by Casey Hill
She continued going through the simulation, stopping and starting it to compare it to the onsite crime scene reports and trace markers. The darkness closed in all around her, until it was just Reilly and the crime scene.
She caught something then that she hadn’t noticed before, and was leaning in to get a better look when she heard a throat clear behind her. She was so immersed in her work, and so completely engulfed in silence, her first reaction to the presence of an unknown person was fear.
And Reilly’s first reaction to fear this late at night, in her sleep-deprived state, was to strike out.
Unluckily for her assailant, her perfectly placed uppercut caught him right under the chin, and his plan to startle her succeeded swimmingly.
He grunted in surprise and brought a hand up to ward off any further attacks, while Reilly rose to her feet and took a moment to look properly at her victim, washed out in the glowing white light of the computer monitor.
CHRIS HAD THOUGHT he might startle Reilly at most, but he certainly hadn’t expected a violent outburst.
He’d driven past the GFU building on his way back from dinner at Matt and Kelly’s house nearby and had seen the light on her office.
When he’d gone up to investigate, he’d immediately recognized the silhouette outlined by the monitor inside.
It was just like her to come in so late at night, he thought, admiring the soft curve of her shoulders, the way her blonde hair tumbled out of her pony tail. Sometimes Chris had the urge to reach up and pull the rest of it free altogether, and he’d had the urge right at that moment.
But he’d settled on walking up behind her. When she didn’t notice his steps over the soft carpet-tiled floor, he’d cleared his throat. Which was when her small but mighty fist had met him square in the chin.
“Damn,” she said, taking a step toward him, “Chris, I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head, still holding his face. She really could throw one hell of a punch.
Reilly nearly melted in embarrassment and guilt, and a few moments later, she had returned from the staff room with an ice pack and bottle of painkillers for him. She handed Chris the ice pack and he begrudgingly put it to his chin. He’d taken a seat in one of the rotating office chairs when she rushed off, disgruntled over the punch. How had she managed to take him like that?
If Kennedy got word of this, he would never live it down.
Despite himself, a chuckle swelled up in his chest as Reilly shook one of the pills into her hand. She glanced over at him as he erupted into low, rolling laughter, shaking and bringing his other hand to his eyes in his mirth.
She froze, worried the blow to his chin had knocked his brain loose, and he would never be the same. Her fear was dispelled however, when Chris’s eyes met hers and his laughter passed over to her like a shared breath.
In only a few moments, the two decorated members of Dublin law enforcement were beside themselves with laughter. After a minute or so of this, their collective chuckling died down and they took those few necessary breaths of air, looking at each other the whole time.
When it was apparent the air had well and truly been cleared, Reilly pulled the chair that she had been sitting in over and sat down beside him. “What are you doing in the GFU at this time of night?” she asked him.
Chris turned the now-melted ice pack over in his hands and looked up at her, his bright brown eyes shining. “I could ask you the same thing.”
She swallowed and looked down at the floor, not sure she was ready to admit to him that she had a Florida golden boy in her home, and his presence was suffocating her. With her eyes on the floor, she caught a glimpse of her hastily chosen footwear.
Chris must have noticed as well, because he asked, eyes widening, “And why are you wearing flip-flops?”
Reilly let out another short burst of laughter at this before admitting, “I can’t reach my feet, Chris. I can’t put my own goddamn socks on.”
He looked at her, shaking his head in surprise at the admission.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she pressed, still curious.
He shrugged, turning and setting the ice pack on the desk behind him. “I saw your office light was on - what’s your excuse?” He knew Forrest was staying with her at the moment and the very thought of it hit made Chris queasy. But if Reilly was here because she was avoiding something - or someone - then that made him feel a whole lot better.
“Pretty much,” she said, remembering what she had just noticed on the screen before Chris had interrupted her. “Yeah…” she said again, standing and moving over again to the iSPI unit.
He watched her walk with intent over to the monitor and waited for a moment before joining her. When he sat down next to her, she was clicking through different angles of the Hackett scene rendering, evaluating one particular part of the room - over by the desk.
He watched her curiously, certain she was seeing something he wasn’t, because while Chris was fairly perceptive, she almost always managed to notice things most others didn’t.
Sure enough, she paused the image and pointed at the window.
“There,” she said to Chris. “Gary must have input this information after I’d examined the stuff on Graham Hackett’s desk.”
Chris was at a loss. She was clearly enthused about something, and felt it must be of some importance. He leaned closer, looking at the heavy oak desk and the dark blue curtains…
“The window?” he ventured.
She nodded, clicking through the simulation and checking it against the crime scene photos. “The frame is open just a crack, but obviously wasn’t caught until I moved the curtain to check out the stuff on the desk and Gary scanned the room for iSPI. That’s why you can see it here,” she added, referring to the simulation, “but not on the photos.”
Chris glanced over at her, impressed with her astute observation but he wasn't certain how this new information helped with the investigation.
Reilly was sitting back in her chair, shaking her head, “Why would the window be open?” she asked out loud, to nobody in particular.
“The room was too hot so the kid wanted to air it out a little? It was a warm enough night, remember.”
“Or whoever murdered Graham Hackett came in or left through the window, Chris,” she said, stating the obvious. “Which means it’s unlikely to be Simon.”
Graham’s brother would have no reason to come in through it; he lived in the house. Which meant that the murderer must have been someone who needed to enter or exit through the window, so any others that lingered at the party wouldn’t see or be able to tell anyone was even there.
Chris said nothing, but seemed disappointed.
“It could be that - or it might mean absolutely nothing,” Reilly went on, biting her lip, “but I have a feeling it’s related to what happened. I’m just not yet sure how.”
He chuckled a little. “Pity we can’t exactly base everything on feelings.”
She glanced back at him then, picking up the rather unsubtle connotation to his words. His eyes were as soft and brown as ever, even under the low lights of the room, and she had to exert a lot of willpower not to say something she shouldn’t.
Not for the first time, Chris and Reilly were in a situation where they both knew what the other was thinking, and also both knew there were good reasons not to act on those thoughts.
She swallowed hard and looked back to the screen whispering, just loud enough for him to hear. “Yeah, pity.”
36
Gary reclined back in bed, absently watching TV as Lucy brushed her teeth in the other room. He was supposed to wait for her; she hated getting into the bed when he was already sleeping, but he could barely keep his eyes open.
The lights were low in the room, Gary was dozing off periodically, and when the ads came on he almost turned over, ready to fall asleep. But then something caught his attention. He sat up, rewinding the TV back to the start of the advertisement that had triggered his realisation. He watc
hed it two more times, the idea forming fully in his mind.
“Luce,” he called, scrambling to get out of bed. He roughly yanked his jeans on up over his boxers as she came skidding into the room, in a pair of shorts and t-shirt, ready for bed.
“What?” she asked, her eyes wild, her toothbrush hanging from her mouth. She took it out, still assessing the room for some kind of threat as her boyfriend hurriedly dressed and reached for his stuff. “What’s wrong, Gary?” she asked, worry slipping into her tone as she took in his frenzied state.
“I figured it out,” he said, his voice breathless as he looked around under the bed for his shoe.
“Figured what out?” She eyed him curiously.
Gary rewound the TV to the very end of a food ad before a deep bass pounded through the speakers. Lights flashed as the camera panned through different chaotic scenes of young people jumping up and down at a club, pumping their fists and whipping their hair. The last shot, just before the advertisement for an upcoming programme on Ibiza holidays, was of a bunch of teens surrounded by foam up to their waists.
“What in the world…?” Lucy asked, leaning forward. It looked like the time her mother had let her fill the bath when she was younger - she’d put too much bubble bath in and the foam had almost flooded the bathroom.
“A foam party,” Gary exclaimed, before grabbing Lucy and kissing her on the cheek. She didn’t have a time to react, because he was already on his way out the door. “The strawberry stuff … I know what it is.”
A LITTLE LATER THAN USUAL the following morning, Reilly head for work, attempting to tune out the news channel on the TV behind her. The busy café close to the GFU was bustling with the usual morning custom, and it was all she could do to stand in line long enough to get her order.
“Five donuts, four coffees, and one rooibos tea,” the barista said, handing her drinks over. Reilly took all of it, balancing it in her arms as she exited the café. Some of the older women looked at her disdainfully. Caffeine is bad for the baby; she could almost hear everyone muttering.
It took her five minutes to reach the office, and in that time she had won many internal battles over whether or not she should rip open the packaging covering the donuts.
There were a lot of things Reilly had expected to see when she eventually walked in to the lab that morning, but Gary and Lucy asleep at their workstations was not one of them. Various specimen slides were laid out on the counter and the microspectrometer was still running.
Reilly took another step into the room, trying not to feel jealous of the two of them. Still she’d had her share of young love, she knew how it went, and how it would go.
“If this is what you consider being professional in the workplace,” she muttered, just loud enough to startle them awake, “I guess you’ll have to brush up on your definitions.”
Gary blinked a few times at her, as though he was still in a dream – and not a good one. He looked around, disoriented, then his gaze drifted down to his chest, where Lucy was still sound asleep.
His smile was immediate and genuine, and Reilly had to fight the urge to grab her phone and snap a picture of the two of them like that. Her tone softened a bit as she said, “What are you doing, did you get evicted or something?”
Gary seemed to come to his senses at the question, and his face lit up as he sprang from his seat. The sudden movement roused the sleepy Lucy, who sat up and rubbed her eyes tiredly, looking around in the same fashion.
“You won’t believe this,” he was saying, untangling himself from Lucy, “but we got it. We know for sure what the soap – well, what the astringent is.”
Reilly looked at him, an eyebrow raised, and he grinned back at Lucy. “Drumroll, please.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Foam…” Gary announced theatrically.
Reilly brought her eyebrows together, not understanding, “Foam?”
“Yes,” he said, moving past her and over to the machines he and Lucy had toiled over in the early hours. “Some of the clubs in town - when they’re celebrating something major – New Year’s, Midsummer or graduation – they throw these foam parties.
“It sort of looks like everyone is taking a bubble bath together,” Lucy remarked, stretching her arms over her head.
Reilly was still confused, so Gary kept talking. “They fill the place up with foam, and people dance around in it. But the logistics aren’t important. What’s important is that somebody left traces of that stuff in Graham Hackett’s room. And there was one such party celebrating the end of exams at a club in the city on the night of Graham Hackett’s murder. So whoever was in Graham’s room the night he was killed,” he finished ominously, “was also at that foam party.”
37
Chris and Kennedy were at the lab within half an hour.
“Alfalfa, soybean, wheat, and limestone,” Julius was saying to Reilly, when they walked in. “I have no idea why that combination would exist, or what it relates to, but there are also minuscule amounts of it on the murder weapon. Once we know the specifics, we can dig deeper again.”
“Interesting,” Reilly said, nodding thoughtfully at the detectives. “The organic composition of other trace we picked up from the murder weapon,” she told him. “Like I said on the phone, we’ve also identified the strawberry-scented substance. Seems it’s foam. Some sort of party foam used at clubs.”
Lucy then jumped in with another discovery, “And some other substances in that petroleum-based compound also found on the victim, are beeswax with some kind of … tree resin I’d say. I don’t know what that indicates exactly but…”
“Board wax,” Reilly said, immediately reminded of her old surfing days in California. “I used to make my own all the time.”
“You surfed?” said Gary, surprised.
Reilly had done a lot more than just surfed – she lived for the waves and had spent most of her free time out on the bay under the sun, her blonde hair flying behind her as she went back out, again and again, to tame the rip.
She’d been good at it too. She’d always been athletic, and the technique just came so easily to her. It didn’t hurt that she loved the water, or that she loved doing things over and over until she got them right.
“Yep, all the time,” she said wistfully. “I actually solved one of my very first Quantico challenges by recognising a particular board wax brand.”
“OK, I get the foam, but why the hell would there be board wax at the scene?” Chris asked, bringing her back to the present.
“Does it relate to hurling in any way?” Lucy mused. “Would the players use it to smooth out their hurls in the way surfers do?”
“Well if they do, it’s a new one on me,” said Kennedy. “I can’t see it somehow, can you? And you wouldn't want them all slippery and waxy in yer hand like that. Grip is what you want.”
“OK, Jimmy Barry,” Chris chuckled, referring to Ireland’s most famous star hurling player. Who knew Kennedy was such an expert on a so-called culchie sport?
“Also, Rory has since uncovered something more about Graham’s online … exploits,” Reilly told them cryptically, and Chris couldn't help but think that it never rained but it poured.
The detectives duly followed her down to the tech room where Rory awaited.
“I was digging through some of Graham Hackett’s older texts - going back a couple of months,” he said, “and I found this.”
(Thor 6:55 pm) What the hell, Hackett?
(HackR, 6:56 pm) Jesus, what’s your problem? Are you still pissed off about what happened in practice? Can’t help it if I’m faster than you …
(Thor 6:58 pm) You know exactly what I’m pissed off about. It was a shitty thing to do to Megan.
(HackR 7:00 pm) Hey, mate, she sent those snaps to me, so if you’re going to be pissed off at anyone, it should be her. Nice pair on her tho, dunno why anyone would friendzone a piece of ass like that… Unless maybe you prefer our mate Eddie …
(Thor, 7:05) Hey, go fuck yourself, Lance, serious
ly.
Chris read through the exchange then looked at Rory, who was looking absently at the screen. After a beat he sat up, the detectives’ confused expressions leading him to believe he should start explaining.
“Okay, so there’s an app you can get on a smartphone called Snapchat, and using this app, you can send photos that disappear after a certain amount of time. Only the thing is, almost all smartphones are equipped with a screenshot ability, so it doesn’t take a genius to save a photo you’ve received over Snapchat, especially now that there’s double play …” he took a breath, “this is what happened with Graham Hackett and Megan Wright last month – Megan sent Graham a photo she expected to disappear, but it didn’t, because he saved it and forwarded it on to all his friends.”
“Who’s Lance, then?” Kennedy asked, baffled.
“Probably Lance Armstrong - a dig at Graham Hackett’s juicing?”
“Well, what’s so bad about a photo anyway?” Chris asked. “Don’t these kids’ lives revolve around sharing everything they do anyway?”
Rory snorted, then looked up at Chris when it was clear he wasn’t joking. “Think about it. What kind of photo might you not want shared around?”
It only took Chris a moment longer to understand his meaning. “You mean these kids are innocently sending … inappropriate pictures to each other?”
Rory smiled sadly and shook his head, “You have no idea. Wait till you read through the rest of these messages. They might be kids but there’s nothing innocent about them.”
Chris shook his head. “Wait,” he said, after another moment, “if they’re all doing this, then why does this Thor guy - whoever he is - care that Graham does it to Megan?”