[Special Agent Tess Winnett 01.0] Dawn Girl

by Leslie Wolfe

  2

  Back to Work

  Present Day

  Special Agent Tess Winnett leaned forward, closer to the mirror, studying the circles under her eyes with a critical, disappointed glare. Unforgiving and dark-hued, the subject of her disdain circled her eyes generously, tinting her eyelids and making the blue of her irises appear hollow and lifeless. She looked pale and her face drawn, her skin taut and almost translucent against the high cheekbones.

  Makeup wouldn’t hurt. Too bad she wasn’t into that stuff.

  It was her first day back at the office, after taking three endless weeks to recuperate after injuries suffered in the line of duty. A dislocated shoulder. Torn ligaments. A couple of broken ribs that still stabbed her side with every breath. But she was back, unwilling to spend another single day bored out of her mind, counting the hours, and pacing the floor between the 300 channels of crap television and the stack of novels she just didn’t have the patience for.

  It wasn’t the physical injuries she thought to be the source of her pallor; it was the monsters that lurked inside, in the deepest recesses of her weary brain. The memories she wanted gone forever, but which refused to fade, the raw memories of that one terrible night, more than ten years before, when her life took an abrupt turn for the nightmare. A night when she was the powerless victim fighting for her life, not the fearless FBI agent she had become.

  Those wounds were still painful, still making her go through life in a constant state of hypervigilance, although her assailant couldn’t hurt her anymore. Those wounds hurt much worse than a bunch of cracked ribs could ever hurt.

  Focused on her physical fitness and most likely oblivious to the rest of her baggage, her doctor had prescribed six weeks off, with the last two spent in daily physiotherapy sessions, strength building, and mobility exercises. She had pleaded and threatened, but he’d already spoken with her supervisor, FBI Special Agent in Charge, or SAC Pearson, as she liked to shorten his title, advising him she couldn’t return to duty for medical reasons. When she’d heard that, she’d flipped, turning on the doctor with the full force of her irrational anger, and accused him of everything she could think of, from violating patient confidentiality to simply being an inconsiderate, selfish, cover-your-ass kind of jerk, the type who shouldn’t be allowed to wear a doctor’s badge at any time in his life.

  That didn’t get her too far. The doctor scoffed hearing about patient confidentiality violations, and reassured her he’d only shared the six weeks’ rest order with SAC Pearson, and none of the details. Yet, miraculously, later that same day, he agreed to let her off with three weeks, if she were to perform only light duties, as in sitting behind a desk and doing paperwork.

  Hell, no.

  But at least she could set foot inside the federal building again; the FBI had restored her credentials. The rest was up to her, right? A crooked smile appeared shyly in that bathroom mirror, then extended to a full-blown grin, engulfing her eyes and making her dark circles almost disappear.

  She was back. That was all that mattered.

  “Welcome back, Winnett,” a woman greeted in passing, then slammed the door of the last stall behind her.

  Tess jumped out of her skin. She hadn’t heard the woman come into the bathroom; she just heard the voice behind her, too damn close when she thought she was alone and safe. Her heart raced and her hands shook a little. She focused for a few seconds on her breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

  “Thanks,” she finally replied, a little hesitant, then let out a long breath, steadying herself some more.

  Was she really ready to be back? She’d better be. Wake the hell up, Winnett.

  She stared at herself a little more, building confidence for the meeting with SAC Pearson. She’d come in that morning to find a sticky note on her desk, with a quick message, “See me first thing.” The message was signed by Pearson, his scribbled name evolving from block letters to a pseudo-signature, overall illegible. But she knew who it was, anyway.

  SAC Pearson. Ugh. Her boss, who’d put her on notice a few times already, and who wasn’t going to take any more crap from her. A man who’d completed twelve years of service as a profiler with an enviable case record, a case record only she exceeded. He scored 98 percent; she scored 100 percent. Tiny difference, great meaning. She was sure the two percentage points were front and central on her boss’s mind, at least some of the time. But, most of all, Pearson was an experienced profiler who would take one look at those black circles under her eyes and send her packing, out for three more weeks of going nuts in her apartment.

  She pursed her lips, considering her options, then cleared her throat quietly.

  “Hey, Colston, would you happen to have any makeup on you?”

  “Uh-huh, here you go,” the woman replied, offering her purse under the stall door. “Knock yourself out.”

  “Thanks,” she replied.

  She took the offered purse and put it on the counter, but hesitated a little before unzipping it. She struggled invading someone’s privacy like that, despite being invited to. How different other people were. How… unsuspicious, and trusting, and open. Calm. Caring. Unassuming. As she unzipped the purse, she felt a pang of envy. She just wished she could be like that, like everyone else out there who shared, trusted, and let their guard down every now and then.

  Colston’s purse held a treasure trove of makeup items, and she stared, puzzled at the pile of little objects, unsure what to use.

  “This is what you’ll need,” Colston said, picking up a concealer from the pile. Her hand dripped water into the open purse, but she didn’t seem to care.

  Tess’s breath caught, but she swallowed and managed to thank her. How come she hadn’t heard Colston flush, or seen her wash her hands? She’d definitely washed them, seeing as she was now drying them thoroughly with a paper towel. What kind of field agent lets people creep up on them like that? She needed to get a grip.

  She hid her frown and applied the concealer quickly, with her finger, and smiled with gratitude.

  “I’d also put on a little bit of blush. You’re too pale. Here, let me,” Colston offered, and quickly touched up Tess’s cheeks with a thick brush, bringing color to her alabaster skin. “Perfect, there you go. Much better.”

  They walked out of the restroom together, but then parted ways, as Tess swung by her desk to grab her notepad before heading toward Pearson’s office.

  There he was, sitting at his desk, with his completely bald head lowered, as he read through the pages of a dossier, flipping through it impatiently and pressing his lips together, a definite sign of annoyance. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, which meant he was going to be in the office for at least a few hours.

  She knocked on the doorjamb and waited silently. He waved her in, without lifting his eyes from the pile of paperwork. She stood and let her eyes wander on the few items adorning Pearson’s office. Behind him, taking a shelf in a half-empty bookcase, a cluster of three framed pictures showcased Pearson’s family. His wife, a little overweight, was a warm, affectionate woman who held his hand with confidence in a family picture that included their two children.

  The other two images were college graduation portraits of his sons, the professional type that higher-end colleges offer on the day of the ceremony. Both boys had their mother’s kindness in their eyes; they were younger, milder versions of their father. She wondered if the harshness in Pearson’s features was genetic or acquired. She studied the two vertical ridges that flanked his puckered lips, the permanent frown lines on his tall forehead, and the tension in his jaw. Probably his nature.

  Finally, Pearson looked up and frowned a little deeper.

  “Sit down, Winnett.”

  She obliged.

  “So, you’re back. Early.”

  “Sir.”

  “Welcome back. Are you up for it?”

  “Thank you, sir. Yes, I am.”

  He rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose where gl
asses had left reddish marks on his skin. Then he leaned back in his chair, deep in his thoughts.

  “I have a few things for you,” he finally said. The tone of his voice didn’t promise anything good.

  She nodded, but didn’t say a word. She shifted in her chair nervously, but then willed herself to sit still.

  “First, there’s the issue of your latest case. There will be a formal review of that entire development. It’s scheduled to start in two weeks.”

  “A formal review? May I ask why?”

  “My question is, do you really need to ask why?” He drilled his eyes into hers until she lowered her gaze and stared at the floor. “Yes, you’ve closed the case. Yes, you added one more notable notch to your belt. But the review committee has become aware that some of your stats are not that good.”

  “Which stats?” She knew she had an impeccable case record, so it couldn’t be that. Then what?

  “Your kill ratio’s higher than everyone else’s. You have been cleared in every shooting, but there was something about your last case that got their attention.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Let me finish, Winnett. I suggest you let the committee finalize the formal review and make their recommendations. Like I said, you’ve already been cleared in each shooting, so you’re fine.”

  She waited for a full second before speaking.

  “Sir, with all due respect, I’m not fine. A formal review can be a career killer.”

  He stood abruptly, started pacing the floor, and buried his fisted hands deep inside his pockets.

  “There’s nothing you can do, Winnett. There’s nothing anyone can do. Let things happen, and don’t rock the boat. But it wouldn’t hurt you to arrest a suspect for a change, instead of shooting them.”

  She stared quietly at the floor, feeling the sting of frustration.

  “Understood,” she eventually replied, managing to refrain from disputing everything that was wrong with the system.

  Pearson sat back at his desk, and his frown deepened.

  “Second item on the list is definitely not helping you with the upcoming review.” He cleared his throat, then continued. “I would like you to work with a partner for a while.”

  “Oh?” she said, looking at Pearson with poorly hidden annoyance. She didn’t want a partner, but she knew it was bound to happen, sooner or later. Pearson had been clear about it. But still. “We’re not required to have permanent partners in the FBI, so I was—”

  “Don’t quote statute on me, Winnett. I still get to decide who does what here, and with whom. That clear?”

  “Yes, sir. But that means you actually want me supervised, rather than—”

  “Winnett!”

  She froze. She didn’t want to push him too far, but she didn’t feel she deserved it either. Where could she draw that line, between taking direction from her boss and standing up for herself?

  “For now, there isn’t anyone available to work with you,” he said, then glared at her as her relief must have been too obvious. “But I want you to consider having a partner as a next step in your career. It will help you a great deal, and it will help with people’s perceptions about you.”

  “What perceptions?”

  “That you’re not a team player. That you don’t care about how others feel, or about their results; just about getting case after case solved, as fast and as good as possible.”

  “Umm… and what’s wrong with solving cases fast? That’s my job!”

  “The perception is that you don’t care who you hurt in the process. You have to fix this perception, Winnett. You have to, and I’m not kidding. Regain the trust and respect of your colleagues, and make sure you can demonstrate you belong on this team. There’s no room for solo artists here, Winnett, regardless of your case record. We’re all part of a team, and we have to act like it.”

  She bit her lip. How the hell was she supposed to do that? Interactions like she’d just had in the bathroom with Colston were so rare, they only proved the rule by being the exceptions. They were enjoyable though, she had to admit.

  “I worked just fine with Mike. I think I demonstrated that. But Mike’s gone. He’s dead.”

  “Listen, Winnett,” Pearson continued, loosening his tie with a frustrated sigh. “No matter what you, or I, or anyone else would be willing to do, Mike’s not coming back. No matter how much you blame yourself, or how much you decide you can’t work with anyone else. It’s time to move on, Winnett. Don’t let it destroy your career.” He fell silent for a second, letting his loaded gaze say the words he didn’t speak.

  She lowered her eyes again, not sure what more she could say.

  “Then, there’s the problem with the governor,” he continued.

  Tess sighed quietly and refrained from visibly rolling her eyes.

  “He called with your name, twice, while you were working your latest case. Twice!”

  “He gets calls from all the ritzy people I happen to bother during my—”

  “Winnett!” he snapped. “Don’t you think I know how the wheels turn? But you have to be smart about it! At some point, he could call and ask me formally to make you another governor’s problem! No other agent in this branch has your kind of track record. They all solve cases, maybe not with your record of achievement, but definitely with less noise and disruption. With fewer complaints.” He paused for a little while, as if trying to figure out what to do with her. “Be smart about these things, Winnett,” he eventually continued. “Don’t allow your behavior to cast a shadow on the reputation of this team, internal and external. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly,” Tess managed. She was going to have to figure out how to get people to like her, to accept her. She had to change, and that was never easy. She needed to soften around the edges a little, but somehow still be able to do her job, maintain her edge. She had no idea how to do that, or where to start.

  “I’m giving you an assignment,” Pearson moved on.

  She lit up, feeling anticipation and excitement elevate her gloomy spirits.

  “There’s a serial killer on death row at Raiford; Kenneth Garza.”

  “Ah, The Family Man,” she added.

  “Yes, The Family Man,” Pearson confirmed. “His execution date is set and it’s approaching. It’s in three weeks or so, on the twenty-second. I’d like you to study his file, and go there for an interview. Make sure everything rings right, that we’ve crossed every T and dotted every I, and we’re not going to have any surprises in his final hour. Are you familiar with his case?”

  “No, just with his reputation. It was before my time.”

  “Jeez, Winnett, you’re something else. Before Winnett and After Winnett, is that it? How arrogant can you get?” The irritation in Pearson’s voice was discernible, almost physical in the unusually elevated pitch.

  “No, sir. I meant I am familiar with all the serial killer cases closed during my tenure.”

  “Of course, you are,” he scoffed, “because you closed them!”

  “No, sir. I meant I’m familiar with all serial killer cases closed by the Bureau, regardless of who closed them, since the day I joined the FBI ten years ago.”

  Pearson’s jaw dropped a little, but then he regained his composure, apparently unperturbed. She felt the urge to smile, but knew better and didn’t.

  He continued, “Okay, so get familiar with Garza’s file, and go have a chat with him before he fries.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said and stood, ready to leave.

  He pointed at a stack of boxes, already loaded on a dolly and parked in the corner of his office, near the door. She raised her eyebrows.

  “Garza’s file,” he said, then resumed reading the documents he was studying before her arrival.

  She grabbed the dolly’s handle and winced. Sharp pain stabbed her side. She shifted the handle to her other hand and managed to roll out of there without hitting the walls or denting any furniture.

  Relieved, she focused on pulling the
dolly awkwardly on the thick carpet, looking behind her at each step to make sure the stack of boxes still held on. Then she ran into someone, head-butting into a muscular chest, white shirt clad, and boasting a colorful necktie. She gasped, as the impact sent a wave of pain into her shoulder.

  “What the hell, Winnett, watch it,” Donovan said. He was the best and brightest on their analysis team. An analyst, not a field agent, despite his numerous applications, and his solid, unwavering enthusiasm.

  She tightened her lips and swallowed a long, detailed curse.

  “Sorry, Donovan. Are you okay?” A hint of sarcasm seeped in her voice. He shook his head.

  “And to think you wield a weapon for a living. Huh… I wonder who approved that,” he replied with biting humor.

  That stung, and, within that angry split second, she felt the urge to tell Donovan it was the same people who’d denied him his application to become a field agent. But then she remembered her commitment to herself and Pearson and swallowed that angry comeback.

  “Um, once again, sorry,” she said softly, then turned to leave.

  Donovan’s face dropped, seemingly unsure how to react. The Tess Winnett he and everyone else knew would have ripped him to shreds for far less. He stood there, riveted in place, watching her wince while she struggled to pull the loaded dolly.

  “By the way, in case you want to know: you push the dolly; you don’t pull it with loads that high,” he offered, then turned away and resumed his course toward the elevators.

  Gah… She closed her eyes for a second, trying to envision a space where she could let the angry cuss words she felt like shouting at Donovan’s broad shoulders actually be articulated, to let off some of the pressure she felt. No such place.

  She turned the dolly around and started pushing it, suddenly seeing how easy it was to make it across the wide floor to her desk. She smiled, almost forgetting about the review committee and the weight of the thousands of pages detailing the many gruesome murders perpetrated by The Family Man.