said, his voice sharp, his tone and inflection indicating anger more than anything else. “Ask your questions and then go find whoever did this to my girl.”
“Mrs. Cleary…” Shane started.
She held her husband’s hand. Her shoulders shook as she let out a few more sobs of grief.
“I’m so very sorry to have to do this,” Shane said as he pulled out his leather notepad, running his fingers over it. “We need all the information we can get so we can find your daughter’s killer.”
“Then get on with it,” Congressman Cleary barked.
Shane wasn’t surprised by the congressman’s attitude. Everyone dealt with grief differently. He was, however, surprised by Cleary’s wrath while holding his wife, who obviously needed his comfort, not his rage. “You said your daughter had gone into the village?”
“She’d been outside building snowmen with her little sister who had gotten cold and came in and said that Emily had gone over to her best friend’s house,” Mrs. Cleary said, her voice barely audible.
“Did Emily often go off on her own?” Jones asked.
“She’s fourteen. She babysits the neighbors. It’s not like she can’t go places by herself. She’s a responsible kid.” Mrs. Cleary wiped her eyes.
“Did she often go places without asking?” Shane questioned.
“She’d made the plans the night
before,” Mrs. Cleary said. “I was surprised she hadn’t come in to get her cell phone before she left.”
“Why didn’t she have it with her when she was playing with her little sister?” Shane asked.
“This is her third one in a year and I wouldn’t let her take it outside to romp around in the snow with for fear she’d lose it, or break it.”
“We’d like to take that into evidence. See who she’s been talking to. If there’s anything out of the ordinary on the device.” Shane continued to study the parents. Mrs. Cleary looked as though she might pass out at any moment. Her face was pale, eyes swollen from crying. But it was the emptiness in her gaze that took Shane’s breath away.
Congressman Cleary had been the District Attorney when Shane first started as a beat cop and then later as a detective. Cleary was known for making deals to clear his desk and to keep one of the best records in the state. Even if he had a case he knew he could win, he’d always push for a plea. Shane and Jones had one of their first cases reduced to a plea bargain. Cleary had said that some of the collection of evidence was iffy, so he’d given the asshole a deal he just couldn’t refuse. The man who sat before Shane today was a far cry from the D.A. Shane remembered.
“We’ve looked at her phone. No strange numbers. No inappropriate messages,” Cleary said. “I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”
“I didn’t mean to offend,” Shane said. “We’d still like it. She could have been targeted and her phone could help us. We’d also like to go through her room. Would you be willing to sign off on letting us remove anything that could help us?”
Cleary nodded.
“What led you to call the police?” Jones asked.
“I called her friend’s house about twenty minutes after her sister came in. She wasn’t there, but her friend was. I called a few other friends. Nothing. I waited an hour before I called my husband, who called the police.” Mrs. Cleary lowered her head again and began to sob. Congressman Cleary tightened his grip around his wife, tears welling in his eyes.
“Have you noticed anyone hanging around lately?” Jones asked. “Anyone in the neighborhood that doesn’t belong here? Anything suspicious at all?”
Mrs. Cleary shook her head. “It’s a safe neighbor…” her sobs overtook her words.
“We’re very close with our neighbors,” Cleary said, his voice tight with emotion. “We organized a search party and looked around the neighborhood and all of Emily’s favorite places until we got the news a body had been found.”
“We’re sorry to have to ask you this, Congressman Cleary,” Jones said, “but can you tell us where you were this morning?”
Cleary let out a long breath. “I left the house around eight. Got a cup of coffee and a pastry at the Wegmans on East Avenue. You can check my credit card records. I got to my office downtown no later than nine. My assistant met me there around the same time. I was there until my wife called. She called my cell since the office was technically closed.”
“Thanks,” Shane said. “We’ll need your assistant’s name.”
“Heather Underman,” Cleary said between gritted teeth.
Shane wrote the name in his notebook. “Can you think of anyone who has it in for you? Wants revenge? Anything at all.”
“I’m sure I made a few enemies from my days as D.A.,” Cleary said. “I can get you a list of all the violent cases I closed. Will take a bit.”
“We can get those records,” Jones said. “Anything else you think is relevant?”
Cleary shook his head.
“If you think of anything.” Shane handed the congressman his card, “give us a call directly. We appreciate you taking the time to talk with us.”
“Just find the bastard.” Cleary gripped his wife.
“Truly sorry for your loss.” Shane stood and followed Jones through the long hallway to the front door without shaking the couple’s hands. Once outside, his own body began to tremble. He shook out his hands.
“What do you think?” Jones asked.
“I think I need to get home. I need to see my son. Clear my head and regroup.”
“I understand,” Jones said.
“Kevin has a doctor’s appointment in the morning.”
“I’ll cover, no worries.”
“Thanks.”
“What are partners for,” Jones said.
Shane got in his car and headed for home. The need to be near his own son was so overwhelming it caused a crushing pain in his chest.
* * *
Shane didn’t bother to check to see if he’d closed the door behind him as he bolted into his house. He knew it was well after ten, and Kevin was most likely sound asleep, but he had to see him, even if it was to merely watch his chest rise and fall with each peaceful breath he took.
“Shane,” his mother said.
“Give me a minute.” He raced through the kitchen, across the carpet runner in the living room and up the stairs, taking them two at a time, only slowing when he was at the top and about three feet from Kevin’s bedroom. The door was cracked open just enough for him to stick his head in.
Kevin lay on his side, curled up, hiding under his blanket. A circular light shone from under the thin covers.
Shane cleared his throat.
The light disappeared, but the body mass on the bed hadn’t moved.
“I know you’re awake,” Shane said as he stepped across the room, and then sat on the edge of the bed. The hall light illuminated the room. “I’m glad you like to read, buddy, but it’s past your bedtime. You need your rest.”
Kevin pulled back the covers. “It’s not that late,” he said with a scowl. “It’s not like I have anything to do tomorrow.”
“You’ve got a doctor’s appointment.”
“Oh.” Kevin tossed his book and flashlight onto the floor next to his bed. His dark hair stood up from the static created by the blanket. His brown eyes darted around the darkened room. “Well, it’s not like it’s a school night, since you won’t let me go back.”
Shane shook his head. “Not the time or place to get into this argument. We’ll discuss it during sunshine hours.”
“No, we won’t. You’ll just tell me you don’t think I’m ready. I feel fine.”
Shane leaned over and planted a kiss on his son’s forehead. He placed the back of his hand on Kevin’s cheek, letting it rest there for a long moment.
Kevin batted his hand away. “I don’t have a fever.”
“That’s good.” It wasn’t too long ago he remembered worrying that every time his son fell asleep, he might not wake up. He’d given up on the idea that Kevin might ever play sports, much less be able to run around on the playground. Just a few months ago, Kevin couldn’t even climb the stairs without getting winded. Now, the doctors were telling him that his life could not only be normal, but that Kevin could do almost anything. Be anything. Shane swallowed. Cleary’s daughter had every possibility snuffed out in a cruel twist that couldn’t even be described as Fate. Or God’s will. Just an act of senseless violence.
“I want to go back to school,” Kevin said, tears welling up in his eyes. “Even Dr. Nads said it was okay.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“That’s what you always say.” Kevin settled down in his bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. “Goodnight, Dad.”
Shane realized he’d just been dismissed, and knew it was best to just let it go for now. “I love you, buddy. Sleep well.”
“I love you back.”
Well, that was something. Shane slipped from Kevin’s bedroom and headed back downstairs to the kitchen, the ache in his heart only slightly pacified. The crime scene had left him with a queasy feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. That wasn’t anything new. Every murder did that to him, but this one affected him on a deeper level…and for so many reasons it was hard to pinpoint the cause of his unease. He chalked it up to having been on voluntary administrative duty for so long. That and knowing that Kara Martin was returning to
Rochester.
“Where’s Kevin’s chart?” he asked his mom as he placed his cell phone and keys on the counter. “Was his temperature normal? Did he take his meds?”
“Relax.” His mom handed him an open blue folder with all of Kevin’s information. “It’s been six months since his surgery. He understands he has to be diligent.”
Shane studied the chart which indicated no changes, but he couldn’t relax. He had no idea how to ease up when it came to Kevin. It didn’t matter how well he’d been doing; his body could always reject the heart. “He’s ten and it would be easy for him to forget.”
“You make it impossible for anyone to forget.” She snagged the folder and tossed it to the kitchen counter.
“That’s a good thing.”
“No, it’s not. He needs normalcy in his life.” She narrowed her eyes, glaring at him the same way she had when he was a small boy and had managed to get himself in trouble. It wasn’t a look of disappointment, but more of frustration.
“There really isn’t anything normal about a ten-year-old boy having a heart transplant a year after his mother died when her car was hit by a drunk driver.” He pulled his gun from his belt, checked the safety, and then placed it in the safety box on the shelf in the closet, as he did every night. “Only seventy-eight percent—”
“Don’t start tossing statistics out at me. Your son is alive and beating the odds. That’s all that matters.”
Shane tucked his head in the refrigerator to grab a beer. He really didn’t want to hear this lecture again. He’d heard it a million times, in various forms, from everyone in his family. Hell, even Kevin’s doctor seemed to enjoy telling Shane to lighten up. Healthy or not, death was always there, waiting and ready.
“Don’t ignore me when I’m speaking to you.” She firmly shut the refrigerator door, almost smacking his nose. “We are all well aware of the odds, but even Dr. Nads says we should focus on his recovery.”
Wasn’t that what he was doing? “Watching for signs of rejection is part of his recovery.” He took a healthy swig of his beer, leaning against the counter.